Dead Man's Tunnel (11 page)

“And what do you know about Sergeant Erikson?” Hook asked.

“I spotted him coming out of Linda Sue's a time or two. I figure those boys were sharing more than a guardhouse. Linda Sue ain't nothing if not generous.”

“No trouble from Sergeant Erikson?”

“Quiet and kind of spooky. Always on the outside looking in. You know the type.”

Hook squashed his cigarette out in the ashtray. “Thanks, Sheriff. “I'll let you know if anything comes up.”

*   *   *

When Hook got back to the jeep, someone had pulled in front of him.

“Damn it,” he said.

He tried to push the jeep back with his one hand, but the wheels rode up against the curb.

Just then the old man from the post office came around the corner. Hook leaned against the hood to catch his breath.

The old man sank his hands into his overalls' pockets.

“Where's the dog?” he asked.

“He isn't here,” Hook said.

“Shoot him?”

“Not exactly,” Hook said, turning around and leaning into the jeep.

“Shoot him behind the ear,” he said. “He'll never know what hit him.”

“You think you could help me push this jeep back?” Hook asked.

“Got to have a reverse to back up,” he said. “No reverse, you got to park with no one in front of you.”

“Someone pulled in,” Hook said. “Maybe you could give me a hand. I'll steer if you'll push.”

The old man turned his back to the jeep, putting both hands under the bumper. He rocked her a couple of times, and the jeep rolled back into the street.

“Thanks,” Hook said, getting in.

“No reverse, you got to plan ahead,” he said. “Sometimes I had to park my Buick on the edge of town. Going backward everywhere ain't easy, you know. Sometimes a man gets confused about which is the right side of the road.”

“I'll be more careful in the future,” Hook said.

“People get tired of pushing after a while,” he said. “People will get where they won't push no more.”

“Thanks again,” Hook said, pulling off.

He drove by Blue's Café to talk to Linda Sue, but Blue said that Linda Sue didn't show up for her shift. So on his way back to the salvage yard, Hook swung by her house and knocked on the door. No one answered.

The sun had set by the time he pulled into the salvage yard. When Mixer heard him, he came out from under the caboose steps wagging his tail and stretching.

Once inside, Hook slipped off his prosthesis and fixed himself a whiskey and springwater. Both the pushers were gone from the siding, but he found the quiet more unsettling than comforting. He thumbed through a few of his latest acquisitions and then tossed them aside.

The more he tried to gather up the loose ends of the sergeant's death, the more they unraveled. He figured a man careful enough to check the board and sign the log had a fair notion of the schedule going in. For Erikson to get caught short in the tunnel just didn't fit. And he'd been on the right side of the curve for spotting the glimmer when she broke over the canyon. And then there was Linda Sue, the love nest, and the flashlight under the trestle.

He pulled the covers over him as the night deepened. Maybe the army would come up with some answers. The lieutenant had promised to keep him informed, but it struck him that she didn't push like she ought, leaving the hard questions for him. Maybe this sort of investigation was out of her league. With her being in Transportation and all, maybe she didn't deal with love triangles and dead bodies in tunnels every day.

Even though he preferred working his cases alone, at this point he'd take all the help he could get. And the possibility of seeing the lieutenant again didn't bother him much at all.

 

13

A
STEAMER WITH
a line of salvage cars in tow rattled the window as it blew past the caboose. Hook rolled over and groaned. Living in a caboose was like living inside a concrete mixer.

He found the coffee grounds swelled to twice their size in the coffeepot, and the ashes hadn't been cleaned out of the coal stove in days. After shaking them down, he dumped the ashpan outside. He put in enough fresh coal for breakfast coffee, and soon the aroma filled the caboose.

In the summertime, it took the coal stove about five seconds to turn the caboose into an oven and three hours for it to cool down to a tolerable temperature. Eddie had promised to update the old caboose with electricity, but somehow he had never gotten around to it.

Hook sat on the edge of his bunk and rubbed at the stubble on his chin. He needed a shave, which meant more hot water, which meant more misery as the sun bore through the cupola.

When the coffee had finished, he poured himself a cup at the table. From there he could see Scrap's office and the crane rising into the morning sun. He lit a cigarette and watched Scrap working his way toward him through the yard.

The military had yet to file charges or close the tunnel investigation, so in the meantime he figured to see if he could find where the thieves fenced the copper. He'd follow Sheriff Mueller's advice and check out the other salvage yards in the area. Nothing stopped a thief faster than drying up the money source. Once those copper thieves were rounded up, he'd petition Eddie to move him back to civilization.

Scrap knocked on the door before sticking his head in.

“You up, Runyon?” he asked.

“Why don't you run some electricity out here, Scrap? I'm going blind with that kerosene lantern.”

“So's you can read half the night, I suppose. Did you bring my jeep back?”

“It's back,” Hook said. “Half of Ash Fork's population has taken a turn pushing it down the road.”

“You got to park it where you don't have to back it up.”

“I hadn't figured that out,” Hook said.

Scrap shrugged. “I've got a transmission just come in. If you'd park it long enough, I could drop her in.”

“I've been thinking I might check around, see if I could find where those boys are fencing that copper,” Hook said.

“Just 'cause I'm losing half my profit don't mean you have to do nothing rash, Hook.”

Hook took out his pocketknife and worked at a burr that had been gouged into his prosthesis.

“Scrap,” he said, “if a man brought a load of copper in here to sell, how would you know if it was stolen or not?”

“Junk's junk, and there ain't no telling where it's been or where it's going.”

“So, you figure you might have bought some stolen copper yourself one time or another?”

He fished out his pipe. “Never bought stolen copper in my life,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“Because I'm a law-abiding citizen.”

“Except it
might
have been stolen?”

“If it was, I wouldn't buy it.”

“Jesus,” Hook said.

Scrap lit his pipe and thought it over. “I got rules about buying stolen salvage, Hook. If it's stolen, I don't buy it. That's about as plain as I can make it.”

Hook slipped on his shoes and looked over at Scrap. “Sometimes it's like talking to a goddang echo,” he said.

“And where's that dog?” Scrap said. “My chickens been roosting in the rafters like turkey buzzards.”

“Now don't go picking on Mixer. He's got a sensitive nature.”

“He pinned a dog three times his size in the yard last week,” Scrap said. “He lay on his back for an hour in fear that killer might show up again.”

“How about borrowing the jeep for a few hours today, Scrap?”

Scrap went to the door.

“I wonder how the goddang railroad operated before they found me,” he said.

*   *   *

The owner of the Flagstaff Salvage Yard pushed his goggles onto his forehead and snapped off his acetylene torch. White circles punctuated the black soot that had gathered on his face.

“You buy copper?” Hook asked.

The owner lay down his torch and lit a cigarette. “Copper, brass, and iron. No farm machinery and no appliances.”

“I got a load of copper to bring in,” Hook said.

He took out an oil rag and wiped his hands. “What you got?”

“Radiator cores.”

“They bring top market price,” he said. “Easy to handle and high quality.”

“Great,” Hook said. “You need records or anything?”

“They'll be on their way to the smelter before you get home,” he said. “Who has time for records?”

“Thanks,” Hook said. “Might be a few days.”

The owner picked up his torch, fired his flint, and snapped the torch to life. He brought the yellow flame to blue with practiced turns of the knobs.

“I pay cash,” he said, dropping the goggles over his eyes.

*   *   *

As Hook drove back to Ash Fork, the sun drifted low in the sky. There were other salvage yards he could check, he supposed. But it was pretty clear that copper thieves could sell their wares on the open market and with no questions asked. Cutting off the money source wasn't going to work.

Circling through the yard, he parked the jeep where he could pull out. Scrap's office light was on, and he could see Scrap bent over his desk. When Hook opened the door, Scrap pushed back his chair.

Scrap fished out his pipe and loaded it. “I've been thinking,” he said.

“Oh, hell,” Hook said. “Batten the hatches and hide your daughters.”

“I been thinking they'll be bringing all them tanks home after the war. A man could buy some up, convert them to dozer tractors, and sell them back to the government. You know, turn swords into plowshares. Not only would it be the patriotic thing to do, but a man just might make a keen profit in the process.”

“It takes about five hundred gallons of fuel just to start one of those bastards up,” Hook said. “I don't think it would work out so well.”

Scrap fired up his pipe. “Some folks just live to rain on a man's parade.”

“Well, don't worry about it, Scrap. You always got army-green rubbers you could sell.”

“That lieutenant called and wanted you to call her back. She left a number.”

“Oh? Mind if I use your phone?”

“Shut off the lights when you're done,” he said, putting on his hat.

Hook dialed the phone and waited through four rings. He was about to hang up, when the lieutenant came on line.

“Hook, here,” he said. “Scrap said you called.”

“Thanks for calling back,” she said. “Something's come up. I don't have a guard at the tunnel. I hate to ask this, but I need someone out there.”

“What's going on?” he asked.

“I'll be over first thing,” she said. “But I can't leave that tunnel unguarded. I know this is short notice.”

Hook paused. “Alright,” he said. “I'll take the jeep out.”

 

14

U
NCERTAIN THERE'D BE
anything to eat at the guardhouse, Hook finished up the last can of beans and washed it down with tepid water. He stopped in at the office and made a call to the operator in Ash Fork. The line was clear.

Scrap rarely locked his office since he lived in quarters at the back of the yard. The little house had been abandoned, and Scrap had procured it from the city for the price of a move.

Hook took the jeep, leaving the lights off so as not to disturb Scrap's rest, and headed for the Johnson Canyon Tunnel. Pulling duty for the army hadn't been something he'd planned on this evening. Why the fuss over that damn tunnel escaped him, but if that's what the lieutenant wanted, a night away from the salvage yard might be a relief. In the past, the army had been less than anxious to have a one-armed man in its ranks. But then he could hear the concern in the lieutenant's voice, and he figured he owed her one.

The road to the canyon turned and twisted in the darkness, forcing him to take his time. He could easily get stuck, and without a reverse, it would be impossible to get out.

As he approached Johnson Canyon, the moon broke, setting the canyon walls aglow in its light. The trestle stood like a giant skeleton over the canyon, and the tracks struck off into the black hole in the mountain.

Hook shut the jeep off, and the silence of the canyon washed over him. Maybe he should have brought Mixer along for company, but then he'd be chasing him down half the night. He checked his sidearm and fished the flashlight out from between the seats.

He didn't know what had set the lieutenant off, and she hadn't been as forthcoming as he'd like. But checking out the tunnel and the trestle might be a good place to start. If nothing else, he'd sleep better knowing that no one had been about.

Moon shadows slid out from the rock peaks, and the smell of creosote rose up from the track bed as he worked his way down. Clicking on his light, he entered the darkness of the tunnel.

The silence loomed in the absence of Scrap's crane and the rumble of idling pushers. His light beam drew to a point in the blackness ahead, and the weight of the mountain pressed in about him. The air felt still and damp, and the smells of life dropped away. Each step resounded in the confinement of the rock.

When he came to the curve, his stomach tightened. A train could be charging in at this very moment. A violent death could be headed his way. Only a split second would pass between the time a train entered the tunnel and the end of his life. To stand at this point in the tunnel, to wait for the trembling of the earth and the certainty of an oncoming locomotive, would be a terrifying experience.

As Hook moved in, he found where the bridge and building gang had been removing the support beams. In their place, they had lined the interior of the tunnel with boilerplate.

A few yards more and he turned back until he could see the moonlight at the end of the tunnel. This is where Sergeant Erikson met his fate. Hook smelled earth and felt the warmth from the outside world. From there, a train's headlamp could be seen coming down the grade. From there, the possibility of escape would still exist. Why would a man who had checked the board and signed out as usual stand midtrack and watch the train rushing toward him? How could he not make a run for a last chance at life?