"The hell he wouldn't," said the engineer, shifting his gaze nervously from the derringer to the expression on Isaac Bell's face. "Get up there and shovel coal."

The locomotive, a big 4-6-2, steamed six miles before a brakeman with a red flag stopped them where the tracks disappeared in a large hole in the ballast. Just beyond the hole, six Pullmans, a baggage car, and a tender lay on their sides. Bell dismounted from the locomotive and strode through the wreckage. "How many hurt?" he asked the railroad official who was pointed out to him as the wreck master.

"Thirty-five. Four seriously."

"Dead?"

"None. They were lucky. The bastard blew the rail a minute early. The engineer had time to reduce his speed."

"Strange," said Bell. "His attacks have always been so precisely timed."

"Well, this'll be his last. We got him."

"What? Where is he?"

"Sheriff caught him in Ogden. Lucky for him. Passengers tried to lynch him. He got away, but then one of them spotted him later, hiding in a stable."

Bell found a locomotive on the other side of the wreck to run him into Union Depot.

The jailhouse was situated in Ogden's mansard-roofed City Hall a block from the railroad station. Two top Van Dorn agents were there ahead of him, the older Weber-and-Fields duo of Mack Fulton and Wally Kisley. Neither was cracking jokes. In fact, both men looked glum.

"Where is he?" Bell demanded.

"It's not him," said Fulton wearily. He seemed exhausted, Bell thought, and for the first time he wondered if Mack should be considering retirement. Always lean, his face was shrunken as a cadaver's.

"Not who blew the train?"

"Oh, he blew the train all right," said Kisley, whose trademark three-piece checkerboard suit was caked with dust. Wally looked as tired as Mack but not ill. "Only he's not the Wrecker. Go ahead, you take a crack at him."

"You'll have a better chance of getting him to talk. He sure as hell won't admit a word to us."

"Why would he talk to me?"

"Old friend of yours," Fulton explained cryptically. He and Kisley were both twenty years older than Bell, celebrated veterans and friends, who were free to say whatever popped in their heads even though Bell was boss of the Wrecker investigation.

"I'd knock it out of him," said the sheriff. "But your boys said to wait for you, and the railroad company tells me Van Dorn calls the tune. Damned foolishness, in my opinion. But no one's asking my opinion."

Bell strode into the room where they had the prisoner manacled to a table affixed solidly to the stone floor. An "old friend," to be sure, the prisoner was Jake Dunn, a safecracker. On the end of the table was a neat, banded stack of crisp five-dollar bills, five hundred dollars' worth, according to the sheriff, clearly payment for services rendered. Bell's first grim thought was that now the Wrecker was hiring accomplices to do his murderous work for him. Which means he could strike anywhere and be long gone before the strike happened.