Read 13 Drops of Blood for Free Online Page B

shoreline, right near the water. And he’s looking at the train, watching us go.”
McKean, holding back a grin, used a voice that was best suited for small children. “Am I missing something here?
“Nope.”
“It was the same man?”
“Yep.”
“And the train was moving.”
“That’s what I said.”
“You know that’s impossible, right Mr. Lewis?”
    “Yeah. It’s impossible, all right. I know. And that’s exactly what I tell myself. I tell myself that it’s impossible, that it’s not the same guy. That it has to be someone different. And at a hundred miles an hour I make myself believe it. I’m no fool, and I’m not getting a good look at this guy. Within seconds he’s in and out of my line of vision, so it has to be someone different, right? Some other two-hundred-year-old-man standing near the tracks in a black suit…
    “Well the train stops. I guess we’re at the Ajax station now. The two kids by the door get off; nobody gets on. I’m alone again. We start rolling and I’m looking out the window, you know? I’m watching. Part of me is hoping to see him again because… well… because it’s interesting. Another part of me––the part that’s getting worried––is praying that I don’t see anything. I know the odds are slim, but I don’t want imaginary friends standing at the edge of the tracks. I don’t want to live in the nuthouse.”
    McKean shifted his recorder from one hand to the other.
    Martin kept his eyes glued on the suspect.
    “Sure enough, the train gets rolling and I’ve got my face up to the window. I’m actually leaning my head on the glass at this point. I don’t care. I want to see what’s out there and I don’t want to miss him––if he’s there, which, of course, he’s not going to be… right? Wrong. After a few minutes I see him again. Same black suit, same black tie, same white shirt. He’s standing next to one of those old buildings with the graffiti on it. To be honest with you, I can’t believe it… I really can’t believe it. But it’s him, all right. Three times I see him. But at this point I’m still thinking it has to be three separate people because it can’t be the same guy, it just can’t be. I’m in a train, for crying out loud. There’s no way it can be the same man and I know it. Well, I watch him for as long as I can, trying to burn his image into my head just in case I see him again. But can you imagine? Jesus rode a bicycle… can you imagine seeing the old guy a forth time? He’d have to be a ghost, wouldn’t he?
    “Well, we’re moving at a good speed, not as fast as before but we’re zipping along… and I can still see him. He’s getting farther away all the time but he’s still there, standing by the tracks, and do you know what happens? Can you guess? He waves at me. The son-of-a-bitch waves, as if to say, ‘ Yeah George! It’s me! You see me and I see you, now what are you going to do about it? ’ Well I don’t mind telling you that I got scared. Right then and there––for the first time in years, I got scared. His eyes were glistening and his hand was swinging back and forth and he had a smile that looked more like a scream than anything else, like he was wearing the goddamn thing wrong, somehow. So why wouldn’t I be afraid? Huh? I don’t mind saying, I damn near dropped a bucket of shit in my pants.”
    The two officers didn’t speak, nor did they exchange a glance. They just listened, nodding their heads like good cops do. There would be time for talking later, plenty of time.
    George let a few seconds roll by, waiting for a response that didn’t come. Then he said, “The train stops again. This time a dozen people got aboard. I’m not looking at any of them. Oh no, I’m looking out the window. The train starts moving. It went under a bridge and along two or three subdivisions and sure enough, I see him again. Four times, now–– four! Only this time we’re not racing along the track at a hundred