Dead Man's Tunnel (21 page)

Blue checked the grill, flipping a couple of burgers over.

“Linda Sue was a hell of a waitress,” he said. “She could serve a full house, flirt with every one of the customers in the doing, and make 'em all happy. My business is off twenty percent since she left.”

“Sorry to hear it,” Hook said.

“On top that, the track crews are all going elsewhere for their meals. I'll be lucky to keep this place open at this rate.”

“Linda Sue got caught up in something she didn't understand,” Hook said. “I'd hate to see her lose her place. She says it's nearly paid off. I've been thinking maybe someone could keep an eye on it. Make sure it wasn't broken into, that sort of thing.”

Blue flattened the burgers, and smoke raced up the exhaust.

“What the hell,” he said. “I've made a mistake or two my own damn self. I suppose I could drive by there once in a while.”

“Thanks,” Hook said. “I'm sure Linda Sue will be grateful.”

“What's going on out there at that tunnel, Hook? They're running equipment up and down that track twenty-four hours a day.”

“Upgrade, I'm told,” Hook said. “I guess passenger service is likely to be big with the war over.”

“I'm just a cook,” Blue said. “But why didn't they go north with a new line? They wouldn't have that grade or that tunnel either one to deal with.”

“The big boys don't consult me much these days. Anyway, the railroad is kind of like me, it doesn't do anything the easy way as long as there's a hard way.”

The door opened, and several customers came in.

“I better run,” Hook said. “I'll check out the crews' meal schedules for you. Most times the railroad prefers spreading their business around.”

*   *   *

Hook left the jeep parked in front of Blue's and walked down to Sheriff Mueller's office. Mueller had his feet up on the desk and had fallen asleep in his chair. A fly preened on the top of his ear.

“Damn, what?” he said, rubbing his face.

“I didn't mean to disturb your nap, Sheriff, but thought you'd like to know that they picked Linda Sue up in Wichita.”

Sheriff Mueller pushed his hair back with his fingers. “I got a call,” he said.

“Blue's going to keep an eye on her place.”

Mueller dropped his feet to the floor and dug at his crotch.

“They haven't caught Thibodeaux yet?”

“Not yet.”

“The son of a bitch,” he said. “They told me he beat her up some.”

“I'll let you know if anything comes up,” Hook said. “By the way, anyone been looking for me?”

“Not so's you can tell,” he said, adjusting his gun belt. “Ben Hoffer's been spreading it around that he's going to even things up. But he's mostly wind.”

Hook walked to the door. “You aren't having me tailed for anything, are you, Sheriff?”

Mueller set his hat and picked up his keys. “Hell, no,” he said. “You know what a tail costs?”

“Yeah,” Hook said. “That's what I figured.”

When Hook got back to the jeep, the old man from the post office was standing next to it. He had his hands in his pockets, and he rocked back on his heels when he saw Hook.

“Most folks have the same,” he said.

“Excuse me?” Hook said.

“Tires,” he said. “Most folks have the same. Those tires on the back are bigger than the tires on the front. She'll run too fast in low gear, and the front end will wobble.”

“The thing is, if the big ones are on the front, you can't see the road,” Hook said.

The old man walked to the door of Blue's Café before turning around.

“If they're the same on the front as they are on the back, then it don't matter,” he said. “You can see the road clear as day, front or back, either one.”

*   *   *

Hook got back to the salvage yard by late afternoon. He parked the jeep in front of the office, which he found empty. As he made his way to the caboose, a cool breeze drifted in from the countryside, and the crickets struck up their chorus for the evening.

Mixer, exhausted from his escapade into the canyon, failed to get up to greet him. Hook took off his sidearm, fixed himself a whiskey and water, and thumbed through his books.

The Erikson case had consumed him far too long, and he wished for it to end. But with each passing day, it had grown more baffling and more frustrating, and then with all the time he'd spent chasing copper thieves on top of it.

How long had it been since he'd had time to peruse his books, to read them and contemplate their histories and the lives they may have touched? Such was the fun of collecting, and he'd missed not having the time to do it right.

When an engine came down line, her drivers thumping, Hook rose and looked out his window. She coupled into an empty car before crawling back by the caboose.

Downing his drink, he slipped on his sidearm, stuck his flashlight into his rear pocket, and moved out into the stacks of junked cars. By then the engine had moved the car onto the siding down line and had coupled her onto a short haul. A truck had backed in, and men were loading copper pipe off it and into the car. Hook figured it to be the truckload that Scrap had been expecting to arrive.

He circled, coming in from the back, and he waited until the men had finished and pulled away. He swung up on the ladder of the car and paused to catch his breath. Pulling a ladder one armed was one of the hardest tasks he did. Even now, after all these years, it didn't come easy.

He climbed up and dropped down into the car and took a close look at the pipe. When he spotted the grease pencil marks he'd made earlier, he leaned back against the side of the car.

The bastards were stealing Scrap's pipe off his cars when they arrived in Williams, being careful not to take so much as to be noticed, loading it in a truck, and reselling it back to him as a new order. They might have gotten away with it, too, if they'd been dealing with anyone but Scrap, who could estimate a load of copper within a few pounds.

A westbound freighter blew her whistle on the edge of town and within moments thundered by. When she'd passed, the switch engine brought up steam and bumped out the slack on the short haul. Hook rose to get off and then changed his mind. Maybe he'd just ride her out, be there when she arrived at her destination.

As the steamer chugged through the desert, he thought about the lieutenant. At times he felt left out of things. Her information just didn't add up to the facts he'd been given, but then his thinking hadn't been so rational either. Though he'd not admitted it, not even to himself, he'd been attracted to her, and such emotions could complicate life, particularly when it came to solving a case. He hadn't planned it that way and hadn't taken into account the distraction she had presented.

Maybe he'd missed a lot in life, come up a little short on the formalities. But he could smell a lie better than most, and he was pretty certain the lieutenant had been holding back on something. Stick to the facts, Eddie always said. Maybe for once Eddie had been right.

Night fell over him as the train made its way to Williams. When it leaned into a curve, Hook took a look over the top of the car. Black smoke from the steam engine churned upward into the moonlight. He lit a cigarette and leaned back against the copper pipe.

The steam engine blew its whistle at the Williams crossing, and Hook squashed out his cigarette. Maybe he'd just spent too long on the rails, a man corrupted and cynical from living with the underbelly of society.

He checked the clip in his P.38. The engine blew its whistle, a note trailing off into the night, and they slowed for the Williams Salvage siding. If things went as they should, they'd couple onto the Williams cars and be on their way to the smelter. If they didn't, then certain trouble awaited.

 

25

W
HEN THE TRAIN
stopped, Hook dropped down from the car. The lights from Williams Salvage lit the security fence beyond the right-of-way. He turned his ear into the wind to listen. Junkyard dogs could be less than understanding when it came to intruders, but only the steamer chugged in the distance. On the siding next to him, a line of old cattle cars sat like silent dinosaurs, and the stench of manure filled the night.

Just then a signal lamp bobbed on up track. Hook slipped under the car and rolled onto his side. He could just see the lamp over the wheel carriage.

He lay back. They were probably throwing the spur switch to side off the main line. Maybe they were coupling in, making up the train to go on to the smelter with a full order. Maybe he'd been wrong about this whole thing. If so, he'd catch the next freighter back to Ash Fork and call it a miss. It wouldn't be the first time. He'd never calculated his catch rate, and he hoped no one else had either.

In any case, if a go signal came, he'd have time to escape from under the car. Still, lying under rolling stock with a live engine at tow could make a man uneasy. The human body was no match for the wheels of a loaded copper car.

Bracing himself on his elbow, he took another look. The switchman's lamp had moved down track and was nearly upon him.

“Damn it,” he said.

He drew to the center of the tracks and held his breath as the switchman approached. He could smell the kerosene fumes from his lamp and could see his feet and the pistol in his hand. Not many switchmen Hook knew carried a sidearm just to throw a switch.

When the switchman moved the lamp in a frontal circle, indicating a backup signal, Hook's pulse ticked up. If he rolled out now, he'd be discovered. If he didn't, he and roadkill would have a lot in common.

The engine blew her whistle, and a rumble traveled down line. The cars bumped and groaned as the slack fell away. Hook's mouth went dry. He'd never make it under the wheel carriage if she started to roll back. Placing his feet against the track he spun around so that his head pointed downrange. The car creaked and groaned and crawled backward.

Sweat ran into Hook's eyes, and his heart hammered in his chest. With the wheel axle now only feet away, he snared his hook on an overhead bracing. It caught, and the car dragged him along like a fish on a line. Both shoes pulled off, and his heels bumped and plowed along in the gravel.

When at last the car crept to a stop, Hook waited, his breath locked. If it started forward, he'd be headed in the wrong direction again and in deep trouble. He peered over his shoulder and could just make out the switchman moving his lamp from side to side in a full-stop signal.

He worked the hook loose from the frame and checked for his sidearm, which had somehow managed to stay holstered. Clicking off the safety, he leveled in for a clear shot, just in case.

But at that moment, lights broke in the distance, and a truck clambered down the right-of-way. It backed into the car, and two men climbed out. The driver, who wore a baseball cap, approached the switchman. His passenger walked to the back of the truck and lit a cigarette.

The driver asked, “Is that West's load?”

“Yeah,” the switchman said.

“The same stuff?”

“Keep it light this time, and we'll send the rest on to the smelter.”

“You afraid of Scrap West catching on?”

“I ain't worried about Scrap West,” he said, “but that yard dog might be smarter than he looks.”

“That one-armed bull?” the driver asked.

“Yeah, the one what put three of you in the dirt by hisself.”

“I hear he was a bo and a drunk 'fore taking up with the railroad.”

“Maybe so,” the switchman said, “but hadn't been for that popcar on the tracks, you boys would be breaking rocks at the state prison.

“Now, let's get this done. That main line ain't clear all night, you know. Unload about a third. We'll put her in that end car until we're certain things have blown over.”

“You going to help load?” the driver asked.

“Loading ain't my job,” the switchman said.

“Maybe it ought be,” the driver said. “Given the size of your take.”

“My take ain't your concern, and you don't want Hump coming back here from the engine. He ain't as good-natured as me.”

*   *   *

Hook waited until the two men had commenced throwing pipe in the back of the truck before working his way out the opposite end of the railcar. The switchman, who had taken up a seat on the running board of the truck, smoked a cigarette and watched them.

Hook circled around and came in at the front of the truck. He picked up a rock and tossed it into the darkness. The switchman stood.

“Who's there?” he said.

Hook caught him with a short punch in the jugular. He hit him hard and fast and with his body weight behind it. The switchman wilted to his knees. Hook slammed in with a second punch, and the man dropped into the dirt. He'd learned long ago that having an advantage didn't mean a damn thing if he didn't use it.

He made for the car ladder. Halfway up, he hung in close to catch his breath. Near the top, he waited until the driver of the truck leaned over the edge of the car with an armload of copper. Reaching up, Hook slammed him across the ear with his prosthesis. The driver hung suspended for a moment, and then pitched over the side. Hook couldn't see where he fell or what happened when he hit, but by the sound of things, he wouldn't be getting up anytime soon.

But the driver's friend, working somewhere at the back of the car, had no doubt heard the noise as well. Hook slipped over the top of the car and into the shadows. He located a short piece of pipe and cocked it on his shoulder. He could see the man's silhouette coming forward.

“Where the hell you go?” he said. “I ain't unloading this son of a bitch by myself.”

When Hook hit him, the copper pipe rang like a church bell.

“I'd give you a hand,” he said, “but I only got the one.”