The Insane Train (25 page)

Hook and Oatney boarded the bus just at dusk. Oatney had sprung both for the tickets and a carton of Luckys, which they had divided before leaving her room. By the time they'd reached the city limits, darkness had fallen, and the prairie sky blinked with a million stars.

Soon Oatney slept, her head falling against Hook's shoulder, her hair brushing his ear. He wondered at her strength and her softness, how they coexisted, how in her world she could still manage a smile and face the day. She never railed against injustice or succumbed to the malice and hatred due her. Had she been a man, her spirit would have long since flickered away like a spent candle.

Andrea, too, had such strength. Men, in their determination to control and change their world, refused what they knew intuitively: their flashes of bravado paled against the smoldering strength of the women around them.

By the time they pulled into Fort Supply, the moon had ridden from sight, and the darkness before morning claimed all in its spell. They climbed from the bus and stood in the chill. Hook lit a cigarette and rubbed the tension from his neck.

“Where do we go from here?” Oatney asked.

Hook looked out at the fort, where the first morning lights were just winking on.

“I'll take you to the caboose,” he said. “You can catch up on your sleep while I check things out.”

“You ain't expecting a freebie, are you?”

“No freebies, Oatney.”

“'Cause if you were, I might make an exception in your case.”

“Thanks, Oatney, but Andrea and I are kind of close, you see.”

“Sure, I understand. You change your mind, let me know, hon. Oatney can make you forget your worst days.”

“Thanks, Oatney. I'll remember.”

“You think Doctor Helms will take me back?” Oatney asked. “She's nothing if not practical,” Hook said. “And if she doesn't?”

“You can ride out with me when they pick up the caboose.”

Oatney slipped her arm through his. “Seems like that's where we started. Sometimes I feel like a mouse in a maze.”

“You may be in a maze, Oatney, but you'll never be a mouse. Come on, it's not such a far walk from here.”

 

The caboose sat in the morning dawn like a red matchbox. They were nearly upon it when Mixer bolted out from underneath the wheel carriage and raced toward them with his tail wagging.

Hook ruffed his head and pulled his ears. “What you doing out here, boy?” he asked.

“I thought you said Andrea was taking care of him?” Oatney said.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Maybe he got lonesome for the caboose.”

“Maybe so,” he said, unlocking the door. “Make yourself at home. I'm going on to the fort.”

“You don't think the yard dog will pick me up for being on railroad property, do you?” she asked.

“I hear he's a mean son of a bitch,” he said. “But this time I'd say you're pretty safe.” Dropping down onto the tracks, he looked back up at Oatney. “I've a paycheck coming soon. I'll get that money back to you.”

“Who's worried?” she said. “I got your caboose.”

Mixer followed at his heels as Hook made his way to the fort. Now and again he would range out with his nose to the ground in hopes of stirring up some trouble. As they passed the guardhouse, Mixer marked the porch step and then again at the entrance to the women's ward.

Roy met Hook at the door, his hair disheveled, sleep in his eyes.

“I'll be damn,” he said. “It's the yard dog.”

“Hello, Roy. You sleeping with the ladies now, are you?”

“I've an orderly room in the back,” he said. “Price is right, though you're never quite off duty.”

“Just blew in,” Hook said. “Oatney followed me back. Said she hadn't gotten enough of this place.”

“That's great. Don't mind me saying so, but you look like hell, Hook.”

“So I've been told.”

“You drinking busthead again?”

“Spent a little time in the Wichita hoosegow. Case of mistaken identity,” Hook said.

“Least you didn't lose your arm this time,” Roy said, searching for his cigarettes.

“Much as I enjoy standing here on the porch explaining my life to you, I need to talk to Andrea.”

Roy lit his cigarette. “Well, hell, Hook, why didn't you speak up?”

“I just did.”

“She ain't here.”

“Not here? Where is she?”

“I don't rightly know.”

“Is she working the security ward?”

“No, she ain't.”

“Goddang it, Roy.”

“She left, Hook.”

“Left?”

“Andrea went home.”

Hook rubbed at his neck. “She told you that?”

“Well, not exactly. She said she didn't think she could work here much longer, and first thing I know, she's up and gone.”

“When did she leave?”

“Well, I don't know exactly, do I, 'cause she didn't say.”

“Why wouldn't she say, Roy?”

“She didn't say, Hook. Christ almighty, that hoosegow didn't do much for your personality, did it?”

“Did she say anything about leaving Mixer behind?”

“No, she didn't. But
everybody
I know would leave that crazy mutt behind given the chance.”

“It doesn't fit, Roy, her just taking off like that.”

“Maybe she was sore, Hook. She'd been training over in the security ward. That's enough to drive anyone crazy.”

“Did Helms say why she left?”

“Helms doesn't tell me squat, Hook. Anyway, I've been thinking about leaving my own goddang self. Helms has chewed on my ass until I can't keep my britches up anymore. Last time, she accused me of stealing sugar out of the cafeteria.”

“Did you?”

“Not out of the cafeteria.”

Hook stepped off the porch. Dawn had broke, lighting the headstones in the old fort cemetery.

“Andrea mentioned leaving when I talked to her on the phone,” he said. “But I didn't expect her to just take off.”

“You know how women are, Hook. It's either rain or shine. Speaking of which…”

“What? You been cooking again, Roy?”

“There's just enough gypsum in that springwater to keep a man regular,” he said. “Maybe you'd like a sample? Taxes are paid.”

“I quit drinking, Roy, and would suggest you do the same while your liver's still intact.”

Roy dropped his cigarette on the porch and smashed it out with his shoe.

“God gave me a liver as is necessary for having a drink now and then,” he said.

“You'd of thought he'd given you a brain, too,” Hook said. “A brain ain't required for drinking, though a liver is. You'd do well not to question the decisions of your Maker.”

Roy pushed the cigarette butt off the porch and into the bushes. “Helms gets hysterectomy when I smoke,” he said. “Where
is
Helms?” Hook asked. “Most likely having breakfast with the criminally insane over in the security ward. She's got that Shorty doing orderly duty. Says he has the right temperament for working with them inmates, him being a mechanic and all.”

“What does that mean?”

“If it don't work, just whack it with a goddang hammer until it does,” he said.

“You sure Andrea didn't leave any word for me, where she was going, a phone number?”

“I know it's hard to believe,” Roy said, “you being such a charmer and all.”

“Thanks,” Hook said. “Maybe I'll just report you for stealing sugar.”

Roy opened the door. “Something tells me my secret is safe,” he said.

 

Mixer followed Hook to the guardhouse. He dropped down at the front door and put his head between his paws.

“I'm going to talk to Doctor Helms,” Hook said. “Don't kill anything while I'm gone.”

As he climbed the steps to the upstairs cells, the wails and cries of the demented rose up. When he opened the door, the smell of urine and sour wafted over him. The inmates watched him from behind their bars, the humanity in their eyes extracted in some cruel joke of nature. Left behind were but cold remains and empty shells, life reduced to skin and bones and emptiness.

Van Diefendorf, who had been placed in an isolated cell near the end of the long hallway, sat on his bunk, wearing nothing but his underwear, his body as white as paper. A network of veins coursed beneath his translucent skin. As Hook walked by, Van Diefendorf rubbed his hands together and watched him through blond brows that sprouted from above his eyes.

Shorty sat on a high stool at the end of the hallway with his arms folded over his chest. He wore a uniform, apparently of his own making, since the color of the shirt and pants didn't quite match. Straitjackets hung on a row of nails behind him, and an axe handle leaned against the wall.

“Shorty,” Hook said. “Is Doctor Helms around?”

“She's fixing meds in the back,” he said. “Keep these animals tamed for a few hours.”

“Who's doing the plumbing around here, what with you taking over guard duties?”

“Plumbing's alright, given the lack of opportunity for more fruitful work, I suppose. But since this here insane asylum came to town, I've found my real calling. Doctor Helms says I have a knack for orderly work. These here inmates may have done their dirty deeds out there in the world, but in here they damn well know Shorty's the boss, that much I can tell you.”

Just then Doctor Helms came down the hall, a tray of meds in her hands. She set it down and focused in on Hook through the bottoms of her glasses.

“Mr. Runyon,” she said. “I thought our business had ended. Did we fail to reimburse the railroad properly? I'm afraid Doctor Baldwin had stopped attending to business. I've kept all the receipts.”

“I would have heard from Division had there been a problem with the payment,” Hook said. “I wonder if there's some place private we might talk?”

“My office is downstairs,” she said. “But I don't have a great deal of time. Since Doctor Baldwin's illness, my duties have doubled, as you might guess.”

“Your office would be fine.”

He followed her down the stairwell to her office, the cool breeze coming up the stairs.

She pulled her chair up to her desk and folded her hands in front of her.

“Now,” she said. “I've told you everything I know about Elizabeth's unfortunate accident. Do the police need yet more?”

“This is not about Elizabeth,” he said, “though the case remains open. It no doubt will until all the evidence is in.”

“Has it occurred to you, Mr. Runyon, that Elizabeth may not have died had the railroad provided us with proper transportation and security?”

“Until I know more details, I can't make those kinds of assumptions, Doctor Helms.”

“Yes, well. Would you mind getting to the point? I've work to do.”

“Two things, actually. First, Oatney has returned. She's staying in my caboose. Do you think there might still be a place for her here?”

Helms pushed her chair back. “I'm aware of Oatney's past, of course. Folks do talk, even in here. But then none of us is perfect. I
could
place her in the women's ward. There are times when a woman's hand is needed. However, she should understand that if she leaves again, she'll not receive another opportunity.”

“Thanks. I'll tell her.”

Helms clasped her hands and tapped her thumbs together. “You did say you had
two
things?”

“It's about Andrea, actually,” he said. “Andrea quit, Mr. Runyon. I'm surprised no one has told you.”

“I'd heard,” he said. “She didn't say where she was going?”

“Home, I presume.”

“Back to Barstow?”

“Andrea's departure was quite abrupt.”

“I don't understand why she left,” Hook said. “Nor I, Mr. Runyon. Perhaps Andrea's dedication to Doctor Baldwin prevented her from working under my leadership. In any event, she found it impossible to continue her employment here.

“Now, if there's nothing else?” she said.

“Have you heard from Doctor Baldwin?” he asked.

“Doctor Baldwin is still in the hospital,” she said.

“When will he be coming back?”

“That's unclear. Though Doctor Baldwin is physically improved, he continues to exhibit signs of stress. I've agreed to serve as director until he is fully recovered.

“I really must be going, Mr. Runyon.”

Hook stood. “Do you expect to hear from Andrea?”

Helms lifted her chin, bringing Hook into focus. “Frankly, Andrea left our employment without notice or explanation. I should think that recommendations could not be expected.

“If you'll excuse me. Surely you must have important crimes to solve somewhere on your railroad. Good day to you, Mr. Runyon.”

Oatney smiled and gave Hook a squeeze. “I'll be working with the women?” she asked.

“Yes, and you'll be with Roy,” he said. “More locals are hiring on all along as well.”

“Thanks,” she said. “And thanks for letting me sleep in your caboose.”

“You can sleep in my caboose anytime,” he said.

“So where's Mixer?” she asked.

“He hung back. I can't get him away from the compound. I think he misses Andrea.”

Oatney slipped her shoes on. “I figure he's not the only one.”

Hook lit a cigarette.

“Helms says Andrea left in a hurry. She says they won't be able to recommend her for another job since she left without giving notice.”

“Doesn't sound like Andrea,” Oatney said. “The only way out of here would be by car or bus. You could check with the lady who sells bus tickets. Maybe she would remember.”

The woman behind the bus ticket counter glanced up from reading the comics and took a drag off her cigarette. Hook studied her face through the cloud of smoke. He hadn't the faintest idea why he'd thought she looked like Bette Davis. One eyelid drooped slightly, and creases notched her lip line. Her teeth were nicotine stained, and there were splotches of coffee on her blouse.

She looked at Hook's prosthesis and then up at him. “You leaving again, Mister?”

Hook leaned against the counter. “I've a question,” he said.

She tapped the ashes off her cigarette. “I
heard
you was a yard dog,” she said.

“Did a girl with glasses and freckles buy a bus ticket out of here, maybe to Barstow?”

“Look, Mister, I've been selling tickets out this window for twenty-five years. You think I can remember a girl with freckles?”

“You remembered me,” he said. “Some folks you just remember.”

“It would have been recently, the last few days maybe.”

“I don't think so,” she said. “She might have come through with those ladies from the First Baptist. They were headed to church camp, giggling like eighth graders. She could have been here then. Who knows?”

“Thanks,” he said.

She turned back to her comics. Peeking over the top of the paper, she said, “Sometimes folks go to Woodward to catch the bus. Lot more connections. Maybe she caught a ride over with someone. It's not that far, you know.”

When Hook passed the guardhouse on the way to the women's barracks, Mixer, who had been asleep on the porch, came out to greet him. He wound his way through Hook's legs, his tail swinging back and forth like a metronome.

“You okay, boy?” Hook asked, rubbing the backs of Mixer's ears. “There's food at the caboose.”

Mixer answered by shaking from head to tail and then going back to his spot in the shade.

Hook found Roy leaning against the door of the women's ward. Roy scratched at his head as he thought.

“Someone might have taken her over,” he said. “There's folks going back and forth all the time. In fact, I got a load of groceries to pick up today. I'd figured on waiting until my shift ended.”

“How about going now?” Hook asked.

“Well, Oatney's here. I guess she could manage. She's got all those women in the bathroom stuffing socks in their bras.”

“What?” Hook said, shaking his head.

“Oatney says it does more for lifting a woman's spirits than a diesel-powered dildo.”

“I'd appreciate a ride to Woodward soon as possible, Roy.”

“You ain't going to be packing heat, shooting up train robbers and such, are you?”

“I hadn't planned on it,” Hook said.

“Wait here,” he said. “I'll get my list.”

 

The old truck rolled out in a cloud of blue smoke. At thirty miles an hour, the front wheels began to wobble. At forty-five, the side windows rattled in the doors, and dust rose up from the floorboards. By the time they came into the bus station, dust covered Hook's pants, and his clothes smelled of gasoline.

The ticket agent looked up through the window bars and sucked at a tooth.

“None with freckles,” he said. “Saw one with a wart on her lip the size of a quarter.”

“Thanks, anyway,” Hook said.

From there they went to the store and bought four sacks of white flour, two twenty-five-pound sacks of sugar, and ten pounds of sweet butter.

On the way out of town, Hook said, “Would you mind stopping by the hospital, Roy?”

“You sick, Hook? You been looking a little pale.”

“It's from gasoline fumes and tall tales, Roy. No, I'm not sick. I want to talk to Baldwin's physician.”

Roy cut left and lumbered the two blocks to the hospital. “I've been hauling inmates over from time to time,” he said.

“I shouldn't be long, Roy. Have yourself a smoke.”

The nurse told him that Doctor Anderson was just washing up after a tonsillectomy and that Hook could wait in the hall and probably catch him.

Anderson came out combing his hair back with a comb. The blood splatters on the cuffs of his white coat still looked fresh, and he smelled of ether.

“I don't know what the medical profession would do without tonsils and ovaries,” he said.

Hook explained who he was.

“Yes,” Anderson said. “You're the rail detective. Perhaps you'd care to step into my office.”

The doctor slipped off his coat and adjusted his tie.

“So how's the young lady with the foot wound?” he asked.

“Anna? They tell me she's doing fine,” Hook said.

“Ah, yes, Anna. I'd forgotten her name. She said you tried to kill her with your hook.”

Hook smiled and held up his prosthesis. “Anna's an elusive victim,” he said.

Anderson nodded. “And an imaginative one.”

Hook said, “I came over for supplies and thought it a good opportunity to check on Doctor Baldwin's condition.”

Doctor Anderson wet his finger and rubbed at one of the blood splatters on his cuff.

“I guess you hadn't heard. I released Baldwin a few days ago.”

“No. I didn't know.”

“He was quite anxious to get back to his work, and there was little more that I could do for him here.”

“I don't believe he's shown up at the asylum yet,” Hook said. Doctor Anderson twisted his mouth to the side. “I was ambivalent about releasing him, but in good conscience I simply couldn't keep him here longer.”

“It's odd he hasn't returned,” Hook said.

“Doctor Baldwin didn't share his plans with me, but perhaps he decided to take a short vacation before going back to work.”

“Perhaps,” Hook said. “His illness came on rather suddenly the first time. I hope he's not had a relapse. Are you still convinced that drugs were involved?”

“I have to be careful here, Mr. Runyon, patient confidentiality and all. Frankly, I can't be certain about the diagnosis. Our lab is quite primitive here, so determining the cause was difficult at best. Still, it was a reasonable diagnosis given his symptoms and his access to drugs.”

“I see.”

“There were other complicating issues as well. I have a responsibility to both treat and protect my patients. But sometimes the two principles are contradictory. One has to weigh one's options and then decide. It's difficult territory. Doctors much prefer facts to ethical contradictions.”

“It's the same with detective work,” Hook said. “There's the book and then there's reality. Personally I've found common sense to be the best course in such situations.

“I do admit that sometimes it doesn't pan out so well. Leaving a truck on the tracks to apprehend a hobo seemed a reasonable course of action at the time.”

“Excuse me?”

“Just a little disagreement with the railroad on procedure.”

Anderson smiled. “After Doctor Baldwin's confinement, he improved markedly, but I was also compelled to treat his symptoms, which over the course of time subsided.”

“From the medical treatment?”

“That's the dilemma, isn't it? He was anemic and complained that he had trouble attending. I gave him medications. In the end, the treatment may have corrupted the purpose of the confinement, which was to isolate the cause. But as a doctor, I was duty-bound to relieve his situation.”

“You diagnosed and treated Doctor Baldwin, and he improved as a consequence. How is that a problem?”

Doctor Anderson picked up a pencil and tapped his desk with the eraser.

“I felt intuitively that Doctor Baldwin was under the influence of drugs. This is something patients rarely own up to, particularly doctors. I thought by isolating him, I could, through the process of elimination, determine the source of the symptoms. As it turned out, I could not make those distinctions.”

Hook rubbed at his shoulder where the harness cut. Its constant weight sometimes gave him a violent headache.

“Could you be more specific, Doctor?”

“I was unable to determine if Doctor Baldwin's improvement was the result of our medical intervention or his inability to obtain drugs. Nor could I eliminate the nagging possibility that his improvement might be due to the absence of outside interference.”

Hook looked up. “You mean someone else could have been supplying him the drugs?”

“That's one of two possibilities,” he said.

Hook stood and studied Doctor Anderson's face. “Or could have been giving him the drugs without his knowledge?”

“Yes, Mr. Runyon,” he said. “That's the other possibility.”