The Deadly Web

By Ernest Salotti

Ray is a writer for a sizeable publication company in LA. His position with the company is in jeopardy, and his writing style requires a transformation if he is to obtain retirement.

In search of the fresh, new material his employer desires, Ray becomes intrigued by the life of Mike Long, an alleged transient whose life is not at all what it appears.

Mike Long’s challenged life is portrayed through the chaos of terrorism, blood, death, destruction, desire, and the never-ending need to stay alive. Ray transforms Mike’s struggles into an energizing account, all the while, the writer and the one-time transient, unknowingly, achieve duplicate goals.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662470264

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Search

Ray sat in his motel room staring out over Bellingham Bay, sipping his brandy; contemplating the months he had spent searching towns across the country for older transients. He’d been on this search for almost a year to fulfill a promise he had made to his publisher in order to save his job. With another sip of brandy, Ray settled back in his chair and thought back to the time when this search started.

I remember. It had been a slow day at the office, and most of the writers had gone home. I had been working hard at my desk when I noticed the publisher walking down the aisle toward me. He stopped at my desk and dropped a stack of papers down in front of me. I was a little shocked at what he had done and sat back in my chair. I looked up at him and waited for his comment.

Ray, you need to make a major change in your material. This article is just words. Make a change, go out in the field and research, and come up with something fresh. Do something, he grumped as he walked back to his office.

I heard him loud and clear. Do something, echoed in my head. From the tone in that voice, I knew my job was on the line. A change was to be made. A change meant travel, and that was the last thing I wanted to do, but I was out of options.

I started researching for subject matter that other reporters had passed over. Then finally, after a week of mind-twisting inquiry, I found it: The life of railroad transients. This was a topic no one had written about since the days of the Great Depression and up to the fifties. It was time to write about these men again. With my topic in hand, I headed for the publisher’s office to convince him that this would put me back on top, but I did worry about confronting the publisher with a subject so different from stories written by other writers. In any case, I had my subject to present to him. I remember the surprise on his face when I told him about my subject, and before he had a chance to respond, I began telling him how the railroad transient communities were filled with alcoholics, drug addicts, railroad gangs, and people running from the law or just running from life. The story would practically write itself.

Then the publisher surprised me. Without hesitation, he said, Go for it. Give me a great story.

I was stunned by the publisher’s directive, but I thanked him on my way out of the office. I remember how suspicious I had been about the publisher accepting my topic so easily and how encouraging he had been to me. He had been trying to save my job and knew I would be writing other articles while I was out in the field searching. Little did he know how hard it would be for me to find that one special story.

Ray took another sip of brandy and thought about how hard this trip had been on him and about the articles he had written along the way that had produced extra money, but it wasn’t enough to sustain him. He had spent from his own pocket. Not only was he having financial trouble, but the trip had worn him down physically and mentally. At age fifty, living out of his bags, sleeping in cheap motels, and eating in low-cost restaurants had pushed Ray into a funky mood he couldn’t shake—not even with brandy. He was glad he’d be heading home tomorrow, a real relief from this grueling trip. He’d made a decision to leave early in the morning and make one more run through the rail yard on his way out of town, just to be sure he didn’t miss that one person with the big story. This rail yard was only thirty miles south of the Canadian border with a major railway running between the two countries, carrying many international transients back and forth across the border.

Ray sat his empty glass on the small table and glanced over at his half­-empty brandy bottle, then said to himself, It’s time for bed. He made his way across the room and came to one conclusion: He was getting too old for traveling and had a desire to settle down maybe with a partner.

Ray sat down on the edge of the bed, recalling his childhood. He’d had a beautiful home life with his mom and dad, and the world had been at his feet but that dream life came to an end when he was ten years old. He remembered that night as if it were yesterday. It was a cold, rainy night, and he was tucked in bed. He could hear the wind blowing hard outside his window as it slapped tree branches against the house. Warm and secure, he hunkered down under the bedcovers. He was just about to sleep when he heard glass breaking downstairs. Someone was breaking into his house. He could hear the intruders prowling through the house until they came to his mom and dad’s bedroom. They killed Ray’s mother and father. He could never forget his mother’s screams and the piercing sound of gunfire.

After that gruesome night, he had never had a family again and began living the life of a foster child. He moved from foster home to foster home throughout his young adulthood. As a lonely foster child, Ray became interested in reading. He found life and hope within the stories he read, which lead him to a college degree in journalism and a job at a local newspaper. With a successful life and no time for a family, he pushed his emotions deep down inside.

Tired and depressed, Ray leaned back on a flat, hard pillow and let his mind drift back again. It went to a time when he was a young reporter. How exciting it was in those days, traveling from one mysterious town to another, investigating the wonders that men had created, and he was awed by his own creativity as he put it all on paper for the world to read. That was the life, tasting the sweet joy of food, drink, and women as they occurred. He didn’t think about the day he’d be older and maybe dying in one of the rundown motels. It gave him chills lying there on the hard bed. But right now, Ray’s most important drive was to write a story for all time, a Sherlock Holmes type of narrative that would give readers a forever story. Feeling good about that dream, Ray dozed, hoping that last drink of brandy would dull the neon sign flashing through his thinly veiled window.

Chapter 2

The Chase

The next morning, Ray was slow getting out of the motel. It was his last day in Bellingham, and his trip was over, except for that last run through the rail yard, but there was no hurry. He knew the transients wouldn’t crawl out of their hiding places until they were hungry or the sun was high in the sky. On the other hand, Ray was a little anxious and hopeful about looking around the yards for that last chance to find his man before heading back to LA.

By 10:00 a.m., he was checking out and driving down Holly Street to his familiar coffee drive-through. Coffee in hand, he continued on to the train yard and began a slow drive on Roader Avenue along the train tracks westward. Progressing to the end of Roader Avenue where the railroad led out of town to Canada, Ray stopped and sipped his coffee as his eyes searched hidden spots around the tracks where transients might wait for an outbound train. He knew the railroad agents couldn’t stop transients from coming and going on the rails. What the agents could do was to keep them moving out of the yards because no yard worker or agent wanted to find a dead transient inside the yard to deal with. If Ray was going to find his story, it would be here, far from the main rail yard.

He had no luck finding a suitable transient holed up around the north-end track and turned back onto Roader Avenue for one last slow drive along the tracks, eyes searching. About a quarter mile down the tracks, he caught a glimpse of something green out of the corner of his eye. He focused on the green object as he slowed the SUV. Aha, thought Ray, it’s an old camping tent. He could see it pitched under the bridge partially hidden behind a large stand of blackberry bushes, just what an older transient with experience would do for protection. This looks interesting, thought Ray as he pulled the SUV to the side of the road and stopped. He sat for a while to see if someone was in the tent as he finished off his coffee.

Ten minutes later, an older man crawled from under the flap of the green tent. He lifted his tall, lanky body to a stand, brushed out his tattered clothes, and ran his fingers through his long, salt-and-pepper hair as he pulled it away from his face and warmed himself in the midday sun. He worked his way around the tent closing it up and looked all around him as if searching for someone and quickly spotted Ray. Obviously uncomfortable as Ray watched him, the tent man moved around behind the bushes to hide and observe. Ray could see that the man was about to run, so he slid out of the SUV and slammed the door behind him. Then the man moved slowly away from the bushes with his eyes fixed on Ray all the while. Suddenly, he broke into a run in the direction of the railroad tracks and away from Ray. Ray began running after him, darting between heavy traffic that was traveling in both directions on Roader. Ray screamed at him, Sir! Don’t run. I’m here to help you! Wait! But by the time Ray reached the opposite side of the roadway, the tent man had disappeared.

As he continued to run along the tracks, Ray’s eyes darted from one hiding place to another, searching. Finally, out of breath, he stopped. No use. He’s gone, thought Ray as he bent over to catch his breath. Ray just stood, looked, and puzzled. He had hoped for one last chance to see the tent man. What could I do now that I had lost the chance for that transient interview? he wondered.

Ray went back to the green tent to see what he could learn about the tent man. He thought it was possible that the man might come back to get his possessions. Kneeling on one knee, Ray poked his head inside the opening. He saw a clean, rolled-up sleeping bag and an old but clean backpack. Ray reached for the backpack. His head was suddenly jerked sideways, and everything went black.

When Ray woke up, he was lying on his back, and his eyes would only focus on a green haze. He closed his eyes and touched the throbbing knot on the side of his head, wondering what had happened. When he slowly opened his eyes again, the green haze had cleared away, and the inside of the old green tent was revealed. When he tried to prop himself up on his elbows, Ray noticed his ankles had been tied. That’s funny, Ray thought. Why would anyone just tie a person’s ankles? At that moment, the man Ray had been chasing appeared at the tent opening and squatted down to scrutinize him. Neither Ray nor the tent man spoke. They only looked at each other, attempting to size up what was happening. Ray’s eyes darted around the man’s hard, leathery face. It was flanked by long, brown hair that was streaked with gray, pulled back, and tied. His stubble beard partly covered a long, ugly scar that went down the right side of his face. The steely eyes of the tent man seemed to look right through Ray and made him feel doubly uneasy about being tied and trapped in the small tent.

Feeling threatened, Ray broke the silence by saying, What’s next?

The transient slightly opened his mouth as if to answer. He paused and stroked his stubble-covered chin. At that moment, Ray noticed a twinkle of gold in the corner of his mouth. The man didn’t respond to Ray.

Ray spoke again to let the squatting tent man know that he needed to get off his elbows and sit up.

Ray sat up, saying, Are you going to say something?

This time, the transient answered in a commanding voice, Who are you and what do you want from me?

Ray answered slowly, knowing this might be the only shot he would have at securing a story, Sure. I’m a reporter looking for a story, and I think you are that story.

Ray could see he had given the wrong response.

The man’s face tightened before giving his angry response to Ray, Look at me, mister! Do I look like I have a story? I have nothing! I’m just a man riding trains, not causing any trouble. Get your story someplace else and stay away from me! Then he stood up, looked hard at Ray, and said, You need to move on.

Ray watched as the transient disappeared from the tent opening. Ray quickly untied his own ankles and moved out of the tent. He caught sight of the tent man running down the railroad tracks and watched as he grabbed a ladder on the side of a slow-moving eastbound train.

Ray ran the short distance to the tracks and then flanked the same train. He had never jumped a train before, but he wasn’t going to let this man get away. Even though fear had almost paralyzed him, he was ready to jump onto a boxcar. He grabbed a rung on the ladder with one hand as his feet jerked out from under him and were dragged over the gravel roadbed. He fought to hold on, grasping a second ladder rung with the other hand. Then with a last surge of energy, he pulled his body high enough to thrust his right foot onto the bottom rung of the ladder, just inches from the spinning boxcar wheels. Then out of breath with only adrenaline and fear to drive him on, he pulled himself up the ladder to the top of the boxcar, sat down, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. While his eyes searched the boxcars ahead of him, he noticed his transient jump off the train at the east end of the train yard.

Ray realized the tent man’s short trip was made just to dodge him, and he said to himself, You’re not getting away from me, you stubborn shit. And he started working his way back down the ladder to the bottom rung and waited until he reached a good location to jump. The train speed picked up to ten miles per hour, and Ray clung closely to the ladder as he glanced at the gravel roadbed speeding beneath him. It was only a blur. Ray let go of the ladder and jumped down to the gravel roadbed, but he lost his footing as his six-foot, 240-pound body rolled hard into a stand of blackberry bushes alongside the tracks. Thorns pierced him from head to toe, and when he rolled to a stop, he jumped up quickly to ease the pain. He hurriedly brushed himself off and looked around to see if anyone was watching. That was embarrassing, Ray said to himself as he worked his way out of the thorn-laden bushes and back to the tracks.

Ray spent the rest of the day hanging out around the rail yard, looking for the transient, but he had no luck. He decided to call it a day and checked back into his motel. He’d start in LA tomorrow.

After a long hot shower to soothe his wounds, Ray wrapped himself in his heavy bathrobe and stretched out on the bed to watch the evening news. Soon, the news faded, and Ray began to relax. He closed his eyes.

A bam, bam, bam pounding sound was unleashed upon the door of his small room. It jarred Ray from his peaceful slumber. He wondered who would be calling at this time of night. Again, a bam, bam, bam pounded upon the door. Ray pulled his tortured body off the bed and made his way to the door. He peered through the door peephole, but no one was there. He opened the door and looked down the sidewalk in both directions. No one was there. As he started back inside, he noticed a piece of dirty wrinkled paper stuck to the doorknob with gum. He pulled it off and gently opened it to find a short scribbled note: Meet you at the park on Roader at 10:00 a.m. tomorrow. Ray smiled to himself, knowing his earlier contact had paid off, but why did the transient run away today? And how did the transient find out where he was staying? This was Ray’s big question: Why had the transient changed his mind? He closed the door and went back to bed. The day has not been a total loss, thought Ray. I’ll stay one more day before heading back to LA. And he turned out the light.

Chapter 3

The Rendezvous

The next morning, Ray was up early, trying to decide the best way to approach the transient. Something had to grab his interest. Ray wondered how he could convince this man to give up his life story for the world to read. He certainly won’t stand for a lot of bullshit from me, Ray thought. I’ll have to show him the benefits a story would give him. Ray finished packing and was ready to leave, but he was still somewhat bewildered. He didn’t have an interest grabber. He picked up his bags and walked out of his room. As he walked to the motel office, he thought about forgetting the meeting and just heading back to LA. He had already interviewed so many transients that turned out to be nothing. He wondered if this transient would be any different. Ray realized he was starting to worry again. I have to settle down, Ray muttered to himself.

It was a sunny day, the sky was a pale blue, and a light salt-air breeze was dancing off the bay. It made Ray excited to be alive. His stress dropped to a tolerable level, and he looked forward to his morning coffee. He paid his bill and headed down Holly Street to his regular coffee shack and then on to the park on Roader Street. He shut off the engine and sat for a moment, sipping his coffee. He searched the area for his contact man. His contact wasn’t there. He looked up the two-hundred-yard-long park that ran along the beachfront, but he saw no one. He finished his coffee, stepped out of the SUV, and walked down the short path to the water’s edge. His eyes swept the park again and noticed a small figure sitting on a log in front of a stand of trees at the far end of the park. This must be my man, thought Ray as he started walking up the beach. His mind started jumping from topic to topic, looking for that opening line to gain the man’s interest. It was no use. Nothing good came to mind. Ray dropped the thought and just enjoyed the sea air and the subtle sound of the sea rolling in on the beach. Ray kept walking and watching the man as he got larger and larger until Ray was right in front of him and looking down at the scarred face and stubbled beard.

Good morning, Ray said.

The man showed no emotion. He just nodded his head, suggesting that Ray should sit down on the log beside him. Ray sat down and waited for the next comment.

The two sat awhile, waiting. They watched the waves wash onto the beach, and an occasional sand crab scurry back into the surf.

The transient finally broke the silence, asking, What’s your name?

Ray Whitman, Ray quickly responded. He followed up with the question, What is your name, sir?

For some reason, the man didn’t give Ray his name. He started questioning Ray, So you are a reporter?

That’s right, responded Ray. I write for a national magazine in LA.

"You said you are