Amerikan Eagle

by Alan Glenn

  “You’ll get some before I leave.”

  “Thanks. Anyway, the unofficial charge. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Where was that?”

  “My desk, if you can believe that. Look, remember I told you earlier the FBI guy and his goose-stepping buddy were snooping through personnel files?”

  “I do.”

  “Okay, they came back, and that time looking for arrest files. With the summit coming up, makes sense, huh? There was a list of people they wanted—and guess who was on the list?”

  “Tony?”

  “Bingo.” Sean sighed. “So you think I was dumb enough to ask the FBI and the Gestapo why they’re requesting your brother’s arrest file? The hell I was. And his file is a special one, since it ended with him going to the labor camp. So I was a good little boy and got the records they wanted, and they told me to leave them alone, which I did. Except …” Sean paused, looked to where the two MPs were standing at attention, watching. He lowered his voice. “Except I left a file on my desk. One that was on the list. Shit, I suppose I should have waited for them to come back. But I figured if I brought the file over, that would get them out of my hair that much quicker. So I hopped on over, and that’s when I got my crippled ass in a sling. They were both pawing through this file, and I heard what LaCouture said to the Kraut. Then LaCouture looked up and saw me standing there, and that was that.”

  Sam thought back. He said, “That’s when you told me you needed to see me. The day before the summit was announced. Because LaCouture and Groebke were looking at Tony’s file.”

  “Yeah.” Sean looked tired, shrunken.

  “And what did LaCouture say to Groebke? What did you hear?”

  “I’ll tell you, but Christ, it doesn’t make sense … something like that to get me in a labor camp.”

  “Sean, what did he say?”

  He shrugged. “The FBI guy said something like ‘Right from the start, he’s our man.’ ”

  “ ‘Right from the start, he’s our man’? That’s what he said? What in hell does that mean?” Sam asked.

  Sean said, “If I knew, do you think I would be here?”

  * * *

  They talked for a few minutes more, with Sam trying to jiggle something, anything from Sean’s memory of what he’d overheard. But the records clerk kept insisting the same thing: Right from the start, he’s our man. Sam looked at the MPs, ready to take Sean back. And if ordered, ready, no doubt, to take Sam prisoner as well.

  He asked, “How’s it going here? How are you treated?”

  Sean had one dirty hand on top of the other on the picnic table. “There’s been stories, you know. In Life and The Saturday Evening Post. And movies. I Was a Fugitive from a Labor Camp. But that’s all bullshit. Nothing like the real deal, my friend.”

  Sam was silent.

  “The real deal is, you get picked up and then tuned up slapped around, that kind of shit. Driven out here, dumped in a compound. Lined up, names checked, and first lesson you get, some of the older prisoners, they’re on the other side of the fence. They whisper to you, ‘Hey, toss over your watches, your extra shoes, food packages,’ that sort of thing. The guards will confiscate everything you’ve got. So some of the guys—hell, some are just kids—they toss stuff over just like that. You know what happens next.”

  “They never see their things again.”

  “Of course. And then you get shaved, deloused, showered, and given these lovely clothes. Another tune-up here and there, and you meet your bunkmates. Oh, really trustworthy fellows. What wasn’t taken at the fence is stolen during the night. Off to work the next morning … chopping wood, making furniture, waiting for your billet for a train out west … oh yeah, you learn a lot. Food is rotten, the bunks have fleas, and it’s every man for himself.”

  Off in the distance, a burst of gunfire followed by another. Sean winced. Sam said, “What the hell was that?”

  “Officially, weapons practice. Unofficially, guys decide that being here in a transit camp is their best chance to get out before being sent out west. Most of ’em have relatives in easy driving distance. So you get the occasional breakout attempt, the occasional shot-while-trying-to-escape. All unofficial, of course.”

  “Yeah.”

  Tears welled up in the record clerk’s eyes. “Other thing you learn, Sam, is what kind of coward you are. All the talk of being brave and not knuckling under our new government order, it’s all bullshit. You get dumped here, pretty soon all you care about is a good sandwich for lunch, hot water for a shower, and being able to sleep without getting beaten up. Stuff like freedom of speech, freedom of assembly, that’s all crap. Just keeping your own ass well fed, warm, and safe. That’s all you care about.”

  The wind shifted, and instead of hearing gunfire, Sam heard a man’s scream. It seemed to go on and on and then gurgle off. Sean looked at him and said, “Bad, I know, but at least it’s not as bad as the other camps.”

  “What other camps?”

  “Shit, I think I’ve said too much already.”

  “Come on, Sean. What do you mean? What other camps?”

  “Word is, there are other camps out there. Not officially part of the system. Highly restricted. Here, at least, and the regular labor camps, you get in, you’re serving a sentence. These other camps, they work you to death.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Mostly in the South, from what I hear, but Jesus, the rumors are something else. If you step out of line, just for one second, you’re shot on the spot.”

  “Who’s in these camps?”

  “Who the hell knows? Not regular political prisoners, that’s for sure. Word is, there are special trains that take the prisoners to these camps.”

  “What the hell do you mean, special trains?”

  “Sealed. With markings painted on the side, so they get priority through all stations and sidings.”

  That damnable memory of when he was a patrolman, hearing that train roar through with no identifying marks save the yellow stripes painted on the side, hearing the screams and moans from within …

  “Another thing, Sam. The prisoners in those special trains … they’re tattooed. Numbers on their wrists. Can you believe that? Tattooed, like fucking cattle.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Sean was looking at him expectantly, but Sam couldn’t say a word. He was thinking furiously.

  Peter Wotan.

  Special trains.

  Tattooed wrists.

  He had to leave.

  Had to leave now.

  Sam stood up and motioned the MPs over. As they started walking toward them, he said softly, “I’ve got to go, Sean. But I’ll do my damnedest to try to get you out.”

  Sean said, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. And remember this. You get their attention, both you and your family are targets. Not just you. My wife and her brother—they’re not here, but they’re on a list. One more screwup and they’ll be right here with me, chopping wood and scratching flea bites.”

  The warning chilled him as he thought of Sarah and Toby. Sam told the MPs, “I’m finished with this prisoner. You can bring him back to his quarters.”

  “Very good, sir,” said the older MP, who still looked displeased at having been told to stay away. The younger one produced a set of handcuffs. Sam said, “Oh, I need something from you both. Give me your smokes.”

  The MPs looked at each other and then reluctantly reached into their shirt pockets. Full packs of Camels and Lucky Strikes were brought out. Sam passed them over to Sean, who made them disappear into his jumpsuit. The MPs didn’t look happy.

  Sean put his hands out, and as the handcuffs were clicked into place, Sam said to the MPs, “I know you don’t like what just happened. But if I get word that this man’s been mistreated, I’ll have both your asses. Got it?”

  * * *

  Allard looked up at Sam, a sharpened pencil in his hand. “Was the prisoner cooperative? Did you get what you needed?�
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  “Yes, sir, on both counts,” Sam said.

  “And you’ll make note in your official report of the cooperation you received here today?”

  “Yes, sir, I will.”

  Allard tossed the pencil to the desktop. “Very good. Now, mister, get the hell off my post.”

  From the captain’s tone, Sam thought a salute might be in order, but since he was in civilian clothes, he didn’t know what to do. So he got the hell out of the building. A black Chevrolet sedan was parked next to his Packard. As Sam went down the steps, two men in dark brown suits emerged from the sedan, putting on gray snap-brim hats, and went inside.

  Sam went to his Packard and stopped when someone called out, “Inspector? Inspector Miller?”

  He turned. Someone was sitting in the back of the Chevrolet. Sam went over, saw the rear window halfway down. The shape moved closer to the window, and Sam stopped, shocked. It was Ralph Morancy, the photographer from the Portsmouth Herald. His right eye was swollen shut, a bruised streak along his jaw. The photographer looked like he had been weeping.

  “Ralph … what the hell happened to you?”

  “Hazards of the job, I suppose. Took photographs that I shouldn’t have, of trucks with prisoners heading out of one of the poorer neighborhoods in town. Two Long’s Legionnaires and an officer from the Department of the Interior took offense. They ordered me to stop, told me to turn over the film, and I said fuck you and mentioned the First Amendment. One of the Long boys, he slugged me, told me he didn’t know shit about the First Amendment. Here I am.” Ralph edged closer to the open window. “Inspector, please. I only have a minute or two before they take me in and process me. Can you help me out? Please? For the love of God, I can’t believe I’m being sent to a labor camp for doing my job … for taking photos … God, what’s the world coming to …”

  Sam looked up at the building’s closed doors. “Ralph, I don’t know what I can do.”

  “You’re a cop. You could tell them I’m your friend. I’ll pay you. You could say it was all a mistake, a misjudgment, I’ll do anything they want. Please, can’t you help me?”

  Sam’s mouth tasted of old pennies. Go back in there? Plead Ralph’s case while he was here on a pretense? He lowered his head, turned away. “No, Ralph, I can’t help you.”

  Ralph called out, “But I can’t go with them … your brother, I’ve got to tell you something about your brother—”

  There were more yells, but Sam got into his car, and the engine started up after the third attempt. He ground the reverse gear as he backed up, suddenly sweating. One phone call … Allard had to feel grumpy enough to make one phone call to LaCouture, and then he’d never leave this place except in a boxcar stuffed with straw, shit, and sweat. Never to see Sarah or Toby again.

  In the rearview mirror, he saw the two men come out and go to the black Chevrolet, saw them drag Ralph Morancy out, the poor man’s legs giving way as they went up the steps, carrying him like a sack of cement.

  He forced himself to look straight ahead as he accelerated. Poor Ralph, sweet Jesus … and what was that babbling about Tony? What had Ralph been trying to pull? He didn’t know. But he now knew something: The FBI and Gestapo were interested in his brother. More important, he also knew more about Peter Wotan. He wasn’t sure how and why the man ended up dead in Portsmouth, but he sure as hell knew where he had come from.

  Special camps that worked people to death, populated from sealed trains traveling at night with no identifying marks, just a few swabs of paint …

  He kept the speed down as he approached the first gate, where the MPs stood. One held up his hand and he slowed. He rolled down the window and the MP leaned over and said, “Vehicle inspection, sir. I’ll have to ask you to step out.”

  Sam put the car in idle, engaged the parking brake, got out into the late-afternoon air. Working quickly and professionally, no doubt having done this hundreds of times, one MP searched the car, going into the trunk, lifting up the rear seat, even checking the undercarriage. The other stayed motionless, submachine gun ready in his hands. He tried not to think of what Ralph was going through now, what was happening. He had gotten close enough to the photographer to smell the stink of fear on him.

  What had he done? What in God’s name had he done back there?

  A matter of minutes, and then the one doing the searching stepped back and the other went to the gate. “Very good,” the tall MP said. “You’re clear to leave.”

  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.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  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.