Dead Man's Tunnel (18 page)

He circled the perimeter of the yard, coming in close to where he could see the switch engine and a truck that had been parked alongside the tracks. In the distance, men cursed and then laughed.

Hook slipped through the shadows and pulled himself up for a peek in the truck. It brimmed with copper pipe. Just then the switch engine blew her whistle and bumped the line of cars forward. Hook dropped off the truck and moved into the darkness.

When the steamer pulled under the lights, Hook recognized it as one of the pushers from out of Ash Fork. And the copper arthritic bracelet dangling from the engineer's wrist looked exactly like the one he'd seen that night at the culvert.

“I'll be damned,” he said to himself. “So that's how they're doing it.”

Hook waited until the switch engine had cleared the spur before checking his watch. The copper thieves would just have to wait until another time. He had less than an hour to catch the
Super Chief
to KC, and she was seldom late.

*   *   *

The
Super Chief,
purring like a giant cat, slid into the Williams depot. Hook flashed his badge to the conductor and stepped into the air-conditioned car. The train was no longer called the
Chief,
but the
Super Chief,
and for damn good reason. Luxurious as a fine hotel, she raced across country at unheard-of speeds. Forty hours from Chicago to San Francisco, sometimes less, and with a guest list to rival the Ritz.

Decked with teak and ebony, she gleamed like a fine hotel lobby. She smelled of leather and linen and sported original art. Hook loved to ride the
Super,
not so much for the speed as for a moment's escape from the rudeness of the world. Here in this train, and at the speed of lightning, the world came as close to perfect as it ever could. For a few brief hours, he drank the best booze, ate the best food, and received service normally reserved for kings.

As they raced into the desert, he napped, and when he awoke, he went to the lounge car and ordered a scotch on ice. He sat in a chair big enough for two that had been adorned with a colorful Navajo motif. He watched the scenery race past the picture window as he smoked a cigarette.

After that he went to the diner, with its vaulted ceiling and linen napkins. He ordered cold salad with blue cheese and croutons, leek soup, and baked bass. Everything arrived on Mimbreño turtle china and was served with the most exacting care. For dessert he had layer cake and topped the whole thing off with black coffee.

Unwilling to spend his entire ride sleeping, he sat in the passenger car and listened to the clack of the wheels as the
Super Chief
charged through the American heartland.

*   *   *

Once out of the Kansas City depot, Hook checked the address and hailed a cab. He rolled down his window as they edged through the traffic. The smells and noise of the city assaulted him from every direction. He watched the people at the stop signs, the way they turned inward as if surrounded by mirrors.

The cab traveled for miles until they were on the outskirts of the city. When at last they pulled up, Hook stuck his head out the window to see where the cabby was pointing.

“That trailer up there,” he said. “You want me to wait?”

“I won't be long,” Hook said, climbing out.

The land had developed around a body of water that now struggled under the onslaught of people. The lots were littered with trailer houses, old cars, and livestock, including a half-dozen goats that languished in the shade of an abandoned dump truck.

Hook knocked, and a dog barked from somewhere inside. The man who opened the door wore shorts, sandals, and a T-shirt with a frayed neck. Blue veins knotted up his legs.

“Mr. Erikson?” Hook said, showing him his badge.

“Yeah,” he said.

“I'm with railroad security. Could I ask you a few questions?”

The dog came to the door and growled. Erikson kicked at it.

“What about?”

“Your son's death.”

“They said the army would take care of the burying expenses.”

“Just some things I need to clear up.”

He paused. “Well, the place is a mess, but come on in.”

Hook pushed aside the stack of newspapers and sat down on the couch.

The old man dropped into the easy chair across from him, took out his cigarette papers, wet the corner of his finger, and peeled one off.

“What is it exactly you wanted cleared up?” he asked.

“As you know, your son's death has been deemed an accident. And as you probably know, a thousand dollars was found under his bunk. Given his pay scale, it's a rather large sum of money. Would you have any idea why he would have it?”

The old man folded the cigarette paper around his finger. Taking a can of Velvet from the coffee table, he tapped a row of tobacco along the length of the paper.

“About a thousand reasons is all,” he said, sealing his cigarette with his tongue.

“Like what, Mr. Erikson?”

“Take a look around,” he said.

Hook scanned the room, the dishes in the sink, the pile of dirty clothes in the hallway, the window screen that bulged out in the middle.

The old man lit his cigarette and squinted his eye against the smoke.

“I guess you'd have to put me high on the list of reasons. Joseph and me didn't always see eye to eye, if you know what I mean. I came up hard, see. My schooling was hit-and-miss, mostly miss. A man without an education can't provide for his family like he ought. It's back-work mostly, and back-work don't count for much. We got by, but that's about all.”

“Joseph wanted more?” Hook asked.

“Shamed, wasn't he?” he said. “So, he joined the army the minute he could. Money meant more to him than anything, even his own folks. When he came home on leave, he didn't stick around much, always had some place to go, something else to do.”

“What about his mother?”

“Died in childbirth. Joseph came into the world to be laid in the arms of his dead mother. I remember it like yesterday. You could hear that boy mewling halfway across Kansas. I think he always blamed himself for her death.” He paused, drawing on his cigarette until the end drooped in a red point. “I think maybe I blamed him, too.

“Want to hear something funny?” he said. “That train run over Joseph on his birthday. Ain't that the funniest goddamn thing? Joseph had too much want in him for his own good. A boy that hungry can never be happy until he has it all. He can never get enough, you see.”

Hook got up. “Did he have girlfriend trouble, anything like that?”

The old man flipped the ash off his cigarette onto the floor.

“Joseph didn't fret much about women, not that he was funny or anything like that, but he could take them or leave them. I never knew a woman
I
didn't want. Guess being randy don't run in the blood.”

Hook walked to the door. The cabby stood behind the cab taking a leak.

“There is one thing,” the old man said. “Last time Joseph came home on leave, a feller showed up one day and asked to talk to him.”

Hook turned. “What about?”

“He didn't say.”

“Did you know him?”

“Never saw him before,” he said, “but Joseph left with him. He came back and laid up back there in the bed for a couple of hours. When he came out, he said he had to leave. I never saw him alive again.”

“Do you remember what the man looked like?”

He shrugged. “Big hands, like goddamn journal jacks. Glasses, I think. Men all look the same, don't they.”

*   *   *

Back at the depot, Hook checked in with the operator.

“Mind if I use your phone? I need to make a call to Division,” he said.

The operator pointed out a side office. Hook closed the door, lit a cigarette, and dialed Division.

“Security,” Eddie said.

“Eddie, Runyon here. I'm in KC. I'll be heading back to Ash Fork soon.”

“Runyon, this ain't your personal railroad, you know.”

“It's a long, hard trip all the way up here, Eddie, but I figured I owed it to the company.”

“Don't blow smoke up my skirt, Runyon. What do you want?”

“I got a hot lead on those copper thieves.”

“I need you in Wichita,” Eddie said.

“Wichita?”

“That's right, Wichita. It's in Kansas.”

“I know where Wichita is. What's going on?”

“The cops picked her up.”

“Her who, Eddie?”

“The one who robbed half the depots in your territory.”

“I'll catch the
Super
back in the morning.”

“Catch something sooner, Runyon. This can't wait.”

 

22

H
OOK HUNG UP
the phone and waited for the heat in his ears to subside. He'd as soon be punched in the belly as talk to Eddie.

The operator leaned back in his chair and looked at Hook.

“What happened to the arm?” he asked.

Hook held his prosthesis up. “My old man yanked it off when I was a kid.”

The operator rolled his eyes. “I never did know a yard dog could tell the truth,” he said.

“Listen,” Hook said. “I need to get to Wichita. Anything headed that way?”

“Why don't you wait and catch the
Super
? She's coming in later.”

Hook shook his head. “You'd have to ask Division about that.”

The operator checked the board. “There's an old battleship deadheading stock cars back to Dodge City tonight. She's in the yards getting a drink. I'd as soon ride a razorback hog myself.”

“I've ridden worse in my day,” Hook said. “Least I'll be on the inside.”

“I'll let the engineer know,” the operator said. “But you better get on out there.”

“Thanks for the phone,” Hook said.

“By the way,” the operator said. “What did he do with it?”

“Do with what?”

“The arm.”

“We didn't buy groceries for damn near a week,” Hook said.

“Jesus, I should ask,” he said, turning back to his desk.

As Hook left the depot, he noticed a man leaning against the building. Hook turned his back and lit a cigarette. Through the reflection in the window, he could see the man pull his hat down before moving off into the shadows.

*   *   *

The engineer stopped halfway up the engine ladder and looked down at Hook over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he said. “We're pulling out shortly.”

“Where you want me?” Hook asked.

“There's an old drover's caboose on the tail, but it don't smell so good back there. Those stock cars ain't been cleaned in a hundred years.”

“I'll be clearing in Wichita,” Hook said. “No need to stop. Just give me a slow, will you?”

“Alright,” he said, climbing into the cab. He stuck his head out the window. “This old rattler don't move so fast, though. You might be dust by the time we get there.”

Hook worked his way down line. The stink of cow manure and rotting carcasses permeated the night. Moving live cattle on stock cars came with a price. Cows got down and were crushed under the weight of the others. They died of thirst and broken limbs and all manner of mishaps. Nothing in the world moved freight as well as the railroad, except when it came to live animals. Mortality rates were high and the deaths often brutal. Hook had seen all of it he cared to.

The drover's caboose, designed to overnight cattle owners, was larger by a margin than a regular caboose. It smelled of whiskey and cigarettes, and he could see the rails through a hole in the floor. Taking off his coat, he rolled it up for a pillow and lay down on the wooden bench.

A ripple worked down line, and Hook braced himself as the caboose lurched forward. The lights of Kansas City faded behind as they rumbled off into the darkness. The stink of the cattle cars rose up through the hole and settled into his clothing.

Hook watched the stars through the window as they slid through the blackness. He thought about Linda Sue. Why had she been picked up and Corporal Thibodeaux hadn't? And who was the guy lurking outside the depot?

He turned his back against the cold breeze that churned up from the floor. A drover's caboose was a far cry from the
Super Chief.
But then his life had always been a matter of extremes. Why should it be different now?

*   *   *

Hook arrived in Wichita just as dawn broke. He stood at the operator's window to check for a sleeping room.

“Yeah,” the operator said. “There's one on the second floor. There's a shower at the end of the hall, too. You might consider using it.”

“Thanks,” Hook said.

Hook showered, washed out his socks by hand, and hung them over the end of his bunk. His back ached, and his eyes burned from lack of sleep. He collapsed into bed and yawned. A few hours in the sack would be welcome relief.

He awoke at two and dressed. When he stepped outside, he lit a cigarette and scanned the area. A man reading a newspaper sat on a bench across the street, his hat slung onto the end of his shoe. The man peeked over the top of his paper at Hook before returning to his reading.

Hook hailed a cab for the police station. The desk sergeant checked Hook's credentials and called for the deputy to fetch Linda Sue to the interrogation room. While he waited, Hook browsed a
Time
article on the
Enola Gay.
He lit a cigarette, and when he looked up, Lieutenant Allison Capron stood in the doorway.

“Hello,” she said, setting her purse on the seat next to him.

Hook stood. “Lieutenant, what are you doing here?”

“I thought I might sit in on the interrogation,” she said.

“How did you know I was here?”

“Got a call. I was on my way to Chicago anyway. I hope you don't mind.”