Amerikan Eagle (31 page)

Sam climbed into the Packard, conscious of how moist his back was against the leather seat. The gate swung open and he released the parking brake, put the car into first gear, and drove out on the road, heading for the last gate.

The sentry box. The only obstacle between the camp and the outside world. The outside world, where at last he could work on this damn homicide, a case he had been ignoring—

The black-and-white crossbar was raised, one MP was talking to another, it looked pretty damn clear, and he let the speed increase a bit—

The guards were looking at him.

A gentle push on the accelerator.

The Packard sped up.

One of the guards stepped out. The man still wasn’t out in the road …

Twenty, thirty feet and he’d be out of the camp. Just a few feet, really.

An MP was now in the middle of the lane.

Holding up his hand.

Caught?

Caught.

Either Allard had made that phone call, or Ralph, in his terror, had shouted out something that had gotten their interest …

He braked, rolled down the window.

This was it, then.

The MP leaned down. “Sir?”

“Yeah?”

“Your vehicle pass. We need it back.”

“Oh.” Sam reached to the dashboard, grabbed the piece of cardboard, almost dropped it as he thrust it through the open window.

The MP took the cardboard and dipped his chin. “Drive safe, sir.” He smiled.

“Thanks.”

Sam drove out to the country road, turned left, and drove about two hundred feet before stopping and letting the shakes come over him.

Then he got over it and got the hell out.

Nearly an hour away from Camp Carpenter, Sam turned in to the Route 4 diner in Epsom. The lot was packed dirt, and there were two Ford trucks parked at the far end, black and rusting. The diner’s aluminum siding was light blue and flecked with cancerous rust spots. Stuck in one of the windows by the doorway was a faded poster of President Huey Long. Underneath his fleshy face was the decade-old slogan:
EVERY MAN A KING
. The ongoing motto of the true believers, or those pretending to be true believers to get along.

Sam got out the car and looked around. No kings in sight. The story of his country, he thought.

Inside, he sat at the counter and ate a dry hamburger and drank a cup of coffee that tasted like water. He ignored the waitress and the cook and the truck drivers and thought about what he had learned about Sean and LaCouture and Groebke and his brother, Tony.

And more than anything else, the story of the hidden camps. The ones that held tattooed prisoners supplied by secret trains. Somehow one of those prisoners, Peter Wotan, had ended up murdered in his town.

He finished his meal, left a dime tip. Near the doorway was a public phone box. He pulled the glass door shut, pumped in some nickels, and got the long-distance operator. At least in this part of the state, in a different county, he could get through without that damnable Signal
Corps oversight. On the floor was a copy of the President’s newspaper,
The American Progress
. Someone had left a muddy bootprint on the first page.

That other thing Sean had said … about family. An idea was coming together about what to do next, and he had to make new arrangements. Had to. The phone at his father-in-law’s cottage in Moultonborough rang and rang and then—

“Hello?”

He leaned against the side of the booth. “Sarah?”

“Oh, Sam, I was hoping it was you! I can’t believe I—”

“Sarah, there’s a problem.”

“What is it?”

Sam turned, made sure he wasn’t being watched. “You’ve got to leave. Right away.”

“You mean … back to Portsmouth?” Her voice was puzzled. “Are you going to come up and—”

“No, not Portsmouth,” he said, thinking fast. “You’ve got to go somewhere else up there. A neighbor, a friend, anyone who can put you and Toby up for a few days.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. What do you mean I—”

“I don’t have time now. Trust me on this. It’s very important. You’ve got to get out of there. With Toby. Do you understand?”

Even across the crackling static, he could hear from her voice that she was trying not to cry. “Oh, Sam—”

“Can you do it? Can you?”

“I could go to—”

“Don’t tell me who,” he interrupted, thinking of wiretaps. Who knew where the FBI could be tapping. “Don’t tell me a thing, Sarah. Just take our son and be safe.
We’ll figure out how to get together once this summit is done. But you and Toby, you’ve got to go now. I mean it.”

“All right. I understand.”

She hung up. He stood there, holding the useless receiver in his hand.

* * *

Outside, as he was walking to his dust-covered Packard, he heard something clattering around the side of the diner, where there was a small wooden porch. Underneath the porch were cans of trash and swill. The lids to the metal cans were chained shut. Two old women were there, in tattered cloth coats, shoes wrapped in twine, wearing filthy kerchiefs over their gray hair. Both gripped rocks as they tried to break the locks.

One noticed Sam and said something to the other, and they both looked at him, cheeks wrinkled and hollow, mouths sunken from no teeth. Their eyes were filmy and swollen.

Sam slowly reached past his coat to his wallet and slipped out some bills. He had no idea how much money he was leaving.

He knelt down, put the money under a rock, and left.

The time driving back to the coast seemed to fly by, for he was thinking things through, knowing what he was going to do, what had to be done to make it all right. When he got back to Portsmouth, he passed through one checkpoint without any difficulty, then drove to the police station and parked nearby. Run in, see if there were any important messages, and run out. It was going to be a long and dangerous night.

In the lobby, he gave a quick wave to the desk sergeant, who was talking to a drunk hobo going on about how he’d like to join the George Washington Brigade overseas and fight those Bolshies, and why couldn’t he sign up here, there was good money and hot meals and so forth. There was also a slight woman in a long coat and pink scarf about her head, speaking with a British accent, trying to get the sergeant’s attention.

By the stairs, Clarence Rolston was sweeping. “Sam! Am I right? Sam, good to see you.”

Sam knew the seconds were slipping away, but he stopped. “Good to see you, too, Clarence. How are you?”

Clarence blinked and smiled, a dribble of saliva escaping. “Doing good. And thanks about that other thing. I didn’t get into trouble. Thanks a lot, Sam.”

“Glad it worked out. Take care now, okay?”

Sam sprinted up the stairs. The door to Marshal Hanson’s office was closed. He looked up at the clock. Nearly
seven
P.M
. He went to his desk, saw a pile of yellow message slips, all of them in Mrs. Walton’s neat cursive, and all saying the same thing:
Agent LaCouture of the FBI needs to talk to you
. The messages were an hour apart. He flipped through to see if there was anything else, like a phone call from Lou Purdue, but no.

Just the FBI. He would take care of LaCouture later.

He crumpled the message slips, tossed them in a trash can.

The door to Hanson’s office swung open. He came out, staring at Sam. “Inspector,” he said tonelessly.

“Sir,” Sam said, cursing himself for being stupid enough to get caught like this. Dammit, the man was getting ready for the Long-Hitler summit, of course he’d be working late.

“In my office, if you please.”

Sam walked in, and Hanson gently closed the door behind him.

Hanson went around his desk, sighing loudly and running a hand across the top of his hair. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he sat down heavily. “How’s it going, Sam?” he asked.

God, what a question. And what kind of answer?
Sam said, “It’s been a busy day.”

“I’m sure. Look, do you smell anything unusual?”

Sam waited just a moment. “No, I don’t.”

Hanson said, “Well, you should. You should smell something charred. The phone lines between here and the Rockingham Hotel have been burning up all day with the damn FBI and his Gestapo buddy looking for you. What the hell is going on?”

Sam said, “I’m doing my job.”

“Your job right now is doing what the FBI tells you to do.”

“Which is what I’ve been doing,” Sam replied. “LaCouture told me this morning he was busy. He told me to come back later. He didn’t say when.”

Hanson stayed quiet, gently rocking his chair. Then he said, “So what were you working on? Besides being a wiseass.”

“Other cases. Trying to catch up. As you’ve instructed me.”

The room was so quiet, Sam thought he could hear a clock ticking somewhere else in the building. Hanson seemed to stare right through him.

A slow
creak-creak
as Hanson moved his chair back and forth. “Then it’s your responsibility to tell the FBI where you’ve been today. Not mine, is it?”

Sam thought,
Nice job, Harold
. Sam was the FBI’s boy now, and Hanson was all hands-off. If he was going down for anything he did today, Hanson wouldn’t be next to him.

“That’s right, sir.”

“Very well. When this summit is over, you’re going to catch up on your casework. In addition, you’re going to run for the district council for the Party later this month, and you’ll win.”

Sam bit at his lower lip. “I … I’m not sure I’ll have the time to be more active.”

“You’re going to find the time,” Hanson told him. “Let’s avoid all the bullshit, all right? Sam, you’ve caught some people’s attention. People you don’t want to irritate. Some Legionnaire officers find it curious that two of their people in Portsmouth had their car vandalized,
and the same two were later beaten up. Both events happened when you were in the vicinity. Do you have anything to add to that?”

Sam looked evenly at his boss. “Not a thing.”

“Glad to hear it,” Hanson said. “But if these same officers see an enthusiastic, active, and respectful Sam Miller involved in the Party, it would ease their concerns. It would also be helpful to me and not helpful to your father-in-law. Do you understand?”

“I don’t want to understand,” he said. “I just want to do my job.”

“You’re going to keep doing your job, and you’re going to be active in the Party, and you’re going to succeed at both. You know why? Because you’ve shown me what you can do. You ignore rules when you don’t like them. You go out on your own. And when push comes to shove, you’re not above administering a bit of street justice. All skills that the Party could use. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re wrong,” Sam said. “Absolutely one hundred percent wrong.”

Hanson smiled. “You may fool yourself into thinking that, but I know better. So when the summit is concluded and you’ve caught up on your casework, you’re going to take a little time off. There’s a special training session for up-and-coming Party members down in Baton Rouge. And when you come back, I’ll make sure you win the council election. How does that sound?”

“Sounds like nonsense,” Sam snapped. “I’m not leaving Portsmouth, I’m not going to Baton Rouge, and I’m sure as hell not becoming a whore for the Party.”

“Too bad it sounds like nonsense,” Hanson said evenly.
“But in the end, it’s going to sound very good to you, your wife, and your son.”

“Leave my family out of it.”

Hanson’s eyes bored through him. “I’ll leave your family out of it if you will.”

“What the hell do you mean by that?”

Hanson said slowly, “You know exactly what I mean, and we’re going to leave it at that. That way we both can deny later that we discussed such a forbidden topic, even though your promised report on the demise of the Underground Railroad station hasn’t yet reached my desk. A subject I know that you’re intimately familiar with. Care to say anything more?”

Sam knew exactly what Hanson meant. The Underground Railroad. The marshal knew. Had always known.

“No,” he said slowly. “Not at the moment.”

“Very good.” His boss nodded. “And when the summit is over, I expect and will receive your enthusiastic participation in the Party, correct?”

Hating himself, Sam said, “Yes. Correct.”

Hanson opened his top drawer, reached in, and tossed something across at Sam, who looked down, saw the despised Confederate-flag pin. “And you can start by showing your loyalty, Probationary Inspector Miller.”

Sam picked up the pin. He looked over and saw the marshal’s suit coat hanging on its rack, the same pin on its lapel.

With his fingers trembling, he put the pin in his lapel. “There,” he said. “Satisfied?”

“Quite. Now get the hell out of here and make the fucking FBI happy, all right?”

Sam did just that.

* * *

He barely made it down the stone steps of the police station before ducking into an alleyway. The spasms were hard, sharp, and the lousy diner meal splattered against brick. When he was done, Sam pressed his forehead against the cool brick. Busted. The marshal and the Legionnaires knew about the Underground Railroad station at the house, had known for some time.

So why hadn’t it been shut down? And Sarah and he arrested?

Because they wanted more. They wanted a compliant and obedient Sam Miller, son-in-law to a connected politician, someone they could use for more important things down the road, helping out the Nats, disrupting the Staties in the Party structure.

He took out a handkerchief and wiped at his lips and walked out onto the sidewalk. He looked down at his lapel. Now an official member of the oppressors. How delightful. Sarah would be so goddamn proud.

There was singing. Across the street, four Long’s Legionnaires stumbled along, laughing, drunk. They were spread across the sidewalk, bumping people—hell, neighbors who paid his salary—out of the way as if they were worth nothing. Any other night, he’d chase after those clowns, pull them up short, and show them what the law was all about, what they couldn’t do in Sam’s hometown. Make them go back and apologize to everyone they had bumped and jostled.