Dead Folks

by Jon A. Jackson

  When he clambered out he stood there in the gloomy, echoing, cold space and felt nothing but warmth when he looked at Helen. She was bright-eyed, sharp, and eager. How could he ever have doubted her? How could she have ever doubted him? He took her by the arms and looked into those obsidian eyes. They kissed, a long, good, deep kiss. When they broke apart, Joe craned around the cavernous place and said, half-joking, “I wonder if we could do it here?”

  Helen laughed. “In the coffin?”

  “Not enough room. Alas. Anyway, here comes a bunch of Mormons. Let's cover this up.” Joe threw the tonneau back over the rig. “You drive,” he said. When they were a few blocks south of town, headed for the apartment, he said, “You know, I don't think we should go back there. The lady is dumb, but she can't be that dumb. Plus, some smart cop is bound to put two and two together . . . they'll connect that giant I took down with Cap'n Lite. They'll send someone to look at the apartment again.”

  “So what should we do?”

  “Just keep driving, I'll think of something.” After a few more blocks Joe said, “We've got our bags. It's at least twelve hours before that train comes. It would really make sense for us to split up until just before it gets here. They'll be looking for us as a pair.”

  “Yeah, I guess you're right. Where do you want me to drop you?” Helen said.

  “I thought maybe I'd drop you,” Joe said. “You could go to a beauty parlor, go shopping, go to a movie.”

  “And what would you do? Go to a movie?”

  He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, then glanced away as she caught his look. It was hopeless. She wasn't going to let him drive away with a truck full of money and he wasn't going to let her, either.

  “We could both go—” they said simultaneously, then broke into laughter. In the end they went shopping. It was Joe's theory that once on the train they wouldn't want to use the dining car. It would be at least thirty-six hours to Chicago, if the passage through the Colorado Rockies wasn't delayed by snow, as it often was at this season. The route traversed some of the most dramatic ski slopes in the world—Aspen, Breckenridge, Vail. It would be wonderful to simply lay up in their compartment and eat and drink and make love, while the train climbed up through the snow country.

  They found a large supermarket where they could buy plenty of fruit, some good bread, a few interesting cheeses. They bought sparkling cider, champagne, and wine. It was quite a bit of stuff. Helen bought some magazines and a road atlas, on the theory that they couldn't make love constantly and because she liked to know the country she was traveling through. They also bought a couple of heavy-duty duffel bags at an Army-Navy surplus store. Here Joe found a handy little radio scanner. He had encountered a fellow on this train before who had one; it was interesting because you could monitor the conversation of the train men and so you knew if you were running late or if there was something wrong with the heating in car 35, and so on. It was always good to know what was happening.

  All of this took up time, and by attending movies downtown they found themselves only a few hours away from train time. But these were now the dangerous hours, the countdown hours. It was not a time to be sitting around a waiting room where cops came and went, nor a time to be cruising the quiet streets. There was no reason to believe that the police knew their vehicle, but a young man and a young woman driving around were bound to catch the eyes of the police. It was, in fact, a very good time to retire to the “club.” The bar was crowded, there were plenty of couples about. It was the proper place to be.

  They sat at the bar and Helen reminisced. “Just think, Joe: nine months ago I had my own consulting business; I had a nice apartment in Bloomfield Hills; I had a nifty little Miata, guys used to besiege me! I went out to dinner every night. Fancy places. Then I met you. Since then I've been attacked, been in jail, been on the run . . . still on the run. What a hot date you are!”

  Joe didn't respond to this at first. He was feeling fairly tired. But at last he said, “I'm sorry you missed Christmas at your Ma's.”

  “I haven't missed it yet,” she said. She looked pensive, however. “When do we get back?” she asked.

  Joe calculated, then said, “We should get into Chicago about 4:15 in the afternoon, a day later. After that, I don't know. It depends on how we go on from there. We'll pack the money in the duffel bags and leave the box on the train. I'll have to figure out some way of getting off, maybe before we actually get into Chicago. Don't worry about it. I'll figure something out.”

  At two-thirty in the morning they had to leave the club. They drove around for a little while, but at last they went to the Amtrak station. This was the moment of crisis, and it didn't start out well. For one thing, there was no one to unload the coffin. The clerk at the station was aghast. He'd had no idea that a coffin would be allowed on the Zephyr. No one had informed him. He was a young black man named Daahoud. He gazed at Helen, dressed in the dark pantsuit. She looked more or less in mourning. She insisted that the coffin be put inside.

  Daahoud didn't get it. The body was already cold, he reasoned to himself. Why couldn't it be left out on the big-wheeled baggage cart, across the tracks from the station? It could be more or less disguised by stacking other luggage around it and it wouldn't disturb the other passengers. Not that there were many passengers getting on here. The train was fully booked, at least through Glenwood Springs, where many of the California passengers would get off for the Aspen and Snowmass ski resorts. But it wasn't something he felt he could suggest to the young lady. If she wanted her uncle's coffin inside—he had by now found the authorization—then he supposed it could be done. Perhaps it was just as well. He could keep the coffin in the baggage room, out of sight.

  Helen was tense. She went into the waiting room and sat down with a copy of Vanity Fair. She could not concentrate on its glitzy stories and pictures. A cop or two came in, wandered through, and left. They didn't seem to remark her, but she had no way of knowing if they did. Perhaps they had recognized her from the start and were only waiting for Joe to appear. She had her hair pushed up into a colorful woolen tam-o-shanter and she wore plain-lensed black-framed glasses. She didn't think it was much of a disguise, but it was all she could do.

  She realized suddenly that this was the first time she'd been alone since encountering Joe. She decided to call Humphrey. He was a bit groggy when he finally answered. It was after six A.M. in Detroit. She explained about the train.

  “Is this his idea, coming back here?” Humphrey asked.

  “He hasn't actually said we're going to Detroit,” she pointed out. “But it looks definite for Chicago, anyway. I don't know what he has in mind. We haven't discussed it.”

  “As soon as you know, call me,” Humphrey said.

  “It may not be that easy,” Helen said. She was beginning to regret calling. Why had she called? She hadn't considered it fully. She had told him she would call, and so she had called. But now that she thought about it, she wondered if it was a good idea. Joe certainly wouldn't like it.

  “Sure, sure, I understand,” Humphrey soothed her. “It's all right. Joe's a cool guy. He'll do the right thing. Did he tell you he talked to me yesterday? No? He had some cockamamie scheme about dealing cars in Salt Lake. I don't know if it'll go down or not. But it was good talking to him. I think we'll work things out. Don't worry about a thing. You've done a good job, honey. I appreciate it. Everything'll work out. Just stay with Joe and we'll get it all settled. But, if you get a chance, give me a call. Okay?”

  Naturally, the train was late. Fifteen minutes ticked by. She overheard another passenger inquire of Daahoud and learned that the train was entering the yard now but had been stopped while a scheduled freight departed. At last, at agonizingly last, the great silver and blue and red engines came rumbling past the doors of the station and drew to a surprisingly soft, quiet halt. It was early in the morning and very cold.

  Quite a few passengers got off, looking very groggy, very hungover. Evidently, many of t
hem had been up all night partying. They were skiers, headed for Alta and Snowbird. The resort vans were there to pick up them and their voluminous ski equipment. But just as many passengers with just as much equipment were traveling on to the Colorado resorts. Helen waited until she saw the baggage carts wheeled out, including the one carrying Joe's coffin, before she got on. She entered through the large door in the middle of the last car, pushing all her bags and Joe's on a cart. This car was located quite a ways from the station, practically out of the floodlit boarding area. Most of the new passengers were not traveling in the sleeping cars. A young black woman who seemed a little sleepy but friendly identified herself as Jessica Williams and helped Helen carry the bags into the large room at the rear of the car. It stretched completely across the car and had two beds, a bathroom with a shower, plus a table built against the left-hand window. Ms. Williams was clearly shocked that the room would be shared by a coffin.

  Helen sat in the room, staring out the window, waiting. The train was all but silent, except for muffled bumps and thumps from somewhere forward, and a few quiet voices. After a very long time—she thought the train must surely be ready to depart—the baggage cart was wheeled into view and several other car men were pressed into service to pick up the coffin by its handles and quickly carry it aboard. It was not a large coffin, fortunately, and very little manhandling was required to turn it and bring it directly back into room H. The men set it down softly in the middle of the room.

  They looked at Helen with something like awe. She smiled as sweetly as she could muster and gave them each five dollars. At last the door was closed. She didn't dare touch the coffin, just sat and stared at it. The train continued to sit in the station. It was unbearable! Was this the moment when the police would come, she wondered. Why didn't the train leave? Was Joe all right in the coffin? She knelt next to it and whispered, “Joe?” There was no response. Had he suffocated? Was he frozen? The cart had sat in near-zero cold on the concrete walkway for a long time. She didn't dare start unscrewing the lock-down bolts.

  At last, something seemed to be happening. The lights flickered and then came a whining noise of something starting up, and the heat came back on. All of a sudden there was a slight jolt and the train began to move past the terminal and out of the light. She breathed a sigh of relief. But then, a few minutes later, the train inexplicably halted again and stood for interminable minutes. Now what? Had they discovered her presence? Were they coming for her and Joe? Just when she was about to freak out, the train hitched forward again, and now it began to move smoothly and more rapidly. Within minutes it had passed beyond the confines of the rail-yard and was moving swiftly along the edge of the city.

  At last they were away. Ms. Williams came by to see if everything was okay and to tell her that they were beginning to climb up into the mountains. “Breakfast from seven until nine,” she said. “You want me to call you?” Helen didn't, but she appreciated the offer of coffee from the pots sitting in the vestibule.

  Finally it was quite dark and the train began to labor up into the hills. She locked the door and began to undo the cold butterfly nuts that kept the coffin closed. When she had freed them all she took a deep breath and lifted the lid. Joe Service popped up with a grin, brandishing a Glock in each hand. “Bang! Bang! You're dead!” he cried.

  “Joe!” Helen gasped, starting back. But then her fear gave way to anger and she leapt at him, pummeling him with her fists.

  “Hey, hey,” he laughed, tossing the guns aside and catching her wrists. “That hurts! You're too strong. Quit!” He tussled with her and dragged her into the coffin, already trying to pull her trousers down. “Get your ass in here. You've never made love on eight million bucks. It's great!”

  17

  Qualities Unstrained

  Mulheisen had missed the train. Or, to be exact, he had been unable to book a room, or even a seat. It didn't bother him. It had just been an idea. He had spent the evening discussing the situation with Sergeant Getulio. The Airport Authority police had located Helen's rental car in the long-term parking lot. None of the people operating the parking booths at the exit remembered her leaving, so it was assumed that somehow she, and probably Joe Service, had managed to get on a plane, or perhaps different planes. Mulheisen and others had perused the passenger lists, but nothing caught their eyes. Pictures shown at departure gates had gotten little or no response. Possibly the pair had split up—that would have been wise—and possibly they had found means to disguise themselves: a wig for her, a shave for him . . . even minor changes can be highly effective.

  Getulio was apologetic. Like Mulheisen, he'd had high hopes that the pair would be intercepted. Now he conceded that they had escaped. Mulheisen wasn't too depressed. He was used to having his hopes dashed, especially when it came to Joe Service. But the scent of the trail was still in his nostrils.

  “Where do you think they're headed?” Getulio asked.

  Mulheisen had given a lot of thought to this. He was fairly certain, now, that Service and Helen had reunited and that they had all the money they needed. They could go anywhere. Mexico, South America . . . anywhere in the world. But he doubted it. He felt that he had a fair notion of Joe Service's style. It wasn't like Service to just run away and lie in the sun. He was too active a man, and Helen was much like him. Of course, they could go away for a while, but soon enough they would be back, eager to join the fray. Something, however, told him that they wouldn't even take a vacation. He felt that Joe would be concerned about Humphrey, about having been made a target. He had a feeling that Joe would want to resolve this, one way or another.

  One thing he felt confident about: Joe would not be going back to Montana. He wondered if sweet little Cate Yoder would ever hear from her demon lover again. Not if she was lucky, he thought.

  He was also interested in Helen's relationship with Humphrey. It was clear now that she was back in the fold, to some extent, at least. Humphrey had provided a plane for her to come to Salt Lake City. He realized then what he had not thought through before: Helen had been sent by Humphrey to find Joe. She had found him. And now a plane was waiting in Denver . . .

  “This guy Service,” Getulio said. He paused.

  “Hmmm? What about him?”

  “You're a little obsessed, aren't you?”

  Mulheisen considered that for a moment, then said, “I don't think so. He's gotten in my way. He's a killer. I intend to take him. But I'm not obsessed with him. I figure . . . sooner or later, Joe will go down. Maybe I'll be the one to take him. I hope so.”

  “Nothing personal?” Getulio said.

  “Nothing personal,” Mulheisen assured him. “I don't think that Service ever meant me any harm. I doubt if he's ever even given me a thought—at least, other than as a cop who's been on a couple of cases involving him.”

  “That's good,” Getulio said. “It never pays to get personal with these cases, you think?”

  Mulheisen agreed. He pointed out to Getulio that, when you came right down to it, Joe Service had never done any real harm to his investigations, just muddled them up a bit. “He's killed people, but I was thinking about it today when I went for a walk . . . they were never exactly innocent people, if you see what I mean. In fact, he's practically a ‘soldier of virtue,’ as Guarini would say.”

  “Guarini? Who's he? A Detroit button man?”

  Mulheisen smiled. “A poet. Died a long time ago. No, I guess you could say that, overall, Joe has done the law a few favors. Not the kind of favors you exactly want, of course. He didn't intend to help. And now that I think of it, he's in a kind of position where he could really do us a lot of good. He could bust the mob wide open, if we could get him to cooperate.”

  “Cut him a deal, you mean? Would you like that?” Getulio looked skeptical. “I never was too crazy about this immunity crap. Too many villains living on the taxpayer's buck.”

  “Yeah,” Mulheisen conceded. “Still . . . if you think about it, Joe is in a closing vise-clamp. The mo
b on one side, the law on the other. Maybe he likes it that way, I don't know. One thing, though: he would never survive prison. He'd be dead meat there. Maybe . . . if I had a chance to talk to him . . . he'd see that cooperation was his only real option.”

  Getulio didn't seem convinced. “Mr. Service is free as a bird, far as I can tell. He's on the run, but he sure as hell ain't in custody. Aaah. I gotta get out of here,” he said, standing up and yawning. It was late. “You got a place to stay, Mul?”

  Mulheisen looked at him. Getulio was a man with a family. He could see that. If Getulio was about to invite him to stay with him it would surely be a case of invading the quiet and safety of the family home. Getulio was a good man, a generous man, but his wife wouldn't like it. Mulheisen could count on that. He decided to play the footloose bachelor role.

  “I kind of thought I'd go out, catch a little of the, you know, night life,” Mulheisen said.

  “In Salt Lake?” Getulio laughed. “In the week between Christmas and New Year's?”

  “Well . . . “ Mulheisen shrugged. “Who knows, I might get lucky. I could use a drink, anyway. I'll get a room in a hotel. Any suggestions?”

  Getulio suggested the Little America. It was not far. He gave Mulheisen a lift, but he declined to come in for a drink. Mulheisen checked in, had a couple of shots of whiskey in the bar, and went up to the room. Before he took a shower he called the airport and booked an early flight to Denver. Ten minutes later he was asleep.

  In the morning it was still dark when he called Marshall. There had been no activity. All was quiet at DiEbola's. The plane had not returned to Detroit. Mulheisen hung up and called Denver Flight Service. The DiEbola jet was at that very moment taxiing to depart. Destination: Aspen.