The Insane Train

by Sheldon Russell

  Finally, Helms said, “Robert Smith’s the only one left now.”

  “I ain’t going in there,” Roy said.

  “Maybe he will take it on his own,” Helms said. “Sometimes he’s cooperative. Other times not.”

  Hook looked in. Robert Smith sat on the end of his bunk, his hands clasped between his knees. He looked up with cold eyes.

  “He doesn’t look cooperative to me,” Hook said.

  “Robert,” Helms said. “We need you to take your medications now.”

  Robert didn’t move, except for his leg, which bobbed up and down at a rapid pace.

  “Robert,” she said again. “You know you have to take your medications.”

  Suddenly, Robert stood and walked straight to the window, his face only inches from the bars. Helms stepped back.

  “Okay, then. Good,” she said, regaining her composure. “Here’s your pill.”

  Robert held out his hand, steady, but small like a child’s hand. Helms gave him the pill and slipped the cup of water through the bars. Smith dropped the pill into his mouth and drank down the water, a drop clinging to his lip.

  Helms glanced over at Hook. “There,” she said. “Not so hard.”

  Hook turned to Roy. “Do you smell something?”

  Roy sniffed. “Smoke,” he said.

  “Oh, no,” Helms said. “It’s coming from Van Diefendorf’s room.”

  Smoke boiled from his window and under his door. Helms worked at the lock. All the while Van Diefendorf coughed and sputtered from somewhere inside the cloud of smoke. When Helms swung open the door, Hook took a deep breath and went in.

  Van Diefendorf lay naked on the floor, his bedding smoldering in the corner of his room. Hook stamped out the flames and dragged him out by his arm. Van Diefendorf flopped onto his back, his eyes at half-mast, a box of matches clutched in his hand.

  The ward burst into pandemonium behind them. “Fire boy, fire boy, fire boy,” someone chanted.

  Helms pried the matches from Van Diefendorf’s grip. “Where did he get these?” she asked.

  “They look a bit like mine,” Roy said. “Though all matches are more or less similar.”

  “Didn’t I tell you no matches in the wards?” Helms asked.

  “I forgot,” Roy said.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Next time you follow instructions, do you understand? You’ll get us all killed.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Roy said, hanging his head.

  Van Diefendorf lay on his back in a stupor, soot under his eyes and around his mouth.

  “Get him dressed,” she said.

  By the time Hook and Roy managed to get Van Diefendorf secured, a quiet had fallen over the ward. Hook checked the cells one by one. To the last man, they were either asleep or staring off into space. Robert Smith, too, lay curled on his cot, his eyes closed, his knees drawn into the fetal position.

  “I’ll be damn,” Hook said. “I could use a little of that stuff out on the line.”

  “Let’s get them cuffed and on their way before they’re all asleep,” Helms said.

  They cuffed the inmates, leading them into the hallway, where they slumped against the wall in silence. Helms opened the door to Robert Smith’s cell.

  “You did see him take his pill?” Hook asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “He drank it down,” Roy said.

  “Let me check his eyes,” she said.

  Helms leaned over to open his eyes when Smith sat straight up, shoving the door closed behind her. A scream issued from Helms’s throat, a cry so pitiful that it caused the hair on Hook’s neck to prickle.

  When Hook next looked, Smith had cuffed Helms to the bedpost. Opening his hand, he showed Hook the pill and the room key. A slow smile spread across his face as he began unbuttoning Helms’s blouse.

  “Nooo!” Helms cried, jerking against the cuffs. “Help me. Help me.”

  Hook tried the door but to no avail. Smith stepped in close to Helms, slipping his hand into her blouse.

  Roy looked at Hook.

  “There’s no key,” Hook said.

  “My office,” Helms cried out. “Top drawer. Hurry, for God’s sake. Hurry.”

  Roy stood still, mesmerized at what played out before him. “Go get it, Roy,” Hook said.

  “Maybe you better go, Hook.”

  “Roy, goddang it.”

  “Right,” he said.

  By the time Roy got back, Helms was pleading with Smith, which had only served to spur him into a frenzy.

  “Here’s the key,” Roy said.

  Smith turned just as Hook shoved him hard into the corner. Picking up the pill, Hook stuck it down Smith’s throat.

  Helms adjusted her blouse and pushed her way past Roy, who was standing frozen in the doorway.

  At her office, she turned. “Don’t either one of you say a word about this,” she said, slamming the door shut behind her.

  21

  Hook retrieved his sidearm and waited at the front door of the security ward as Helms and Roy brought out the inmates. They exited in single file, Helms at the lead, Roy bringing up the rear. The inmates shuffled out, their chains rattling like a Georgia chain gang.

  “The bus is ready,” Hook said to Helms.

  “These men won’t stay medicated forever,” she said. “If it should wear off, we’ll have chaos on our hands.”

  “I’ll meet you there,” he said.

  “You aren’t coming on the bus?”

  “I’ll follow in the pickup,” Hook said. “I need to leave it at the depot and check in with Division. The security-ward passenger car has locks on both doors, and the windows are inoperable. As soon as you’re settled, we’ll be moving out.”

  Hook fell in behind Roy as they climbed the hill to the bus, the shuffle of the inmates’ chains the only sound coming from the Baldwin Insane Asylum.

  “I’ll be putting Frankie in security,” he said

  “Oh, sure,” Roy said. “Now that they’re all blitzed on Clorox.”

  “That would be chloral hydrate,” Hook said.

  Roy shrugged. “That’s what I said. Don’t you ever listen, Hook?”

  As they passed the mass grave, Hook fell back and lit a cigarette. A crop of dandelions had taken root, nearly covering the grave. With no marker and no one to care, those buried would soon enough pass into oblivion.

  He turned for a last look back at the Baldwin Insane Asylum. Pigeons gathered on the roof of the security ward, and the smell of the desert hung in the air. He squashed out his cigarette and hurried on to catch up with the bus just pulling out of the parking lot.

  Hook dropped the truck off at supply before calling Eddie.

  “We are loading the last ward now, Eddie,” he said. “But I got my doubts that old bullgine you sent will make it out of the city limits.”

  “The company needs that work train, Runyon. The railroad ain’t happy about putting rip-track up in no hotel.”

  “There could be trouble on the other end of this deal, Eddie, if we ever get there.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Apparently the town in Oklahoma isn’t all that happy about bringing in a trainload of mental patients as permanent citizens.”

  “That ain’t our worry. It’s your job to get them there. Period.”

  Hook lit a cigarette and studied the spider that hung by a silver thread from the light fixture.

  “I don’t know if I can make it to Topeka for that hearing, Eddie.”

  He could hear Eddie wheezing on the other end. His two-pack-a-day habit would be his end.

  “You don’t show, they’ll pull your card, Runyon. Neither the railroad nor the union tolerates boozers.”

  “I wasn’t drinking, Eddie. I just didn’t get the goddang truck off the track.”

  “I ain’t the one you got to convince, Runyon.”

  “I’m having trouble hearing, Eddie.”

  “And tell Frenchy to lay up when his trick’s over. I don’t want no s
hift violations.”

  As Hook walked the track toward the train, smoke rose from the engine stack. Frenchy had her stoked and ready to go by the looks of it. Took some doing to keep an old rust bucket like her up to throttle.

  Heat ribbons quivered up from the tracks, and the smell of creosote settled in at the back of Hook’s throat. On a summer day in Barstow, the rails could burn the skin right off your hands.

  He stopped at the caboose and let Mixer out, who in turn hopped up and down, his tongue lolling out like a wet mop.

  “Here, Mixer,” he said, patting his head. “You better get a run in. It’s a long ride to Needles.”

  Mixer took off down the tracks, his ears flopping as he wound in and out of the cars. Hook stopped in to check on Andrea. She leaned against the doorway and pushed the hair back from her face.

  “We’re loaded,” he said. “Everything okay here?”

  Andrea looked over her shoulder. “They’re not happy, but at least they’re fed,” she said.

  “How’s Seth doing?”

  “Esther locked him in the bathroom,” she said. “We had to pry the door open to get him out. He looked like he’d been hung by his thumbs.”

  “I’ll see you later?”

  “Okay,” she said, smiling.

  He found Frankie in the end seat of the boys’ car with his feet up. Santos sat at the opposite end. Most of the boys, having risen early, slept in their seats.

  “You’ve been reassigned to the men,” Hook said. “We need the extra help in there.”

  “Baldwin assigns my duty,” Frankie said, pulling in his chin.

  “Not on this train, he doesn’t.”

  Frankie shot a glance at Santos. “That Mexican can’t handle this ward,” he said.

  “I’ll check in on him from time to time,” Hook said. “Meanwhile, you can come with me.”

  Frankie scoffed and picked up his gear. They worked their way through the cars, the heat, the smell of grease and iron in the air. Doctor Helms peeked through the door before unlocking it.

  “Frankie will be joining you,” Hook said.

  “Alright,” she said, stepping aside. Frankie pushed his way past without a word.

  “Are you prepared to leave?” Hook asked.

  “There are a few complaining of headaches from the meds, but the side effects are no more than a mild hangover.”

  “Wouldn’t know about that,” he said.

  “Doctor Baldwin stopped by,” she said. “He wants the restraints removed.”

  Hook looked in at the men, who sat like zombies in their seats.

  “And what do you think?” he asked.

  “Frankly, I think it’s misguided. These men are dangerous.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” he said.

  “You know this whole operation could come flying apart. It would be quite impossible to get it back together.”

  “That has occurred to me,” he said.

  “In the meantime, will you remind Doctor Baldwin that more meds must be administered in two hours?”

  “The engineer will blow the whistle before we pull out,” he said. “You have trouble, send someone.”

  Helms nodded and closed the door. Hook waited until he heard it latch before leaving.

  When Hook stepped from the car, Mixer leaped from behind the wheel carriage and stuck his butt in the air.

  “Come on,” Hook said. “No time to play. Let’s go find Frenchy.”

  Frenchy rolled his cigar into his jaw and pushed back his hat.

  “It’s about goddang time,” he said. “You know Ron Jarrett, my fireman? This is the cinder dick, Hook Runyon.”

  “Ron,” Hook said, shaking the fireman’s hand.

  “Where the hell you been, Hook?” Frenchy asked. “We burned up half our fuel just keeping the air up.”

  “She’s set, Frenchy. I’ll take a last walk through and give you the signal from the caboose.”

  “Well,” he said, lighting his cigar, “crossing the Mojave is best done at night anyway, providing this ole calliope holds together.”

  “Eddie says he doesn’t want you to exceed your twelve-hour shift limit, Frenchy.”

  Frenchy checked his gauges. “Maybe I’ll retire after this run, Hook. Me and this ole bucket have about seen our day, so you can probably figure out what Eddie can go do to hisself far as I’m concerned.

  “We’ll lay up in Needles for a little rest. Far as Eddie knows I just now came on shift anyway, and Ron here can’t tell time without the sun up. That’s why they made him a fireman.”

  Hook leaned out on the ladder and looked down the line. “You have any idea how long this trip will take, Frenchy?”

  “Not long on the Chief,” he said. “But we ain’t on the Chief. And then there’s that spur.”

  “What spur?”

  “Hell, Hook, how long you worked for the railroad? The main line don’t run to Fort Supply. I worked it once a few years back. The only thing going there is an ole doodlebug line used for delivering mail and hauling wheat. That track looks like a snake’s back, and the grade’s a son of a bitch through them canyons. I don’t know if this hog can make it without a pusher.”

  “I got a train full of trouble back there, Frenchy. The sooner we can get there the better.”

  “Yes, sir. I’d be there now had I not been waiting on you.”

  Frenchy fired up his cigar and snuffed out the match with his fingers.

  “Word is you might be having a little difficulty with the disciplinary board, Hook?”

  Hook dropped off the ladder. “You know the railroad, Frenchy. They aren’t happy unless they got you by the balls.”

  “If you need someone to speak up, Hook, just let me know.”

  “Thanks, Frenchy. I’ll remember that.”

  Hook found Doctor Baldwin in the supply car sitting behind a makeshift desk of spike kegs and bridge planking. His tie hung over his chair, and a wisp of hair had fallen across his eye.

  “May I come in?” Hook asked at the door.

  “Oh, Mr. Runyon. Yes, come in and have a seat. I’ve been trying to get the institution records in some sort of order. I’m afraid they’re hopelessly scrambled.”

  “I’ve just talked to the engineer. We’re ready anytime now.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said.

  “Is there something wrong, Doctor Baldwin?”

  “Wrong? No, no, nothing wrong. Well, maybe. It’s just that I’ve had a little bad news.”

  “Oh?”

  “Nothing that can’t be resolved.”

  “Can I help?”

  Baldwin picked up the stack of records and dropped them into a wooden crate next to the desk.

  “Just between us,” he said, “the insurance company has declined to pay on the fire.”

  “I’m sorry,” Hook said.

  “There’s a lawsuit pending, which means the property can’t be sold until things are settled. It’s a run of bad luck.”

  “Sorry to hear it,” Hook said.

  “Yes,” he said. “Then I can’t be entirely certain of the condition of the facility when we get there. It has sat empty for some time now. Who knows how much will be required to bring it up to par. The government can be quite strict about these things.”

  “Well, maybe it will work out,” Hook said. “By the way, Doctor Helms asked that I remind you of the medications schedule.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And I wanted to discuss the restraints for the security ward. Doctor Helms is concerned about safety. Frankly, so am I.”

  Baldwin stood, paced the length of the car, and sat back down.

  “Doctor Helms does not fully accept a rehabilitative prognosis for the security-ward inmates. Nonetheless, the balance between protecting ourselves and providing treatment is a delicate one.

  “Frankly, having seen their situation in the car, I’m more convinced than ever that cuffing them for such a long trip is unacceptable.”

  Hook said, “Perhaps a compromise,
Doctor Baldwin. Keep them restrained until we are on our way. After that, release them one at a time for exercise, bathroom breaks, that sort of thing. This arrangement would help to keep things under control while at the same time providing some relief from their confinement.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Perhaps that would work. There is one other thing, Mr. Runyon.”

  “What would that be?”

  “I must ask that you relinquish your weapon. The courts have declared these inmates as patients, not criminals.”

  “This is not the insane asylum, Doctor Baldwin, but my train. Its safety is my responsibility. The weapon stays.”

  Baldwin drummed his fingers on his desk and studied Hook. “Very well, then, if you insist. But for the record, I don’t approve.”

  “Noted,” he said.

  As Hook walked the line back to the caboose, Mixer scoured the territory with his nose for past transgressions. The sun had dropped low in the sky, and the day had cooled.

  Once inside the caboose, Hook lit the lantern and took a last look around before stepping out on the platform to signal.

  A patrol car had pulled into the right-of-way behind the caboose, its lights on, and a man carrying a flashlight walked toward him. As he got closer Hook recognized him as the cop from the jungle. Mixer growled, and his hackles rose on his neck.

  “Hold up,” the cop yelled, shining his light in Hook’s eyes. “I got a complaint filed against you.”

  “And what would that be?” Hook asked.

  “Indecent exposure.”

  “Say what?”

  “Some woman with her rear out a bus window, one of those beanies from the asylum.”

  “Would like to visit,” Hook said. “But I’m in kind of a hurry.”

  “This time I keep the badge on, you bastard,” the cop said, moving toward him.

  Maybe it was the flashlight or the sudden movement that sent Mixer off the end of the platform. Whatever the cause, no man or animal stopped Mixer or escaped his wrath once he’d committed. The cursing and thrashing that followed confirmed that no exception had been made for the Barstow law.

  Hook leaned out on the grab iron and swung the lantern. Frenchy’s whistle rose, and the train bumped up slack, grumbling and moaning down line. Hook called out for Mixer, who came running at full choke down the track. Reaching out, Hook scooped him up.