By the time they reached the platform, their train had already pulled in and most of the passengers had disembarked. Lane was waiting for them, trying to look nonchalant, but not pulling it off as well as he thought he was.
Bill picked up his pack and shouldered it. “Let’s board.”
Lane knew better than to risk asking anything while the three were in earshot of strangers, but Bill could tell he was dying of curiously. “I’ll tell you later.” Lane just nodded.
They boarded the train, Bill taking particular notice of the signs that said “Whites Only.” This place is really starting to piss me off.
The inside of the car was just like every other train car they had been in so far, reeking of cigarette and cigar smoke and stale sweat. Fortunately, the train was airconditioned, so it was nice stepping out of the building heat in the station, especially since Bill was even more warmed up from his physical exertions and the adrenalin still coursing through him.
The three Hayekers claimed three of the seats in a four-seat configuration, two pairs of seats facing each other. The headrests had cloth covers, clearly designed to keep hair tonics and oils off the seat cushions, and not so much for passenger sanitary needs. Oil stains were on all the covers. Bill wasn’t sure he wanted to lean his head back. Might wind up needing an oil change when we get off this tub.
Packs placed in the metal overhead racks, they waited for the train to leave. Bill glanced over at Matt. The Southerner looked completely unconcerned. Bill hoped his attitude resembled more how Matt looked than how Bill felt. His palms were sweating, his stomach had butterflies, and he could feel his increased heartbeat in his chest and throbbing on his forehead. It was worse than when he had killed his assailant in Franklin.
I can’t believe I killed that cop, went through his head over and over. To distract himself, he looked out the window to the other train platform. A lone black janitor occupied it, pushing a broom slowly and rhythmically. The janitor’s motions distracted Bill enough he began to wonder if the man was singing and keeping time to the rhythm of the beat with his broom. Looking closely, he couldn’t see the man’s gray mustache moving. Must be humming a tune. Occasionally, the old man would stand the broom upright, hold onto the end of the stick with his hand and twirl around it. It looked like he was dancing
So intent on watching the janitor pushing his broom was he that the jerk of the train as it began its progress out of the station took Bill by surprise. He looked over at Matt, who was now reading a newspaper. Matt returned his look and gave a slight nod. It seemed to Bill that Matt was saying “We got out of that mess.”
Lane was also apparently enthralled with whatever news was being printed by The Memphis Post. Bill realized he was the only one of them not reading a paper. He turned his attention back to the window just in time to see the train leave the cover of the station, the bright sunlight now striking the train, enough to make Bill squint. Leaning back, the gun tucked under his belt dug into his back. He adjusted his position to make it more comfortable. He felt that everyone could see the gun and was staring at him, but a quick glance around showed him that wasn’t the case. The couple with two small kids sitting across the aisle from the Hayekers was focused on the passing scenery, the children with noses and palms flattened against the window while the parents looked over their small heads.
After the train had been moving for over a half-hour, Bill suggested to Lane that the two of them head to the dining car to get a bite to eat. Bill didn’t feel like eating, but he needed an excuse to get Lane out of earshot of those around them.
Getting to the dining car meant going through a sliding door at the end of their car, making a couple of steps, then going through a second sliding door at the front of the following car. The space between the two cars was open, with a small linked-cable on either side, ostensibly to prevent anyone from falling off the train.
Bill exited the car first and made way for Lane on the open platform as he shut the door behind them. For a brief moment, the two had the space between the cars to themselves. With as few words as possible, Bill explained the incident in the alley. Lane’s eyes widened in surprise and shock.
“What do you think’s gonna happen?”
“Not sure. No witnesses and no video, so hopefully they won’t tie anything to us. Either way, we continue with the mission. Jordan’s gonna try to keep low, using a new fake passport with a different name.” At this, Bill smiled lightly. “Martin King.”
It took Lane a couple of seconds before the light bulb kicked in, then he grinned. “Sounds like something Jordan would do.”
At that, Bill gestured to Lane to continue on into the next car.
63
Drew Peters was sitting at his desk in his small shared office, reviewing, yet again, another report of a Negro who elected to commit suicide by carrying a revolver where a white man could see it. As a Special Agent with the Confederate Bureau of Enforcement, it was his job to try and track down who was providing arms to Negroes. That wasn’t his only job, but at the moment, that was the case he was assigned to. Most of the armed Negroes seemed to be in ports on the Mississippi River, so Drew’s suspicions were that the arms were flowing in from shipping, either from Franklin or up from the mouth of the mighty river.
Not hard to smuggle anything into one of those little bayous, he thought, glancing at a map he had tacked up to the wall in front of him. The large Mississippi delta stared back at him. Scattered about the map, on either side of the river, were a number of red dots. Each dot represented a location where an armed Negro had been found. The operative word was “had,” as every one of them had been killed by a white man, or in a couple of cases, several white men. Most of the dots were centered closer to the delta than further upriver, which lent more credence to his hypothesis.
Drew was an up-and-comer in the CBE. At only twenty-six, he had already been given the opportunity to lead several major investigations, all of which he had solved.
The brown Bakelite phone on his desk rang, the long jangling sound startling him. He reached over and picked up the handset, the black cord unlooping as he did so. He could see his partner at the next desk look over at him.
“Peters here.”
The tinny voice on the other end sounded a bit unsure. “Is this the CBE?”
“Yeah, Special Agent Peters of the CBE. Who am I speaking with?”
“Ah, great. Hey, Agent Peters, this here’s Lieutenant Patterson with the Memphis Police. We got a murder on our hands that we think might just be in your bailiwick.”
Drew rolled his eyes, thinking off all the times he got a call on a murder because the local yokels couldn’t figure out how to conduct a homicide investigation. Of course, homicide investigations only involved white people. Nobody wasted money trying to solve the murder of anyone who wasn’t white. Not worth the time or effort, and besides, who cared?
“How so?”
“Well, it’s one of our constables, and a nigger’s involved.”
That caused Drew to sit a bit more upright. He tucked the phone’s handset under his jaw between his shoulder, letting him have the freedom of both hands while still talking to his caller. He grabbed a small notebook, the type all law enforcement officers carry while in the field, and one of the many pens rolling around on his desk. He pulled both items toward him and got ready to write. “Tell me more.”
“Apparently, two of our men spotted a nigger in the whites only section of the train station and took him outside to interrogate him,” which Drew immediately interpreted as to beat the shit out of, “and somehow he managed to overcome them, killing one and knocking the other one senseless.”
“One man killed an armed man and knocked out another armed man?”
“Pretty much sums it up.”
“Why do you think this falls into my bailiwick?”
“The nigger stole their guns and we think he’s headin’ to another state.”
That got Drew’s attention. Negroes with firearms was def
initely something the CBE got involved in, especially if a white man was killed.
“What else can you tell me?”
“Not much. Our guy don’t remember much, other than what I said. He never even saw the nigger’s passbook. His partner took it, and it’s gone, too. The two didn’t check in at the usual times, so we started a search for them and found them in an alley next to the train station, hidden behind a couple garbage cans.”
“Can your guy identify the suspect? Did you get a composite?”
“Not sure. He’s still pretty much out of it. Doctor says he’s got a major concussion. You want I should get the artist to the hospital and see what all he can get out of the constable?
Drew looked at his watch; it was almost two o’clock. His office was in the Confederate State’s capital of Montgomery, Alabama. There were no CBE offices in Memphis or even closer than he was. He thought for a couple of seconds, calculating how long it would take to drive up to Memphis.
“Yeah, do that. And start doing some interviewing at the train station. See if anyone saw anything. Also, be sure to keep the scene secure. I’m gonna let my supervisor know and head on up. Should arrive about midnight.”
The relief of the other man was almost palpable, even over the tinny connection of the phone. “Great. We’ve got the scene secured, well, as much as possible with the medics and all. I’ll be waiting for you at headquarters.”
“While you’re at it, scare me up a place to stay for the next couple of days.”
“You got it, Agent Peters. Thanks, and we’ll see you soon.”
Drew hung up the phone and set the pen down on the pad, now covered with notes. He looked over at his partner, Special Agent Wendall Waugh. “Well, this is interesting.”
“Sounds like it.” The voice that emanated from the average-looking guy sounded more like the voice somebody much taller would have. Wendall was constantly hearing “I thought you were taller” any time he met somebody whose only prior contact with him had been by telephonic means. He was only 5’6”, stick thin, with a full head of brown hair already turning gray, even though he was barely thirty.
Picking the handset back up, Drew dialed a number from memory. With the flick of an index finger, the rotary dial would spin around, and a clicking sound came through the earpiece. Another spin of the dial, and another number, until all four numbers were dialed. It was an internal government line, so he didn’t have to dial a bunch more numbers or go through a central switchboard for an outside line.
“Haussman here,” his boss said.
“Sir? Peters. I’ve got a shooting up in Memphis the locals want some Bureau help with.” He could almost see his bald supervisor’s hairy eyebrows rise on that. Briefly Drew explained the situation.
“Sounds right interestin’. Call me in the morning and let me know what you find out.”
“Will do, sir.”
With that, Haussman hung up, leaving Drew holding a phone with the annoying buzzing sound of a dead line. He placed the handset into the phone’s cradle, stood up, then put the small notebook into his back pocket.
“You want I should go with you?”
Drew shook his head. “Naw. Not much two of us can do that can’t be done by one at this stage. If’n I need you, I’ll give you a call. First thing I need to do is get up to Memphis and find out a bit more.”
Stepping out the door separating their small office from the main hallway, Drew looked around. The secretary’s desk was empty. “Looks like Mary ain’t here, so let her know where I’ve gone.”
“Will do.”
With that, Drew stepped out of the office and headed for the parking lot where his official car was parked.
The three-hundred-odd mile drive up to Memphis took a bit longer than Drew expected, due to the various road construction sites along the two-lane highway. He had heard that some places, such as Imperial Germany, had developed limited access highways, with two lanes going in each direction. Of course, Imperial Germany was a whole lot larger than the Confederacy, and a whole lot richer, too.
Fortunately, the weather wasn’t too bad, with only a single, short thunderstorm forcing him to close his windows. As the interior windows steamed up, Drew wished, for the umpteenth time, that somebody would someday invent an air-conditioning unit that would fit in a car so he wouldn’t have to constantly wipe the condensation off the windshield. Then again, if they did, we still wouldn’t be able to afford it. The Confederacy wasn’t exactly what anyone would call wealthy. Actually, most people called it poor. And most Confederates blamed the Negroes for that, rather than taking into consideration their own self-destructive policies, such as holding onto slavery and the plantation model long after it was outdated.
As night fell over the Alabama countryside, Drew turned on the weak headlights of his car, slowing down in the process. No sense hitting a deer I can’t see. Rather hit the ones I can.
Drew finally arrived in Memphis just past midnight, pulling into a vacant spot in front of the police department. The still air was muggy as he walked up the stairs and into bedlam.
It seemed that the Memphis Police Department was swamped with white officers and colored men in handcuffs. Most of those who were colored were handcuffed to a series of metal rings attached to a long board on one side of the massive entryway.
The usual suspects, Drew thought, glancing over at the downcast group as he approached the sergeant’s desk.
“Can I help y’all?” the sergeant asked, looking over a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that made him look like a mostly bald, sweating owl. Even the fringe of hair over his ears was bent up in cowlicks, looking like a screech-owl’s feathered head.
“Special Agent Peters, CBE. I’m looking for a Lieutenant Patterson.”
“Gimme a sec and I’ll get him down here right away. He’s been awaitin’ you.”
The sergeant picked up a battered earpiece from what was clearly an early model phone, the type one would push down on the earpiece’s handle to get the operator’s attention, and did a double-tap on the handle with his index and middle fingers. “Hey, Lieutenant, Sergeant Wilkins at the front desk. That CBE agent you called is here.” A pause. “Will do.”
The sergeant hung up the phone and turned his attention back to Drew. “Lieutenant said he’d be here in flash. You want I should get you some coffee or somethin’?”
“Naw, I’m fine.” Looking about, taking in the large number of chained colored men, Drew gestured to them. “This normal?”
“Nope. They’s all suspects in a killin’.”
“Constable?”
“Yep. Far as I know, all we got is that the suspect’s a buck nigger.”
Drew nodded, used to the vulgar epithet applied to men of African descent. His upbringing by closet Quakers and his experiences outside of the Confederacy had led him to question the common belief that coloreds were stupid and the cause of all things bad in the Confederacy. That didn’t stop him from doing his job, part of which was dealing with armed Negroes. Drew hadn’t gone into the CBE to investigate crimes by colored people, rather to prevent violence against his fellow Confederates by those who threatened his country. He had recently begun to wonder if he had chosen the wrong path.
Before long, he heard his name being called by a short, lean blond man in his early fifties.
“Special Agent Peters? I’m Lieutenant Patterson. Friends call me Buck.”
The two shook hands, then Patterson turned and gestured for Drew to follow him. They went up the stairs and into a small office through a wood and frosted-glass door marked Homicide: LT Patterson.
Once inside, Patterson shut the door and gestured for Drew to sit down in one of the two wooden chairs facing the desk.
“So, any further info?” Drew asked after taking a seat.
As Patterson sat, he shook his head. “Nothin’. Like the nigger’s a ghost or somethin’. Constable Douglas doesn’t have any memory of what happened. Docs say it’s retrograde amnesia.”
“Retr
ograde amnesia?”
“Yeah. Apparently, it’s a sort of amnesia caused by trauma to the brain, or somethin’ like that. Basically, it means the boy can’t remember shit about what happened right before the killing. Last thing he remembers is being on train station duty and talking with the nigger.”
“Any other witnesses yet?”
Patterson shook his head.
Drew didn’t bother asking if they had any passenger lists for the various trains leaving Memphis. Nobody kept that kind of information. He sat there and pondered his next step. No witnesses, no information, no leads.
“Well, let’s get over to the scene and let me see what I can see.”
64
Bill couldn’t help but keep repeating the incident in Memphis in his head, wondering how things could have been handled differently. What if he hadn’t kicked that officer? Would he still be alive? Was Bill a murderer now? Or was he just protecting his friend? He was also wondering what evidence they might have left at the scene. The worst possible outcome was a witness, one who would not only tell the police what happened but be able to identify the four Hayekers. He wasn’t too worried about prints, as they had wiped down every possible surface they had touched that would have left the oils from their fingers on.
Matt, sitting across from Bill, leaned over and in a quiet voice, told him not to worry too much. “Besides, not much we can do about it. Let’s focus on the task at hand.”
Bill nodded, but that didn’t stop him from worrying. But it did get him to rethink his priorities and get back onto thinking about the mission.
He looked out at the sun setting to the west, with a thunderstorm building up. The same storm, unknown to Bill, their soon-to-be hunter Drew Peters would be entering soon.
Only a couple more hours until Birmingham. Any luck at all, we’ll be out of this state before those cops are found.
Their arrival into Birmingham was uneventful, and the three men disembarked with the other milling passengers. The cross-aisle family disembarked before them, with the two children staring around in awe at the new sights and sounds.
The Corps of Discovery Trilogy Box Set: Books 1-3: A multiverse series of alternate history Page 70
