by Alan Glenn
“Inspector, what can I do for you?”
“I need a few minutes to talk to you. In private.”
Kenny glanced back toward the living room. “Dora has ears the size of saucers. Let’s go out in the hallway, okay?”
The two men stood in the hallway, a breeze making the dim lightbulb sway. Kenny said, “Well?”
Sam thought about lines crossed, about what was to be done, and why he was doing it, and thought of that dead man, dead and alone and cold in his city’s morgue, with that tattooed wrist. Branded like fucking cattle, Sean had said. Why?
“I need you to make me some documents. Official identification.”
Kenny stared at him in disbelief. “Shit, I don’t know what’s going on, but no way. I don’t know what the hell you’re doing, but it sounds like entrapment to me. No way in hell.”
It was as if somebody else were mouthing the words, for Sam couldn’t recognize his own voice when it answered, “You do this for me, and I’ll knock off one of those felony charges for uttering a false instrument. Get you to serve in the county lockup instead of state prison. Sound fair, Kenny?”
“Sounds crazy, that’s what. Couple days ago, you almost arrested me for requesting the same thing. What’s different?”
“Times have changed. That’s all you need to know.”
Kenny stared at him for a moment. Then he said, “You mean that, right? You’ll broom one of those felony charges, let me get a lesser sentence?”
“That’s right.”
“Shit … All right. What kind of papers you looking for? A check? Birth certificate? Union card?”
“I need FBI identification. And something sharp and good, Kenny, something that will pass muster.”
“Are you nuts? The FBI? Jesus Christ … and whose mug should I put on it? Huh?”
“Mine.”
Kenny burst out laughing. “Hey, Inspector, feel free to put that felony charge back on my sheet, ’cause there ain’t no way I’m messing with the feds. Do you think I’m a loon? I get caught making paper like that, that’s a federal beef, that means my ass gets in a labor camp, and that’s it, story finished. Good night. And I’ll see you when my trial starts.”
The forger turned back toward the door. Sam blocked him. Kenny stopped.
“All of it,” Sam said, still not believing what he was saying.
“What do you mean, all of it?”
“All of the charges. They get dropped. Swept away. You never serve a day in jail, don’t even have to face a judge.”
Kenny kept on looking at him, blinking. “Man, you must need this something awful.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“None of your goddamn business.”
“Then you got yourself a deal, Inspector. Let’s get to work.”
* * *
Work was in the crowded and dark basement of the tenement, in a corner that had been blocked off by a wooden wall that swung out on hidden hinges, revealing an area of about twelve feet by twelve feet, with a dirt floor and walls made of fitted rocks. There was a long workbench, a small printing press on top of another table, rows of cast-lead letters, bottles of ink, and cameras and tripods. Kenny brought Sam into the room and sat him down on a stool and said, “Just to be clear here, Inspector, what you see here … it’s um, going to stay here, right?”
“Yes,” Sam replied. “Everything I see here will stay here.”
Kenny rubbed his hands. “Very good. We’ll get to work,” and then he laughed.
Sam said, “What’s so funny?”
“Funny? What’s so funny is that I was right last time we talked. You told me you couldn’t be bought, and I said you had a price. Lucky for me, you came up with a price.”
The forger busied himself, gathering up film and camera lenses. Sam bit his lip. Then he said, “Kenny, you say anything like that again, I’ll break your nose. And then you’ll still make me that FBI identification, but you’ll be doing it through a broken and bloody nose. Okay?”
“Oh, of course, Inspector. Now, if you need this tonight, let’s get to work.” Kenny sounded apologetic, but there was no missing the glee in his eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
About twelve hours after Kenny had produced an FBI identification card that looked as good as the one Sam had seen earlier in LaCouture’s pudgy and manicured hands—“Lucky you’re in a grim mood, so I didn’t have to take another picture,” Kenny had said—Sam sat in a passenger compartment on the Green Mountain local, going up into Vermont. His train travels had begun in Portsmouth, then to Boston, then to a train going west, to Greenfield, Massachusetts. From there, he caught the local, heading north, one of the stops being a small town called Burdick. Before leaving Greenfield, he had rented a small locker at the B&M station, where he had placed his real papers and identification. Now he was traveling with his new FBI identification, which named him as Special Agent Sam Munson.
Kenny had helped him choose his new last name. “One of the many things I have learned over the years, Inspector, is that a false name should be similar to real one,” he had advised.
Sam cupped his chin in his hand, watching the rural landscape rush by. What a world he now lived in, where he was following advice from a forger he had promised to keep out of jail. What a world.
The train car was mostly empty, the other passengers farmers and a few traveling salesmen, and one heavyset woman with two young boys sitting in front of her. The boys were barefoot. She wore a coat made out of a gray wool blanket. There were just a few pieces of lonely luggage in the overhead racks. Sam sat alone, hungry, for he hadn’t the urge to take breakfast. All he cared about was getting up to Burdick, and then …
That was a good question. What then?
He continued looking at the small farms, the forests, and the distant peaks of the Green Mountains, the sisters of the White Mountains in his own home state. He thought about the special trains that had come up here, carrying its secret cargo of tattooed people. How had one of them escaped and ended up in Portsmouth? Why?
The train shuddered, slowed, as they entered a town, a few automobiles here and there, even some horse-drawn wagons. The train shuddered again and, with a great belch of steam and smoke, came to a halt. There was a station out there, even smaller than his home, and a wooden sign dangling beneath the eaves.
BURDICK.
He got up from his seat, grabbed his hat, and walked down the grimy aisle. The pavement outside was black tar, cracked and faded. He looked up and down. Nobody else was getting off. Nobody, as far as he could see, was getting on. Smoke and steam streamed from the engine. He felt an urge to climb back on the train.
He waited.
The train whistle blew.
Another shuddering clank.
The train started moving.
He watched the cars slide by.
He could still make it if he wanted to. Just climb up and get inside, find a conductor, make arrangements for a return trip to Greenfield, then Boston and home to Portsmouth. If he was lucky, he could be home tonight.
Sam stood still.
The track was empty.
It was time to move.
* * *
He walked into the station, found it deserted. From his coat pocket, he took out the lapel pin, snapped it into place on his coat. There was a counter at one end, and he walked up to an older man working behind it. The man was wearing a stained white shirt and a black necktie that barely made it down his expansive chest, a black cap with the B&M insignia. He was doing paperwork with the nub of a yellow pencil and barely glanced up as Sam stood before him.
“Yep?” he finally asked.
Sam put his hands on the countertop. “Is there a taxi in this town?”
“If Clyde Fanson answers the phone, I s’pose there is.”
“Then I need a cab.”
“Where ya goin’?”
“To the camp,” Sam said.
At that, the man looked up, his eyes unblinking behin
d his black-rimmed glasses. “ ’Fraid I don’t know what you’re talkin’ ’bout.”
Sam pulled his new ID from his pocket, silently displayed it. The man swallowed. “You fellas … usually, you have your own transport, you know? Usually.”
Sam put the identification away. “This isn’t usual.”
“Guess not,” the man said, reaching over to a black phone. “I’ll make the call to Clyde, he should be outside in a few minutes.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
He walked outside into the late-morning sun. From here it looked like he could make out all of Burdick: a service station, a brick town hall, a white clapboard building that announced it housed the Burdick Volunteer Fire Department, and a grouping of two-story wooden buildings. A horse-drawn wagon clomped by, carrying scrap metal. He couldn’t imagine a train dumping its load of scared people at this station. There must be a spur farther down. Would it have made more sense to go that way, to walk the line?
No, he decided. Who knew how long a walk it could be and what he would find at the end.
An old Ford Model A came down the street, rattled to a halt. On its black doors, someone had painted in sloppy white letters FANSON LIVERY & DELIVERY. A small man came out, dressed in white shirt, necktie, and overalls, his brown hair slicked back. He looked over the hood of the Model A and asked, “You the fella needing a ride?”
“I am.”
He pointed to the passenger side. “Then get yourself in.”
Sam opened the door, sat on the worn and torn leather upholstery. Clyde Fanson shifted and the car engine coughed, stalled, and then caught as Clyde made a U-turn and started out of town. He glanced over at Sam. “First time here?”
“Yeah.”
“Good for you.”
Sam thought about peppering the guy with questions about the camp and decided it was too risky. Sam was an FBI agent. He should know what was going on. Too many questions could make this taxi driver suspicious, and a suspicious driver could make a phone call or two, and then this little quest would be over before it started.
Now they were out of the town, climbing a poorly paved road up into the hills. Pine trees and low brush crowded against the narrow road. Sam said, “What goes on here?”
His driver hacked up some phlegm and expertly spat out the window. “Not much of anything, but for a while, it was stone. Marble. Granite. Had some of the finest quarries in this part of the state. Now … well, you know.”
“Sure,” Sam said, thinking of all the horrors that had emerged from the Crash of ’29. “I know.”
The road widened, and Clyde pulled over on the right to a dirt road that led up into the woods. He let the engine rumble a bit and said, “Here ya go.”
Sam tried to hide his surprise. “You sure?”
He spat again through the window. “ ’Course I’m sure. Right up that dirt road.”
“The road looks pretty good. Why don’t you haul me up there?”
“I’m no fool, pal. You’re a fed and all that, which is fine, but we know enough to stay away. ’Nuff people over the past months got into lots of trouble, pokin’ around, never to be seen again, so I won’t be goin’. It’s up to you.”
“Okay,” Sam said. “I understand. How much?”
“Twenty-five cents.”
Sam passed over a quarter and a nickel. As he stepped out, Clyde called, “Hey, hold on.” He passed over a slip of paper. “I know how you feds work. Expense account and all that crap. Your receipt.”
Sam took the torn piece of paper. “Thanks,” he said, but Clyde had already pulled out and sped up the road, as if even being at the entrance to whatever was in the dark woods would bring him bad luck.
Sam adjusted his hat, started walking.
* * *
After about ten minutes, he could hear the sound of machinery up in the distance. While the dirt road was well maintained, there was evidence that lots of heavy trucks or equipment had passed through. By now the heat was getting to him, and he loosened his tie and unbuttoned his jacket.
The rumble of machinery grew louder, and then there was a wooden sign up ahead.
RESTRICTED AREA
AUTHORIZED VISITORS ONLY
U.S. DEPARTMENT OF THE INTERIOR
TRESPASSERS SUBJECT TO IMPRISONMENT
USE OF DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED
He paused, licked his dry lips. A hand went to his pocket, where his fake ID rested. It had been good enough to fool a B&M railroad clerk. He would soon find out if it was good enough to fool whoever was beyond that sign.
He kept on walking, the weight of his revolver no comfort at all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The dirt road circled and widened to a small wooden gatehouse painted bright white, with chain-link fence. Another gate, another barrier. The chain-link fence had barbed wire around the top, and the center of the fence was on metal wheels, serving as the gate. Two men stood in front of the guardhouse, watching him. Sam kept his face impassive. The men weren’t local cops or National Guardsmen; they wore the leather jackets and blue corduroys of Long’s Legionnaires. They also weren’t the kind of young punks he had seen in his hometown: They were lean, tough-looking, and hanging off their shoulders were Thompson submachine guns with drum magazines.
One stepped out from the shadow of the guardhouse. His face was freckled, and his hair was a sharp blond crew cut. “You lost, boy?”
Sam said nothing, walked closer. The other guard came out. His hair was black, slicked back, and parted in the middle. “He asked you a question, boy.” His gumbo-thick accent was the twin of his companion’s.
Sam kept quiet. The closest guard unshouldered his gun. “On your knees, now, boy!”
Sam stopped about four feet away from the two guards. “Names.”
“What?” the blond guard asked.
“I want your names. The both of you.”
The second guard muttered, “The fuck you say.”
Sam said, “No. The fuck you say. I want your name and your buddy’s name. This whole day has been a fuckup since I came to this little shitty town. Both of your names are going in my official report when I get back to Boston.”
The two Cajun guards looked confused. The one with the crew cut demanded, “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the report on my trip here, starting from when I got to the station and there was no automobile waiting for me.” Sam kept his voice low and determined. “I had to arrange for a taxi up here, in a piece-of-shit Ford that nearly broke my back. And once I got here, I get you two morons ready to shoot me instead of finding out who I am.”
“Who the hell are you?” the second guard asked, his voice not as harsh as before.
Now, Sam thought, now comes crunch time. He opened up his wallet and flashed his fake credentials. “Sam Munson, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’ve spent the better part of a day on a train coming up to this little dump. I was told when I started that I’d have full cooperation for my investigation. So far all I’ve gotten is crap.”
“We weren’t told anything ’bout an investigation,” the first guard protested.
“Fine, glad to hear that,” Sam said. “But I don’t give a shit. Right now I want both of your names, and after, I want that gate open and a car to get me up to the administration building. Or whatever you call it.”
The guard with black hair said, “The name’s Clive Cooley. This here is Zell Poulton.”
Sam made a show of taking out his notebook, writing down both names. He cocked his head and said, “Well?”
Zell went into the guard shack and lifted up a phone, while Clive went to the gate and slid it open with a satisfying clank and rattle. Sam waited, arms crossed, willing his legs not to shake, knowing he was close, oh, so close. A memory charged into his mind, of skating one winter on Hilton’s Pond with Tony, going farther and farther out on the ice, hearing it creak and moan, knowing with cold hands and colder heart that he was
so close to falling in.
There came the sound of a motor, and a dusty Oldsmobile appeared around the corner. It stopped, and another Long’s Legionnaire stepped out. Clive went over and talked to him, then called out, “Agent Munson? This way, sir. I’m gonna drive you up to headquarters.”
Sam walked up to the car, hearing within his mind the sound of ice cracking once he passed through the gate.
* * *
The inside of the Oldsmobile was surprisingly clean, and Clive climbed in, putting his gun on the rear seat. He made a three-point turn and said, “Hear me out, will ya?”
“Sure,” Sam said. “I’ll hear you out.”
“Don’t put no blame on me or Zell, okay? We were just doin’ our job. If we knew you was goin’ to show up, we’d’ve taken care of it. But we didn’t get told now, did we? Minute you showed us your badge and stuff, we cooperated, didn’t we?”
“That’s right,” Sam agreed. “You cooperated. I’ll make sure I mention that.”
Clive looked back at the road. “ ’Kay, that’s fair enough, then.”
The road rose up and then leveled off. Even over the car’s motor, Sam could make out other sounds, of engines working and tools pounding on stone. There was another gate up ahead, but this one looked ceremonial: just wrought iron with an arch. In the arch was a series of letters. Sam made out the words as they drew closer:
WORK WILL MAKE YOU FREE
Sam said, “That’s some kind of slogan.”
“Yeah,” Clive said. “Some kind of bullshit, if you ask me.”
The far slope of the road suddenly fell away, clear of brush and trees, opening to a wide hole in the ground, bare rock and dirt. Looking over, Sam realized that it was deep, very deep, with terraced rocks and roads, cranes overhead, smoke and steam rising, the cranes raising great blocks of stone. A quarry, he thought. “What kind of rock are they cutting out down there?” he asked.
“Marble,” Clive said. “Supposedly the best in the country. Ships all over the world. Real pricey shit, get lots of money for it.”
