Dead Man's Tunnel (17 page)

Hook looked at him. “It doesn't have a high gear? Jesus, Scrap, why would you do that?”

“'Cause I was sick and tired of listening to you complain about no reverse. This ain't no Cadillac dealership, as you well know.”

“Jesus, Scrap, now I know why those chickens committed suicide.”

“I'd like to stick around and listen to you complain some more, Hook, but I got work to do. Providing transportation for the railroad don't come cheap. Someone has to put in a day's work around here. You might consider putting in a little gas while you're gallivanting around the country.”

*   *   *

At twenty miles an hour, the motor roared like a buzz saw, and a dust cloud drifted up from the wheels and settled onto the dash. Hook cut down Main and headed for Sheriff Mueller's office. When the old man sitting in front of the post office saw Hook coming, he leaned over onto his knees and pulled his hat down.

Sheriff Mueller looked up from his desk when Hook walked in.

“I was just getting ready to call Washington,” he said. “I thought the Japanese were attacking.”

Hook pulled up a chair and lit a cigarette. “It's Scrap's old jeep,” he said. “It doesn't have a high gear.”

“You can't drive without high gear,” the sheriff said.

“Listen, I'm doing a little background work on that Sergeant Erikson who was killed out at the tunnel.”

Mueller scratched at his beard. “Don't know a whole hell of a lot,” he said. “As you know, the army took care of most of that.”

“You don't have his home address, do you?”

“That lieutenant didn't give out much information. Not that I cared one way or the other. Cleaning up runned-over corpses ain't my all-time favorite thing.

“Say, rumor is you had another upset with Ben Hoffer over at the pool hall.”

“Ben heats up pretty fast, as you know, Sheriff, but I talked him down.”

“Sorry I can't be of help with the sergeant thing, Hook. But I figure when a military man gets killed on railroad property, the law ain't much in it one way or the other.”

Hook stood. “I better be on my way, Sheriff. Twenty's top speed on that pile of junk out there, and I want to get back to the salvage yard before dark.”

Sheriff Mueller turned in his chair. “You might check with Fred Colson, the mortician. He picked up the body as I recall. His place is a couple doors north of the pool hall.”

*   *   *

Hook finally located Fred Colson eating pie at Blue's Café.

“Yeah, I'm Fred,” he said, loading his fork. “You got a call for me?”

“No call,” Hook said. “I'm the railroad detective staying out at the salvage yard. Sheriff Mueller thought you might be able to provide me a little information.”

“Sit down,” he said, pointing his fork at the seat. “Pie?”

“Thanks, no.”

“Not that I'm wishing anyone harm,” he said, “but I sure could use a call. I got a payment coming up on that new hearse.”

“Things are a little slow?” Hook asked.

“In a town like this, folks die faster than they're born. You might think that's good for business, but it ain't. Without replacements, sooner or later no one's left, and business dries up. Course, there's the occasional accident and such, but they don't come along often enough to keep a man going.”

“Well, maybe things will pick up.”

Fred scraped the last of the pie from his plate and shoved it aside.

“Now, what kind of information you looking for?”

“I understand you were the one who made the run on Sergeant Erikson out at the tunnel.”

“That's right,” he said, sipping his coffee. “What was left of him.”

“I'm gathering up background on the sergeant and thought maybe you could help me out.”

“I could give you a description,” he said, “but you might lose your dinner.”

“Were you the one who shipped the body?”

“There's regulations about that sort of thing, you know. Not just anyone can do it. There's embalming and having the right shipping container. There can't be no leaks. The health department hates a leak.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“Folks got no idea how tricky shipping a cadaver can be. Course, I'll be dead myself by the time the army reimburses me.”

“You don't happen to remember where the body was shipped?”

“Kansas City, as I recall. I got the records over to the shop.”

*   *   *

The transmission went out halfway back, and Hook had to walk into the yard. He found Scrap in the office working at his desk.

“You can't be hot-rodding my equipment and expect it to hold up, Hook.”

“I was going fifteen miles an hour, Scrap. That's not exactly speeding.”

“Did you try reverse?”

Hook lit a cigarette and rubbed the back of his neck. “What good would that have done?”

“It could have saved me a trip for one thing.”

“I can't be backing all the way from Ash Fork.”

“Ain't no wonder you can't hold down a real job,” he said.

“I'll just let that pass, Scrap, seeing as how I carry a weapon, and my temper can get out of hand.”

“I'll have to go get it my own damn self,” Scrap said.

“You want me to go with you?”

“Thanks just the same. I'll take Pepe. He's less particular about going backwards, and he don't carry a gun.”

*   *   *

Darkness had fallen by the time Hook pulled up on the grab iron of the caboose. A strange whishing noise emanated from somewhere, and a light flashed briefly through the caboose window.

Hook slid back into the shadows and pulled his weapon. Someone must have broken in. There was no shortage of bums passing through, and they would steal anything not tied down. The light came again and then faded.

Hook tried the handle and eased the door open. He paused to listen. Bums rarely carried weapons, but they were not shy about using anything at hand to crack a man's head. The light glimmered again, and he cocked his pistol. Swinging open the door, he leveled it into the darkness.

Just then an electric lightbulb began to glow over the kitchen table. It brightened and then faded to an eerie orange.

Hook retrieved his flashlight from the cabinet just as the bulb went out once again. He panned his light under the table and then under the bunk but found no one. After that, he went outside and checked under the caboose. When the whishing noise rose up once again, he whirled about, bringing his sidearm to bear. Only then did he see the windmill blade atop the caboose. A fan belt ran from the blade to a gear that turned a car generator that had been bolted to the frame.

“Scrap,” he said, lowering his weapon.

*   *   *

Hook waited in the office as Pepe backed the jeep in. Pepe walked off without a word, rubbing his shoulder the whole time. Scrap opened the office door and rolled his eyes when he saw Hook sitting at his desk.

“That dang Pepe can't drive backward worth a damn,” he said. “Three times we went in the bar ditch.

“What the hell you want now, Hook? You can't be borrowing my jeep again, that's for sure.”

“I'm not here to borrow that broken-down jeep,” Hook said.

Scrap fished out his pipe and looked inside the bowl.

“When a yard dog shows up, it ain't no social call, that much I can tell you.”

“I want to know who put that contraption on my caboose?”

“That's the first generator model of the Headlight Electric Company. Seeing as how you've been asking for electricity and seeing as how we're friends, I thought to permit you the privilege. In addition, I won't be charging for the electricity, not right away at least.”

“The damn thing goes on and off like a crossing signal, Scrap. A man could go into convulsions.”

“You'd think a feller would be more appreciative of having his electricity provided for free.”

Hook rubbed at the first signs of a headache that had sprung up between his brows.

“I need to use your phone, Scrap.”

Scrap buried his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels.

“Criticize a man's electric company and then ask to use his phone. There just ain't no explaining some people.”

When Scrap had gone, Hook called Division.

“Eddie, this is Hook.”

“You know what time it is, Runyon?”

“Security is a twenty-four-hour commitment, Eddie.”

“You figure out some way to derail the
Chief
?”

“I'm making a run to Williams tomorrow, Eddie. Something's come up on this copper deal.”

“You called me for that?”

“I'm going on over to Kansas City from there.”

“What the hell is in Kansas City?”

“Look, Eddie, I'm on Scrap's phone, and he's raising hell. I'll call you later.”

*   *   *

Back at the caboose, Hook unscrewed the lightbulb from over the table. Across the way, the pusher engine rumbled and sighed on the siding. He took off his prosthesis and lay down in his bunk. Everyone else had accepted Sergeant Erikson's death as an accident. Why couldn't he? Life would be a hell of a lot easier for him if he could.

The wind swept in, and the windmill blade squeaked and squawked atop the caboose.

Perhaps if he could find Sergeant Erikson's people, get an understanding of what kind of a man he was. Perhaps then he could let it go.

 

21

T
HAT AFTERNOON HOOK
waited on the depot platform for the eastbound short haul to come in. He recognized Frenchy's whistle pattern from as far away as the wigwag crossing.

Frenchy brought the old steamer into the platform and leaned out the cab window.

“Don't you yard dogs have anything to do but beg free rides all day?” he asked.

“Catching one of your trains is like drinking bad hooch, Frenchy. It isn't good, but it beats sobriety.”

Frenchy pushed back his hat. “Well, I suppose I could use someone to talk to. This bakehead ain't said a word since Needles. I think he might be dead.”

The bakehead lifted his brows. “I wish I was,” he said.

“Where you headed, Frenchy?” Hook asked.

Frenchy flipped his cigar butt out the window. “I'm deadheading hoppers to Flagstaff. You ever catch that son of a bitch what stole my wallet?”

“Solving crimes is a complicated and slow business, Frenchy.”

“Well, it's for damn sure slow,” he said.

“You going to give me a lift, Frenchy, or just complain all day?”

“I guess you can hitch to Williams long as I don't have to listen about no book writers,” he said. “Last time I thought my head was going to crack open.”

Hook settled in at the back and waited for the bakehead to bring up steam. The old teakettle hunkered down as she bumped out the slack, and they were soon clipping across the countryside.

Frenchy unwrapped a new cigar and wet her down.

“What you doing in Williams, Hook, looking for a place to lay down and read?”

“Tracking copper thieves,” he said. “I'm sick of listening to Scrap West bitch.”

“Bitching is like breathing to Scrap, 'cept more so. I figure he's going to make a fortune, what with the war over.”

“Scrap West with more money? That's a scary notion,” Hook said.

Frenchy lit his cigar and pinched off his match. “I figure the world has changed forever and not for the better. What with this atomic bomb, there ain't no one in the world safe no more. They say a peanut-size piece of that uranium could blow up Africa and Australia, with enough left over for a wiener roast.”

“I'm not so sure about the wiener roast,” Hook said. “But before it's done, Scrap West will have figured out a way to make money from it.”

Frenchy checked the end of his cigar and then puffed it into a cloud.

“They say the whole world's scrambling for the bomb now, that there's Russians and Germans and Japanese behind every rock. Some say they're out to steal our bomb, and they figure to send her right up our pants.”

“You got to lay off that Mexican beer, Frenchy.”

Frenchy pushed his hat back. “Me, I like my world simple. I like knowing how much steam's in the boiler before she hits the grade.”

“Yeah,” Hook said. “And how do you do that?”

“The more sweat on the fireman's head, the more steam I got. It's a surefire method.”

The bakehead took out his bandanna and dabbed at his face.

“Frenchy's happy so long as he's not doing the sweating.”

“Learned that from watching yard dogs,” Frenchy said. “A man ponders his navel long enough and someone else will wind up doing the sweating for him. Ain't that right, Hook?”

“All I want is to get to Williams without a nervous breakdown,” Hook said.

*   *   *

Hook dropped down from the ladder at the Williams Salvage spur and gave Frenchy a wave-off. The piles of junk glimmered in the twilight, and the smell of rust and iron filled the air. Hook lit a cigarette and waited for the evening to darken. He would be on private land and just as soon not have to explain his presence.

When darkness fell, the yard lights blinked on in the distance. Hook worked his way down the track, pausing from time to time to listen. A switch engine rumbled off as she shuffled salvage cars through the yard.

Keeping low, Hook made his way along the fence until he came upon a low spot. Stooping under the fence, he crept along to the line of cars on the siding spur. Voices drifted from across the yard, and the chug of the switch engine thudded under his feet.

After a search, he spotted SF-48032 sitting under one of the yard lights. He double-checked to make certain he was alone before climbing the ladder to look in. By his estimation, the load had been lightened by at least a third.