The Insane Train (19 page)

“We'd all been on the front together in Germany, and Ethan had no family except us. We were his brothers, you might say. He asked us to bury him if he died. He died, and we did.”

“How is it he had a cross on his grave, him being Jewish and all?” the chief asked.

Santos shrugged. “Un converso?” he said.

“That Barstow cop claims Runyon here jumped him when he wasn't looking, beat him up, committed assault and battery. Is that how it happened?”

“I admit he don't look like much of scrapper,” Seth said, “but Hook here fought him even up. That cop figured him for an easy mark what with him having one arm. It's a mistake he came to regret.”

The chief sat down at his desk and looked over his papers.

“Well, there were no indications of homicide. I figure you boys got no reason to lie about your friend's death. But unlawful disposition of a body is a misdemeanor.”

“Who's she?” Roy said.

“We buried plenty on the front,” Seth said. “No one ever complained then.”

“Look, Chief,” Hook said. “Without these boys to help, that train isn't going anywhere. Finding accommodations for all those inmates would be a considerable challenge. Maybe we could let this thing go. We'll be on out of state and out of your hair in a few hours.”

The chief stood. “I guess I know where to find you if something comes up,” he said.

“Thanks, Chief,” Hook said. “Now if I could have my sidearm?”

Outside, Hook lit a cigarette and looked at Seth, Roy, and Santos, who were all grins.

“You bastards might want to work on your memory some,” he said, walking off. “Lest you forget who's paying the bills around here.”

As they labored east, the sun flared into the thin sky and sent the temperature soaring. Within a few hours, the outfit cars sweltered. The inmates fanned themselves and pushed wet hair from their faces.

Hook made the rounds, handing out encouragement. Andrea dabbed the sweat from her forehead with her sleeve and smiled. But the trip had turned hard. The car stank of bodies and of the old bridge planking that had been used in the floors. The drinking water, the temperature of blood, tasted of chlorine and fishpond. A cadre of flies swarmed at the doors of the latrines.

Hook found Doctor Baldwin in the supply car. He lay on the bunk, his arm dropped over his eyes. He rose slowly when Hook entered.

“Oh, Mr. Runyon,” he said. “I'm not feeling well. I've left Doctor Helms on her own, I'm afraid.”

“What's the problem?” Hook asked.

He sat up on the edge of his bunk, his head sagging.

“To tell you the truth, I've been getting worse. Maybe it's this heat. My energy has just evaporated. I can hardly hold up my arms at times.”

“We're coming up on the last leg,” Hook said.

“It's the strain of it all,” he said. “Everything has just fallen apart, and I can't get it pulled back together. Sometimes a man can stay on too long, I think. It's difficult to know when that time has come.”

“You're doing fine, Doctor Baldwin. Anyone can have a run of bad luck.”

“First, we lost Frankie, and now I've fallen ill. We simply must get some help.”

Frenchy's whistle rose and fell like a dirge as they moved into the vastness.

“I don't know if I could find anyone,” Hook said. “There's nothing but small Texas towns ahead: Panhandle, White Deer, Pampa. From there we move into a remote corner of Oklahoma, where the pickings are even slimmer. These men are ranchers. They come to town rarely and leave as soon as possible.”

“We must find someone,” he said. “Everyone is worn out, and tempers are short. Frankly, I fear we can't maintain control.”

“I'll give it my best,” Hook said. “We'll have to water the engine at Panhandle. I'll see if I can find someone. In the meantime is there anything I could do for you?”

“Perhaps a couple of aspirin,” he said, rubbing his temples. “I'm blind with a headache.”

“Andrea has some,” Hook said.

“There in the medical cabinet,” Baldwin said. “It's unlocked.”

Baldwin groaned as he lay down once again. Hook balanced himself against the wall of the car as he searched through the cabinet. A green bottle sat on the top shelf and, behind it, a tin of aspirin. He took two and started to close the door. Pausing, he took the cap off the green bottle and smelled it. Taking one of the pills, he dropped it into his pocket.

“Okay,” he said, pouring a glass of water. “Here are your aspirins. I hope you get to feeling better.”

Baldwin nodded, downed the aspirins, and folded back into his bunk once again.

Hook went to the security-ward car, where Doctor Helms met him at the door, her hair hanging in wet strands about her face.

“I've got to have help,” she said. “There's no one to take these men to the bathroom. In fact, I haven't gone myself.”

“I'll send Roy from the boys' car,” he said.

 

Hook sat in the cupola for a smoke after having helped Santos with the boys for several hours. They'd all been watered and walked and were settled in for a rest.

The wind blew hot through the open window, and sweat trickled from behind his ears. The horizon stretched into infinity, not a tree or bush or bump. Soon they would exit the staked plains, an event capable of lifting one from despair.

Roy had joined Helms but not before filing a complaint. It was, he said, like charging Normandy Beach with a water pistol. But in the end, he went.

Frenchy sounded the arrival of Panhandle, a speck in the distant prairie. The water tower stretched into the sky in a feeble attempt to mark a landscape silenced in monotony.

Hook changed his shirt and combed his hair. The wear of the trip lingered in his eyes.

When they came into the depot, he let Mixer out for a run and alerted Frenchy to his plans for finding help. The operator, a cola between his legs and a bag of peanuts in his hand, listened to Hook.

“Looking for what?” he asked.

“Someone to help us transport mental patients to Oklahoma.”

“I think they got all they need,” he said.

“It's a paying job,” Hook said.

“Does it require sitting a horse?” he asked, pouring his mouth full of peanuts.

“Hasn't so far,” Hook said.

“Ain't no one here be interested then,” he said. “I guess you could check the Texan Hotel down the street. There's some ole boys nailed to the porch down there.”

“Thanks,” Hook said. “Don't let Frenchy leave without me.”

“Oh, no sir,” he said. “We don't want no stranded yard dog in town.”

Hook found them on the front porch, just as the operator had said. One fellow, looking somewhat like a pelican, loaded his jaw with loose-leaf tobacco. The other man wore overalls stiff with dirt. His hat sidled over an eye, and his glasses were cloudy with scratches. A red bandanna hung out of his back pocket.

“Mental patients?” the pelican said, squinting up an eye.

“Pay's good,” Hook said.

“No sir,” he said. “I got calves to be worked. They already got nuts the size of bell clappers.”

“What about you?” Hook asked the other man.

“No sir,” he said, hooking his thumbs under his overalls strap. “Last time it rained, river took out my gap. I got wire strung out for a mile.”

Hook put his foot up on the porch and looked down main street.

“Wouldn't know anyone else might be interested, would you?”

“No sir,” the pelican said. “We ain't had much experience with mentals around here, if you don't count the county superintendent.”

“Well, thanks anyway, boys,” Hook said. At the curb, he turned. “When
was
the last time it rained?” he asked.

The guy in overalls dropped his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels as he thought it over.

“Be two years ago next month,” he said, grinning. “Give or take a week.”

By the time Hook got back to the depot, Frenchy had the pig greased and watered and was busy tending to the side rod. Hook circled the depot.

The waiting room smelled of stale cigar smoke and was completely empty. He ducked into the restroom, splashing water on his face. What he wouldn't give for a cool shower and a rare steak, chased down with a cold glass of Mexican beer.

When he exited onto the platform, he whistled in Mixer and pitched him into the caboose. Steam shot out the engine, clouding into the dry heat.

Hook pulled up on the grab iron and gave Frenchy the green. Frenchy waved back and stuck his head behind the drive wheel for a final check. When Hook turned to light a cigarette, a woman stepped up behind the caboose.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hello,” Hook said. “What you doing out here, lady?”

“My name's Oatney.”

“We're fixing to pull out anytime, Oatney.”

She wore a cotton blouse opened far enough to reveal where the Texas sun stopped and the white cleavage of her breasts began. A turquoise stone, hanging from a silver chain, lay like hidden treasure between the mounds of her breasts. The ravages of the Texas sun had taken its share of Oatney's youth.

“You come through often?” she asked.

“Not so much,” he said. “You best get back, lady. Sometimes Frenchy doesn't know forward from backward.”

“Gets lonely on the road, doesn't it?” she said.

“I got my dog,” he said. “Move on your way, lady.”

Oatney dropped her hands on her waist and peeked around the side of the caboose.

“Looks like the engineer's tied up,” she said. “That caboose looks right cozy. How about inviting me in?”

“That would be against regulations,” Hook said.

“Well now, who's telling?”

“I see,” he said, searching for a cigarette.

Oatney pulled up on the step. Taking one of his cigarettes, she leaned in for a light, letting her hand linger on Hook's. Turquoise earrings dangled from stretched lobes.

“What happened to your arm?” she asked.

“Careless woman,” he said.

“I could make your trip a lot more pleasant, railroader.”

“That so?” Hook said. “At what price?”

Oatney smiled, tracing the edges of her mouth with her tongue. “Ten dollars,” she said.

Hook reached for his billfold, pulling out his badge.

“Soliciting on railroad property is against the law, Oatney.”

Oatney's eyes narrowed. “A yard dog?” she said, backing down the steps. “I'll be on my way.”

Hook grabbed her by the wrist and cuffed her up. Frenchy blew his whistle.

“Damn it,” Hook said.

The engine bumped ahead, slack rattling down line, snapping the caboose. Hook guided Oatney inside.

“Guess you'll be riding to White Deer, Oatney. We'll fix you up with a stay when we get there.”

“Come on, Mister,” she said. “Let me go.”

Mixer sniffed Oatney's shoes. Deciding that she was one of them, he wagged his tail.

“That's sure an ugly dog,” Oatney said.

“Careful what you say in front of him,” Hook said. “He's got a sensitive nature.”

The train gathered speed out of Panhandle, settling in across the level plain.

“Sit down, Oatney,” he said. “It's a fair ride to White Deer.”

“Maybe you could take the cuffs off, Mister,” she said. “There's nowhere I can go.”

Hook took out his cuff key and released her. “If you're thinking about jumping, you might want to reconsider. You'd roll for a mile in that bedrock. We'd be hard put to find what's left.”

“Thanks,” she said, rubbing her wrists.

“And there's three carloads of mental patients that direction,” he said. “You see the problem?”

“What's all the books?” she said.

“They came with the caboose,” he said. “Listen, Oatney. That is your name?”

“Yes. Don't you like it?”

“It doesn't matter if I like your name or not. You do realize you're in trouble here?”

“Look, Mister…”

“Hook,” he said.

“Hook is your name?” she asked.

“You were saying?”

“I do what I have to. I've got no one to open my doors or pay my bills. It's me for it and has been for a good long while now.”

“What were you doing in Panhandle?” he asked.

“I came back to help my ex-husband die,” she said.

“Right,” he said.

“He was afraid. He asked me to come, so I did.”

“And what were you doing before you came back?”

“Like I say, I've been taking care of myself the only way I can.”

“Turning tricks?”

“That's right. You read all these books?”

“Someone left them.”

“What's the dog's name?”

Hook sat down on his bunk. “Mixer.”

“That's his name?”

“He likes to fight.”

Oatney leaned forward to tie her shoe, her hair, thick as wool, spilling about her face.

“I'm nonviolent,” she said, looking up through her bangs. “I'm a Buddhist. Perhaps Mixer just needs more attention.”

“Mixer could never be a Buddhist. He loves violence. Anything that gives him attention, he kills.

“What did your husband die from?”

“I don't know,” she said. “I didn't ask.”

“If you loved him so much, why did you leave in the first place?”

“I didn't say I loved him. I said he asked me to come back and help him die.

“Why do you collect books?”

“I like their permanence,” he said.

“May I have another cigarette?” she asked.

Hook gave her a cigarette and lit it. She leaned back against the wall. Oatney reminded him of earth, the tan of her skin.

She studied the end of her cigarette. “Will they put me in jail?”

“Probably, for a little while.”

“I have to make a living. It's the only way I know how.”

“I know,” he said. “You hungry? I have a stick of salami.”

“I'm a vegetarian.”

“They don't have vegetarians in Panhandle,” he said.

“Not anymore,” she said. “Do you read the books?”

“Most of them, but I've been busy transferring these mental patients to Oklahoma,” he said.

“Why?”

“They had a big fire. A lot of them died.”

“How sad. Where are their families?”

“Most don't have any. We've lost two of our employees to boot.”

“You don't have carrot sticks, do you?”

“No.”

“I was sentenced to thirty days in Amarillo once. I got nits and lost big patches of my hair,” she said.

“You should try a different line of work,” he said.

“I could give you a blow job,” she said.

“It's too bumpy,” he said. “You ever work as a nurse or orderly?”

“I
did
an orderly one time.”

Hook went out on the caboose platform and watched the track disappear behind them. When he came back in, Oatney was looking through his 1937 edition of Kenneth Roberts's
Northwest Passage
.

“Oatney,” he said. “How would you like a job?”

“I thought you said it was too bumpy.”

“I mean a real job, working for the Baldwin Insane Asylum?”

“No jail?”

“No, but you'd have to work with mental patients. You up to that?”

“I've dealt with every pervert between El Paso and Pampa,” she said.

“Fine. I'm taking you to see Baldwin. Let me do the talking.”