Dead Man's Tunnel (4 page)

“Come on in,” he said, tucking in his shirt. “I haven't had time to straighten up just yet.”

An invisible wall divided the one-room guardhouse down the middle, a bunk on each side of the room with footlockers at the ends. On the sergeant's side of the room, all items were grouped by function, and his bunk covers were stretched tight and wrinkle-free. In contrast, Thibodeaux's bed lay rumpled, and his boots were tossed on their sides at the door. Magazines were strewn about his bunk. A kerosene lantern sat in the window.

Thibodeaux pointed at a small table with chairs.

“Would you like to sit?”

“Mind if I smoke?” Hook asked.

“No, sir,” he said. “Love a good cigar myself.”

Hook lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. “Now, perhaps you could tell us what you know, what you saw.”

Thibodeaux walked over to the window and looked down on the tunnel.

“Joe and me,” he said, “that would be Sergeant Erikson, have been guarding that tunnel out there for a good long while now, walking the trestle, checking support beams for signs of sabotage.”

“What about your patrol schedule?” Hook asked.

“That's classified,” Lieutenant Capron said.

“I assume you'll be changing it anyway, Lieutenant,” Hook said.

Thibodeaux looked over at the lieutenant. “Well,” she said. “I suppose. Go ahead. We'll reset the schedule.”

“Yes, ma'am. To start off we took twelve-hour shifts, you know, rotating days and nights, but then later we changed to twenty-four-hour shifts because of the back-and-forth on the road all the time. A man had hardly an hour to call his own.”

“Go on,” Hook said.

“Once on duty, we patrolled just before a scheduled run. Those were pretty regular, but sometimes they'd send through a hotshot or a troop train at odd hours. So we never patrolled without checking the board first. Even then the time varied too much for comfort. It's a rare railroad that runs on time and getting caught in the tunnel … Well, it had its worries.”

“Did you sleep during your shift?” Hook asked. “Twenty-four hours is a long haul.”

Thibodeaux glanced over at the lieutenant.

“Tell us everything, Corporal,” she said.

“Once in a while there'd be a good bit of time between trains, and we'd catch a nap. The sergeant said it didn't matter so long as the scheduled runs were made. Being just the two of us, it got mighty tiresome, and then after the bomb ended things, it hardly seemed important anymore.”

Hook squashed out his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe and looked for a wastebasket. A picture of a girl sat on the stand next to Thibodeaux's bunk. An open letter lay next to it.

Pausing, Hook said, “How long have you been doing the twenty-four-hour shifts, Corporal?”

Thibodeaux thought about it for a moment. “I'd say about a year now. They're long shifts, a lifetime. There ain't no getting around that. Sometimes I thought I might go crazy out here by myself. But then it's mighty nice getting back to town with a whole twenty-four to rest up.”

Lieutenant Capron set her purse on the table. “Did Command approve the shift change?” she asked.

“Sergeant Erikson did, being senior man. I never asked more.”

Hook said, “So tell us how you discovered the sergeant.”

The corporal looked out the window. “I'd been on rotation in town and had come back for my shift.”

“What time?” Hook asked.

“About five in the morning, I'd say. My shift started at seven. Joe wasn't around, so I checked the log and saw where he'd signed out on patrol.”

“Was the lantern lit when you arrived?” Hook asked.

“Yes. We always left it lit. Coming back to the guardhouse on a dark night you can't see spit.”

The lieutenant pushed her hair back with her fingers and looked at the corporal. “How long does a patrol take?” she asked.

“About an hour if the trestle supports in the canyon are checked; otherwise, it takes about fifteen minutes to walk the tunnel and the topside of the trestle. We usually don't go under the trestle at night. It's too dark to see anything, anyway.”

“And then what happened?” Hook asked.

Corporal Thibodeaux fell silent for a moment.

“When Joe didn't come back, I thought maybe he'd fallen or something. Maneuvering that trestle in the dark can be kind of tricky. I near broke my leg out there one time when I stepped between the ties. My shin turned black as coal.

“Anyway, just as I opened the door to go find him, there stood this railroader, all sweating and breathing hard, and I could see the fear in his face.”

“And what did he say?” the lieutenant asked.

“He said he was an engineer, and he had hit a man in the tunnel. He said he couldn't get the hotshot shut down, what with the grade at his back. He said he'd gone a good half mile before getting her stopped. Said it had taken him a while to get back, given he wasn't in such great shape anymore.”

“Go on,” Hook said.

“He used the phone to call railroad security. They told him to go ahead and clear the track, and they'd send a bull out to investigate. I guess that must be you.

“After that, the engineer went on back to the train, and I called Command to tell them what had happened. I knew it had to be Joe. I mean, who else could it have been?”

“You didn't go look?” the lieutenant asked.

The corporal dabbed at the sweat on his upper lip with his sleeve.

“The engineer said looking couldn't help anyone at that point. I told Command, and they said I should just keep an eye out, you know, for any comings and goings, and they'd send someone. So that's what I did.”

“And did you see anything in the meantime?” the lieutenant asked.

“Not until the popcar rolled in and I saw a one-armed fellow…”

Hook picked up the letter and looked at the address. “Do you carry weapons when you patrol?”

“Yes, sir, a rifle,” he said.

“Every time you go out?”

“Truth is, it hardly seemed worth it after a while.”

“And did the sergeant carry his rifle last night?”

“It's there by the window where he usually kept it.”

“Anything else you'd like to add, Corporal?” Hook asked.

“No, sir. That's how it happened, best I can recall.”

“If that's all, Mr. Runyon, I'll take it from here,” the lieutenant said.

“Just one last thing: how did you and the sergeant get along? Did you socialize, that sort of thing?”

“Joe kept to himself, and that was fine with me. We saw plenty of each other out here. You can bet on that.”

“Did Sergeant Erikson express any problems or concerns to you?” the lieutenant asked.

Thibodeaux paused. “Sometimes he talked about how he'd wound up guarding a worthless tunnel and how he hadn't gone to the front like other soldiers.

“Once, he said his father asked him what he did in the army, and why did he never talk about it. Joe told him that what he did was classified and that he wasn't allowed to talk about it to no one.”

“He wanted to be in combat?” Hook asked.

“I guess we both worried about being stationed at home. A man doesn't join the army to sit in the desert and guard a hole in the mountain.”

“Did Sergeant Erikson have a girlfriend?” Hook asked.

“And what is the point in that, Mr. Runyon?” she asked.

“Just a question, Lieutenant.”

Thibodeaux shrugged. “We never talked about stuff like that.”

“Is there anything else you'd like to add?” Hook asked.

“No, sir. Only that there have been times I wondered how it would be, you know, getting caught up in that tunnel with a hotshot coming down line. A man can't help but wonder.”

*   *   *

At the bottom of the steps, Lieutenant Capron turned to Hook.

“I'm holding the railroad responsible for the death of that young sergeant,” she said.

Hook looked up at the guardhouse. The evening shadows had swallowed the light, and Mixer barked somewhere far off. The first chill of the evening swept over them.

“That's an interesting conclusion, Lieutenant. How is it you came about it?”

“Sergeant Erikson didn't receive warning about that train.”

“You heard the corporal say that they always called in and checked the board first, didn't you?”

She lifted her chin. “I also heard him say that arrival times were notoriously unpredictable. You said it yourself, as I recall.”

Hook took out a cigarette and looked at her. “I'm a strong believer in sleeping on a problem before I start making decisions, particularly when it comes to life-and-death matters. I suggest you do the same,” he said.

Lieutenant Capron started to turn, but the loose heel caused her ankle to slip sideways. Hook pulled her back onto the step.

She drew her arm free and adjusted her hat, which had nearly fallen off.

“I must say,” she said, digging through her purse. “Letting a key witness leave before he's interrogated strikes me as sloppy detective work. In any case, I allowed you access to Corporal Thibodeaux for your investigation. I'll expect the same courtesy when your engineer arrives. Here's my number.”

“Engineers aren't known for having much to say,” Hook said.

“Nonetheless.”

“I'll let you know,” he said. “Now, I best be on my way. After dark, that popcar is like sitting on an iceberg.”

As he walked away, Lieutenant Capron called after him.

“But what about Sergeant Erikson?”

Hook pulled his collar up against the cool. The sunset cast light in her eyes, and her arms were locked over her chest.

“What about him?” he asked.

“You can't leave him in there,” she said. “People have to be called. Things need to be arranged.”

Hook snapped a match against his hook and lit his cigarette.

“Yes, ma'am,” he said. “Normally I'd do just that, but then I'm not one to interfere in military matters any more than is necessary. The tunnel is yours now. It's only professional.”

 

5

A
S HOOK WALKED
toward the popcar, the lieutenant's eyes burned into his back. She was nothing if not tough, the way she'd come back after seeing Erikson in the tunnel. He'd seen hardened men lose it in such moments. But he'd learned long ago that his best allies were time and thought, and having someone trail him around made neither possible.

At the trestle, he whistled for Mixer and then checked his watch. He had plenty of time before the next train came through. Walking out onto the trestle, he looked into the blackness of Johnson Canyon. He needed a closer look down there, but it would have to wait until another time. One slip in those rocks and a man could disappear forever.

Just then the moon broke on the horizon, and the trestle rails shot off into the darkness like beams of light. He could hear Mixer climbing up through the rocks, his nose puffing like a steam jenny.

Hook picked his way back to the popcar, trying to gauge the ties in the darkness. What kind of idiot had planned the spacing between them? One tie was too short for a single step, and two ties were too damn far. Whoever he was, he'd never had to walk the rails.

Hook found Mixer lying sprawled out in the seat of the popcar. Blood dripped from a cut in his nose.

Hook pushed him over and wiped off the seat. “Damn it,” he said. “Don't you ever learn?”

Hook cranked up the popcar and rolled out on the line. As he coasted through the night, the wheels clacked steady as a clock. Soon the stars exploded into the sky and slid overhead like a million sparklers.

He hunkered down against the cold. He knew better than to get on a popcar without a coat, but he'd let Eddie stampede him. Eddie had a way of pushing too damn hard and fast on everything.

When the lights of Ash Fork winked in the distance, he idled back, coasting into the salvage yard. An old kettle waiting clearance huffed and sighed at the head of a line of scrap cars.

Since delivery times were more or less flexible for salvage, the old steamers were often assigned to the duty. The indignity of the assignment failed to diminish their willingness to haul and slug their way overland. Like old hands, they turned to their labor with experience and determination.

Scrap took care in separating out the high-quality copper, and it hadn't gone unnoticed by the local thieves. At some point, large amounts of copper were disappearing. So far Hook had been unable to catch them.

As the popcar approached the drainage ditch that ran under the tracks, Hook spotted a shadow slipping off into the darkness. He switched off the engine and rolled to a stop. Sometimes boes gathered up close to the track when they knew a slow freighter would be coming through.

All in all, Hook didn't mind so much. He'd been known to overlook a bo now and then, particularly when the weather turned bad. But the weather was fine, and he had no intentions of letting them pitch a jungle this close to the salvage yard.

He waited in the darkness for some time, deciding finally that they must have spotted his light and taken off.

“Those boys are pushing their luck,” he said to Mixer. “I guess they don't know who's the yard dog around here.”

Mixer thumped his tail against the seat. Hook cranked up the engine. “Maybe it's time I introduced myself.”

Back at the yards, he sided the popcar and headed for the shower. Scrap had rigged it up special for his employees. He said he was sick and tired of them smelling up his office every time they came in, so he'd painted an old oil drum black, equipped it with a salvaged showerhead, and mounted it on a fuel-tank stand. The sun heated the water, and a bailer canvas spared the community from the shock of seeing naked men showering.

But the best part, according to Scrap, was that it didn't cost him hardly a cent. He particularly liked cloudy days, which he calculated cut water usage by as much as a third.