Dead Man's Tunnel (20 page)

“It's currently in a state of disrepair,” he said.

“You sold the transmission again?”

“Back tires and for a dang good price.”

“How am I to find my dog? He might be halfway to Williams by now.”

“The daily operations of a salvage yard take a good bit of time and thinking, Hook, and that dog ain't high on my worry list.”

“You'd think a man who owns a salvage yard could keep at least one vehicle running.”

“Well, if I was you, which I ain't, thank the Almighty, I'd catch Frenchy's short haul out.”

*   *   *

When Frenchy eased the bullgine up to the switch point where Hook waited, he stuck his head out of the cab.

“Now what is it, Hook?” he asked.

“How about a hitch out to the tunnel, Frenchy?”

Frenchy pushed back his hat. “You got a pass?”

“I got a sidearm,” Hook said.

“Climb aboard.”

Hook settled in at the back of the cab and waited for Frenchy to bring her up.

The bakehead opened the firebox, the heat blasting into the cab. Frenchy leaned over and checked the color.

“Blow her out,” he said. “She's choked up.”

The bakehead pitched in some sand, and black smoke churned into the sky. The steamer coughed and sputtered and took a deep breath.

“Why you going to the tunnel, Hook?” Frenchy asked. “Or is it a police matter what's too important to share with the rest of us?”

“My dog ran off,” he said.

“I'd count that as a blessing myself,” Frenchy said.

“I admit Mixer's got a few emotional problems,” Hook said. “But who hasn't?”

“Me,” Frenchy said. “I keep this son of a bitch running so fast and hard that problems can't catch up.” He looked over at Hook. “Most of them, anyway.”

“You're running pretty fast already, aren't you? I don't want to be sweeping up locals at a crossing.”

“They took all the crossings out,” Frenchy said. “It's an open alley, no stops, and the tracks are spanking new. I guess they figure the
Super
wasn't going fast enough to keep the celebrities happy.”

Hook watched the smoke boil by the window as they hit the grade. If Mixer stayed with the tracks, he might have wound up at the guardhouse, given that they had food, and food had always been one of his priorities.

Hook studied the back of Frenchy's neck, which looked exactly like old shoe leather. Come any kind of weather, Frenchy rode with an open window where he could stick his head out. Said a man couldn't get the most out of a machine without smelling the smoke.

“Frenchy,” Hook said. “What do you know about the American Locomotive Company?”

Frenchy studied his cigar. “They make the biggest, hottest engines in the country. But a steamer's like a woman, she can get too big and too hot to handle.”

“Sounds like an engineer's problem to me,” Hook said.

Frenchy grinned and lit his cigar. “It's the fireman what can't keep the boiler hot,” he said.

*   *   *

Before they reached the trestle, Hook lowered himself onto the steps, the ties clicking by beneath him.

“How long before you're back?” he called up to Frenchy.

“Couple-three hours,” Frenchy said, “providing I can keep the bakehead awake.”

“Look for me when you come through, will you?”

“You can ride anytime you want, long as you got that sidearm,” he said.

Hook dropped off in a lope and waited as the train labored off toward the tunnel. He picked his way out onto the trestle, his head whirling a little at the space that opened beneath his feet. He knelt to get his bearings and to listen. Mixer, like most animals, preferred not to walk the trestle, so he may have sidetracked into the canyon instead.

Working his way over, Hook spotted dog tracks at the other end but couldn't determine if they led in or out of the canyon. From there, he could see the military jeep parked in the shade near the guardhouse. Since food was most likely there, he decided to check it out first.

He knocked on the door of the guardhouse, but no one answered. Peeking through the window, he could see no one inside. Only then did he notice the briefcase sitting on the bunk.

He looked around before trying the knob. The door opened, and he stepped in. The guard's weapon was gone, which meant that he had probably left on patrol. An empty coffee cup sat on the table, and Hook could smell the remnants of breakfast bacon.

The briefcase was army and of high-quality leather like the lieutenant's, unusual for an enlisted man to have officer issue. Hook looked out the window once again before dumping its contents onto the bunk.

He found in it a ballpoint pen, grocery receipts, and an Arizona map that had come apart at the seams. Something shiny had caught in the bottom corner of the briefcase. While he didn't know much about the army, he did know what a captain's insignia bars looked like, and he knew that they had no business being in the possession of enlisted men.

When he looked up, he could see Corporal Severe climbing the steps. Putting everything back into the briefcase, Hook went out to the porch. As Corporal Severe climbed the last few steps, he glanced up.

“Oh,” he said. “It's you.”

“Couldn't raise anyone,” Hook said. “Figured you were on patrol.”

The corporal leaned his rifle against the railing.

“That's right. Is there something I could do for you?”

“Looking for my dog,” Hook said. “You haven't seen him, have you?”

Corporal Severe shaded his eyes with his hand. “No dog,” he said. “I haven't seen a living soul all day.”

“Well, he's not much of a dog,” Hook said

“I'll keep an eye out,” the corporal said.

“Thought I'd check down below. Hope the coyotes haven't gotten to him.”

“Well, good luck, then,” he said.

“Is the line clear?” Hook asked. “Might take a turn through the tunnel.”

“It's clear for now,” he said.

“Thanks,” Hook said. “You boys be careful out here.”

*   *   *

Now clad in boilerplate, the tunnel magnified the sounds of Hook's footsteps. The curve had remained as before, cutting off most all light.

Without a flashlight, Hook had to feel his way along the wall. The weight of the mountain pressed in, as it always did, and the smell of dampness hung in the air. When he could see the sunlit exit in the distance, he went no farther and returned instead the way he'd come.

He looked at his watch, two hours until Frenchy was due back. That should be enough time to search out a pretty good stretch of the canyon.

*   *   *

The path twisted downward, looping in hairpin switchbacks, and the air grew still as he descended. Rails and odd bits of boxcars from past wrecks twisted out of the rocks below.

At the bottom of the trail he spotted animal tracks leading down the canyon. All manner of creatures sought the protection of the canyon, and he couldn't be certain they were Mixer's tracks. A little farther along, he saw the print of a man's boot, an old track weathered away by the winds. He smoked a cigarette and watched a buzzard circle high in the blue sky above him.

He'd gone a mile, maybe more, when the walls of the canyon rose up around him, jagged cliffs that cut away the world. High above him, the rock cut back into a natural ledge, and he decided to check it out.

He climbed by working his toes into the cracks. At times like this he most missed the leverage and efficiency of two arms. Sweat ran into his eyes, and when he stopped to wipe it away, he realized that Mixer watched him from above. Hook climbed his way to where Mixer greeted him.

“You ole thief,” he said, patting him. “What are you doing up here?”

Mixer wove between Hook's legs a couple of times before bounding away. He looked back at Hook and wagged his tail.

“What is it, boy?”

Mixer circled and whined, and just as Hook started to follow, he heard the whistle of a steamer in the distance.

“Come on, boy,” he said. “We better get back. If we miss Frenchy, it's a long walk home.”

*   *   *

Frenchy rolled his eyes but didn't say anything when Hook and the fireman lifted Mixer into the engine cab. As they eased across the trestle, Mixer climbed up on the fireman's seat and stuck his head out the window. His tongue lolled from his mouth and water dripped off its end.

Frenchy said, “If that dog weren't so smart, I'd mistake him for my fireman, sure enough.”

The fireman, who'd been checking the water gauge, shook his head. “If he was smart, he wouldn't be taking no fireman's job in the first place.”

Hook's feet hurt from the climb, and he was hungry. On top of that, he was feeling even more uncertain about the case.

He lit a cigarette and leaned back against the cab.

“Frenchy,” he said. “What do you figure a man would have to have to hike out of this canyon?”

Frenchy looked over his shoulder at Hook.

“Hell,” he said, “I don't know, food and water, I suppose. Cigars. Some way of knowing what direction to go. Maybe a gun for shooting stray dogs or himself if worse came to worst.” He eased the throttle forward. Steam and smoke boiled skyward. “Anything else you need an expert opinion on?”

Hook looked back over the darkening canyon.

“I guess the real question is,
why
would you want to hike out of here?”

Frenchy took out a fresh cigar, unwrapped it, and ran it under his nose.

“There's only one reason a man would hike out of this country afoot,” he said.

“And what would that be?”

He lit his cigar and propped his elbow out the window. “If he had no other choice,” he said.

 

24

W
HEN HOOK HEARD
a commotion, he sat straight up in bed. Mixer commenced barking, his hackles raised. Hook opened the caboose door and found Pepe chasing the last of the hogs from beneath the caboose with a stick.

“What the hell is going on?” Hook asked.

“Moving the hogs. Scrap traded some for a tractor and wants them moved today,” he said.

Hook pushed his hair back from his eyes. “A tractor?”

Pepe poked a sow in the butt with a stick. She squealed in protest and trotted off behind the others.

“A garden tractor. He's going to plant tomatoes,” he said.

“What does Scrap West know about gardening?”

Pepe shrugged. “About as much as he knows about hogs, I guess.”

“Jesus, Pepe, can't you do something about this?”

“I work by the hour, Hook. He can knit doilies for all I care.”

*   *   *

Hook found Scrap in the office putting a nail in the heel of his shoe.

“I see you found that dog,” Scrap said.

Hook wiped out a cup. “Poor thing was hiding out in Johnson Canyon for fear of being eaten by hogs.

“Pepe says you traded for a tractor?”

“That's right,” he said.

“May I ask why?”

Scrap loaded his pipe. “To feed my hogs,” he said.

“You don't have any land for gardening, Scrap.”

“I figure to raise tomatoes between those stacks of cars in the back. What I don't feed to the hogs, I will sell in town.”

“It won't work, Scrap.”

He lit his pipe and blew out the match.

“You're a dark thinker, Hook. A fellow has to be positive if he's ever going to get anywhere.”

“I'm positive it won't work,” Hook said.

Scrap got up and dumped sugar into his coffee.

“If my attitude was as sour as yours, I'd probably be living in a caboose and eating beans.”

“Did you get the tires put back on that junk pile?”

“The tires are just fine, though a bit oversized.”

*   *   *

After Scrap had gone, Hook dialed the number he'd seen on the lieutenant's note. A woman answered.

“American Locomotive Company,” she said. “How may I help you?”

“John Ballard, please,” he said.

“Who's calling?”

“Hook Runyon, railroad security.”

The woman paused. “Just a moment.”

Hook watched the dust circle in the sunlight that cast through the window.

Coming back on the line, she said, “Sir.”

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry. We don't have a John Ballard here.”

“Are you certain?”

“Perhaps you have the wrong name or number.”

“Yes,” he said. “Perhaps.”

*   *   *

The tires on the back of the jeep were nearly twice the size of the front ones, and when Hook got in, he slid forward against the steering wheel. Pushing himself back with his legs, he cranked up the jeep and pulled off down the road. He hit forty miles an hour while still in low gear. The front end of the jeep whipped from side to side, and the back tires hummed against the pavement. Debris and dirt bellowed up from the side of the road.

When he got to Blue's Café, he dusted himself off before going in. Blue stood at the sink washing dishes. He'd tied his apron on in the front but had failed to turn it back. He stopped and dried his hands on the rag that hung from his pocket.

“You get caught in a tornado?” he asked.

“It's a long story,” Hook said.

“So, did you find Linda Sue?”

“They picked her up in Wichita,” Hook said, leaning on the pass-through. “The corporal left her behind but not before he worked her over a little.”

“You get my fifty bucks?” he asked.

“What do you think?” Hook said.

Blue hung the dishcloth over his shoulder and fished out a cigarette.

“What's going to happen to her?”

Hook rubbed at the kink that had developed in his neck from the jeep ride.

“Be my guess they'll squeeze her for information and give her some time in county.”