The Witchery Way Page 2

  "Because if I tell him now, he might not let me work for him."

  She was quiet for a moment. She poured more water and handed it to him.

  "There’s something weird, Josh."

  "Weird?"

  "This may sound bad, but if the railroad fails, you might have to go back to Oklahoma City."

  He sighed and looked up at the sky and then back at her. “There are two reasons why I don’t want to go back to Oklahoma City now. One, I know how much this railroad means to Dad. It’s been his dream all his life, ever since we left here years ago. He grew up wanting to own a railroad. He used to tell me stories about Granddaddy Frank on the old Frisco line. Ed’s eyes would light up. Frank would tell me the same stories, when we lived back here before, how the old steam locomotives made their runs. How the passenger trains used to stop here in Senoca, back in the fifties. This has been Ed’s dream, and to fail at your dream is...." He paused, searching for the right words. She waited.

  He said, "Then there’s the second reason I want to stay—you." He took her hand. She placed her other hand on his. The shadows had lengthened, and the whites of her eyes were bright against her tanned face. She reached out for him and they held each other. She felt so good. He smelled the fragrance of her hair. Someone had hamburgers going on a grill, and the aroma made him hungry. It was getting late, and he sensed that she was ready for her back rub. "You ready?" he asked.

  "I’m ready." He sat on the row behind her and started rubbing her shoulders. She moaned. "Good. Lower. Yeah, oh, right there." She sighed and moaned at the same time. It was a sound only Amy could make, he thought, and only when he did this for her.

  He said, "You feel tense."

  "I got tense when I sawyou were tense."

  He dug his thumbs between her shoulder blades.

  "That’s feels so good."

  "I have the hands of a wide receiver."

  "Forget football and rub."

  He rubbed. Somewhere early on she had discovered this secret talent. It was their parting ritual, except lately he didn’t want to leave her. They had started out as friends. Now he felt more, even though he needed her friendship too. He moved his hand up her neck, and then massaged her scalp. His hand looked dark against her hair. He felt himself getting hard. He ran his hands down to the small of her back and drug his fingernails slowly all the way up to her shoulders, his closing signature.

  She moaned. "Do you have to stop?"

  He stood and walked around to face her. They reached out for each other. He felt her swells and valleys, felt her heart beating, and his own pounding.

  "Gosh, Josh, by gosh," she said.

  He grinned into her hair. She saved that phrase for special times.

  She said, "I’m gonna worry about you out on that railroad."

  His smile faded.

  Something was out there.

  CHAPTER 3

  At seven-twenty on Saturday morning, Josh approached the back shop of the Choctaw Railroad. The back shop was a two-stall building built with corrugated steel. Two tracks ran through it. Sunlight from both ends and two high-hanging bulbs provided light. In one stall Josh saw a relic from the past: an old steam engine locomotive. Painted in faded white below the window of the cab were the numbers "88."

  Josh looked around. Along the walls and floor were many tools. The place smelled of diesel, oily rags, and sweat. Josh heard two hard clanks. He walked around toward the front of the engine. "Mr. Buck, it’s Josh Wade. I—"

  An 18-inch pipe wrench whistled through the air, slammed into the steel wall with the force of a cannon shot, bounced off, knocked over an empty five-gallon can, ricocheted off a tool box, and landed in a mug, fracturing it and spilling coffee onto the floor. "Damn blowdown!" roared a voice.

  Josh stared open-mouthed at the figure before him. Joe Buck stood six-feet-four, wearing fire engine red overalls that matched the color of his face. The overalls were smeared with grease, dirt, burgundy paint, coffee, dried egg yolk, blood, and something that looked like a piece of smeared jelly donut. His square face was the color of Oklahoma clay, and his eyes looked like two lumps of coal. Big ears stood out from his head like two leaves of cauliflower, and his black, coarse hair was awry. The nose was all Choctaw—wide and hooked. In contrast, he had a perfectly formed mouth, turned up at the corners—a smiling grizzly.

  Joe Buck pointed at Josh. "Do you know how to fix a blowdown?"

  "Well, I—"

  "Can you descale a superheater?"

  "Maybe, if I—"

  "Can you replace a stoker screw?"

  "Not exactly, but—"

  "Then why the hell should I give you a job?" Joe Buck’s voice reverberated in the shop. "I don’t need a pulling guard out here, I need a hand who will pull his weight. I don’t want someone who can block and tackle; I want someone who canwork a block-and-tackle." His voice was so loud Josh was sure they could hear him in the front office. "I’ve been up all night working on Number 88 because your dad needs it running by August 12, when we’ve got that excursion tour to Hickory Creek Park." He pulled out his round gold watch. "And in forty minutes, I’ve got to be at the derailment to help get that diesel back on track. That’ll take all day. Tonight, I’ve got a freight run to Wilburton. I’m tired, mad, hot, hungry, and my prostate’s swole up the size of a Texas lemon. So what good are you to me?"

  Josh walked up to the big Indian. He smelled tobacco juice and beer. "I’ll tell you what good, Mr. Buck. I can learn. Somebody had to teach you how to descale a superheater. Somebody had to teach you how to fix a stoker screw. You had to learn." He slapped the side of the steam engine. "And you need help with Number 88. Just tell me what to do. My grandfather was a good coal man before he was an engineer. He told me stories about the old Frisco line, and I want to run a diesel. Just give me a chance."

  "A chance, huh?" Joe looked him up and down. He spat tobacco juice in a brown stream to the ground. "Your grandfather, Frank Wade, was a good railroader—I’ll give you that. I worked with him on the Frisco. He taught me a lot. Maybe I owe something to his memory." He paused, and his eyes took a distant look. "He worked me dawn to dusk. I cussed him under my breath. But he had made a railroader out of me. Kept me from being another Indian on the dole."

  Joe paced back and forth, and then he looked at Josh. "Why do you want this job? Tell the truth; if you lie, I’ll see it."

  Josh looked him in the eye. "I’ll tell you why, Mr. Buck. I think someone is trying to sabotage this railroad, and I want to find out who it is."

  Joe’s eyes widened. "You want to find out who it is? A seventeen-year-old kid with no railroad experience? Not even out of high school yet?" He tilted back his head and laughed, showing tobacco stains on his teeth. "I’ve been losing sleep for two months trying to figure who it is, and I haven’t been able to do it. I’m not even sure someoneis trying to sabotage the line. When I mentioned that to your dad, he just shook his head and called it bad luck. Your dad doesn’t want to see the worst in people."

  "You’re right."

  "I could tell that when he spoke at the town meeting when he was trying to get local support for buying the line. People were trying to shoot him down, and he refused to see the mean in their eyes. Billy Ray Gottschalk, our County Sheriff, stood up and swung a lot of people against your dad." He shook his head, crossed his arms, and leaned back against the counter. "Why should I complicate my life with you nosing around?"

  “I’ll do more than nose around, Mr. Buck. I’ll work!" Josh kept his voice steady. "I’ve got this feeling. My dad is all I’ve got. And this line is all he’s got, except for me. We’re a team now that my mother is gone. Someone is out there trying to destroy my dad. I can’t just sit back and watch it happen. You’re my only hope."

  The big Indian took out a pouch of Red Man tobacco, stuffed a wad in his mouth, and started to chew. His jaw muscles worked as he rolled the wad around. Finally, he spat a brown stream. "Okay, I’ll give you a job. But you’re going to work dawn to dusk
, like I did for your granddaddy, and you’re going to be so tired you won’t be able to find an ax murderer if he was in the same room. There’s no proof anyone is trying to ruin this line. Those things that happened at Valliant and Wilburton may just be bad lu—" He paused. "What’s that you got?"

  Josh held the tie spike he had taken from the track yesterday. "Maybe this is proof." He handed it to Joe.

  Joe examined the spike, running his fingernails over the indentations. "Hmmm." He reached into a drawer and pulled out a similar tie spike and compared them. "Same marks."

  "You see? Somebody might have pried those spikes loose."

  Joe looked at the spikes a few seconds more, then tossed them onto the counter. "Don’t prove anything."

  He stood and looked down at Josh. "If you hire on with me, I don’t want you playing Sherlock Holmes. We’ve got a lot of work ahead to get Number 88 ready for that excursion tour." He looked at the locomotive. "I still think it’s a damn fool idea to try to get this thing ready for passenger work. It was around when trains were beingrobbed."

  He motioned toward the door. "Go tell your dad I’m going to give you a chance."

  Josh nodded. "Great."

  When he left the back shop and walked into the bright June sun, Josh felt numb. He ran into Amy. "What’s up?" he asked her.

  "I just couldn’t wait to find out what happened."

  Josh smiled. "Well, there’s good news and bad news."

  "What’s the good news?"

  "He gave me a job."

  "And the bad news?"

  "He’s going to work me so hard I won’t have time for anything else."

  She poked him in the ribs. "Uh-uh. I know you. You’ll find a way."

  "Yes."

  "Maybe I can help you, Josh."

  "Help? You mean it?"

  "Sure."

  "I don’t want you to get hurt."

  "How can I get hurt? I’m just going to come around the shop and keep you company."

  Josh thought about Amy’s offer. Against his better judgment he found himself saying, "Dad’s secretary just got maternity leave. Maybe you could volunteer to help around the office."

  "Great idea! I’ll make myself so handy he won’t be able to do without me."

  "You do well enough, he might just hire you."

  She smiled, her eyes shining.

  He felt good knowing she might be around.

  A loud clank came from the steam shop. She glanced over his shoulder. "What’s that old thing Joe Buck is throwing stuff at?"

  "That’s Number 88."

  "What’s he doing to it?"

  "He’s trying to fix it. So they can use it on a tourist excursion to Hickory Creek Park. In August."

  "What’s wrong with it?"

  Josh scratched his head. "Well, there’s the blowdown, whatever that is... And the stoker screw. Something about the superheater ... Stuff like that."

  Amy laughed, her teeth gleaming in the sun. She had a funny laugh; it started down low, and she really belted it out. "I’ll help you and Joe!"

  He shook his head. "Amy, you don’t know what you’re getting into with Joe and Number 88. It’s go—"

  "Josh,you don’t know what you’re getting into with Joe and Number 88—and whatever is out there on that line."

  He placed his hands on her shoulders. "Amy, somebody may get hurt, or even killed."

  "Josh, I feel alive again. Don’t try to shelter me. And I won’t try to shelter you. We have to respect each other’s motives—and just get on with it."

  Joe walked up to them. His red overalls and red face, that black hair blowing in the breeze, and his sheer size made Amy gasp.

  Joe stopped and looked at them.

  Josh introduced them. “Amy’s uh, well she’s going to stop by and visit now and then. She may even ask Dad to for a job in the office."

  Joe’s lips twitched, and then he pulled out his watch.

  "Josh, we’ve got a diesel to retrack.”

  * * *

  Josh looked at the crane, which resembled a giant praying mantis. Josh helped Joe and the crew from Oklahoma City as they wrestled lifts under the lower carriage of the derailed diesel. Josh had sweated through his T-shirt and jeans. The temperature felt like a hundred degrees. He smelled diesel fuel, pine trees, and sweat. It was three-thirty in the afternoon.

  Josh’s hands were blistered, even though he was wearing gloves. One of the blisters burst, and Josh winced. He kept working, struggling with the lifts. He saw a small red stain spreading on the gloves, and every move sent needles of pain through his hand.

  Joe walked up. "Take a break and see about that hand."

  "I can still work."

  "Don’t argue. We’re out of drinking water. Take the can and go up in the trees." He pointed toward the pine forest. "There’s a creek on the other side of the draw. I used to hunt squirrels in there. Refill the can and sit in the shade a minute." He looked into Josh’s eyes. "And don’t go into the trees very far."

  “Why?”

  "Because there’s talk of people cooking meth and growing marijuana out in those woods. They won’t like visitors."

  Josh grabbed the can and headed across the track and up the hill, toward the trees.

  He knelt at the stream and refilled the can. Then he heard a noise.

  Startled, he looked up and caught a glimpse of something in the trees. An animal? He thought he saw a flash of brown fur, but he couldn’t be sure. Suppressing the urge to explore the area, he headed back down the hill.

  In an hour, they had the diesel back on the track. The engine roared, sending black clouds of diesel smoke billowing in the air. Josh’s hand still hurt, but he worked through it. There would be many blisters in the days ahead, he knew.

  They checked the diesel, making sure the wheels were seated. Then they checked the freight cars, confirming that the seed haul was okay. This run needed to move on to Wilburton, Joe said, after he released the repair crew. "I’m going to make the run. Another crew will take it on to Fort Smith. You want to have one of the men drop you back in Senoca?"

  Josh shook his head. "I want to make this run with you tonight. I want to take the controls somewhere along the line, just to see what it feels like. My grandfather told me about night runs, how good it felt to look out from the cab."

  Joe almost smiled. "I thought you might want to go, so I got your dad on the cell phone." He looked at Josh for a moment. "You did okay today.” He ran his hand through his flyaway black hair. Sweat soaked his red overalls. He took out his pouch of Red Man, stuffed a wad into his mouth, and worked up a chew. Then he spat a stream of juice. "I guess you can ride with me." Then he saw something behind Josh, and the friendliness left his eyes. They went flat and dark as he stared over Josh’s shoulder.

  Josh turned to look.

  There was a man walking toward them from the edge of the woods. He was a tall, well-built Native American—about six-three and 210, and he swaggered. He wore a black, broad-brimmed hat with a silver band, the kind of hat that made a statement. So did the scoped Winchester deer rifle he carried and the Bowie knife in the sheath on his belt. As he got nearer, Josh saw his face.

  His eyes were like brown ball bearings. His features were smooth and hard, like they were carved out of wood. Josh realized that this man was not a full-blood Indian—a half-breed perhaps. But he moved with an Indian’s stealth. Josh felt this man could walk up on you in the woods, and you wouldn’t know he was there until he wanted you to see him. The big man’s mouth was a cruel slash, turned down at the corners. He had his black hair tied back in a braid which hung down to his shoulders, and he wore a leather vest over bare skin. The silver belt buckle flashed in the sun. The man looked at the diesel and stopped a few feet away.

  " Joe.”

  "Trace."

  "Trouble?"

  "Some.”

  "Seem to be havin’ a lot of that lately."

  "More than our share."

  The big man called Trace cocked his
head and looked at Joe out of his left eye like he was sighting a weapon. "Hasn’t been much traffic on this spur for a long time, Joe. You’re bound to have trouble."

  “Maybe. But we’re going to open this spur." Joe spat a stream of tobacco juice that splattered against the rail. "Hickory Creek, too."

  The big man was quiet for a moment. "Hickory Creek Park hasn’t had rail traffic since before World War II."

  Joe nodded, saying nothing.

  "Don’t those tourists have better things to do than ride steam engines to state parks?"

  Josh had to say something. "My dad thinks people would like to ride a steam engine train into a state park. Most of ‘em have never even seen a steam engine locomotive." He paused, ignoring the man’s stare. "Most of ‘em have never ridden on a train."

  The man called Trace looked into Josh’s eyes. "Nobody knows what might happen if you try to make that Hickory Creek run. That’s rough country for a railroad." He looked up into the pine forest. "Gottschalk land is rough country even for hikers. Some of ‘em ignored the signs and went in anyway."

  Joe Buck said, "And some didn’t come out."

  The big man shrugged. "Like I said, rough country." He shifted his gaze to Josh. "People get lost in these woods."

  Josh said, "If you’re talking to me, my name is Josh Wade, and I don’t get lost in the woods."

  Trace seemed to be sizing Josh up. "I know who you are, Railroad Boy. Maybe you haven’t gone into those woods deep enough yet." He shifted the rifle under his arm. "I hope you’re smarter than your daddy." He nodded to Joe and walked away back toward the trees. As he moved, the slabs of muscle in his back and legs rippled. He was the tightest wound person Josh had ever seen. He entered the trees; then he seemed to vanish.

  Josh said, "That’s a scary man."

  "Yeah, he is."

  "Just looking at his face makes you want to call the law, or something."

  "Wouldn’t do much good. At least not in this county."

  "Why? Who is he?"

  "Trace Gottschalk—son of Billy Ray Gottschalk, the Senoca County Sheriff."

  * * *