Free Even by Andrew Grant

trance. Or lying under the stars, on an open trailer, winding slowly through the mountains. It’s like being on vacation, for them.”
    “So what do you think happened? Did some vet start taking out his post-traumatic stress on these bums?”
    “No. We don’t get much trouble with the vets. They’re mostly pacifists, now. They just want to be left alone.”
    “Who then?”
    “Another kind of person altogether. Someone who doesn’t need to ride the rails. Someone who wants to.”
    “Why?”
    “Because it’s against the law. Because it’s fun. The greater the danger, the greater the thrill. People get all romantic about it. They think they’re modern-day cowboys, riding the last freedom trail around America.”
    “Oh, please.”
    “They do. It’s true. Or how about this? Because it’s a great place to kill people no one will miss, and then disappear before the bodies are found. It’s like a recurring stain.”
    “It’s happened before?”
    “Many times. Four years ago, a guy killed eleven. The last guy, thirteen.”
    “You caught them?”
    “Raab’s team did. Eventually. But there’s over a hundred and seventy thousand miles of track in the major routes alone. That’s a lot of places to hide. Or you can run. One side of the country to the other in three days flat. Or cross into Mexico. Or Canada.”
    “And wherever you go, you don’t leave any records.”
    “You got it. No tickets. No credit cards. No hotels. Nothing.”
    “So if the guy’s still in the wind after five murders, what changed? Why would he suddenly think the net was closing? Late-onset paranoia?”
    “Someone told him. Warned him. That’s the only answer.”
    “Now you’re being paranoid. It’s more likely Raab just showed his hand somehow. He probably screwed things up himself.”
    “No. For two reasons. One, we’ve traced every step he took. He didn’t give himself away. We know that. And two, this guy didn’t just spot some anonymous cop breathing down his neck. He had specifics. Who was running the investigation. Where they’d be. When.”
    “But that’s high-level information. How would a bum or a vet get access to it?”
    “You’ve got to understand the kind of guys we’re talking about. They’re not garden-variety lawbreakers. There’s a whole subculture building up around this. There’s a lot of juice involved.”
    “You said they were bums and vets.”
    “I did. And they’re still there, sure. But now we’ve got movie stars doing it. Rock stars. Tycoons. Guys who are used to getting what they want, when they want it, regardless.”
    “So?”
    “I’m talking about powerful guys. People with contacts. Especiallythe business guys. They all have politicians and public officials in their pockets. One of them must have a hook in the bureau, as well. It’s not good, but it happens.”
    “So the guy who killed these riders was tipped by his buddy in the bureau?”
    “Yes.”
    “And then he took Raab out to save his own skin?”
    “Yes.”
    “It was the same guy?”
    “That’s how we saw it.”
    “What do you need to complete your hand?”
    “An ace.”
    “Then go ahead. Deal your last card.”
    “If it is an ace, we’re going to start the paperwork on you,” Rosser said, his hand hovering just above the pack. “You still want me to do it?”
    I nodded.
    Rosser flipped the top card over and covered it with his hand. He moved so fast all I saw was a blur of red, blue, and yellow against the white background. There was no sign of any numbers. Then he looked straight at me and raised his hand.
    It was a grotesque character in a harlequin suit, standing on the north pole and showering the globe with dozens of tiny cards.
    “Oh, my,” Rosser said. “Would you look at that.”
    “The joker,” I said. “How appropriate. Nice meeting you.”
    “Wow, slow down. Maybe we need to look at this thing again. If the train killer and Raab’s killer are different people after all,” he said, separating