HE'S MY BROTHER

Chapter Two - The French Connection

The letter worked its magic. A mere fortnight to the day after he'd brought its contents to the attention of the Fat Controller, Christophe Pelletier and a colleague of his choosing found themselves being picked up at a certain little train station in the South of France and stuffed into a tiny Peugeot being driven by a friendly young Frenchman who owned a salvage yard. The yard, of course, was the one which had been rumoured to contain a very special German steam locomotive, a rumour since confirmed via the now infamous photo and an overseas telephone conversation, and Christophe was about as giddy as a schoolboy on a sugar high as he chatted with the salvage man. Nothing made him happier than the prospect of rescuing an engine in trouble, and pulling one out of the very jaws of mechanical death was about as rewarding as it got. Not that the instrument of death in this case had very sharp teeth. It turned out that the salvage man had been so squeamish about scrapping his lucky windfall that he'd been putting off the awful deed for over three years.

"I didn't even know he was one of the living ones until they swung him off the flatbed," he told Christophe as they drove along. "I've done locomotives before, but they were always old, broken-down freighters and most definitely not alive."

"How'd you get hold of him in the first place?"

"I've got some friends at the rail yard. They tip me off to what's available and one of the drivers told me there was this German war engine up at Strasbourg that they wanted gone for cheap as quick as possible. I made an offer and…well, they unloaded him in my yard a week later."

Christophe shook his head in wonder. "Did you realize what you had? That it was an uncommon class?"

"Not really. My rail friends told me to hang onto him if I could because he'd be a good restoration project, but…no interest. You're the first people who've even wanted to look at him. And just in time, too. I promised myself I'd sell him on to another scrapyard if I couldn't get rid of him before winter, even if it means losing a ton of money. I just can't deal with him anymore. He's taking up space I could put to better use and I've already had to pass up a couple of real deals because of it."

"Why not just scrap him yourself? I mean, you did buy him with that in mind…yes?"

The salvage man literally squirmed in his seat. "I just— I asked my friends about it. They just laughed and told me to do him like any other engine and that he'd die partway through. But that would hurt him, wouldn't it? To just cut into him?"

Christophe opened his mouth, saw the real anguish in the other man's eyes, and bit back the flippant remark he'd been about to utter. Instead, he said, "Actually, it doesn't hurt them as much as you'd think." He studied his host's face again. "Look, tell you what. If it turns out that we can't use him, I can put that engine down for you, if you like. There's a humane method of doing it and it only takes ten minutes. Either way, your problem will be over before we leave."

"You'd do that for me?" He sounded much happier. Christophe felt safe in smiling back.

"Sure! You can help too, if you want, and I'll show you how to do it."

The salvage man grimaced again.

"No, thanks. I'm never taking in any sort of living machine ever again."

"Suit yourself," Christophe said, and this time he did laugh.

The third member of the little party in the auto, sitting in the back seat, continued to add nothing to the conversation, but only because the topic depressed her. Her name was Denise Doyon and she was something of a rarity herself, being among the scant number of women in the world who were certified to work as locomotive drivers. On this occasion, however, such would not be asked of her; she'd been included primarily for her linguistic abilities and also for her keen intuition when it came to assessing a loco's personality in a hurry.

The two men had mercifully moved onto the subject of German engine classes and where the loco they were about to examine fit into the design timeline. "All the 48s were named after birds of prey," Christophe Pelletier was saying. "They were the, er, the, um…Denise! What was that name again? What they called the 48 class?"

"The Raubvogel class," she replied. "Raptors."

"Right. What she said," Christophe continued. "The one good thing about there being only three of them is that we already know that whoever you've got, it has to be either Habicht or Lammergeier. There aren't any others aside from the fellow we've already got back on Sodor."

"I've never seen any sort of nameplate or numbers on him," the salvage man mused. "Are you going to try to talk to him, to get his name? Because he doesn't, really. Talk, I mean. I tried saying hello to him a few times when he first came, but he wouldn't even look at me. Then he started sleeping a lot. That's about all he ever does now. I hope he's all right."

"He's probably in torpor. It's a sort of light hibernation they'll fall into to pass the time. And I should be able to get his individual number off his framework. It'll be stamped in and hard to obliterate. Sometimes you'll find a modified builder's mark too. It'll tell us which of the two 48s he is."

"Oh. Okay. I guess it's better than waking him up until you know for sure you can restore him."

"Exactly," said Christophe. "No need to depress the poor fellow any further, right?"

"Yeah…" the salvage man agreed, sounding pretty depressed himself.

They soon arrived at a modest little one-story dwelling set into the corner of a long rectangular lot completely enclosed by a solid wooden fence built higher than a man's head. The salvage man parked on the road in front of his house and led his visitors through the building to a side entrance which opened directly into the yard proper. As soon as he opened the door, the others could see why it'd been left unlocked; two big black and tan Beaucerons were already waiting on the other side. They dissolved into happy wriggles and wagging tails at sight of their master, who bent to briefly caress them, then became sober and speculative when they spotted their master's companions. Denise and Christophe smiled at the two animals, but didn't try to pet them.

"Nice dogs," said Christophe. "Bet they do a good job looking after the place when you're gone."

"That they do," agreed the salvage man. He held the side door open and motioned at the dogs to go inside. "Let me put them in the house. It's sort of their off-duty sanctum. It also gets pretty hot in the yard this time of year. It stays cooler indoors."

He got no argument from his visitors, who could already feel the heat building even though it was just mid-morning. The other residents in the yard weren't arguing either. They enjoyed the sunshine and were foraging all over.

"Chickens!" Denise exclaimed. "All right! How many have you got?"

"Oh, a couple of dozen and a bunch of chicks just now. They've got their coop and run over there, but I usually let them out in the yard during the day." He indicated a sprawled out bird basking in a depression scratched into the dirt under a nearby quince shrub. "There's my rooster. He's kind of lazy."

As if to challenge the man's words, the fowl in question chose that moment to stand up, vigorously shook all the dust out of his plumage, then waddled off. He did look pretty fat and complacent, though.

The salvage man had also planted several plum trees by the house and there was a fenced-off garden and a grape arbour arching over a little patio equipped with several chairs and a table. It was all very cozy and peaceful-looking. Christophe began to get a good feeling about what he was about to find.

The scrapyard proper was just as tidy as the extended backyard behind the house. The only entrance into the yard seemed to be via a very large double gate, currently locked, at the front end, which opened onto a broad dirt road that stretched all the way to the back end. On the side behind the house were a workshop and a garage and space for the processed, cut-up scrap awaiting pickup. On the other side, all along the south-facing long wall, was laid a length of railway track. The tracks nearest the gate were occupied by a number of metal hopper cars in various states of disassembly. And at the other end of the tracks, right at the front…

"Wow! This is the neatest scrapyard I've ever seen," Denise couldn't help exclaiming at that point with her usual artless enthusiasm. "You've got it planted up and looking really nice and everything. It's not even depressing, just…efficient."

"Thanks!" the salvage man replied with genuine appreciation. "I do try, given that I live here." He pointed at the far end of the tracks. "Well, there's your loco. See what I mean about him taking up a lot of space?"

"Yes, I see that," Christophe said, although what he was thinking was that if the engine had to be stored outside, at least he'd had a high fence on one side to provide a little shelter and a southern exposure to help ward off the damp. Better and better, in other words. He'd pulled idle locomotives out of much worse conditions and gotten them working.

They walked on, the back of the engine's tender looming larger and larger. A proper tub tender, too. Beyond it, the funnel poked up jauntily. The loco even had some decent finish left on its paintjob, just a solid black all over, but still gleaming in the sunlight here and there…

A broody hen suddenly shot out from beneath the loco's tender and stalked towards the chicken coop, clucking madly, trailed after by a string of large, partly feathered cheeping chicks. The three humans stopped and waited, waited for the chickens to cross the dirt road.

"Looks like you've got some little roosters in there," Christophe remarked.

"Hope so," the salvage man said, "or I'll be missing out on some Sunday dinners come fall."

Denise just frowned, then ran on ahead. She wanted to look at the engine's face. Christophe followed, walking fast, examining the loco's wheel configuration as he strode. When he got all the way to the front, he paused to reach up and lay a hand on the long running board, a running board extended and stepped downward to cover the leading wheels. All four of them.

"Well well," he murmured to himself, and smiled again.

Denise, by contrast, wasn't happy at all. She'd found the engine in torpor, just as Christophe had guessed he'd be, and she didn't like trying to assess any loco when in such a state. With their eyes closed and their faces so blank and still, they always looked dead to her. All she could tell from this one's face was that it was undamaged, along with everything else she'd seen of him so far. That part of it seemed an auspicious start.

"It is a 48, isn't it?" she asked Christophe, looking over at him.

"It sure is. I'm standing here with a hand right on it, and I can still barely believe it. What are the odds…"

The salvage man came up and glanced at the engine's face before addressing his two visitors.

"So is he what you're looking for?" he asked hopefully.

Christophe heaved a huge sigh. "He is, and I can't even imagine what stars had to align to bring us all together. Have you got some broad boards you can lay over the ties between the rails? I've got to get underneath him."

"Oh! Sure!"

He hurried off to get the boards and Christophe began a far more critical examination of the engine's wheels and coupling rods in the meantime. Denise managed to get up on the running board by scrambling up between the buffers and walked along on both sides to check out the various access ports and the exterior plating over the boiler. Of course she was no engineer, like Christophe, but she figured she'd do to spot something as obvious as a dent or a hole!

They'd no sooner finished than the salvage man returned with an armload of the requested boards. He watched as the other man positioned them under the loco behind its big driving wheels then wriggled in and out of sight, thinking that it was a good thing that his visitor was built like a spritely retired jockey and barely any taller than his even slighter female friend. In fact, with their similar mops of curly hair, hers light brown, his much shorter and completely grey, they looked enough alike that the salvage man had thought they were related at first, maybe even father and daughter. But no, they'd just known each other for a long time and worked for the same railway.

"Don't bash your head on an axle," Denise called to her unseen colleague, although something in her tone suggested that she wouldn't mind one bit if he did.

"I won't… Oh nuts, I think I just smashed a chicken egg. Hey, there's a nest under here! Anyone want some eggs?"

"No thanks," laughed the salvage man. "I've got plenty already. Just set them aside, but be careful. They might be rotten."

"Okay. Good bye, eggs. Sorry, wannabe mama hen." A minute of silence prevailed, punctuated by the slide of boards being pushed further on over the ties. "Aha," Christophe's voice announced from the midpoint of the loco's long driving array. "Ready for the moment of truth?"

"You found his number?" the woman exclaimed.

"Sure did. Just let me steady my penlight here… Okay. Say hello to four eight zero…one…three."

"Lammergeier…" Denise breathed. "So it's him."

"Yep. Looks like. Let me go see if we've got his original tender too and then I'll be out to start looking at his guts."

"Great. Don't smash any more eggs."

"I'm more worried about other chicken products," Christophe said and the other two heard him start repositioning boards again.

Denise surreptitiously studied their host while they waited for Christophe to check out the tender. Still a young man, good-looking, and lean and fit from all the hard labour he did, yet he seemed to live alone. There was something infinitely sad about his eyes, as though he'd already seen too much during his short span of years, and Denise wondered if he'd lost his family to the Nazis and been a resistance fighter—the age looked about right. Then again, it could have just been the stereotype beret he wore over his glossy black hair that put such thoughts in her head.

"Is it good if he still has his original tender?" the salvage man asked her.

"Well, it's a tub tender. There are lots of them still around and they're not particularly valuable by themselves. But they'd have to be modified to fit this engine, or better yet, he's still pulling the one specifically made for him during his build. So yes, ideally it's the original. It'd make him complete. The 48 we already have, he came to us with a modified tender because he lost his first one to a near miss from a bombing run. It looks the same, more or less, but it's not authentic. I guess that means we can only call our own 48 half-original."

The salvage man nodded. "The more original parts the better."

"Pretty much, if you want to be picky about it," said Denise, then changed her tone to badger her colleague again. "Geez louise, Christophe! Did you fall asleep under there? What's the verdict?"

"The verdict is you're way too impatient. I'm coming out."

The engineer's head appeared behind the engine's driving wheels, held askew because he was hitching himself along on his side. The salvage man helped him out and then helped pull out the boards he'd been using. Christophe thanked him while at the same time trying to fend off his friend's enthusiastic efforts to slap off all the dust and debris he'd accumulated.

"Enough!" he exclaimed. "You're just looking for an excuse to smack me now."

"So tell us what you found out and I'll stop," Denise countered, her grin as broad as his.

"Okay! The tender coupling's in great shape. And yes, it's the original. It's all him from front to back. I also found a builder's mark. He's a Berliner all right. The Borsig Works. They made some great locos." He eyed the salvage man. "Have you been oiling his wheels?"

Their host started, almost guiltily. "Yeah. The guys at the yard told me I should do it at least twice a month until I decided to scrap him. One of them came over and showed me how to do it. Did I do it wrong?"

"Oh heavens, no," Christophe was quick to reassure. "If anything, you helped preserve this engine's life." He paused to give his hands a wipe on the big handkerchief Denise held out to him. "We'll still need to get him up on a lift to know the whole story, but I'm not finding any evidence of any real damage under there. No warping, frame looks fine… Did anyone ever tell you why they wanted to get rid of this engine so badly?"

"I asked about that," the salvage man said. "I was told he was too expensive to run and no good for spare parts."

"Hmm, that actually makes sense. The 48s were pretty much custom-built. They were made almost like showroom models, meant to impress visitors to the Olympics and other Third Reich events…stronger boilers, huge fireboxes, slightly bigger wheels plus the extra axel up front, tons of speed and power yet still lightweight enough to work most any line. This fellow here might have pulled a train carrying some of the Nazi bigwigs themselves."

The salvage man looked impressed.

"I didn't know any of that," he said slowly. "Is it wrong that I rather wish he'd derailed while pulling the bigwigs?"

His visitors laughed. "You and me both, my friend," Christophe chuckled, giving the salvage man a friendly clap on the arm, "although I guess I wouldn't be here right now if that had happened. Look, I've just got one more big ticket item to examine and that's his boiler and firebox. Based on what I've found so far, I'm optimistic."

Christophe's cheerful proclamation made the scrap yard owner even happier. He went off to look over his loco with fresh appreciation, leaving his two now-probable customers to enter the engine's cab and do the rest of their thing on their own. Christophe exchanged his penlight for a much more powerful torch and a few other tools which he fished out of his kitbag, and Denise held the light for him while he worked. The engineer quickly determined that the controls in the cab were sound and functional and that the engine's guts, as he put it, were in excellent condition.

"It's so weird," he mused, looking over a still-clean swab he'd just pulled back out of one of the tubes. "I don't think this engine's been run much for years."

"Maybe he was put in storage during the war?" Denise suggested. "Spare parts for the other two?"

"I suppose that's possible, although that'd only work out if all three were always kept together. Instead, ours got worked half to death by the Russians and this fellow here got handed over to the French…and God only knows what's happened to Habicht."

"I guess we'll have to wait for Lammergeier himself to tell us the story. If we take him."

"Yeah. That'll be your job, if we do, to work out his history. I'll supervise the mechanical end of it."

"Me? Why me?"

"Because you speak his lingo and you're a woman. That'll doubly disarm him."

"Gee, thanks. I think," Denise replied dryly.

The salvage man suddenly ran up to the cab, all in a tizzy. "He woke up!" he exclaimed. "His eyes are open and he's looking around."

"Did he say anything?" asked Denise.

"No. But it's good he's awake, right?"

"He probably felt me swabbing his tubes," Christophe said. "Some engines have told me that it feels ticklish to them. Well, here's your chance, old girl. Go scout him out and find out where his head's at. I'm pretty much done here anyway."

"Will do," Denise fired back eagerly as she jumped down out of the cab. At last, an opportunity to find out what sort of personality resided within this new-to-her locomotive! It was always an exciting moment. She bade the salvage man to remain behind, with Christophe, and then hurried forward to place herself in front of Lammergeier and looked up.

The engine was indeed awake. He looked back at her with dull eyes devoid of spirit or any real interest, his gaze only falling on her because of where she was standing and because there was nothing else for him to look at.

"Lammergeier? Are you Lammergeier, number four eight zero one three?" she said sharply in German.

His transformation was instant, remarkable, and complete. Life leapt back into the dull eyes. Shock, confusion, and distrust flickered across the chiseled alloy face, which then settled itself into an expression of intense, yet wary scrutiny.

"Who are you?" he asked after a long moment's reflection, his deep clipped voice hoarse with disuse.

"My name is Denise Doyon. I'm a railway worker."

"In what capacity?"

Denise felt a touch of unease. The harsh, whispery quality of the engine's voice made it sound almost as though he were interrogating her and his gaze had become piercing. Locomotives were normally subservient to humans by their very nature, but this one sounded as though he had issues…not unlike his brother.

"I am an engine driver."

Lammergeier muttered under his breath in a way which sounded derogatory, although too garbled to quite make out.

"Untrue," he replied at last. "There are no female drivers."

"Not in Germany, perhaps," Denise countered, "but I'm from Canada. And I'm currently driving my share of engines on the North Western Railway on the Island of Sodor, thank you very much."

That set him back a notch, although he still appeared suspicious.

"I see… I suppose I will have to accept that, since I have no way of confirming such a claim."

"Sure you do. And you haven't yet confirmed what I asked you earlier…whether you are in fact Lammergeier."

He took his time answering. "That was my name, yes," he finally said.

"It still is," Denise replied, puzzled by his hesitant response. "Or did you acquire a different name I don't know about?"

Lammergeier stared straight ahead, taking his time again.

"I was a number."

"Sit tight," Denise told him, and walked back to his cab. The salvage yard owner was still standing there, waiting for her on the road.

"You got him talking!" he exclaimed in French. "Is he all right?"

"He's fine," Denise snapped and looked for Christophe. She saw her friend back by the engine's tender, bent over to examine its rearmost wheels, and marched over to him. "So, are we buying him or not?"

The uncommon tension evident in her tone made Christophe straighten up at once.

"Well, I haven't found any reason not to take him yet," he said. "Why? Did you find something?"

"When you get him restored and you start taking him out for his test runs, all I ask is that you wait until I'm available to drive, okay? That's all I ask!"

Christophe started to grin. It wasn't often that he saw Denise, a normally cheerful, easy-going woman, so rattled.

"Uh oh. What happened? Bad temperament?"

"Rotten jerk, he won't believe I'm a driver!" she fumed. "No way of confirming, he said… I'll confirm it all right. Just let me put him through his paces and I'll drive the hell out of him!"

Christophe began to laugh, he couldn't help it. The salvage man, who'd timidly crept closer in the meantime, looked from one to the other of them, unsure of what to think.

"Did he…say something bad?" he ventured.

"Missus Doyon's just a bit touchy when it comes to someone questioning her professional abilities," Christophe explained, still grinning up a storm. "Especially when it's from a locomotive."

"Jiminy H Cricket!" the Missus in question swore. "He's not depressed in the least, by the way. He's just bitter and angry. You should have seen him come alive as soon as I spoke German to him."

"Oh. Well, that's good, I guess," the salvage man said. "I always felt so sorry for him. Does he understand French at all?"

"We didn't get that far," Denise replied, calming down some. "He'd probably say he doesn't even if he did."

Christophe cracked up again. "My goodness, he really got to you, didn't he? It must be something inherent in the class. I haven't seen you so mad at an engine since Adi wanted you thrown out of his cab."

"Adi?"

"This one's brother," said Denise. "But Adi came around and he's a real sweetheart now. This thing here…" She jerked her head towards Lammergeier's front end. "He's got something going on that raised my hackles for a few seconds."

Christophe's smile faded and the two railway workers stood in silent contemplation for a moment. The salvage yard owner was still somewhat baffled.

"Are you saying he's…dangerous? That you don't want him?" he asked.

"No, no, he's just…it's just his attitude. It's not one you often find in an engine, especially not when it's one that's waiting to be scrapped."

"They're more typically depressed and apathetic," Christophe expanded. "Frightened sometimes, but usually resigned. And they're always grateful when they're rescued. They know better than to give anyone in charge of their fate any lip." A hint of amusement resurfaced as he went on. "Aside from this one, of course, according to my colleague. It would be a German engine mouthing off at her, too. She's had her fun with our other German engine before," he concluded, and Denise scowled at him.

"Don't you start now."

"Heh heh, I wouldn't dream of it. Look, I'm ready to sign off on what I've found. He's in really good shape, physically. Why don't we go talk to this nasty fiend of yours together and find out if he even wants to be restored?"

"Oh, he wants it all right," Denise muttered. "He's too smart to not want it."

"Well then, let's go start taming him down a bit. You did fine with Adi. Bet this one'll be fine too once he realizes we're offering him a second chance."

"He'd better be…"

The two railway workers went forward to stand in front of Lammergeier again, trailed after by the now nervous salvage man. The big engine stared down at them with cool attentiveness, oozing sullen hostility.

"Hello again," Denise said, switching back to German as she addressed him. "I don't suppose you can speak French, can you? Or English?"

"No. I cannot."

The cold, almost disdainful delivery made Christophe raise an eyebrow and the salvage yard owner shrink back. It was as the woman had said—Lammergeier was not in the least bit intimidated by his situation, although he had every reason to be. It was highly unusual, to say the least.

"He says he doesn't speak French, or English," Denise passed on to the other two before continuing on in German again. "Well, that's unfortunate, Lammergeier. I'll have to act as interpreter then. This gentleman here beside me, the one who was in your cab examining you earlier, is Mister Christophe Pelletier, a fellow North Western Railway employee and one of our very best engineers and a specialist-consultant for all of Sodor's foreign engines. The owner of our railway is interested in purchasing you and having you restored, and sent the both of us here to look you over and act on his behalf. Is that something you would like, to be brought back to work with us on Sodor? We do have our own steamworks and you'd have all your repairs done there, if you're interested."

For three long beats, the stern grey face regarding them remained perfectly immobile, then he began to blink rapidly as Lammergeier's haughty façade wavered for the first time. He was still bitter and angry, but he also wanted to live, and for that to happen he was willing to make concessions.

"This is…true?" he asked. "What you are telling me is true?"

His continued doubt, even at such a moment, exasperated Denise. "Of course it's true! Do you honestly think we'd come all this way and go through the pretense of looking you over just to make a sick joke? Come on now, Lammergeier, how horrid do you think we are? This is your life we're discussing here!"

Something in her impassioned outburst finally got through.

"Yes. My life," he murmured. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. "What did you mean when you spoke of my having a brother and the man said you had another German engine?"

Denise felt as though someone had thrown a pail of cold water over her. Of all the—!

"Why, you liar!" she exclaimed as soon as she could speak again. She added a short laugh of disbelief. "I knew you could understand French!"

"If you can call what you speak French. That man with you has a terrible accent."

His rudeness was so astounding that Denise was, for the first time in her life, at a literal loss for words. She looked so stricken that Christophe and the salvage man both noticed and began staring at her. Finally, Christophe, concerned, plucked at her arm.

"What… Denise? What's wrong? What did he say to you?"

But she was too busy still glaring at Lammergeier. The engine still had his eyes closed, but his expression had altered. His brows had lifted and his mouth, which had been compressed into a taut, straight line, had relaxed and gone soft. She could see some sibling resemblance about his mouth now that it had softened—like Adler, he had thin, almost delicately moulded lips for such a large engine. If she could get him smiling, he'd probably appear quite handsome.

"Mister Lammergeier," she said carefully, speaking to Christophe in French once she'd found her voice again, "would be delighted to come back to Sodor with us. We also needn't worry about any further translating woes because Mister Lammergeier has suddenly remembered that he understands French perfectly well after all…nicht wahr, Lammergeier?"

Now it was the men's turn to look surprised as they regarded Denise, then the engine, then Denise again. While they did, Lammergeier took his time contemplating the little human's demand for an answer, the last of his foul mood sloughing away. "Perhaps I do," he finally admitted in excellent Parisian, opening his eyes, and with the meanness gone out of them, Denise could see the brotherly resemblance there too. More importantly, she no longer felt uneasy in his presence. Truly psychotic engines were few and far between and were never tolerated for long. Issues and justifiable anger she could deal with.

Christophe, with his even longer span of experience, could deal too. "Well, hello to you directly then, Lammergeier," he said in a pleasant, conversational tone. "I sense that you and my colleague just had a bit of a confrontation. Care to elaborate?"

"She caught me in my lie about understanding French," the locomotive replied readily, his whole demeanour now honest and open. "And I eavesdropped earlier when you were discussing me, by my tender." He lowered his gaze briefly. "I know you have one of my brothers."

The older man shifted his feet. He would have preferred withholding that information so as not to overwhelm this new engine, but perhaps finding out was what had helped shock him out of his bad temper. Truth be told, he hadn't been too impressed when first observing the engine's hostility for himself. Deception, as long as it was admitted to, he could overlook, however. Nobody yet knew what sort of experiences lay in Lammergeier's past, except Lammergeier himself, and for all anyone knew, they might have been horrific.

"We do have one of your brothers back on Sodor, yes," Christophe said, deciding to be open and honest himself. "He came to us about two and a half years ago, thanks to the efforts of a very kind man who last drove him in Germany."

"Which one…"

"Oh, sorry. It's Adler, the one we have. Or Adi, that's what we call him…Adi the Eagle. I'm afraid we don't know where Habicht is or what's happened to him."

"Thank you," said Lammergeier softly.

The salvage yard owner was staring at his one-time property again, open-mouthed, with tears in his eyes. Denise and Christophe both noticed his reaction and exchanged sympathetic glances. Most everyday people didn't understand or appreciate how emotional and human-like an engine could be and Lammergeier had certainly put on a whole rollercoaster's worth of emotional display just now. It had to be a little disconcerting for the salvage man to watch. One thing was clear, though—if he'd expressed doubts about being able to scrap him before, he certainly wouldn't be able to now.

Sure enough, the poor man followed up on his stare by taking off his cap and swiping a hand over his face. "My God," he breathed, "I had no idea…" More loudly, he added, "You have to take him. I can't deal with this anymore. I don't want him put down either. I need you to take him away while he's still alive."

"Don't worry. I think we can make both of you happy," said Christophe, placing a kindly hand on the shaken man's shoulder. "Do you know where I could make an overseas call or send a telegram? I'd like to get in touch with my boss as soon as I can so we can start hashing out a price—"

"Thank the Christ, yes, I know a place where you can call. And thank you! I can't cut that engine up, not anymore. Come on, I'll drive you right now."

The salvage man hurried away without even waiting for a reply or looking back to see if he was being followed. Christophe aimed a smile and a thumbs-up at Denise in his wake.

"He'll probably give him to us for free now," he chortled.

"Don't you dare! He's really upset."

"I know, I'm just kidding. Do you want to come with us or stay and make nice with our new engine?"

Denise looked at Lammergeier who looked right back at her, face impassive. As she'd suspected, he did look quite a lot like Adler and he was just as handsome.

"I guess I could stay and start cleaning him up a little. There's a flipping cobweb on his funnel."

"Atta girl..."

Christophe jogged off after the salvage yard man, and after a moment, Denise heard a car start up and drive off from in front of the salvage man's house. She was now alone with Lammergeier. And the chickens. Sniffling and wrinkling her nose, she turned to face the engine.

"Well, it looks like—"

Lammergeier winked at her.

Denise felt surprised and yet not surprised. Deliberately, and on a hunch, she switched back to English and asked, "Did you just wink at me?"

"Nein. I hef somezing in my eye."

"Aaannd he understands and speaks English too. This is the second time you've lied to me. You're a very naughty engine. Maybe I should tell Christophe that you've changed your mind and don't want to come with us after all. Actually, I don't recall you even having a say in that…do you want to come with us, Lammergeier? I assumed you would, but I shouldn't assume, even though I'm so mad at you right now that part of me wants to take a blowtorch to you myself."

The big German engine regarded her. Warmly and with gratitude despite her profession of anger.

"I vant to see my brother," he said.

Denise went off to find some water, rags, and a short ladder. She got up on his running board and wiped away the cobweb and began to clean his face.

Lammergeier sighed and closed his eyes again, content.

to be continued...