The Insane Train (24 page)

He reached over and dialed the phone. Andrea answered. “I've been waiting,” she said. “What did they say?”

“I have to pay for their truck. The railroad needs the money.”

“That's not so bad, then,” she said. “I mean, it could have been worse.”

“Listen, Andrea, I wonder if you could do me a favor?”

“If I can.”

“You know those personnel files that were in my caboose?”

“Yes. Doctor Helms has them in the guardhouse for the interviews. Why?”

“Do you think you could get at look at Helms's file?”

Pausing, she said, “I don't understand. We agreed that we shouldn't.”

“I know,” he said. “But things have changed.”

“I'd do anything you ask, Hook. What am I looking for?”

“That's just it,” he said. “I don't know.”

Andrea thought about Hook's call all night long. She sensed alarm in his voice, or at least urgency. On the other hand, just working the security ward had put her on edge. Dealing with the criminally insane presented enough challenges in itself. Add trainees and a new director, and all the ingredients for a nervous breakdown were in place.

Doctor Helms, having taken over the director's position, had cranked up the rules, making the work even more difficult. At times her intractability sent Andrea's blood pressure soaring. She required an absolute schedule on meds, both timing and quantity, which defied the obvious: mental illness by its nature lacked predictability. Half the time patients were either overmedicated or manic.

Andrea didn't doubt Helms's intelligence, but she scored a minus two on the sensitivity scale. All and all, Andrea had begun to doubt if she could continue working there. Hook would be moving on. This much she knew. It was in his nature. One day they would come for his caboose, and he would leave on it. Staying here alone and working would be problematic. She was increasingly uncertain whether she could do so.

One of Helms's better decisions, born of a need to spread the experienced personnel among the wards, was to move Roy to the women's ward and Santos to the boys' ward. Both had taken on their responsibilities with enthusiasm. Santos demonstrated an uncanny ability to control the boys. His nonverbal calm suited them, and they searched him out at every opportunity.

Roy, on the other hand, went from woman to woman, chattering and talking and cajoling. The women found him endearing and most often tried to please him.

After lunch, she sought out Roy, who had just finished eating with the women. Bertha sat nearby gazing up at him, while Ruth and Anna giggled over the pictures in an old army-issue pamphlet.

“How's it going?” Andrea asked, sitting down on one of the bunks.

“Depends on how you look at it,” he said.

“From a professional point of view?”

“Things are under control,” he said. “We've had no riots or upheavals in the last twenty-four hours.”

“That's good,” Andrea said. “How about at the personal level?”

“Now that's a different story altogether. Bertha here followed me into the bathroom. It's right disconcerting to have someone crawl under the stall while you're amidst your business, if you know what I mean.

“Ruth over there stood on the landing of the upstairs floor to watch the new employees come in for interviews.”

“Doesn't sound so bad,” Andrea said.

“Not unless you consider the fact that she was stark naked at the time.

“Anna swears Hook visited her in the night, hung her on a cross, and drove a nail through her foot.”

“Pretty calm then?” Andrea said.

“About as calm as it gets. I keep thinking sooner or later something unusual might happen.”

Andrea gazed out the window. From here she could see the fort cemetery and, beyond, the spring where she and Hook had walked. Mixer waited in the shade for her to come out. He followed her everywhere she went since Hook left.

“You thinking to stay on for a while, Roy?”

Roy shrugged. “I can't be certain. It's as good a life as a man like me has come up with so far,” he said. “What about you?”

Andrea studied her fingernails. “I left everything I own behind. I thought I was doing something important here, that it would be worth it, but now I'm not so sure. I've been thinking I might go home.”

“Since Baldwin fell sick?” he asked.

“Doctor Helms is competent, but she can be distant and…Oh, I guess I'm being foolish.”

“Andrea, that's the one thing you're not.”

“I have this feeling that she doesn't care like she should.”

Roy nodded. “Like everything comes from a page in her head and that it has been written by someone else?”

“Exactly. This work is too difficult to do just for money. With Baldwin I felt like what I did mattered.”

“And now you don't?” he said.

Andrea squinted up an eye. “I guess what I can say is that now I'm not sure. Anyway, thanks for listening to me, Roy.”

“I'm getting real good at listening,” he said.

That afternoon Andrea stopped in at Doctor Helms's office, a cell she'd secured for such purposes on the first floor of the guardhouse. For the last few days Helms had been busy interviewing locals, and now she sat behind her desk poring over one of the files.

“Excuse me,” Andrea said.

Helms slipped the file folder back into the cabinet behind her.

“Yes, what is it, Andrea?”

“About Van Diefendorf,” she said. “He's very agitated, and we've not been able to get him to eat. I thought a pill might help calm him.”

Helms folded her hands in front of her. “Mr. Van Diefendorf will eat when he's hungry enough. He can wait for his medications like the others.”

“It's just that he has bad days,” Andrea said.

“Anything else?” she asked.

“No,” Andrea said. “Nothing else.”

“Very well, then. Oh, I'll not be here this evening. I'm to check on Doctor Baldwin. If you have problems, you can reach me at the hospital.”

“Yes,” Andrea said.

Helms stood and smoothed her skirt. Her hips were wide and open, a pelvis capable of bearing litters of children. For her to be childless struck Andrea as incongruous.

“And I've been getting reports that Ruth has put herself on display again. If this behavior doesn't stop, I'll have her isolated.”

“She's quite compulsive, you know,” Andrea said.

“Then it will be up to us to control her, won't it?”

“Yes, Doctor. I'll have a talk with Roy.”

“And while you're at it, ask him to stop smoking on duty. It's unacceptable,” she said. “Now, if there's nothing else?”

 

Andrea waited until the meds were given and the second shift had settled in before she went back to her room. The sun shimmered on the horizon, bolts of orange and red striking into the clabbered sky. From her window, she watched Helms pull out of the gate on her way to see Baldwin.

Shadows slid from beneath the buildings like black spirits, and the sounds of evening rose from out of the prairie. She put on her jacket and made her way across the compound. The moon popped onto the horizon like a cork and commenced its ascent into the black sky.

The guardhouse lights were off, the madness upstairs sedated and silent. Andrea stood on the porch, her heart tripping in her ears. She was a caretaker, a nurturer. Breaking into someone's office went against her instincts. There was only one person in the world she would do this for, and he had called.

Easing the door open, she waited for her eyes to adjust. Moonlight lit a patch on the floor no larger than a man's hand. Helms's perfume lingered in the stillness, and her reading glasses lay on top of a file folder on her desk. Her coffee cup sat on the cabinet behind.

Andrea paused, listening, the only sounds an occasional distant cough from the cells above. Opening the filing cabinet, she thumbed through the names until she found Helms's personnel records. Taking them out, she held them under the patch of moonlight and read the pages, then slipped each back into its exact location.

Several moments passed before she rose again and opened the files. This time she went to the back and pulled Frankie Yager's folder. She read it through and then read it again. She picked up Helms's phone and dialed the number Hook had given her.

When Hook came on the line, there was sleep in his voice.

“Hook,” he said.

“This is Andrea,” she said, her voice hushed. “I've just gone through Doctor Helms's personnel file.”

“What did you find?”

“She graduated with a 3.9.”

“That's all you found?”

“Her recommendations are impeccable.”

“I was hoping for more.”

Andrea dropped the phone against her neck and then placed it back to her ear.

“There is one thing,” she said.

“Yes?”

“She did her residency in Fergus Falls.”

“Fergus Falls?” he asked. Andrea waited for Hook to process the information. “Isn't that where Doctor Baldwin had his practice?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Helms never told you this?”

“No,” Andrea said. “She never talks about her past.”

“Odd,” he said. “I mean, wouldn't you have mentioned something?”

“It's not Helms's style,” she said.

“You're right about that.”

“There is one other thing,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“I took a look at Frankie Yager's file while I was at it. He worked at Fergus Falls, too.”

“At the same time as Helms?” he asked.

“Yes. In fact, one of his employment recommendations is from Doctor Helms herself.”

“I'll be damn,” Hook said. “They knew each other before?”

“Looks that way.”

“I don't know what all this means,” Hook said. “Maybe nothing.”

Andrea studied the shadows that had edged up the wall of Helms's office.

“Hook, I don't think I can work here much longer. With Helms in charge, all the joy has gone out of my job. It's like working in a prison. I'm not cut out for this.”

“I got a call from Baldwin's doctor,” he said.

“How's Doctor Baldwin doing?”

“He has been quarantined because his doctor thinks he might be addicted to chloral hydrate.”

“Doctor Baldwin? He doesn't even drink coffee, Hook. Nobody I know leads a cleaner life.”

“His doctor says it wouldn't be the first time. Doctors have access. Things like this happen.”

“But why the quarantine?”

“He thinks that Baldwin might still be getting the drug, that he hasn't come around as he should, that a quarantine might flesh things out.”

Andrea fell silent. A coyote's call quivered up from the prairie. The pack joined in then, their yips pitched and frantic.

“Helms is there now,” she said.

“At Baldwin's?”

“Yes.”

“And where are you?” he asked.

“I'm still in her office,” she said.

“Get out of there,” he said. “They're not going to let her see him. She could be on her way back.”

“When are you coming, Hook?”

“Soon, and thanks, Andrea. Thanks for everything.”

After Andrea hung up, she sat at Helms's desk, her hand on the phone. Hook sounded concerned. Her experience had been that it took considerable trouble to disturb Hook Runyon about anything.

She went back to the files and replaced the personnel folders. After that, she double-checked to make certain she'd left no telltale signs of her having been there.

She closed the file drawer and then reopened it to retrieve an overstuffed folder from the very back of the drawer. She read through the papers. When finished, she rubbed at her face and then put the file back into the drawer.

The moon slid behind a cloud, plunging Helms's office into darkness. Something thumped from beyond the door. Chills raced down her spine, probably just an inmate in one of the cells above.

Gathering up her courage, she took a deep breath and stepped into the blackness.

Hook hung up the phone and lit a cigarette. He shouldn't have asked Andrea to break into those files. She'd put herself at risk for him. Why hadn't he just left with Frenchy? Why did he always set an upstream course?

Eddie was probably right. The business with the Baldwin Insane Asylum had little to do with him or the railroad at this point. But how could the fiery death of all those people be ignored? And what about the two people who had died on his watch, one of whom had been strangled and thrown off a bridge by an unknown assailant? Sooner or later he would be called in as a witness in Elizabeth's death. What troubled him most was that he didn't know any more now than he did the day they went out for her body. Any way it was cut, he couldn't walk away from it even if he wanted to, not if it cost him everything.

After squashing out his cigarette, he lay down on his side and watched the neon light flash on and off through his window. Why hadn't Helms mentioned that she'd known Yager in the past? She'd certainly had the opportunity to bring it up when Baldwin questioned her about Yager's credentials.

And then what about Baldwin, who had been at Fergus Falls himself? And why had his drug habit suddenly come to the forefront? He'd been perfectly fine in Barstow. On the other hand, Hook knew all too well how dead habits could resurrect in unexpected moments.

Turning over, he closed his eyes against the light. Tomorrow he would go back. The truck payment had nearly cleaned him out of cash, and then with the meal and the book. Maybe he would just hop a freighter to Wichita. He could buy a bus ticket from there to Fort Supply.

 

By sunrise he'd checked out of his hotel and walked to the Topeka yards. He knelt in the sunflowers just below the switch point. Their pungent smell rose about him thick as syrup in the morning air.

Adrenaline rushed him as he waited for the train. Sometimes the past beckoned him, the thrill of a moving train, the knowledge that, once rolling, nothing or no one could stop it. Besides all that, this was a hell of a lot faster, and, frankly, he was concerned about getting back to Andrea.

The train slowed at the grade, chugging and huffing, black smoke boiling into the blue. Hook spotted an open boxcar coming down line. He broke into a trot, and as it came up, he threw his bag in, latched on, and hoisted himself up.

As luck would have it, the car was empty. The train drove into the countryside, gaining speed, the clack of the wheels now indistinguishable one from the other. He lay back, resting his head on his bag.

Unknown and unreachable, he clipped across the land. At this moment, no troubles could touch him, no woes could find him. Freedom reigned. Dropping an arm over his eyes, he slept, and in that sleep was all the peace a man could ever want.

He awoke to a cold blast of air whipping into the car. He looked out to see black clouds moving in. In this country, summer squalls could sweep in from nowhere, race across the plains like a buffalo stampede, and then disappear. He struggled to close the door, but rust and dirt had long since clogged its track.

A bank of dust boiled upward at the storm's lead, debris sweeping into its vortex. It moved across the plain toward him, and when the gale hit, a blast of rain and pea-sized hail screamed into the open car. Moving into the corner, he buried his head in his arms, his ears stinging from the assault. The squall passed as quickly as it came, a pale rainbow arching skyward.

Taking off his britches, he hung them over a nail that protruded from the wall. Shivering, he dumped his bag in a heap. He hopped from foot to foot, searching for a dry pair of pants. Just then the train whistle signaled a slow stop.

“Damn it,” he said, grabbing his pants off the nail. “How long did I sleep?”

Sticking his head out the door, he could see the Arkansas River looping into the city limits of Wichita.

The train slowed as she moved into town. He waited, calculating the moment to jump. Bail too soon, and he'd have a long walk to the bus station, too slow, and he could wind up in Oklahoma City. When the moment came, he pushed off. He hit the bedrock standing up, but the momentum propelled him forward. He rolled down the right-of-way like a Texas tumbleweed.

Gathering himself up, he dusted off and watched the train shuffle off down the tracks. Hopping a freighter hadn't been the brightest idea he'd had lately. Maybe he was getting too old. There was a day he could have taken that jump without a hitch.

He looked at his clothes, wrinkled and dirty, his shirtsleeve torn. Only then did he realize he'd left his bag on the car and a half carton of cigarettes to boot.

“Goddang it,” he said, kicking at the bedrock.

It took him nearly an hour to get to town and another hour to find the bus depot. He washed up best he could in the restroom and combed the nettles out of his hair. As he approached the ticket agent's window, he reached for his billfold and found it missing. It must have fallen out in the boxcar.

“Damn it to hell,” he said. “Now what?”

The woman next to him took her child by the elbow and guided him away. At the ticket window, Hook explained his problem.

“You're a railroad bull?” the ticket agent asked, glancing over at the girl behind the desk.

“That's right,” Hook said. “The railroad will reimburse you for the price of the ticket.”

“Let me see your badge.”

“I told you that I lost it.”

“Why don't you take the train?”

“The train doesn't go there, not on a regular basis, I mean.”

“Look, Mister, you better move along. Loitering in the bus station is not allowed.”

Hook went out on the sidewalk and sat down on the curb. Some days it didn't pay to take the first breath. He fished a crumpled cigarette out of his last pack and lit up. Now what the hell was he supposed to do? He was broke, hungry, and anxious to get back to Andrea. Any sane person would have made arrangements to ride in on a passenger from Topeka. But not him. He never did what was easy, not if he could manage to make it hard.

At what point he became aware of the woman on the corner, he couldn't say. But something familiar caught his eye, the way she stood with her arm cocked on her waist. He squashed out his cigarette and worked his way closer. She turned, the sunlight striking her profile.

“Oatney?” he said.

She looked over at him. “Could be, Mister. You got a sawbuck?”

“Oatney, it's me, Hook Runyon.”

Oatney shaded her eyes against the sun. “I'll be damn. I thought you were a bus bum looking for a freebie. Jeez, Hook, you look like hell.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I'm headed back to Fort Supply. Lost my stuff bailing off a freighter.”

“You were bumming a freighter?”

“Yeah, I know,” he said.

Oatney pushed the hair back from her eyes. In spite of impending old age, she looked pretty good.

“You hear from Seth?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Look, Oatney, you wouldn't have a twenty to get me back, would you? My billfold's on its way to San Antonio.”

“Just started the day, Hook. Leave my money in the room. These bastards will steal all you have.

“Here comes a cop. He's been circling all morning.”

Hook turned to leave, but the patrol car pulled at an angle in front of him. The cop who stepped out looked like someone from a silent movie. He wore sunglasses, his hat pushed back on his head, and his mustache had been blackened with mascara. He placed his baton across Hook's chest.

“Hold on,” he said. “You ain't going nowhere.”

“What's the problem?” Hook said.

The cop turned to Oatney. “Come on over here, Missy. Don't you know that prostitution is against the law in Kansas?”

“Just talking to my friend,” she said. “Is that against the law?”

“Let me see some identification,” he said.

“I left my purse in my room,” she said.

“She's telling the truth,” Hook said.

“And who are you?'

“I'm a railroad detective,” he said, “a yard dog.”

“Now who would have thought?” he said. “So you would have a badge?”

“I lost it in a boxcar this morning.”

“I see,” he said. “It's right hard to keep track of anything nowadays, ain't it?

“And what were you doing in a boxcar, I wonder?”

“Hitching a ride.”

“A railroad detective bumming a ride? Christ,” he said, “you people think I'm an idiot?”

“We don't know you that well,” Oatney said.

“The both of you get in the car,” he said.

 

The next morning, Hook and Oatney stood in front of Judge Hampton as he read over the charges. He pushed his glasses up on his forehead and squinted down at Oatney.

“Madam, do you understand that prostitution is illegal in Kansas?”

“She wasn't selling
anything
, Judge,” Hook said.

“Shut up, you,” he said.

“Two days in jail,” he said, “and a ten-dollar fine.”

“I don't have ten dollars,” she said.

“Four days,” he said. “Judge,” Hook said, “I'm railroad detective.”

“And I might be Abe Lincoln,” he said, “was there a fool big enough to believe it. Soliciting prostitutes in our fair city is not something we abide. Add in trespassing on railroad property, and you've also earned two days and ten dollars.”

“I lost my billfold, Judge.”

“And I my patience. Make that four days in our facility. I trust this is the last I'll see of either of you. Take them out, Deputy.”

 

The day they got out, Hook waited for Oatney in the stairwell of the courthouse. “Oatney,” he said from the shadows.

Oatney paused, staring into the dim light. “Hook?” she said.

“Yeah,” he said.

Oatney joined him. “You've aged ten years, Hook. Jesus, I hardly recognized you.”

“It's the beard,” he said, “and the fact I haven't slept for four days.”

“Or bathed either by the smell of you. The judge here is a real dick,” she said.

“Listen,” he said. “I've got to get back to the fort. Could you spot me a little money?”

“Got a smoke?” she asked.

“No,” he said.

“Jesus, Hook, you don't have a smoke?”

“Well, will you?”

“I've been thinking,” she said. “I kind of liked those folks, you know. They took up with me and no questions asked.”

“It's hard to be uppity when you are in an insane asylum,” he said.

“Maybe I'll just go back with you. You think Doctor Helms would hire me?”

“If she doesn't, you can stay in my caboose,” he said.

“Alright,” she said. “I've money in my room, but no freebies. I've my principles, you know.”