Dead Man's Tunnel

by Sheldon Russell

  “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

  HOOK 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, Mixe
r 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?”

  Hook lit a cigarette. “Checking out the line,” he said. “You boys had any trouble out here?”

  Corporal Severe took the binoculars from around his neck.

  “Had to scrape a coyote off the trestle this morning,” he said. “Monday, damn near got snakebit walking patrol.”

  “Sounds normal to me,” Hook said.

  “But there’s been a decided lack of sabotage ever since I got here. Guess the Germans figure there’s no reason to blow up what God nor man doesn’t want.”

  “You don’t know where that survey crew is by now, do you?” Hook asked.

  Corporal Severe pulled at his chin. “A work train came through here the other day. Said they were just east of Kingman.”

  “Thanks,” Hook said. “Anything you boys need, let me know.”

  “A transfer to the Bahamas would be nice.”

  “You’re talking to a man who can’t get himself out of a junkyard,” Hook said.

  “I guess there’s always someone worse off than yourself,” he said, smiling.

  Hook nodded. “By the way, we rounded up that Corporal Thibodeaux.”

  “Oh?”

  “He’s in Sheriff Mueller’s jail. I tried to get hold of Lieutenant Capron but wound up with the wrong department. Wonder if you could get in touch with her for me? Tell her Corporal Thibodeaux is on ice in Ash Fork.”

  “I’ll give her a call.”

  “Thanks,” Hook said. “I’ll let you know if anything comes up on the Bahamas deal.”

  * * *

  When he couldn’t call Mixer in, he left him in the canyon, figuring he’d be hunted out and hungry by the time he came back through.

  It took nearly an hour to reach the work crews on the outskirts of Kingman. A flatcar, cluttered with tools and supplies, sat on the siding. The survey crew had gathered around the watercooler.

  Hook approached one of the men. “I’m looking for the foreman,” he said.

  The man drank from the dipper and wiped his chin. “Rudy Edgeworth? He ain’t here.”

  “Know where I could find him?”

  “And who would be looking for him?”

  “I’m the railroad bull.”

  “You going to put him in jail?” he said.

  “Not planning on it.”

  “Too bad,” he said. “Kingman depot, be my guess. He had to make calls.”

  “Thanks,” Hook said.

  When he turned to go, he noticed a stack of chain links on the end of the flatcar.

  “What are those?” he asked.

  “Links from a three-ring Gunter’s chain,” the man said.

  “What you use them for?”

  “For surveying, but a Gunter’s chain don’t make a bit of sense.”

  “How’s that?”

  “It’s exactly sixty-six feet long, made up of links precisely 7.92 inches in length. The rings on the ends of each link are one-half inch in diameter.”

  “Why those particular measurements?”

  “’Cause if they weren’t that, they’d be something else,” he said.

  “Sounds like something Scrap West would build.”

  “Excuse me.”

  “What’s with these here?”

  “Wore out,” he said. “Those rings stretch with use and give bad readings. Without replacing them once in a while, this railroad could wind up going in a circle.”

  “Maybe you should change them more often,” Hook said, climbing up on the popcar.

  * * *

  He found Rudy Edgeworth sitting in the lobby of the depot drinking a cola. When Edgeworth saw Hook’s prosthesis, he stood.

  “Mr. Edgeworth?” Hook said.

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m Hook Runyon, railroad bull. You might remember me?”

  Edgeworth drained his cola and set the empty bottle on the windowsill.

  “I remember. What is it you want?” he said

  “Blue’s Café asked if I’d talk to you.”

  Edgeworth pushed his hat back with fingers thick as rail spikes.

  “So, talk.”

  “It’s the general policy of the railroad to spread their eating around,” Hook said. “Makes for good relations with the community and all that.”

  “I’m a contractor, Runyon.”

  “I understand,” Hook said. “It’s just that Blue could use the business, and the food’s good. Thought you might consider it.”

  “I got a job to do here, and I have to cut a profit in the process. Shuttling my crew back and forth to Ash Fork doesn’t do it. I guess Blue’s Café is just going to have to live with that.”

  “There’s no law says you have to,” Hook said. “I told Blue I’d ask, and I did.”

  “Anything else you want to ask? I’ve got calls.”

  “No,” Hook said. “Well, maybe just one thing.”

  “And that would be?”

  “You did say your company’s headquartered in Kansas City?”

  “That’s right.”

  Hook lit a cigarette at the door. “Didn’t happen to know a Joseph Erikson there, did you?”

  “Kansas City’s a big town,” he said.

  “Right,” Hook said. “Damn big town.”

  * * *

  Evening fell as Hook made his way back to Ash Fork. He donned his coat against the cool and watched the moon climb skyward.

  The trip had been fruitless, and he should have known that it would be. Edgeworth could only be described as a son of a bitch. Scratch the surface of a son of a bitch, and there’s another one just like him underneath.

  Hook listened to the clack of the wheels. The sound soothed him, as it always did, and cleared his mind. For him, nothing came as close to freedom and contentment as clicking down the rails.

  When he spotted the surveyors’ flatcar on the siding, he idled back. The supplies and tools had been secured for the night, and the men were gone. Hook brought her down and shut off the engine.

  He walked over to the flatcar and relieved himself. Bats darted through the night sky in search of prey, and the smell of creosote hung thick in the air. He lit a cigarette, his match illuminating the stack of links from the Gunter’s chain. He picked up a link, turned it in his hand, and dropped it into his coat pocket.

  * * *

  Even though he’d double-checked clearance at Seligman, Hook tensed a little as he rolled into the Johnson Canyon Tunnel. No one entered the tunnel without some anxiety, the sounds, the absence of light, the lack of recourse in the event of trouble.

  When he exited, he brought the popcar to a stop. The lantern light flickered from the guardhouse window. He whistled for Mixer, who came bounding up the canyon path. Mixer, panting, his tongue lolling from his mouth like a wet rag, leapt onto the car and thumped his tail.

  As they rolled onto the trestle, Hook looked back at the guardhouse. It stood stark and lonely on the mountainside, its light glowing in the window.

  When they reached West’s Salvage, he parked the popcar on the far siding and went to the caboose. After feeding Mixer, Hook dropped into his bunk.

  The day had been un
productive, and he knew no more now than when it began. But there was Corporal Thibodeaux, and he knew exactly where to find him.

  30

  SCRAP WEST STOOD in the doorway of the caboose, pipe stuck in his mouth.

  “You going to sleep all day, Hook?”

  Hook sat on the side of his bunk. “You woke me up to ask me that?” Hook pushed the hair from his eyes and searched for a cigarette. “Okay, Scrap. What’s going on?”

  “Just doing my duty as railroad secretary and personal messenger.”

  “And?”

  “That female lieutenant called. Said she’d got the message from that guard about Thibodeaux, and she’d pick you up here in a couple-three hours. Said you’d know what she was talking about.”

  “Lieutenant Capron?”

  “How many female lieutenants do you know?”

  “Do you always answer a question with a question? Jesus.”

  “What’s wrong with that? Well, I better get to work. Someone’s got to around here.”

  * * *

  After showering and shaving and eating, Hook headed for the front gate of the salvage yard to meet the lieutenant. Scrap’s crane roared and clanked from the junk pile. Mixer trailed behind Hook.

  At Scrap’s office, Hook opened the door and whistled Mixer inside.

  “No,” he said. “You can’t go along. Stay.” He took Scrap’s coat from behind the door and tossed it on the floor. “And don’t sleep on it,” he said.

  * * *

  When the lieutenant pulled in, she set her briefcase on the backseat and unlocked the door. He slid in. Her hair, the exact color of a new penny, curled out from under her army hat.

  “How was the trip?” he asked.

  “Early start,” she said, pulling out for Ash Fork. “Corporal Severe said you’ve arrested Thibodeaux?”

  “He’s in Mueller’s jail. He’d taken up residence in Linda Sue’s trailer.”

  “This is excellent news,” she said.

  As they drove up to the sheriff’s office, the old man who had helped push Hook’s jeep sat on the bench outside. Hook came around and opened the lieutenant’s door.

  The old man looked them over. “You under arrest?” he asked.

  “No,” Hook said.

  “That your wife?”

  “No,” Hook said. “She’s in the army.”

  He looked up at the lieutenant. “Can you push?” he asked.