by Alan Glenn
After passing through the army MPs stationed outside the Rockingham Hotel, he went into the lobby crowded with luggage in piles in the corner and shouting men in uniform and out of uniform, pressing in on the overwhelmed staff. The shouts were in a mixture of English and German. Sam skipped the slow-moving elevator for the carpeted stairs. He checked his watch.
He knocked on the door of Room Twelve, waited, staring at the bright brass numerals. Voices came from the other side, but no one answered. He knocked again.
The door swung open. LaCouture stood there, phone to his ear, dressed in white boxer shorts and a dingy white T-shirt. “Yeah?” he said. Behind him, sitting at the table, was Groebke, sipping from a cup of coffee, reading a German magazine called Signal, glasses perched on the end of his nose. The Gestapo man had on a blue robe that looked like silk.
Sam said, “It’s nine A.M. The time I usually show up.”
LaCouture held the phone receiver to his chest, looked annoyed. “We’re busy now. Come back later.”
“When—”
The door slammed in his face.
Sam went back down to the lobby.
The noise and confusion of the lobby made his head throb. Sam went outside to the granite steps, near the MP guards, took in some deep breaths. He thought about going to the police station, maybe coming back to the hotel in another hour or so.
But … after last night’s raids, the station was probably crawling with friends and relatives of those seized, people desperate for justice or just a sympathetic ear. The thought of trying to explain to some Dutch woman who could barely understand English that her husband was in the custody of the feds and not the city—the thought of doing that all day made him queasy.
What, then?
He looked at the men in uniform, the army trucks rumbling by, the checkpoint just down the street, and it came to him.
What Tony had said.
He would do his job.
His real job, one he had overlooked for the past few days.
He stepped briskly down the steps on his way to his parked car.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The drive to the outskirts of the state’s largest city, Manchester, took almost two hours along a poorly paved two-lane road heading west through small towns—Epping, Raymond, Candia—that looked like they hadn’t changed much since the turn of the century. Little clusters of shops and buildings about the town center, the obligatory churches with white steeples and volunteer fire departments.
Along the way were billboards advertising the latest Ford model or a resort area up in the White Mountains. There were two billboards showing a grinning President Long, clenched fist raised up in the air. One billboard said EVERY MAN A KING and the other said SHARE THE WEALTH. Sam was pleased by the first billboard, for somebody had blacked out the last word and replaced it with another so that it said EVERY MAN A THIEF.
There were hitchhikers on the side of the road, standing either defiantly or in bowed exhaustion, arms and thumbs extended. Plenty of solitary men, faces hooded by battered hats. A few women with children, most of the time the kids hiding their faces in the women’s skirts, as if ashamed to be out there. There were a couple of families slowly moving along, pushing their belongings in metal or wooden carts, heading from God knew where to who knew what.
He passed them all. He couldn’t afford to stop. As he quickly passed through the little communities, he knew that by day’s end, he would be in a lot of trouble, a hell of a lot of trouble. Somehow the thought cheered him.
But he didn’t remain cheered for long. As he entered Manchester, he approached an intersection. There were two men in worn overalls and a woman in a faded yellow dress, staring at something on the ground. And then he saw what they were staring at: a shirtless man stretched out on the ground, facedown, his hands bound behind his back, the rear of his head a bloody mess.
A political, the first he had ever seen. As a sworn peace officer, he knew he should stop—but a political. He was already up to his chin in politics. So Sam kept driving, taking a series of turns he recalled from last year, having visited this location on official business, transporting a prisoner who belonged to the feds. Back then going to this place had been unsettling, like going into the basement of a haunted house, goaded into the shadows by your boyhood chums.
Now it was worse. Last time he had been here on official business. Today he was going into the belly of the beast itself, armed only with half-truths and lies.
Up ahead, a wooden sign, dark brown wood with white painted letters.
CAMP CARPENTER
U.S. DEPARTMENT OF THE INTERIOR
TRANSIT STATION
Official Visitors Only
He turned right, went down a road that was smooth and well paved, going to a sentry booth with a black-and-white wooden crossbeam across both lanes. On either side of the booth, a chain-link fence topped by barbed wire stretched off into the distance. There was a smaller sign as he approached: NIGHT VEHICLES DIM HEADLIGHTS. He stopped, and a National Guard sergeant stepped out of the booth, wearing a soft wide-brimmed hat, his face sunburned. He had a clipboard in one hand. “Yeah?” he growled.
Sam passed over his police identification. “Going to the Administration Building as part of an investigation.”
The sergeant looked at the clipboard. “Not on the list. Sorry, pal. Back up your car and—”
Heart thumping, Sam passed over his National Guard identification with his rank of lieutenant. “Sergeant, you’re going to open that gate now, aren’t you.”
The sergeant’s mood instantly changed. “Sorry, Lieutenant,” he said, passing back both pieces of ID. “Didn’t realize that—”
“Sergeant, you’re making me late.”
“Just one moment, sir.” The man went into the shack, came out with a thick cardboard pass, and said, “Place it on your dashboard, sir, all right?”
Sam took the pass, which said VISITOR—NO ACCESS TO RESTRICTED AREAS.
The sergeant gestured to someone inside the sentry booth, and the wooden arm was raised. “Take this main road a hundred yards to the secondary gate,” he told Sam. “About a half mile after that gate, turn left. Keep your speed below twenty miles an hour and don’t pick up anybody walking or hitchhiking. You see anybody walking or hitchhiking, report it to the administration staff. All right, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, thank you,” and then he accelerated the Packard past the sentry booth, moving fast so the sergeant couldn’t see his hands trembling.
He drove the indicated hundred yards, and the thumping in his heart increased as he saw the gate up ahead. He knew his bullshit story wouldn’t work for this National Guard crew, but a phone call from the sentry booth must have been made. The gate was open, and two National Guard enlisted men, .45-caliber Thompson submachine guns slung over their shoulders, waved him through. The fence on either side of this gate was higher, with more rolls of barbed wire, and floodlights and guard towers were spaced along the fence. He passed through the gate and down the road. Ahead was a cluster of buildings; there was another sign, ADMINISTRATION, and he took a left.
The building was wide, one-story, with a porch. The place was built with logs and rough-hewn wood. Army trucks and jeeps were parked to one side, and he found an empty spot. He got out of the Packard and walked up to the building on a gravel path. The porch steps creaked and he went through the front door.
Another National Guard sergeant, his uniform tight against his thick body, looked up at Sam from behind a wooden desk. Behind him were desks manned by uniformed clerks. On the near wall hung a framed photograph of President Long. Sam pulled out his police and National Guard identification and set them on the desk.
The sergeant picked up the cards with blunt fingers that had chewed fingernails and asked, “Well, Inspector—Lieutenant—what can we do for you?”
“I need to talk to someone here. A prisoner. Taken from Portsmouth a couple of days ago.”
The sergeant slid Sam’s identificat
ion back across the desk. “You got clearance? An appointment? Some paperwork?”
“No, Sergeant, I don’t. This is … a matter of some discretion.”
The man smiled, showing tobacco-stained teeth. “A dame?”
“No, not a dame. Look. I need to see whoever’s in charge of the prisoners.”
The sergeant scratched an ear. “Not sure if I can be much help.”
Sam picked up his National Guard card, held it front of the man’s face. “The rank is Lieutenant, Sergeant. I want to see an officer, somebody in charge, who can locate a prisoner. Now.”
The sergeant got up, still looking bored, and ambled back into the office area. Sam stood there, quiet. If it went well, then who knew what might happen. And if it didn’t go well, then he might not be leaving any time soon. He’d always thought he might end up here because of Sarah and the Underground Railroad. Not because of his own bullheadedness.
The sergeant came back, motioned with his hand. Sam followed him past the occupied desks to a glass-enclosed office with a frosted glass door. Painted on the door were the words CAPT. J. C. ALLARD, COMMANDANT. A brief knock and the sergeant opened the door and Sam walked in.
The office was cramped but tidy, with framed photos of soldiers and artillery pieces on the paneled walls. A balding officer in a pressed National Guard uniform was sitting behind a bare wooden desk. Knowing he was on thin ice indeed, Sam stood straight and said, “Sir, Inspector Sam Miller, Portsmouth Police Department. I’m grateful you’ve agreed to see me.”
“Have a seat, Inspector,” the captain replied crisply. “Or is it Lieutenant?”
Sam sat down in the wooden chair across from Allard. “Well, sir, it’s going to be whatever it takes for me to see someone who’s in custody here.”
“I see.” Allard leaned back, putting the fingertips of his thin hands together. “That would be me, Inspector. What can I do for you, then?”
“You have a prisoner, name of Sean Donovan, an employee of the Portsmouth Police Department. He was taken into custody two days ago. I’d like to see him.”
“Of course you would,” Allard said, his voice soft and soothing.
A pause, the air heavy and warm. Sam felt he had to sit still, that he was being observed, so he stared back.
Allard gave a brief shake of his head. “No. You can’t see him.”
“Captain, he’s involved in a—”
Allard held up a hand. “Inspector, I’ve got a hellish job here, probably the crappiest job in the state. You know why? Because we’re the funnel where all the creeps, hoboes, dissidents, shitheads, and illegals get dumped. We process them, give them paperwork, and then ship them out to New York or Montana or Nevada. Day after day, night after night. And if this hellish job isn’t bad enough, you know what makes it worse?”
“Sir, I’d like to point out that—”
Allard continued, “Every day I get people like you streaming in here. They say it’s always a mistake, always an oversight, papers got lost, stolen, eaten by the family dog. You wouldn’t believe what has gone on in this office … why, once I had this housewife come in, her husband had been smuggling Jewish refugees north into Canada, and she opened up her coat and there was nothing on underneath, and she—”
Sam said, “Captain, with all due respect, shut the hell up.”
The captain’s face colored scarlet right up to his bald spot. “What did you just say?”
“I said shut up.” Sam kept his voice sharp and to the point. “You moron, don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think I know it’s irregular to come here without paperwork? Fool. I’m here without paperwork because of the sensitive nature of what I’m involved with. So shut up already or your ass will be on a boxcar before the day is out.”
Allard’s breathing quickened, making his nostrils flare. “I cut you some slack coming in here, you being an inspector and a Guard lieutenant, but consider that slack gone. Your ass belongs to me, mister.”
Sam pulled a card from his coat pocket, tossed it across the desk. “Then read that, Captain. We’ll see whose ass belongs to who.”
Allard picked up the card and said, “FBI. How sweet.” He reversed the card and read aloud, “ ‘Bearer of card detached to federal duty until 15 May.’ Yeah? So?”
Sam forced himself to smile. “Card says it all, Captain. I’m not just up here on a whim, trying to get somebody out. I’m here on official duty, detached to the FBI.”
“That doesn’t impress me, pal. All that means is that—”
“Yeah, right, you’re not impressed. Look at the agent’s name again, Captain. LaCouture, one of President Long’s trusted Cajun boys, up here to work on the summit. You know about the summit, don’t you? Or is your head so far up your ass that you can’t hear the radio?”
“I just might give this guy a call,” Allard said, but his voice wasn’t as cocksure.
Sam pressed on. “Sure. Go ahead. Call him. He’s probably figuring out what kind of table President Long and Herr Hitler are going to sit at. Or reviewing their menu. Or about a thousand other things. I’m sure he’s going to want to drop everything for the privilege of talking to some National Guard flunky so dumb he’s running a transfer camp. Oh, that’ll impress him. Make the call.”
Allard examined the card as if looking for proof it was a forgery, then gently slid it back across the table. “You could have told me this at the beginning.”
“Yeah, I could have.” Sam picked up the card. “But then I would have missed all this charming conversation.”
The captain took the remark as a joke and managed a smile. “Yeah. Well. There you go.” He opened the center drawer and came up with a pencil and a scrap of paper. “The name of the prisoner again?”
“Name’s Sean Donovan, from Portsmouth. He was arrested two nights ago.”
The captain scribbled something and yelled out, “Sergeant Sims!”
The sergeant came through the door in seconds, Sam thinking the guy had been outside, eavesdropping. Allard passed over the scrap of paper. “Locate this prisoner. Pass him over to … Lieutenant Miller here.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said. As he left, Allard leaned back in his chair and said, “Always glad to assist the FBI and their people.”
Sam said, “Thanks, Captain. I’ll make very sure that goes into my report.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
About fifteen minutes later, Sam sat in a small cabin that was bare wood, beams and rafters, with a table and four chairs set in the center. Light came from three bulbs dangling from the peaked roof. The door opened and a pale Sean Donovan was led in, handcuffed, wearing a worn dungaree jumpsuit with the white letter P stenciled on each leg and on the chest. Two National Guard soldiers in white MP helmets with blue brassards on their shoulders flanked him, and as one uncuffed him, the other told Sam, “Sir, this prisoner is now in your custody. We’ll be outside waiting. When you’re through, you’ll knock on the door and we’ll retrieve him.”
Sam stood up. “No doubt you will be at the door, but Mr. Donovan and I won’t be here.”
The older MP said, “Sir …?”
“I’m going outside with the prisoner.” He stepped out and saw a picnic table in a grove of pine trees about fifty yards away. “That’s where we’ll be, in plain view.”
The younger MP protested, “Sir, this is highly irregular, and I can’t—”
Sam showed them his National Guard ID, thinking how useful that stupid piece of cardboard had turned out to be. “That’s where we’re going. And tell you what: If either of us makes a break for the fence, you have my permission to shoot us both.”
* * *
“Why the hell did you want to sit out here, Sam? Warmer back in the cabin.”
Sean looked awful. Heavy bags of exhaustion were underneath the record clerk’s eyes, and one cheek was puffy with a bruise. His red hair was a greasy mess. Though he had been gone only a few days, it looked like he had lost twenty pounds.
“I’m sure it’
s warmer back there, Sean,” Sam said, sitting at the picnic table. “I’m also sure it’s bugged with microphones and wire recorders. I don’t want our conversation to be overheard.”
Sean shook his head. “It’s real good to see you, Sam, but don’t screw with me. You’re not here to get me out, are you?”
“I wish I was. I’ll see what I can do, but you know how it is.”
“Ha. Yeah, well, thanks. It’s a fed beef they’ve got me here for, and when it comes to that, there’s not much anybody can do. Even your cop coworkers.”
“So what’s the charge?”
Sean gave a short, nasty laugh. “You want the official or the unofficial charge?”
“Both.”
The air was cool and smelled of pine. Sam had a quick twinge of nostalgia, remembering camping out in the White Mountains, he and Tony in the same Boy Scout troop, rivals but not yet enemies. Where in hell had it all gone wrong?
“Official charge is that I released classified information to a third party without the government’s permission.”
“What the hell kind of classified information is that?”
Sean looked sheepish. “My wife’s brother is a stringer for the newspaper up in Dover. I heard the FBI was staying at the Rockingham Hotel, and I told him. Big fucking mistake. Here I am, looking at a year cutting trees in a labor camp.”
“That wasn’t too bright.”
“Shit, I know that, but to think LaCouture’s name and hotel room number was a big damn secret … it must be, because that’s what they’re hanging me out there for.”
“And the unofficial charge?”
“You got any smokes?”
“No, I don’t. Didn’t know you smoked.”
Sean folded his arms tight against his chest, as if trying to stay warm. “I don’t. But cigarettes are the unofficial currency around this joint. Be nice to buy a little protection until I get assigned to a boxcar.”
