Dead Man's Tunnel (31 page)

“I gathered,” he said.

The tow engine pulled out onto the main line. When it chugged past the window of the passenger car, Hook could see the engineer's elbow protruding from the cab window. Steam rose up and into the night.

Hook turned to Ballard. “What happens now?” he asked.

Ballard looked at him over the tops of his glasses. “Now for the run,” he said. “Now for the test.”

 

37

W
HEN SOMEONE KNOCKED
on the car door, the men all moved forward and into the modified tinder car. The lieutenant pulled a notebook from her briefcase before setting it at her feet. She handed the notepad to Ballard, who entered something and then laid it on his lap. A hum, like swarming bees, emanated from out of the tinder.

“What's going on?” Hook asked.

“They're bringing the reactor up,” Ballard said. “The fuel rods will generate heat, which in turn produces steam.”

Hook glanced out the window. “What steam?”

“The system is closed,” he said. “Steam propels a turbine connected directly to the drive wheels. The water is then condensed and reused. The hammer blow of a piston-driven steam engine is eliminated, and much higher speeds can be obtained.”

“And the problems?” Hook asked.

“No reverse,” he said.

“Been there,” Hook said.

“A smaller reverse turbine has been installed to fix that problem.”

Ballard looked at his watch, picked up the notebook, and made another entry.

“There is one other thing,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Meltdown. If the cooling system should fail, there'd be no controlling the reactor, and it would release radiation. The consequences would be catastrophic.”

Hook glanced over at the lieutenant and then back at Ballard.

“But you've solved this little issue, right?”

Ballard pushed his glasses up. “We've developed a helium cooling system,” he said. “With that, we've been able to minimize the weight and size of the reactor. In effect, it's what made this engine possible.”

“But it's safe, this helium system?”

The moonlight struck through the window and ignited Ballard's black eyes.

“The system performed perfectly,” he said, pausing. “In the lab.”

“And what about in the field?”

“That's what this run is all about, isn't it, Mr. Runyon? Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go forward.”

Hook waited as Ballard entered the tinder car. The lieutenant clasped her arms about her.

Hook said, “You've known about this meltdown thing all the while?”

“My job was to get Ballard here and get him home. Beyond that, I don't know much more about the specifics than you. It's all immensely complicated.”

The hum of the reactor from the tinder had grown low and resonant, a sound springing up from the earth's core, a sound alien to Hook's ears.

The car edged forward, the hum merging into a liquid acceleration. Gone were the thumping and grinding of gears, the hammer of pistons, the steam and smoke and pounding drivers. Gone were the sweat and toil of firemen and the stink of Frenchy's cigars.

The car continued to accelerate, its speed twisting in Hook's stomach as a trillion flashes of light propelled them down track.

And when they hit the ascent, that grade defeating steamers and diesels alike, the velocity only increased, slamming them against their seats as they drove forward. Wind rushed outside the car, scrambling their thoughts.

When they hit the curve halfway up the ascent, wheels screeched, and the smell of iron and heat filled the car. The lieutenant clung to him, her fingers icy on his arm as they shot up the mountainside.

Hook leaned over and looked out for a full view of the cars as they rounded the bend. He stood, his pulse ticking up. The door of the end boxcar had opened. He could see the sacks of sand, some of them emptied and flapping in the wind. Surely they wouldn't have left the door ajar.

The thought that came to him next caused his skin to crawl. But for someone to exit out the side door of a moving boxcar at these speeds required skill and backbone. They'd have to climb out onto the door, cling to the bracing long enough to pull up onto the roof, all while the car bucked and bobbed down the track like a bronco. He'd done it himself on one occasion, but not at these speeds, and not so much from bravery as from fear, the car having been on fire at the time.

“I'll be back,” he said.

The lieutenant grabbed his arm. “Where are you going?”

“There might be a problem,” he said. “I'm going to go check.”

“You can't go out there,” she said. “It's too dangerous.”

“Don't worry,” he said. “This is
my
territory.”

The guard stepped into the aisle to stop him, but the lieutenant waved him off. Hook opened the door and moved out onto the platform. The ties raced below in a blur, and the wind whipped around the sides of the boxcar. He stepped onto the knuckle coupler, which danced under his feet. Grabbing the brake rod, he pulled himself over.

Straddling the rod, he worked his way up by digging his toes into the siding grooves. He peeked over the edge of the roof before pulling up. The wind blasted into his face and set his eyes to watering. The cars pitched and rolled ahead as the power of Ballard's engine propelled them up the grade.

He could see no one on top of the cars. Perhaps the whole thing had been no more than an open door, his imagination running wild. It had been that kind of twenty-four hours. Or perhaps someone hid between the cars with sabotage in mind. Riding the rails had taught him plenty about rounding up hoboes, a hell of a lot less about foreign agents.

Either way, it was go or quit, and quit had never paid the bills.

*   *   *

Hook inched along on his stomach. The wind screamed in his ears and tugged at his body. The car lurched and rolled under him like a ship in a storm. By the time he made it to the last car, his legs trembled with exhaustion.

He hoisted up and crawled his way back. The only place for someone to hide would have been between the cars, and he'd cleared them all. Soon enough they'd be at the top of the grade. At this point, the run couldn't be over fast enough for him.

When he reached the end, he paused. His shirt flapped in the wind and stung his ears and face. The track raced away behind the car. He'd been wrong. The door must have not been secured and just slid open on its own. He took a final look over the end.

The blow came from below, from out of nowhere, and caught him square on the nose. Hook pitched back, his eyes watering, black spots swarming in the blue above him. The wind sucked him sideways, his feet swinging out into space.

At the last second, he caught his hook on a deck bolt and pulled back onto the roof. He lay on his back, blood dripping from his nose and into the pocket of his throat. A dull pain settled in under his jaw.

When he started to get up, a voice said, “Only room for one passenger up here, friend.”

Hook could make out only bits and pieces of a face, like a puzzle. He shook his head. When the pieces slid together, he recognized the figure as the bo from the Yampai siding. His sidearm was pointed at Hook's head.

“You,” Hook said.

“I should have finished you when I had the chance,” he said. “No matter. I can do it now.”

“You've been in that boxcar since Yampai?” Hook said. “You rode in on Frenchy's short haul?”

“So long, yard dog,” he said.

Ballard's engine accelerated yet more, and the car lurched forward. The bo fell back on his haunches. His eyes widened as he teetered against the pitching of the car. His weapon dropped onto the roof and slid away.

Hook tried to clear his own sidearm, but by then the bo had recovered and threw a punch from the shoulder, catching Hook on the chin. Hook's teeth loosened in their sockets. The bo glared at Hook from under thick brows. The wind whipped his hair, and spittle gathered in the corners of his mouth.

When he came closer, Hook grabbed him around the middle and clinched him up close. The bo roared, not words, but a howl, like an animal in distress. Hook buried his head in the bo's chest, knowing that another blow might be his end. He smelled of onions and sweat, and his muscles quivered under Hook's hold. The boxcar swayed and rolled beneath them, and the clack of the wheels beat like an iron heart.

Hook brought his head up, catching the bo under the chin. The bo's neck cracked back, and his eyes rolled white. Hook took him again, a short blow to the throat, and he gurgled like a ruptured brake gut. Snorting and sucking for wind, he dropped onto the roof.

The wind swept him to the edge of the car, and for a moment, he hung there as if suspended by some invisible force. A sound issued from his throat, a primal shriek filled with hatred and fear, as he disappeared over the side.

 

38

O
NCE BACK AT
the tunnel, Ballard's engine eased onto the siding, and the whine of the reverse turbine trailed off. The engine decelerated and came to a stop. Hook's ears rang in the silence, and he dabbed at the perspiration on his forehead. The lieutenant sat still, her eyes locked on the door.

Hook searched for a cigarette as the first light of dawn broke on the horizon.

“It was a ride to remember,” he said, turning to the lieutenant. “But there's something I don't understand.”

She picked up her briefcase and set it on her lap. “What would that be?”

“I don't understand what that bo was up to.”

She turned in her seat. “Sabotage,” she said. “What else? Anyway, how do you know he was a hobo?”

“The way he put together a jungle for one thing, and the way he worked that car. It wasn't the first time for him, I can tell you that. In any case, there were no explosives, no way of destroying the train.

“It was one bo with a pistol against armed guards. Why send a hobo out to commit sabotage in the first place?” He paused. “Unless it was for a diversion.”

The passenger car bumped back as the tow engine coupled in. Captain Folsom opened the door.

“Success,” he said. “A perfect run.”

Hook stood. “It's possible this thing isn't over, Captain. I'm going out to make sure the trestle is safe. Lieutenant, check with the guards, will you? In the meantime, Captain, you might want to get Ballard out of here.”

Folsom nodded. “I'll take him to the guardhouse,” he said. “Lieutenant, get up there as quickly as possible. The sooner he's home safe, the better.”

“Yes,” she said. “The moment the engine has cleared.”

*   *   *

While the lieutenant alerted the guards, Hook walked the trestle, checking the bracings for explosives. Afterward, they stood at the switch point and watched in silence as the engine pulled onto the main line. And when it had disappeared into the tunnel, they both took a deep breath.

“Come on,” Hook said. “I'll feel better when Ballard is on his way.”

As they approached the guardhouse, they could see Captain Folsom sitting in the old rocker that had been placed on the porch by the guards. He sat facing the door as if waiting for someone to come out.

Not a creature stirred in the morning hush, and the smell of smoke still hung in the valley.

At the landing, Hook called up so as not to surprise Folsom. When he didn't move, something cold edged down Hook's spine.

He turned to the lieutenant. “Wait,” he said.

He looked back, checking the terrain to make certain no one came. The canyon trekked off into the desert behind him. Sunlight reflected from the tops of the boxcars below, and the trestle, having only moments before borne the immensity of Ballard's locomotive, stood like a fragile skeleton over the gorge.

“Something's wrong,” he said, pulling his sidearm. “Keep low.”

At the top, he scanned the area. “Captain,” he said.

Folsom didn't move. Reaching out, Hook touched his shoulder, and the chair turned on its base. A garrote made from phone line twisted into the soft flesh of the captain's neck. Blood pooled in his chin, a black mass, and his eyes, bulbous, ruptured orbs, stared into some other world. Saliva strung from his lips in silver threads, and his chest swelled in search of the breath that never came. His rifle lay at his feet.

The lieutenant stiffened and grasped Hook's arm. Hook put his finger to his lips and guided her to the guardhouse wall.

Pressed against the coolness of the rock, he took a moment to steady his hand and his mind before kicking open the door.

 

39

H
E WENT IN
low, alert to any movement. Light struck through the window, an oblong beam illuminating the far corner of the guardhouse. The table had been tipped over, papers scattered about. One of the bunks lay on its side.

The lieutenant stepped in behind him. “My god, what's happened?”

“They've taken Ballard,” he said.

She glanced at the door. “And murdered Captain Folsom. But who?”

“Edgeworth,” Hook said.

“We've got to find them,” she said. “Ballard's critical to the operation. Without him, the whole program is compromised.”

“We could get the law,” he said.

She shook her head. “No. We have to keep this quiet.” The lieutenant rubbed her temples. “But where would they go? How would they get out of here?”

“Maybe he's taken one of the vehicles,” Hook said. “Made for parts unknown.”

“I took the keys out of both cars,” she said.

“Good thinking, and the jeep is parked a fair distance away. Edgeworth has no idea it's even there. That means they're afoot, probably in the canyon, and they can't be that far ahead.”

When they stepped out onto the porch, a breeze swept through. Folsom's chair creaked, and his head bobbed as if in agreement with their assessment.