Dead Man's Tunnel (30 page)

“How did you know?”

“Found his insignia bars in the bottom of his briefcase,” he said.

“Is there anything you've missed?”

“A nuclear locomotive,” he said. “I missed that.”

“I've got to get back. They'll be looking for me.”

He took her arm. “Erikson had money under his bunk. It's likely he'd been recruited. A guard on the wrong side of this thing could do a lot of damage.”

“We don't know anything for sure,” she said. “Erikson's death may have been no more than the result of a love triangle as you suggested.”

Hook checked his watch. Midnight. He could see the light in the window of the guardhouse and someone moving about.

Taking the rings from his pocket, he dropped them into the lieutenant's hand. “I'm pretty sure Erikson was murdered by someone else,” he said. “I found one of these under his body in the tunnel. The other one came from a surveyor's Gunter's chain. It's been run over by Frenchy's steam engine.”

The lieutenant studied the rings. “I don't understand.”

“They're identical. Both came from a surveyor's chain, and they were both run over by a train.”

“But who?” she asked.

“My guess is Rudy Edgefield, a contract surveyor for the railroad. I think he chained Erikson to the track to make it look like an accident, leaving him there to die. Afterward, he came back and removed the chain.”

The lieutenant handed the rings back to Hook. “And Erikson dropped his flashlight outside in the process?”

“Exactly. Look, I've found out that Edgeworth and Erikson are both from Kansas City. Quite a coincidence, isn't it? And someone who fits Edgeworth's description made contact with Erikson at his home there. To top it off, Edgeworth has been working under a false name. His real name as far as I can determine is Alex Gregor. He claims to be from Canada, but he's left a mighty small trail.”

“You think he's a saboteur?”

“My guess is that money exchanged hands between him and Erikson, but the deal turned sour. Until this moment, I didn't have a motive for murder, not much beyond a couple of guys fighting over a girl. But I have one now, and it's a whopper.”

“We made a mistake leaving you in the dark on this,” she said.

“And now Edgeworth's disappeared,” he said. “Gone without a trace.”

The lieutenant covered her mouth with her hand. She walked to the staff car and looked out over the darkness of the canyon.

She said, “Then he could be out there somewhere. He could be out there waiting for us this very minute.”

 

36

W
HEN HOOK AND
the lieutenant came in the guardhouse door, Folsom reached for his rifle. Severe circled to the side of the room. John Ballard, who had been working with pad and pencil, rose from the kitchen table. The fear in his eyes, magnified behind his thick glasses, could not be concealed. He wore dress slacks, loafers, and a short-sleeve shirt that exposed the loose flesh beneath his arms.

“It's okay,” the lieutenant said. “Mr. Ballard, this is Hook Runyon, railroad security. He knows everything.”

For the next few minutes, the lieutenant filled them in on what Hook had told her about Edgeworth. Folsom paced the room, and a trickle of sweat raced down from behind his ear.

“We've checked out every inch of this place a hundred times,” he said. “There's no evidence of anyone having been snooping about or tampering with anything. This is no more than speculation.”

Hook's eyes narrowed. “That canyon isn't so long as canyons go, but it's as rugged as they come, Captain. Edgeworth could be standing ten feet from you, and you'd never know it. You can't afford to dismiss anything as speculation, and time is running out. The consequences of a mistake are just too damn grave.”

Ballard stood and removed his glasses, his eyes shrinking to dots. He held the glasses against the light before wiping them clean on his shirttail.

“He's correct,” he said. “There's no room for error. If that reactor should be derailed…” He turned to Folsom. “We're dealing with an unknown quantity here, and we would be smack in the middle of it if things should go awry.”

Folsom's face hardened. “We should have turned this place into a fortress instead of trying to hide everything. I told them that.”

The lieutenant said, “A saboteur could strike anywhere along the entire run. A moving train simply couldn't be protected every step of the way. The operation had to be covert. In any case, we don't have time to rehash operational decisions.”

“Now it's neither covert
nor
secure,” Folsom said.

“Any kind of sabotage would most likely be executed here,” Hook said. “Both the tunnel and the trestle make the train vulnerable to attack; besides, why go to the trouble to recruit a tunnel guard if he's not to be used?”

Hook looked over at Folsom. “I'm assuming you have security plans in place?”

“I'll be guarding the tunnel. Corporal Severe is taking the trestle. Once the engine leaves the siding, onboard security takes over. We have two armed guards in the engine cabin, another in the passenger car. When the test is completed, I'll escort the lieutenant and Mr. Ballard back. Corporal Severe will return with the passenger car and test engine to Kingman Army Airfield.”

“And who's left to guard the tunnel?”

“After tonight, the guard detail ends.”

“Only seconds would be needed to set a charge off that could cripple your test, not to mention shutting down our entire corridor.”

Folsom's eyes bore down on Hook. “That's why we are here, sir.”

Hook walked to the table. Pages of calculations were strewn about where Ballard had been working.

“The problem is that there's a midtunnel curve, a blind spot,” Hook said. “What kind of communication is in place?”

“We've a communications blackout,” Folsom said. “Nothing is secure.”

Hook said, “There needs to be some sort of signal system in case there is trouble.”

“What kind of signal system would you suggest?”

“The railroad keeps fusees available in high-risk places like this. There should be some around here somewhere.”

“What's a fusee?” the lieutenant asked.

“A flare. It looks like a stick of dynamite, but it's made of nitrates and fuel. Once struck, the flare's red glow can be seen for miles at night. The railroad uses them for signaling and for keeping trains apart. These particular flares have a steel spike on the end for setting into ties. Most are timed for a ten-minute burn, and it's against railroad rules for a train to pass over one until it's spent.”

“I wondered what those were,” Severe said, pointing to a wooden box next to the door. “I saw some in there.”

Hook opened it and found a bundle of flares. He took one to demonstrate. “Remove the outside cap, take out the striker, and scratch it across the igniter. She'll burn hot, so be careful.

“I suggest that Corporal Severe guard the west entrance and Captain Folsom the east. If either of you spots trouble, ignite your fusee. With luck, it will alert everyone and bring the train to a stop.

“I'll take the trestle. I will be high enough for a good view of the canyon. The moon's full, and once the engine exits the tunnel, her glimmer should light things up pretty well.”

“You expect us to be inside that tunnel when this thing comes through?” the captain asked.

“Sergeant Erikson already tried that,” Hook said. “A flare might give us a little time, and as of now, it's the only way we can stop that engine.”

“This whole thing is off plan. The general will have us all shot for breaching security,” Folsom said.

“This happens to be
my
railroad, Captain, and I'm not letting anyone blow it up.” Hook slipped a fusee into his coat pocket. “Once the engine gets through the tunnel, I'll make for the passenger car.”

Captain Folsom clenched his jaw. “You can't board that train.”

Hook checked the clip on his sidearm. “No one knows this run better than me, and it would be a big mistake to get in my way, Captain. This is one train ride I don't intend to miss.”

“Hook,” the lieutenant said.

He looked over at her. “Just keep your head down when you get on that car, Lieutenant. You're as safe there as anywhere. We don't have many men, but then neither do they.”

“Be careful,” she said.

*   *   *

Hook waited until Folsom and Severe had assumed their positions before taking the trail to the bottom of the trestle. He checked his watch, twenty 'til one. He had enough time to make a pass from end to end before starting the climb.

Along the way, he searched for fresh tracks and broken branches, finding neither. At five minutes 'til, he hoisted up onto the first trestle span. By securing his hook onto an overhead timber, he could balance long enough to reach up with his good arm and climb up to the next. But the absence of touch in the prosthesis increased both the effort and the anxiety, and sweat soon ran into his eyes.

Halfway up, he paused. From there he could see the tunnel opening through the trestle and the depths of Johnson Canyon spreading out below him. At the bottom of the crevices, the carcasses of wrecked boxcars reflected back the moonlight.

Hook figured that he wouldn't be able to do much more than strike a flare in the event of trouble, but another set of eyes couldn't hurt.

He felt it first, a tremble that passed through the rock and rails and gathered in the beams of the trestle. In practice, engineers lay in on the whistle before entering a tunnel, but tonight only the quivering timbers beneath him announced the arrival of Ballard's locomotive. Leaning out, he searched the area for any signs of movement or light.

Hook watched the tunnel mouth for the revealing red glow of a flare but saw nothing. The rumble of the engine grew in the canyon, riding in from the rock heart of the mountain. It gathered in the core of his body, and the trestle heaved and creaked in anticipation.

And when the engine rounded the tunnel curve, her glimmer lit the canyon into daylight. Hook looked into the crevices and rubble for any movement. But when the engine rolled onto the trestle above him, his concentration faltered, and he stared upward into the belly of the largest engine he'd ever seen.

Ballard's bullet-shaped prototype, big as a dirigible, with its glass-bubble cab and curved door, slid silently behind the tow engine. Her driver wheels, a dozen sets and a dozen feet high, screeched in alarm at the slightest deviation of the track.

Her converted tinder with leaded shield shut away the moonlight and dwarfed the darkened passenger car behind it. Now Hook understood why the timbers had been replaced with boilerplate. There couldn't have been an inch to spare between the engine and the tunnel walls.

The timbers groaned under the weight, and debris spilled down on Hook's head as the engine passed over the trestle.

Captain Folsom signaled from the tunnel with his flashlight and swept the area from side to side as he walked toward the trestle. Hook had been wrong about everything and was damn glad of it. Satisfied that things were under control, he started his descent, working his way through the timbers as fast as possible.

Dropping off, he sprinted back to the trail. In the distance, the tow engine drew down as she maneuvered Ballard's engine onto the siding.

Just as Hook started up the trail, he heard something coming from behind. He stopped, listened, and then moved into the shadows at the edge of the trail.

He pulled his sidearm and clicked off the safety. These were likely not copper thieves or hoboes but trained foreign agents, those who had vodka and yard dogs for breakfast.

He stilled his breath. Crickets chirped from out of the rocks, and down the canyon, coyotes gave chase to some misbegotten creature.

The sound came again, but this time closer, and the hair prickled on his neck. With luck, he might nail one of the bastards and distract them long enough for Ballard's engine to pull out.

Something rushed up the trail, fast and hot and without caution. Hook cocked his sidearm and brought it up just as a shadow leapt skyward, arching against the moonlight. It knocked him backward into the blackness. When he stopped rolling, he lay flat on his back, and Mixer stood on his chest with both front feet.

“Damn it, Mixer,” Hook said. “You know how close you came to a bullet?”

Mixer circled him a couple of times, sniffing out possible transgressions, before bounding off into the darkness once more.

*   *   *

At the top of the trail, Hook met Folsom and Severe coming down track.

“Anything?” Hook asked, brushing off his knees.

“Clear,” Folsom said. “You?”

“Nothing human,” Hook said.

Severe said, “When that engine came in, I froze. I've never seen anything like it.”

Hook could hear the tow engine coupling Ballard's engine into the cars on the siding.

“Got to run,” he said. “There's a dog on the loose around here. Don't shoot him. I intend to do it myself later.”

*   *   *

Hook swung up on the grab iron of the passenger car just as the tow engine took out the slack to uncouple. The report traveled the length of the cars and trailed away.

When he opened the door, a half-dozen officers sat in the dark looking up at him. The guard in the back of the car lifted his rifle. When he spotted Hook's arm, he lowered the rifle. The lieutenant and Ballard sat near the front. Hook slipped into the seat next to her. The car bumped again before settling back. The lieutenant turned to him, her brief clutched in her lap.

“Are we going to make it?” she asked.

“I'll feel better once we are on the move,” he said.

“I've explained your presence to the guard.”