The Company of the Dead

by David Kowalski

  Nashville field office, 2 a.m. Triple shifts. A map-covered wall. Red pins marked the skeletal remains of burnt-out city blocks. Blue for the various roadblocks and military depots. A trail of black pins made their way along First Avenue, trailed the Cumberland River and doubled back onto Sixth. It broke off westwards, towards the city limits.

  The phones rang and the doors swung back and forth as police, agents and soldiers filed in and out of the command post. A cloud of cigarette smoke dodged the air-conditioning. Malcolm found herself a vacant room. There was a lounge chair, a coffee table, a sink, a phone and a television. She had the shakes. Too little sleep and too much caffeine. She missed her sister, she missed her apartment, she missed her cat. An advertisement on the television caught her eye. Someone calling someone long distance, a dog bounding through fields of long grass, homewards bound. She missed her life.

  She felt her eyelids tearing up and bit her lip. She laughed quietly at herself.

  Too little sleep.

  They had the prisoner locked up in the infirmary. When she’d last checked, he was still sleeping. His bandages had been changed, a fresh spool of white cotton for his head and legs, but a rucksack served for his pillow, a coat for his blanket.

  They had the ambulance downstairs. Prints had been sent to the lab, panels to ballistics, seeking to confirm the paramedic’s wild account. Other witnesses, an assortment of police, medics, soldiers, gangsters and hotel guests—nearly forty in total—were sequestered amongst the cubicles of the office’s top floor. Reid and the local outfit were going over their stories.

  Preliminaries: five downtown hotels are attacked over the course of an hour. The Baymont, Embassy Suites, Vanderbilt, Wyndham and Bismarck. Joseph Kennedy, John Lightholler and an unnamed Japanese associate—recent occupants of the Bismarck—rescue a hotel floor of terrified civilians. They are seen exchanging gunfire with a number of Asian men by at least four witnesses.

  The Japanese embassy is fire-bombed in what appears to be one of many reciprocal actions. Meanwhile, Kennedy bluffs his way past two lines of security: police and military. He steals an ambulance. Two paramedics attached to said ambulance state that they transferred his wounded accomplice to a private residence on Sixth Avenue. They don’t know the address. They state they were left trussed and blindfolded in their vehicle while Kennedy and Lightholler set out on foot.

  From there the story became sketchier; a haze. Reports of break and entries, stolen vehicles—possibly rioters, possibly Kennedy’s crew.

  Had there been a falling out amongst Joseph’s men? Were the gangsters in any way affiliated with his project, or a spanner in the works? And where was Joseph’s secret army?

  She flashed back to a cubicle on the office’s top floor. Agent Reid, a lit cigarette in the ashtray, another at his fingertips, smiling half-heartedly over a mouthful of coffee and saying, “Everyone lies, Agent. We just need to know if they’re lying more than usual...”

  She rose from her chair and splashed water over her face. She thanked God there wasn’t a mirror in sight. Her notes were in a bag on the coffee table. She had the Raptor on standby for the flight to Arkansas. Joseph had four hours to slip loose of the net that had closed down over Nashville. It was time for her to get back on track.

  She abandoned the quiet of the room for the chaos outside and passed the tac agent in a corridor. She skirted the infirmary.

  Was there some way of extracting the prisoner from Reid’s grasp? Instinct and a rooftop in Savannah told her that he might still be of some value in her pursuit.

  She found Reid dozing at one of the cubicles. He had his feet on the desk and a magazine propped over his eyes. There were drool stains on his collar. He jumped when she touched his shoulder.

  “I’m heading out, Agent Reid.”

  He nodded. The last of his exuberance had been spent asking the same questions to an assortment of indifferent, exhausted and frightened faces over the last few hours.

  “How did it go?” she asked. “Any news flashes?”

  “Nope,” he muttered, still half-asleep.

  She took a breath and braced herself for the request.

  Reid rubbed his eyes vigorously. He rolled his head on his neck, stretching out the kinks. When he looked back at her, there was a knowing twinkle in his eyes. He said, “Spill it, Agent.”

  “I want to take the prisoner with me.”

  His face took on a reflective quality. “What did you find back at the lab?”

  “Nothing.”

  “And the database?”

  “The database was helpful.”

  “Go on.”

  “I think I know where he’s headed.”

  Reid glanced across the crowded room and his gaze fixed on the map. He followed the thinning trail of black pins, headed west. He said, “Arkansas?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Want to tell me why?”

  “Call it a substantiated hunch.”

  “Right.” Reid lit a cigarette. He pulled up a chair and said, “Take a seat.”

  Malcolm sighed, and dropped into the chair next to him.

  “I’ve got men combing Sixth Avenue. They’re looking for the place where Kennedy dumped his buddy.” He leaned forwards. “I’m wasting their time. I know those paramedics are holding back, but I’m fucked if I can figure out why. I’m fucked if I can figure what hold Kennedy has over them.”

  “They’re terrified that he can still harm them.”

  “With what? Those slants we pulled out of military aren’t talking, but pounds to peanuts they were after Kennedy, not with him. I’m thinking he soured his deal with the japs somehow. See, I’ve got this feeling that there’s something else going on with Kennedy. Something the director can’t—or won’t— discuss with us. And I have to tell you, I’m tired of blundering around in the dark.”

  Malcolm shrugged.

  “Especially when I’m thinking my partner’s holding back on me too.”

  She smiled sweetly. “I’ll tell you what. You keep the prisoner and I’ll get out of your hair.”

  “No, you don’t.” He reached across and grabbed her arm.

  She kept quite still and held his gaze.

  He released her slowly. “Sorry.”

  She felt the reply at her lips but was speaking before she could stop herself. Too little sleep, and too late in the show for old secrets.

  “Those hoops Director Webster had me jumping through... Well, let’s just say my connection with Joseph Kennedy goes back a ways before Camelot.”

  Reid chuckled. “And to think I had you pegged for screwing the boss.”

  Malcolm flushed at the accusation. She dug her nails into her palms. “I have better taste, Agent Reid,” she said, and moved to rise from her chair.

  He reached out for her again, gently this time. “You don’t get it. I’m talking about my fuck-up, back in Savannah. I knew you couldn’t have climbed so high in the Bureau on merit alone. That’s CBI politics and we both know it. What I’m trying to say is that it didn’t take me too long to realise that you didn’t get there on your back either.” He smiled wearily.

  She looked back at him, puzzled now. “Remind me, which finishing school did you attend?”

  “I should have known you had something on Kennedy.”

  “If this is turning into an apology, you’re taking your sweet time.”

  “You’re good, Agent Malcolm. You’re already on par with a lot of agents I’ve worked with.”

  “Let’s not get too cosy, Agent Reid. I’d convinced myself I got this job because of my abilities, maybe because of my professional relationship with the major. Now I know it was to satisfy one of the director’s darker whims. I’ve been played for a fool.”

  She wanted to say it all. Tell him the things that linked Webster to Kennedy in a ten-year-old mesh of duplicity. Instead, she fell silent.

  “I don’t give a fuck how it happened, I’m just glad you’re here,” he replied.

  She examin
ed his face for a hint of mockery, but his expression held no trace of humour. She asked, “Do I get to take the prisoner?”

  “Does he know where Kennedy’s headed?”

  “We both know he’s held back on us. I just think that by the time you’ve beaten it out of him, Kennedy will be long gone.”

  Reid snorted. “There’s madness to my method.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Quite.”

  “What backup have you organised in Arkansas?”

  “None. I’ve been chasing your tail for the last eighteen hours.”

  “Nice. What time’s your flight?”

  “Whenever I’m ready.”

  Reid surveyed the room, then ashed his cigarette. “You know exactly where he’s headed?”

  “I know of four possible locations.”

  “You’re going to need some help.”

  The arrogance was gone, at least for the moment. The curtain had fallen on his Nashville production and she had four counties to cover: Garland, Greene, Phillips and Searcy. She could always lose him in Arkansas, if push came to shove.

  “Okay,” she said. “But from here on in, we’re a committee.”

  “Committee?” Reid replied. “I thought you were the boss.”

  “Don’t get too excited. Tell me, can you get the prisoner back down to the airport?”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll delegate this to one of the locals and give the director a buzz.”

  “You don’t call the director till you have everything. Words to live by.” She tried not to sound too earnest.

  “Fine.” Reid winked. “There’ll be time enough in Arkansas. I’ll meet you downstairs in thirty.”

  XII

  April 26, 2012

  Shiloh, Tennessee

  They’d crossed the Tennessee River at Savannah and that was when Lightholler had first really noticed it. Kennedy staring over the low sidings of the narrow wooden bridge at the sluggish waters below; his head then craning back at the view as they crossed once more onto land.

  Not that Kennedy’d had that much to say before. Hot-wiring the sedan, stolen just outside Nashville, had produced the gem, “Product of a misspent youth”. And the long drive through the night, south and then west, had been supplemented by only the odd brief offerings of conversation. Pulled up to one side of the highway while a convoy of trucks rumbled north towards the city, he’d mentioned that his gun could do with some cleaning.

  “The Shingen or the Mauser?”

  “Both.”

  Finally, snaking along the bypasses, switching back through the small towns that dotted southern Tennessee, Kennedy had talked about a number of things. His amazement at the fact that two weeks ago he could have made his way across the Confederacy in any manner he chose. His wonder that they had spent yesterday in a rat’s nest, at the mercy of a host of enemies and looking to a gangster for survival. He talked of New York and the roads they had travelled since.

  But since the bridge and the river and the little township of Savannah, Tennessee, a new form of stillness had ensued. They drove through Pittsburg Landing in silence, Kennedy navigating with gestures and nods, and Lightholler gave up asking questions.

  The windows were cracked open for air but the sedan still reeked of gunpowder and fear-caked sweat. He thought he could taste metal in his mouth.

  Shiloh was a gas station, a church, a general store and a souvenir stand. A nailed-up wooden board with fresh black paint advertising bait for sale. There were no cars on the road. Long stretches of trees crowded out of the darkness, broken by the occasional scar of chain-linked fencing or barbed wire.

  “What time is it?” Kennedy didn’t bother glancing down at his wrist.

  Lightholler checked the dash. “Quarter to four.”

  “Good.”

  “That’s 4 a.m.”

  Kennedy gave a half-hearted smile. “Good.”

  The road was winding back alongside the Tennessee River. Kennedy pointed and said, “Make a right along here.”

  Lightholler made the turn. The road pulled away from the river through a tunnel of high tree branches. It widened into a courtyard. A single lamp, suspended between two thick black posts, threw a dim circle of light on a small hut at the courtyard’s edge and faded into a broken expanse of long grass.

  “Where are we?”

  “Shiloh.” Kennedy had a hand up to his brow. He brought it away with a smear of blood on his fingers.

  “Told you that needed stitches.”

  “Suture kit.” Kennedy patted a paper-wrapped package by his side.

  “It’s still swollen.” Lightholler peered at Kennedy’s forehead. “What did you do with the ice pack?”

  Kennedy shrugged.

  “I can try to fix it for you now. Here, or under that lamp post?”

  Kennedy switched on the interior light. The pale yellow luminescence barely lit the sedan. “The lamp post,” he said.

  Lightholler opened his door and leaned against the car. He took a cigarette from his pocket and lit up. Glancing at his feet, he saw the ground littered with cigarette butts. There were some crumpled paper wrappers and a couple of crushed beer cans. He kicked one away.

  “What is this place?”

  Kennedy was looking at the light. The lamp was a translucent globe, suspended between the bores of two large cannons. They were propped against each other on a wide cement base, linked by a bronze plaque. The grassy field beyond was heaped up at regular intervals. Lightholler took a few steps forwards. The field was bordered by a row of cannon pieces.

  He almost tripped over the first headstone.

  “Shiloh National Military Park.” Kennedy’s voice was close to a whisper. “The battle fought here was the South’s best chance of keeping Grant out of the Western Confederacy.”

  “How’d they make out?”

  Kennedy indicated the graveyard with a nod. After a moment he said, “Places like this, I get this sense. This feeling that it’s still happening somewhere. The battle, I mean.”

  “According to you, it is.”

  “I guess so. I didn’t really mean it that way. I’m talking about some kind of resonance, like an echo.”

  Lightholler had been to Flanders. He’d walked the barricades of Paris and stood among the ruins of the De Gaulle Line, where the preserved monuments of French and German tanks still faced each other across the Seine. Was there a patch of earth that hadn’t been contested in the history of the world?

  “Let’s get you fixed up. We have a lot of ground to cover.”

  Kennedy sat cross-legged on the gravel while Lightholler crouched down before him to examine the wound.

  “Wait a second.” Kennedy scrambled to his feet. He walked over to the sedan and returned carrying a cloth bag. He rummaged around inside and produced a bottle.

  Lightholler checked the label. Sour mash. “Antiseptic,” he said. “Good idea.”

  Kennedy reached into the bag again and withdrew two cups. He winked and said, “Anaesthetic.”

  “Not a good idea.”

  Kennedy poured a small amount in each cup. He offered one to Lightholler. He raised his own and held Lightholler’s gaze. “To absent friends.”

  Lightholler nodded and downed the shot.

  Kennedy refilled their glasses.

  “We don’t know for sure,” Lightholler offered gently.

  “They ain’t here,” Kennedy said mournfully. “Enemies of the state.” He gave a dry laugh. “Dead in defence of the South. This stinks to high heaven. Stinks of Webster.”

  Lightholler gave him a perplexed look.

  Kennedy took another mouthful before placing his cup next to Lightholler’s. “The director of the CBI, Glen Webster. It’s his style. Maybe they’re dead, maybe they’re not, but either way, he got them. And that story about dying for the South. Redemption? That’s just him twisting the knife.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s clever. It shows results for the Bureau, and it pisses me off, big time.” Kenne
dy shook his head. “There’s been no love lost between us, as far back as I can remember, but this...”

  “You’ve betrayed every ideal you ever stood for. What were you expecting?”

  Kennedy frowned. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “As far as they’re concerned,” Lightholler added hastily, “that’s exactly what you’ve done.” He made a sweeping gesture with his hands. “They all think you sold them out. You told me so yourself.”

  “Maybe, but all of this ... the accusations, the murder charges. That’s been in the works for a while. It’s proactive—almost as if Webster had just been waiting for the right opportunity to bring me down again.”

  “Again?”

  Kennedy picked up his cup and swished the liquor, watching the dark fluid swirl. He made a low sound in his throat. “He’s always been small time.”

  Lightholler dribbled some of the liquor onto his sleeve and pressed it against the wound. Kennedy growled but didn’t move. Positioning himself to keep out of his own shadow, Lightholler picked up the kit and locked a suture into a clamp.

  “Might need four or five stitches.”

  “Great.”

  He chose a pair of forceps and focused on the injury, seeking where the tissue was puckered up.

  Kennedy said, “Those guys...”

  Lightholler pulled back.

  Kennedy’s eyes shone brightly. His smile was enigmatic. “Morgan. Hardas.”

  “I never really got to know them,” Lightholler murmured.

  “You weren’t exactly catching them at their best.”

  “We can do this later, if you want.”

  “Let’s get it over with. I’d hate to think we wasted all that liquor.”

  Lightholler began working on the wound. Kennedy winced each time the needle broke skin, but kept still enough to permit a reasonable closure.

  “Didn’t know my own strength,” Lightholler muttered at one stage, but Kennedy was someplace else. There was the occasional snatch of birdsong from the adjacent woods and a light wind was rising. The sky’s edge went from pearl grey to a fine pink haze.

  “There,” Lightholler said finally. “It’s done.”