Dead Man's Tunnel

by Sheldon Russell

  It was not until he climbed the narrow stairs to the bedroom that he found the boxes of books. The owner’s reading practice had been insatiable and eclectic. There were novels, religious books, travel books, and three boxes of biographies. One box contained Bertrand Russell’s Religion and Science, another Faulkner’s The Unvanquished and Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls.

  He’d found that people’s reading lives could be as unpredictable as their sex lives. You just never could know what went on behind closed doors.

  Hook made his selections and paid the bill on the way out. Now, he’d have to tote the books all the way back, but he didn’t care. They were great copies. Had he the money and the time, he would spend his days doing nothing else. There would be no rare books left in the world that he didn’t own. But he knew, even as he hoisted the box, that there would never be enough. He would always want more.

  * * *

  That evening Hook checked the board and found a short haul heading for Kingman. The engineer agreed to give him a slow at West’s Salvage, so Hook rode in the caboose, which turned out to have a broken window. He plugged it with a grease rag to stop the cold draft and then he stretched out on the bench. The train clacked along as steady as a heartbeat.

  After going through his finds one last time, he lit a cigarette and thought about the last few days. There were more questions now than when he began. Why hadn’t the army placed military police at the tunnel from the beginning? It only made sense to use trained personnel. What could that note have meant in the lieutenant’s briefcase: secure all points. And what was Sergeant Erikson doing with all that cash stashed under his bunk? And what about the flashlight? And, the most puzzling of all, why did the lieutenant tell him the guards were from the motor pool when Severe claimed they were from Civil Engineers?

  He rolled over and closed his eyes. He liked the lieutenant, liked her a lot, but he’d learned long ago that when things didn’t add up, there was either an error in process or in the facts. Maybe it was time he double-checked the facts.

  20

  THE ENGINEER BLEW a slow for West’s Salvage Yard, and Hook took measure of the speed before swinging down off the grab iron. Reaching up, he snatched his box off the bottom step and gave a wave to the engineer, who responded with a short blast of his whistle.

  Hook lit a cigarette and struck out across the yard. Scrap stepped out of the office and motioned him over. One of his overalls’ straps had twisted over his shoulder, and he had a cup of coffee in his hand.

  Scrap tossed out his coffee dregs. He opened his tobacco pouch and smelled it.

  “About that dog,” he said.

  “You accusing my dog again, Scrap?”

  “That chicken coop looks like someone had a pillow fight in it, Hook.”

  “Could be a raccoon. Could be a bo. Could be mass suicide for all I know.”

  Scrap lit his pipe, and a cloud of smoke drifted off.

  “Could be that dog, too,” he said.

  “I’ll let that go, Scrap, seeing as how you’re uncommonly attached to those chickens, and it’s probably affecting your reasoning.”

  Hook could see Mixer coming across the yard, his belly swinging to and fro like a hammock.

  “And another thing,” Hook said. “Pepe says he’s been pulling generators. Now, I’m not one to criticize entrepreneurship, but even you ought see the lack of promise in such an enterprise as making electricity with car generators.”

  Scrap relit his pipe again and pushed his hat back. “I’m not one to rush to judgment on such matters, particularly where there’s a great deal of money hanging in the balance.

  “So, I’ve set up a small-scale experiment. If that works, I’ll move on to a full-blown operation. I intend to be in on the ground floor. Course, being the man I am, I’ll not be saying I told you so when the money starts rolling in.”

  Hook rubbed at the base of his neck.

  “Well, before you start up your power plant, you suppose you could give me a little information?”

  “That depends,” Scrap said.

  “On what?”

  “On whether you’re wanting my generator plans or not.”

  “Well, I’m not.”

  “Then what kind of information do you want?”

  “Does your copper car carry a number?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “Do you think you could give it to me?”

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On what you’re going to do with it?”

  “I’m going to try to find your copper thieves, Scrap. You got a problem with that?”

  “Hardly none at all,” he said.

  “Well?” Hook said.

  “The number is SF-48032. I’ve had that same copper car three years now. West’s Salvage cars are towed to Williams. When there’s enough for making up a train, they haul them on over to the smelter and deadhead the empties back.”

  Mixer waddled up and flopped down on Hook’s feet.

  “I got one other request, Scrap.”

  “This is the only clean shirt I got, Hook.”

  “I need to borrow the jeep. You put in a new transmission yet?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  Hook took out his handkerchief and dabbed at his face. The sun beat down hot as an engine boiler, and it wasn’t ten o’clock yet.

  “It has a reverse, doesn’t it?”

  “Why do you think I changed it out?”

  “So it’s in working order?”

  “Course it is, so long as you don’t need high gear.”

  Hook looked at him. “It doesn’t have a high gear? Jesus, Scrap, why would you do that?”

  “’Cause I was sick and tired of listening to you complain about no reverse. This ain’t no Cadillac dealership, as you well know.”

  “Jesus, Scrap, now I know why those chickens committed suicide.”

  “I’d like to stick around and listen to you complain some more, Hook, but I got work to do. Providing transportation for the railroad don’t come cheap. Someone has to put in a day’s work around here. You might consider putting in a little gas while you’re gallivanting around the country.”

  * * *

  At twenty miles an hour, the motor roared like a buzz saw, and a dust cloud drifted up from the wheels and settled onto the dash. Hook cut down Main and headed for Sheriff Mueller’s office. When the old man sitting in front of the post office saw Hook coming, he leaned over onto his knees and pulled his hat down.

  Sheriff Mueller looked up from his desk when Hook walked in.

  “I was just getting ready to call Washington,” he said. “I thought the Japanese were attacking.”

  Hook pulled up a chair and lit a cigarette. “It’s Scrap’s old jeep,” he said. “It doesn’t have a high gear.”

  “You can’t drive without high gear,” the sheriff said.

  “Listen, I’m doing a little background work on that Sergeant Erikson who was killed out at the tunnel.”

  Mueller scratched at his beard. “Don’t know a whole hell of a lot,” he said. “As you know, the army took care of most of that.”

  “You don’t have his home address, do you?”

  “That lieutenant didn’t give out much information. Not that I cared one way or the other. Cleaning up runned-over corpses ain’t my all-time favorite thing.

  “Say, rumor is you had another upset with Ben Hoffer over at the pool hall.”

  “Ben heats up pretty fast, as you know, Sheriff, but I talked him down.”

  “Sorry I can’t be of help with the sergeant thing, Hook. But I figure when a military man gets killed on railroad property, the law ain’t much in it one way or the other.”

  Hook stood. “I better be on my way, Sheriff. Twenty’s top speed on that pile of junk out there, and I want to get back to the salvage yard before dark.”

  Sheriff Mueller turned in his chair. “You might check with Fred Colson, the mortician. He picked up the body as I recall. His pla
ce is a couple doors north of the pool hall.”

  * * *

  Hook finally located Fred Colson eating pie at Blue’s Café.

  “Yeah, I’m Fred,” he said, loading his fork. “You got a call for me?”

  “No call,” Hook said. “I’m the railroad detective staying out at the salvage yard. Sheriff Mueller thought you might be able to provide me a little information.”

  “Sit down,” he said, pointing his fork at the seat. “Pie?”

  “Thanks, no.”

  “Not that I’m wishing anyone harm,” he said, “but I sure could use a call. I got a payment coming up on that new hearse.”

  “Things are a little slow?” Hook asked.

  “In a town like this, folks die faster than they’re born. You might think that’s good for business, but it ain’t. Without replacements, sooner or later no one’s left, and business dries up. Course, there’s the occasional accident and such, but they don’t come along often enough to keep a man going.”

  “Well, maybe things will pick up.”

  Fred scraped the last of the pie from his plate and shoved it aside.

  “Now, what kind of information you looking for?”

  “I understand you were the one who made the run on Sergeant Erikson out at the tunnel.”

  “That’s right,” he said, sipping his coffee. “What was left of him.”

  “I’m gathering up background on the sergeant and thought maybe you could help me out.”

  “I could give you a description,” he said, “but you might lose your dinner.”

  “Were you the one who shipped the body?”

  “There’s regulations about that sort of thing, you know. Not just anyone can do it. There’s embalming and having the right shipping container. There can’t be no leaks. The health department hates a leak.”

  “Sounds complicated.”

  “Folks got no idea how tricky shipping a cadaver can be. Course, I’ll be dead myself by the time the army reimburses me.”

  “You don’t happen to remember where the body was shipped?”

  “Kansas City, as I recall. I got the records over to the shop.”

  * * *

  The transmission went out halfway back, and Hook had to walk into the yard. He found Scrap in the office working at his desk.

  “You can’t be hot-rodding my equipment and expect it to hold up, Hook.”

  “I was going fifteen miles an hour, Scrap. That’s not exactly speeding.”

  “Did you try reverse?”

  Hook lit a cigarette and rubbed the back of his neck. “What good would that have done?”

  “It could have saved me a trip for one thing.”

  “I can’t be backing all the way from Ash Fork.”

  “Ain’t no wonder you can’t hold down a real job,” he said.

  “I’ll just let that pass, Scrap, seeing as how I carry a weapon, and my temper can get out of hand.”

  “I’ll have to go get it my own damn self,” Scrap said.

  “You want me to go with you?”

  “Thanks just the same. I’ll take Pepe. He’s less particular about going backwards, and he don’t carry a gun.”

  * * *

  Darkness had fallen by the time Hook pulled up on the grab iron of the caboose. A strange whishing noise emanated from somewhere, and a light flashed briefly through the caboose window.

  Hook slid back into the shadows and pulled his weapon. Someone must have broken in. There was no shortage of bums passing through, and they would steal anything not tied down. The light came again and then faded.

  Hook tried the handle and eased the door open. He paused to listen. Bums rarely carried weapons, but they were not shy about using anything at hand to crack a man’s head. The light glimmered again, and he cocked his pistol. Swinging open the door, he leveled it into the darkness.

  Just then an electric lightbulb began to glow over the kitchen table. It brightened and then faded to an eerie orange.

  Hook retrieved his flashlight from the cabinet just as the bulb went out once again. He panned his light under the table and then under the bunk but found no one. After that, he went outside and checked under the caboose. When the whishing noise rose up once again, he whirled about, bringing his sidearm to bear. Only then did he see the windmill blade atop the caboose. A fan belt ran from the blade to a gear that turned a car generator that had been bolted to the frame.

  “Scrap,” he said, lowering his weapon.

  * * *

  Hook waited in the office as Pepe backed the jeep in. Pepe walked off without a word, rubbing his shoulder the whole time. Scrap opened the office door and rolled his eyes when he saw Hook sitting at his desk.

  “That dang Pepe can’t drive backward worth a damn,” he said. “Three times we went in the bar ditch.

  “What the hell you want now, Hook? You can’t be borrowing my jeep again, that’s for sure.”

  “I’m not here to borrow that broken-down jeep,” Hook said.

  Scrap fished out his pipe and looked inside the bowl.

  “When a yard dog shows up, it ain’t no social call, that much I can tell you.”

  “I want to know who put that contraption on my caboose?”

  “That’s the first generator model of the Headlight Electric Company. Seeing as how you’ve been asking for electricity and seeing as how we’re friends, I thought to permit you the privilege. In addition, I won’t be charging for the electricity, not right away at least.”

  “The damn thing goes on and off like a crossing signal, Scrap. A man could go into convulsions.”

  “You’d think a feller would be more appreciative of having his electricity provided for free.”

  Hook rubbed at the first signs of a headache that had sprung up between his brows.

  “I need to use your phone, Scrap.”

  Scrap buried his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels.

  “Criticize a man’s electric company and then ask to use his phone. There just ain’t no explaining some people.”

  When Scrap had gone, Hook called Division.

  “Eddie, this is Hook.”

  “You know what time it is, Runyon?”

  “Security is a twenty-four-hour commitment, Eddie.”

  “You figure out some way to derail the Chief ?”

  “I’m making a run to Williams tomorrow, Eddie. Something’s come up on this copper deal.”

  “You called me for that?”

  “I’m going on over to Kansas City from there.”

  “What the hell is in Kansas City?”

  “Look, Eddie, I’m on Scrap’s phone, and he’s raising hell. I’ll call you later.”

  * * *

  Back at the caboose, Hook unscrewed the lightbulb from over the table. Across the way, the pusher engine rumbled and sighed on the siding. He took off his prosthesis and lay down in his bunk. Everyone else had accepted Sergeant Erikson’s death as an accident. Why couldn’t he? Life would be a hell of a lot easier for him if he could.

  The wind swept in, and the windmill blade squeaked and squawked atop the caboose.

  Perhaps if he could find Sergeant Erikson’s people, get an understanding of what kind of a man he was. Perhaps then he could let it go.

  21

  THAT AFTERNOON HOOK waited on the depot platform for the eastbound short haul to come in. He recognized Frenchy’s whistle pattern from as far away as the wigwag crossing.

  Frenchy brought the old steamer into the platform and leaned out the cab window.

  “Don’t you yard dogs have anything to do but beg free rides all day?” he asked.

  “Catching one of your trains is like drinking bad hooch, Frenchy. It isn’t good, but it beats sobriety.”

  Frenchy pushed back his hat. “Well, I suppose I could use someone to talk to. This bakehead ain’t said a word since Needles. I think he might be dead.”

  The bakehead lifted his brows. “I wish I was,” he said.

  “Where you headed
, Frenchy?” Hook asked.

  Frenchy flipped his cigar butt out the window. “I’m deadheading hoppers to Flagstaff. You ever catch that son of a bitch what stole my wallet?”

  “Solving crimes is a complicated and slow business, Frenchy.”

  “Well, it’s for damn sure slow,” he said.

  “You going to give me a lift, Frenchy, or just complain all day?”

  “I guess you can hitch to Williams long as I don’t have to listen about no book writers,” he said. “Last time I thought my head was going to crack open.”

  Hook settled in at the back and waited for the bakehead to bring up steam. The old teakettle hunkered down as she bumped out the slack, and they were soon clipping across the countryside.

  Frenchy unwrapped a new cigar and wet her down.

  “What you doing in Williams, Hook, looking for a place to lay down and read?”

  “Tracking copper thieves,” he said. “I’m sick of listening to Scrap West bitch.”

  “Bitching is like breathing to Scrap, ’cept more so. I figure he’s going to make a fortune, what with the war over.”

  “Scrap West with more money? That’s a scary notion,” Hook said.

  Frenchy lit his cigar and pinched off his match. “I figure the world has changed forever and not for the better. What with this atomic bomb, there ain’t no one in the world safe no more. They say a peanut-size piece of that uranium could blow up Africa and Australia, with enough left over for a wiener roast.”

  “I’m not so sure about the wiener roast,” Hook said. “But before it’s done, Scrap West will have figured out a way to make money from it.”

  Frenchy checked the end of his cigar and then puffed it into a cloud.

  “They say the whole world’s scrambling for the bomb now, that there’s Russians and Germans and Japanese behind every rock. Some say they’re out to steal our bomb, and they figure to send her right up our pants.”

  “You got to lay off that Mexican beer, Frenchy.”

  Frenchy pushed his hat back. “Me, I like my world simple. I like knowing how much steam’s in the boiler before she hits the grade.”