Dead Man's Tunnel

by Sheldon Russell

  “Just ’cause I’m losing half my profit don’t mean you have to do nothing rash, Hook.”

  Hook took out his pocketknife and worked at a burr that had been gouged into his prosthesis.

  “Scrap,” he said, “if a man brought a load of copper in here to sell, how would you know if it was stolen or not?”

  “Junk’s junk, and there ain’t no telling where it’s been or where it’s going.”

  “So, you figure you might have bought some stolen copper yourself one time or another?”

  He fished out his pipe. “Never bought stolen copper in my life,” he said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’m a law-abiding citizen.”

  “Except it might have been stolen?”

  “If it was, I wouldn’t buy it.”

  “Jesus,” Hook said.

  Scrap lit his pipe and thought it over. “I got rules about buying stolen salvage, Hook. If it’s stolen, I don’t buy it. That’s about as plain as I can make it.”

  Hook slipped on his shoes and looked over at Scrap. “Sometimes it’s like talking to a goddang echo,” he said.

  “And where’s that dog?” Scrap said. “My chickens been roosting in the rafters like turkey buzzards.”

  “Now don’t go picking on Mixer. He’s got a sensitive nature.”

  “He pinned a dog three times his size in the yard last week,” Scrap said. “He lay on his back for an hour in fear that killer might show up again.”

  “How about borrowing the jeep for a few hours today, Scrap?”

  Scrap went to the door.

  “I wonder how the goddang railroad operated before they found me,” he said.

  * * *

  The owner of the Flagstaff Salvage Yard pushed his goggles onto his forehead and snapped off his acetylene torch. White circles punctuated the black soot that had gathered on his face.

  “You buy copper?” Hook asked.

  The owner lay down his torch and lit a cigarette. “Copper, brass, and iron. No farm machinery and no appliances.”

  “I got a load of copper to bring in,” Hook said.

  He took out an oil rag and wiped his hands. “What you got?”

  “Radiator cores.”

  “They bring top market price,” he said. “Easy to handle and high quality.”

  “Great,” Hook said. “You need records or anything?”

  “They’ll be on their way to the smelter before you get home,” he said. “Who has time for records?”

  “Thanks,” Hook said. “Might be a few days.”

  The owner picked up his torch, fired his flint, and snapped the torch to life. He brought the yellow flame to blue with practiced turns of the knobs.

  “I pay cash,” he said, dropping the goggles over his eyes.

  * * *

  As Hook drove back to Ash Fork, the sun drifted low in the sky. There were other salvage yards he could check, he supposed. But it was pretty clear that copper thieves could sell their wares on the open market and with no questions asked. Cutting off the money source wasn’t going to work.

  Circling through the yard, he parked the jeep where he could pull out. Scrap’s office light was on, and he could see Scrap bent over his desk. When Hook opened the door, Scrap pushed back his chair.

  Scrap fished out his pipe and loaded it. “I’ve been thinking,” he said.

  “Oh, hell,” Hook said. “Batten the hatches and hide your daughters.”

  “I been thinking they’ll be bringing all them tanks home after the war. A man could buy some up, convert them to dozer tractors, and sell them back to the government. You know, turn swords into plowshares. Not only would it be the patriotic thing to do, but a man just might make a keen profit in the process.”

  “It takes about five hundred gallons of fuel just to start one of those bastards up,” Hook said. “I don’t think it would work out so well.”

  Scrap fired up his pipe. “Some folks just live to rain on a man’s parade.”

  “Well, don’t worry about it, Scrap. You always got army-green rubbers you could sell.”

  “That lieutenant called and wanted you to call her back. She left a number.”

  “Oh? Mind if I use your phone?”

  “Shut off the lights when you’re done,” he said, putting on his hat.

  Hook dialed the phone and waited through four rings. He was about to hang up, when the lieutenant came on line.

  “Hook, here,” he said. “Scrap said you called.”

  “Thanks for calling back,” she said. “Something’s come up. I don’t have a guard at the tunnel. I hate to ask this, but I need someone out there.”

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “I’ll be over first thing,” she said. “But I can’t leave that tunnel unguarded. I know this is short notice.”

  Hook paused. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll take the jeep out.”

  14

  UNCERTAIN THERE’D BE anything to eat at the guardhouse, Hook finished up the last can of beans and washed it down with tepid water. He stopped in at the office and made a call to the operator in Ash Fork. The line was clear.

  Scrap rarely locked his office since he lived in quarters at the back of the yard. The little house had been abandoned, and Scrap had procured it from the city for the price of a move.

  Hook took the jeep, leaving the lights off so as not to disturb Scrap’s rest, and headed for the Johnson Canyon Tunnel. Pulling duty for the army hadn’t been something he’d planned on this evening. Why the fuss over that damn tunnel escaped him, but if that’s what the lieutenant wanted, a night away from the salvage yard might be a relief. In the past, the army had been less than anxious to have a one-armed man in its ranks. But then he could hear the concern in the lieutenant’s voice, and he figured he owed her one.

  The road to the canyon turned and twisted in the darkness, forcing him to take his time. He could easily get stuck, and without a reverse, it would be impossible to get out.

  As he approached Johnson Canyon, the moon broke, setting the canyon walls aglow in its light. The trestle stood like a giant skeleton over the canyon, and the tracks struck off into the black hole in the mountain.

  Hook shut the jeep off, and the silence of the canyon washed over him. Maybe he should have brought Mixer along for company, but then he’d be chasing him down half the night. He checked his sidearm and fished the flashlight out from between the seats.

  He didn’t know what had set the lieutenant off, and she hadn’t been as forthcoming as he’d like. But checking out the tunnel and the trestle might be a good place to start. If nothing else, he’d sleep better knowing that no one had been about.

  Moon shadows slid out from the rock peaks, and the smell of creosote rose up from the track bed as he worked his way down. Clicking on his light, he entered the darkness of the tunnel.

  The silence loomed in the absence of Scrap’s crane and the rumble of idling pushers. His light beam drew to a point in the blackness ahead, and the weight of the mountain pressed in about him. The air felt still and damp, and the smells of life dropped away. Each step resounded in the confinement of the rock.

  When he came to the curve, his stomach tightened. A train could be charging in at this very moment. A violent death could be headed his way. Only a split second would pass between the time a train entered the tunnel and the end of his life. To stand at this point in the tunnel, to wait for the trembling of the earth and the certainty of an oncoming locomotive, would be a terrifying experience.

  As Hook moved in, he found where the bridge and building gang had been removing the support beams. In their place, they had lined the interior of the tunnel with boilerplate.

  A few yards more and he turned back until he could see the moonlight at the end of the tunnel. This is where Sergeant Erikson met his fate. Hook smelled earth and felt the warmth from the outside world. From there, a train’s headlamp could be seen coming down the grade. From there, the possibility of escape would s
till exist. Why would a man who had checked the board and signed out as usual stand midtrack and watch the train rushing toward him? How could he not make a run for a last chance at life?

  Once outside, Hook clicked off his flashlight. He paused at the trestle to listen. He’d learned as both a hobo and a yard dog that sounds and smells could save a man’s life. He’d learned, as well, that both patience and attention were essential to the process.

  Stars rode overhead, and the moon hung like a lantern above the canyon. He moved onto the trestle, his steps deliberate. Every few seconds, he paused to reestablish his equilibrium. When in the middle of the trestle, he stopped. The moonlight cast into the canyon, but the bottom lay in darkness.

  For a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of light in the distance, but on a night such as this, the moonlight could reflect off a shard of broken glass, a beer bottle, a piece of tin. He knelt and waited, and when satisfied that all was clear, he made his way back to the guardhouse.

  Finding the door unlocked, he panned the room with his light before entering. Corporal Thibodeaux’s things were strewn about, and his bedding lay in disarray. The ashtray contained cigar butts, and an empty cola bottle lay on its side next to his bed.

  Hook walked to the window and looked down at the tunnel. The moonlight reflected from the trestle rails. This would have been lonely duty for anyone but especially tough for young men in the prime of their lives.

  He pulled the bedding off the corporal’s bunk and covered the mattress with an army blanket he found folded in the closet. Lying down, he listened to the sounds of the night. He wondered why the lieutenant had called on such short notice. It would take a while for her to come all the way from Los Alamos. Perhaps Corporal Thibodeaux had been relieved of duty, or perhaps they had been alerted to something.

  Weariness swept over him, and he slept a disturbed sleep. Sometime during the night, the moonlight cast through the window and awakened him. He turned on his side and watched the beam of light edge beneath Sergeant Erikson’s bunk. Hook lifted onto an elbow. He could see a backpack that had been pushed far beneath the bunk. It must have been overlooked when the sergeant’s things were packed.

  He got up, found a broom, and dragged the backpack out. Dumping the contents onto the mattress, he sifted through the things: a pair of hiking boots, civilian jeans and shirt, a jacket, and a pair of leather gloves. Tucked into an envelope were ten one-hundred-dollar bills.

  He lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of the bunk. Why would Sergeant Erikson have a backpack readied and cash money stowed away? Perhaps he’d had all the Johnson Canyon Tunnel he could take and had planned to go AWOL. But with the war nearly at an end? A few more months, and he would have mustered out anyway.

  Unable to go back to sleep, Hook sat at the table and waited for the dawn.

  * * *

  The next morning he brewed a pot of coffee and ate from a box of crackers he found in the pantry. After that, he made another run through the tunnel and then worked his way down to the base of the trestle.

  By the time he got back, the bridge and building crew had arrived and were busy attaching boilerplate onto the tunnel wall. Since foremen frowned on chitchat during working hours, Hook went on down the track where he came upon a survey crew hard at work.

  He lit a cigarette and watched as the men set their flags. When someone tapped him on the shoulder, Hook’s hand moved to his sidearm. He turned to see a man standing behind him with his hands on his waist. A shock of red hair sprang from beneath his hat, and his hands were the size of hams. Freckles covered his face and his arms and the tops of his hands. His belly rose up under his shirt, and he peered at Hook through thick glasses.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  Hook moved his hand off his sidearm. “Hook Runyon, the railroad bull, and who are you?”

  The man lifted his chin and studied Hook. “Rudy Edgeworth,” he said. “Value Survey Inc.”

  “What’s going on with the line?” Hook asked.

  “Upgrade,” he said.

  “Upgrade for what?”

  “You’d need to check with the big boys for that.”

  “The railroad’s contracting the surveying, right?” Hook asked.

  Edgeworth reached into his hip pocket and retrieved a package of chewing tobacco. With three fingers, he loaded his jaw.

  “That’s right,” he said.

  “What they doing to the tunnel?” Hook asked.

  “Taking out the timbers,” he said. “They catch fire from the smokestacks now and again. No one thought about that when they built her, I guess.”

  “I guess not,” Hook said. “Your crew going to be working out here long?”

  “All the way to Kingman,” he said.

  “You boys didn’t happen to see anything the day that guard died?”

  Edgeworth pushed his glasses back up on his nose. “I’ve seen the hotshot that killed him,” he said. “He’s a highballer and doesn’t like stopping for no army grunts.”

  Hook turned to leave and then paused. “Where’s your home base?” he asked.

  “Kansas City,” he said.

  “You mind if I talk to your boys?”

  “My crew answers to me, not the railroad.”

  “You might be right about that, long as you aren’t on railroad property. At the moment that isn’t the case.”

  Edgeworth spit between his legs. “They were with me the whole time. They didn’t see nothing.”

  “Thanks,” Hook said. “You be careful in these rocks. There’s rattlesnakes the size of anacondas out here.”

  * * *

  Hook sat smoking on the porch of the guardhouse when a military staff car and jeep pulled in. Lieutenant Capron got out of the staff car and waited as two soldiers unloaded duffels from the backseat of the jeep. Hook watched them climb the steps.

  The lieutenant leaned against the porch railing to catch her breath.

  “This is Sergeant Folsom and Lance Corporal Severe,” she said. “They’ll be taking over the guard duty here at the tunnel.”

  Hook dipped his head. “Hope you boys brought plenty of reading material,” he said. “It’s a tad quiet out here.”

  “I thought you might show them the patrol area,” the lieutenant said. “They’ve been briefed on procedure.”

  “I don’t see why not,” he said.

  “If you have time, I’d like to visit with you before you leave,” she said.

  “Alright,” Hook said. “Come on, boys, I’ll give you the tour.”

  * * *

  The lieutenant sat on the steps and waved them over upon their return.

  “You men go on up to the guardhouse and get settled,” she said. “I’ll be up shortly.”

  After they’d gone, Hook said, “What’s going on, Lieutenant?”

  “I wanted to thank you for helping me out.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said.

  Her eyes lit green in the sunlight. He’d underestimated her beauty. With looks like that, life couldn’t be easy in the army.

  “I take it Corporal Thibodeaux is gone?” he said.

  “After I got back to the base, I called the guardhouse. I had this feeling. No answer, and I haven’t been able to locate him anywhere. The tunnel couldn’t be left unguarded, so I called you. I couldn’t think of any other way.”

  “Well, there’s not much to worry about out here,” he said.

  She leaned back against the step and locked her eyes on his.

  “I wouldn’t have bothered you about this, but the army has a thing about showing up for duty, even if it’s standing guard over a water fountain. I’m afraid Corporal Thibodeaux is in serious trouble. I would have been, too, if I’d left this place unguarded.”

  “By the way,” he said. “I think you should know that I found a backpack under Sergeant Erikson’s bunk. It had a change of clothes and a thousand in cash in it. I left them on the table.”

  “A thousand in cash? Is that so? I must have overlooked
it.”

  “Do you know of any reason why he’d have that much cash hidden away under his bunk?”

  The lieutenant shrugged. “I don’t know, emergencies maybe. I’ll see that it’s sent to his people.”

  “It seems a large sum for an enlisted man.”

  “Frugality is not unheard of in the army,” she said.

  “No, I suppose not. So, I’ll be on my way,” he said.

  She slipped her purse off of her shoulder. “Have you talked to that girl yet?”

  “Thibodeaux’s girl? Not yet,” he said. “I’ve been guarding a tunnel.”

  “I’d like to go along when you do.”

  “I’d figured to check her out in the morning”

  “Yes,” she said. “Tomorrow would be fine. I’ll pick you up.”

  Hook walked to the jeep and paused. “Did you have the prints checked on that flashlight?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Did you find any?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Mine.”

  Hook got into the jeep, and, just as he started up, Sheriff Mueller pulled in behind him. Hook shut off the engine and waited for him to come over.

  “Hook,” he said.

  “Sheriff. What’s going on?”

  “I can’t talk long. Got a call on the way out. Some idiot turned a truckload of sheep over on the highway. You folks ain’t seen that Corporal Thibodeaux, have you?”

  “He’s missing,” the lieutenant said. “We’ve been unable to locate him anywhere.”

  “I figured as much. The banker in Ash Fork says a soldier showed up at the bank to cash a paycheck.”

  “Lots of folks cash checks at banks, don’t they, Sheriff?” Hook said.

  “That they do,” he said, “but generally not the paycheck of a feller just run over by a train.”

  15

  THE LIEUTENANT PICKED Hook up at the salvage-yard gate. He moved her briefcase and leather gloves over and slid in.

  She leveled her gaze on him. “Where to?”

  “Blue’s Café,” he said. “It’s on Main.”

  She backed up and turned toward Ash Fork.

  “Nice to have a reverse,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”