Dead Man's Tunnel (24 page)

“No, he isn't dead, Eddie.”

“Where are you?”

“Linda Sue's house.”

“Linda Sue who?”

“His girlfriend, Eddie, the one Blue Boy called you about.”

“Oh, her. You didn't break in, did you?”

“The corporal invited me in for coffee.”

“So, what do you want from me?”

“A transfer.”

“Like I told you before, I need you out there.”

“Look, Eddie, I caught the copper thieves. Linda Sue's in county. Corporal Thibodeaux's taking a nap right here at my feet, and there isn't a criminal within a hundred miles of this place.”

“That tunnel is critical to the war effort. I want you to keep an eye on things.”

“I don't have reliable transportation, Eddie. How about getting a decent popcar over here?”

“So you can leave it on the main line,” he said.

“Copper thieves, Eddie. What's a man to do?”

“You've already wrecked more equipment than the Germans, Runyon.”

“I can't take care of security afoot, you know.”

“There's a popcar sitting on the siding over to Bellemont. She's a little on the old side, but she runs well. I'll have the rip-track crew drop it by. They're pulling ties up there. Try not to kill anyone with it. In the meantime, hitch a ride if you have to. You've had lots of experience at it.”

“They got the whole army guarding the tunnel now, Eddie, and the war's over. Send one of those Baldwin Felts graduates out here. It would be damn good experience.”

“Have you thought about another line of work, Runyon? 'Cause you're about one second away from losing this one.”

“What I've thought about this work could send me to prison, Eddie,” he said, hanging up.

He checked his watch and poked Thibodeaux in the ribs with his foot. Thibodeaux moaned and turned his head.

Hook opened the refrigerator. Thibodeaux had stocked it with bread, milk, and hard salami. By the looks of it, he'd been checking in at the Linda Sue Hotel for a while now. A pint of Hill and Hill bourbon sat next to the sink. He poured himself a shot in a water glass and downed it.

Just then car lights flashed through the window. Hook looked at his watch. Sheriff Mueller and a three-toed sloth would clock about the same response time.

He clicked on the porch light and opened the door. “Glad you could make it, Sheriff,” he said.

Mueller's shirt gaped about his neck, and the hair on his ears shined in the light.

“An accident out at the intersection,” he said, rolling his shoulders. “Had to make a run to the hospital.”

“What happened?”

“Ben Hoffer ran over his own feet. I ain't figured yet how he managed that.”

“Ben's peculiar that way,” Hook said.

“I says, ‘Ben, how can a man run over his own feet with his own car?' And he says, ‘Did I break the law, Sheriff?' And I says, ‘Not so's I can tell. If you'd broke the law, I'd be arresting you, Ben, 'cause the law's applied equal around here.' And he says, ‘Then it ain't none of your damn business, is it?' So I says, ‘I hope they cut both of them feet off at the ankles, Ben, you son of a bitch.' And he says, ‘I do, too, Sheriff, 'cause I'm going to mail them to you in a box for Christmas.'”

“Ben can be unreasonable,” Hook said.

“So where's this corporal, Hook?”

“Taking a nap in there on the floor.”

Mueller went in and turned Thibodeaux on his side. “Looks like he came up on a sudden stop.”

“Think you could give him room and board while I get the charges gathered up, Sheriff?”

“I got a vacancy, I guess. Jim Holstead's old lady bailed him this morning.”

Mueller cuffed Thibodeaux and led him out to the patrol car. When he came back in, he said, “I hear you landed those copper thieves, Hook.”

“It's like fishing,” Hook said. “Sometimes they bite. Sometimes they don't.”

“I don't suppose the railroad could help with the groceries on this fellow?”

“Been my experience, the railroad doesn't do much helping with anything, Sheriff. Might try the army.”

“Uh huh,” he said.

“I figure he'll be on his way to Leavenworth before he gets his breakfast finished anyway,” Hook said. “The army's plenty worked up over this guy's disappearance.”

“I better get back, Hook. That deputy cries like a newborn if he pulls overtime. Maybe you could lock up around here?”

“Listen, Sheriff, I hate to ask, but suppose you could get my arm before you go?”

Mueller ran his finger around his collar. “I been wondering what happened to it but didn't want to ask.”

“Come with me,” Hook said. “I'll show you.”

Hook stood at the bottom of the elm and shined the light onto the prosthesis that still hung from the limb. It swung a little in the breeze, like a man waving good-bye.

“I'd go get it myself, but I can't climb with one arm,” he said.

Mueller took out his chewing tobacco and loaded his jaw.

“How did it get up there in the first place?”

“Danged if I know,” Hook said.

The sheriff rolled his cud and spit. “It's kind of like running over your own feet, ain't it? Some things can't be explained.”

“Yes, sir,” Hook said. “It can be done, but it's not easy.”

Mueller paused. “Just hold the light, and I'll climb up. That way I don't have to listen to no more lies tonight.”

*   *   *

Hook waited until the sheriff's lights had disappeared down the drive before going into the trailer. Standing in front of Linda Sue's mirror, he put his prosthesis back on. He rubbed the ache from his neck and combed back his hair. Maybe Eddie had been right. Maybe he should think about a different line of work. Chasing thieves and climbing trees had lost some of its excitement. But then what could he do? Last time he'd checked, the demand for one-armed hoboes was pretty limited.

He poured himself another drink of Hill and Hill from Thibodeaux's bottle. He wished he had a little of Runt Wallace's shine instead. It had a way of healing a man from the inside out.

Thibodeaux had collected the newspapers off the porch and tossed them in a pile at the end of the couch. Picking up the latest, Hook scanned the ads. The town had scheduled a rummage sale to help the struggling hospital. Though books were often scarce at rummage sales, they could be a real bargain if found. Maybe, if things ever settled down, he'd find time to go.

He lit up a Pall Mall from a pack on the table, sat down on the couch, and stared at the phone. Sooner or later the lieutenant would have to be called about Thibodeaux. He didn't mind involving the army so much, and he certainly didn't mind the lieutenant's company. But he didn't want to be the only one sharing information in this deal.

On top of all that, it
was
late, and he'd have to call collect. Of course he could just put it on Linda Sue's bill. Nobody said he couldn't pay her later.

He squashed his cigarette out and dialed the number the lieutenant had given him.

A man answered. “Private Johnson,” he said.

“Is this the Department of Transportation?” Hook asked.

“No, sir. This is the OSS building.”

“Maybe you could help me,” Hook said.

“I'm just cleaning the office, sir,” he said. “I don't know nothing.”

“Cleaning?”

“Got drunk and set my bunk afire.”

“Is there a Lieutenant Capron there?”

“Ain't no one here but me, sir.”

“Do you know Lieutenant Capron?”

“No, sir. I never heard of him.”

“Her,” Hook said. “Lieutenant Allison Capron.”

“Her either, sir.”

“Thanks, Private. Take my advice and lay off the hooch. I can tell you from experience that it's a hard road.”

Hanging up, Hook lay back on the couch. Maybe the lieutenant had lied to him about her duty assignment as well. But why?

The night had cooled, and a gentle breeze came through the door of the trailer. He yawned and tucked the couch pillow under his head. The last few days had been tough and his sleep disturbed. Stretching out, he basked in the silence, in the absence of pusher engines and cranes and hogs. Maybe he'd take a little rest, close his eyes a bit before heading back to the yard.

*   *   *

When he awakened, he sat straight up and checked his watch. He'd been asleep for hours. He locked up, climbed into the jeep, and clicked on the lights.

“Damn you, Scrap,” he said, pulling onto the road in the darkness.

At the intersection, he turned onto the highway and had West's Salvage in sight when emergency lights lit up in his rearview mirror. He pulled onto the shoulder and waited.

Sheriff Mueller got out and came up to his door.

“Hook,” he said. “You don't have your lights on.”

“I know, Sheriff. I don't have any. Scrap West took them.”

“It's against the law to drive without lights, Hook.”

“It's not my jeep, Sheriff. I told you it's Scrap West's jeep.”

“But you're responsible for the vehicle you're driving, Hook. You might kill somebody or run over their feet.”

“Look, Sheriff, I've been kind of pressed for time tonight. You might recall me capturing a felon earlier.”

“Sure, I remember,” he said, reaching for his pad.

“What the hell you doing, Mueller?”

“Writing a ticket.”

“You're writing a ticket?”

“Jesus, Hook, you ought to get your hearing checked.”

“You're going to give me a ticket, Mueller, you jerk?”

“Don't take it personal, Hook. The law's the law,” he said, tearing off the ticket and handing it to him. “You go straight on home, hear. I could have you towed but seeing as how you're a yard dog, I'll let it go this time.”

*   *   *

When Hook arrived at the salvage yard, Scrap had just turned on the office lights. He looked up and rearranged a few strands of hair over his bald head.

“You want some coffee, Hook? You don't look so good.”

”I've been sitting on the highway getting a ticket, Scrap.”

“You're too old to be out drinking all night, Hook.”

“Some idiot stole the lights off the jeep.”

Scrap poured water into the coffeepot and took up his chair. He searched out his pipe.

“I came up short on headlights when I was building that generator plant for my good friend, Hook Runyon.”

“Well, it cost me a ticket and dang near my life,” Hook said.

Scrap got up and poured two coffees. He handed one to Hook.

“It's a hard man what borrows and bitches,” he said.

Hook took a sip and set the cup on Scrap's desk. “Anyway, the sheriff said that ticket's your responsibility. He said you're damn lucky he didn't come here and arrest you on the spot.”

“And how does he figure that, I wonder?”

“Because it's your jeep and that makes you responsible.”

Scrap filled the bowl of his pipe and stuck it in the corner of his mouth.

“I might not look so smart to you, Hook, but I'm not dumb enough to pay your fine.”

Hook pushed the last of his coffee aside and stood.

“Well, I figured anyone who buys his own copper back might just go for it.”

*   *   *

Hook took a shower and changed clothes. He fed Mixer and let him out. He lay down in the bunk and listened to the pusher thump away on the siding. Maybe he'd make a run out soon as the new popcar arrived. He'd promised Blue that he'd talk to the crews, and he figured to start with that survey bunch. And maybe he'd have a chance to nose around a little, talk to the guard again. For the life of him, he couldn't understand all the fuss over that damn tunnel.

 

29

H
OOK WALKED AROUND
the old popcar and shook his head. Oil dripped from the motor, and the windshield was broken. A roll of toilet paper had been shoved under the seat, and a broken pick handle lay on the floor. Blue smoke boiled into the air when Hook cranked her over. Mixer marked all four wheels before jumping into the car.

“Alright,” Hook said. “But no side trips.”

Mixer peaked his brows this way and that. Hook lit a cigarette, goosed the popcar, and they clacked off down the track. This one ran worse than the other, if such was possible.

As they moved into the countryside, Hook took in the extent of the upgrade. The rails had been lined and leveled, and many of the ties replaced. Old crossings had been removed and the right-of-ways cleared. But the 3 percent grade had not been lessened, and with the engine compression nearly gone, they soon slowed to walking speed as they labored into the ascent.

Hook propped his foot up and looked at Mixer. “Why didn't they go north with a new line?” he said. “They could have bypassed the tunnel, cut the grade, and at half the cost.”

Instead of answering, Mixer curled into a ball and went back to sleep.

Hook braked the popcar as they rolled out onto the trestle. The clack of the wheels turned hollow, and the earth opened beneath them. Ahead, the tunnel penetrated the solid basalt like a rifle bore.

Despite Hook's warning, Mixer bounded away to hunt and was soon out of sight. Hook climbed the path toward the guardhouse. He stopped to catch his breath and take in the landscape. From there, a man could see the canyon stretching into the desert. Only the power of nature could have rendered such an open slash.

He found Corporal Severe waiting for him at the top, his binoculars around his neck, his rifle leaned against the porch.

“Mr. Runyon,” he said, standing. “Thought that was you.”

Hook held up his prosthesis. “Kind of hard to mistake, I guess.”

“Something I could help you with, or are you just out for a ride?”