by Alan Glenn
Then he saw the workers. Long lines of men in the distance, dressed in white prisoner clothing with thin blue stripes, wearing flat cloth caps. The road swerved to the right, and Sam wondered what he had just seen. They weren’t dressed like the prisoners at Camp Carpenter—they were different. Like Sean had said. A camp beyond the camp. Up ahead were buildings, and then another line of men, carrying pickaxes over their thin shoulders, overseen by two Long’s Legionnaires at either end, riding horses, pump-action shotguns at the ready. Sam stared at the prisoners as they went by. They were gaunt and they shuffled, as if each step was as hard as lifting a hundred pounds.
To a man, they looked as though they could be brothers of Peter Wotan.
Clive said, “See you lookin’ at our guests.”
“What?”
Clive said, “Guests. You know what I mean, right?”
Sam thought quickly. He was FBI. This sight shouldn’t be strange to him. “Sure, I know what you mean.”
He resisted an impulse to turn in the seat and look at the men again.
CHAPTER FORTY
Clive braked hard at the largest building, where white poles out front flew an American flag, what looked to be the flag of Vermont, and the standard of Louisiana. “That there’s the camp director’s building. They’ll take care of you in there. Just ’member, okay? Me and Zell, we cooperated.”
As he opened the door, Sam replied, “I’ll remember. You cooperated.”
He went up the wide steps. There was a bulletin board posted beside the doors, but he ignored it. Unlike his visit to Camp Carpenter, he didn’t have to force his way past a waiting sergeant. Another Long’s Legionnaire—this one wearing a leather Sam Browne belt with a holstered pistol—was already waiting for him as he went through the double doors. Offices and desks spread out from behind the lobby, but the man, short as he was, dominated the place. He had thick hair, slicked back and combed to one side, a prominent nose, and an equally prominent five o’clock shadow. Unlike those of his counterparts at the gate, his uniform seemed tailored and well made. Silver stars gleamed on his collar tabs.
“Agent Munson?” His Southern accent was smooth and polished.
“That I am,” Sam said, shaking the man’s hand.
“Apologies for not havin’ things set up for you. The name is Royal LaBayeux, Burdick commandant. I understan’ you’ve got somethin’ you’re investigatin’, so why don’t you come into my office.”
Sam followed him through a set of outer offices with other Long’s Legionnaires at work, filing, typing, talking on the telephone. It looked so formal and clean and efficient, and yet he couldn’t shake the memory of those gaunt men in the striped uniforms, trudging along the dirt road just outside.
The office held leather chairs and a couch, a wet bar and bookshelves. Windows, the drapes closed, dominated one wall. The desk was wide, with intercoms and telephones, and LaBayeux sat down in a black leather chair. On the nearest wall were photographs of President Long. Two of the photographs, Sam noticed, were of the President standing next to a beaming LaBayeux.
“Always willin’ to help out one of Hoover’s boys,” LaBayeux said. “Whaddya got?”
Sam withdrew two photographs. He set them on the polished desk and watched as LaBayeux picked them up and examined them.
“First photo is of a man found dead a few days ago in Portsmouth, New Hampshire,” Sam told him. “The locals didn’t know what to make of it. Further investigation revealed he was traveling under the name of Peter Wotan, which we believe is fake.”
“I see,” LaBayeux said. “And why do you think this … man has anything to do with us?”
Sam pointed to the second photograph. “Tattooed numbers on his wrist. And your facility is the closest one. To see if anyone’s missing, and to find out his real name and how he ended up in Portsmouth.”
LaBayeux picked up the second photograph. “Central Registry couldn’t help you?”
“Excuse me?”
“The Central Registry. They couldn’t trace the tattoo number for you?”
Sam had no idea what the man was asking. “You know how bureaucracies work,” he said, improvising desperately. “First they deny they can do anything. Then they say maybe. And then they say check in next week. But we don’t have time. We have a tattooed dead guy in Portsmouth, where the President and Hitler are going to hold a real important meeting. Dead men raise a lot of questions. We want this cleared up as soon as possible. Which is why I’m here.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” the Southerner said. He let the photo drop and picked up a phone receiver, clicked a button on the intercom. “Jules, come in here a sec, will ya?”
A plump man came in, the blue corduroys tight around his thick legs. LaBayeux passed him the photograph of the tattooed wrist. “Jules, run this number through Records. See if this yid belonged to us, and if not, let’s help out the FBI here and see if y’all can’t get Central Registry on the line to give us a hand. All right, son?”
“Absolutely, sir,” Jules said, backing out of the office and closing the door.
LaBayeux leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head. “You look a bit peaked, Agent Munson. Bet you haven’t eaten or drunk much since you been travelin’.”
“No, I haven’t,” Sam said.
LaBayeux eased the chair forward. “Then come along. The grub here might not be much, but it’s ours.”
Sam couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do less than to leave this man’s office, but he got up and followed him outside.
LaBayeux kept up a running commentary as they headed to the mess hall. “Not bad duty, but it can be a chore, ’specially when cold weather socks us in. I’m from the bayous, and let me tell ya, we never have cold weather like this.”
“I’m sure,” Sam said. The buildings were clean, neat, painted white, and looked like they belonged to a military reservation. But always there was the noise, of the machinery thumping, the crane engines whining, and cutting tools biting into stone. Sam could think of dozens of questions he wanted to ask the camp commandant but knew he was walking through a minefield of danger. Any hint of ignorance would raise suspicion, and he could soon be down there in the quarry pit, cutting stone with those skeletal men.
Up ahead was a wide, low building. Sam followed LaBayeux through a set of swinging doors. It was a dining facility with long rows of tables and benches, and LaBayeux spoke to a cook in soiled white pants and T-shirt. Then he took the nearest table, and Sam sat across from him as the camp commandant stretched his legs out. “Like to get out every now and then. This gives me a good excuse. Bet you like getting out of the office every now and then, too, am I right?”
“That’s for sure,” Sam said, desperately wanting to change the subject. “Tell me, how long have you been here?”
LaBayeaux shrugged. “Just over a year ago, when the Department of the Interior seized the quarry and the surrounding lands. I got here with a boxcar of lumber, shingles and nails, and a couple of dozen camp inmates from Nevada and got to work. Muddy, rainy, mosquitoes biting your ass, but we got the place set up ’fore the first train got here. Hell of a thing when that train got here, though, all these people stumbling out, hardly a one of ’em speaking English. Hell of a thing.”
“I guess it was,” Sam agreed.
“Yeah, built this place from nothin’, one of the first set up in the Northeast, and a year later, we’re one of the most productive. So there you go. You been with the feds long?”
“Looks like our meal’s coming.” Sam was happy to see the cook approaching with a tray. “Long enough.”
“So it is. Shit, I hear that some of our guests down there cuttin’ stone are world-class chefs, but who am I to say? ’Sides, with our luck, the cranky bastards might put ground glass in the pots. Lord knows, as it is, we have our share of docs and engineers and other professionals down there. Ah, here we go.”
The plates were heaped with fried ham steak, mashed potatoes, beans, and chunks
of white bread. The cook brought mugs of coffee. As they both ate, the camp commandant kept up a running commentary. Sam was thankful that LaBayeux was a man in love with his own voice.
He sliced off a piece of ham and frowned. “Nothin’ like the cookin’ back home. Tried lots to get a real chef up here from Baton Rouge or New Orleans, but they’d rather stay home and stay warm, and who can blame ’em?” LaBayeux put the ham into his mouth. “Mmm, not bad. But what I would give for some shrimp gumbo. Yum, that would be something.”
Sam ate quickly, wanting to get what information he could about Peter Wotan, then get the hell out of this place. The ham steak could have been made by a Waldorf chef, for all he cared; the stuff was practically tasteless. So far, he knew these camps were real, more secret than the run-of-the-mill labor camps, and full of foreigners. But why was Long taking in refugees from Europe? And why were they being worked like this?
The plump Long’s Legionnaire strolled in. He handed a sheet of paper over to LaBayeux and went out again, his corduroy pants making swish-swish noises. LaBayeux wiped his lips with a napkin. “Well, lookee here. Your dead boy didn’t come from our camp—which I was pretty sure of from the start, we keep a close eye on our guests, though they do try to slip out—but the Central Registry came up with a hit. What did you say your man’s name was?”
“Peter Wotan.”
LaBayeux shook his head. “Fake. Real name was Petr Wowenstein. Originally from Munich, transferred to a place over there called Dachau, then sent here nearly two years ago, out to New Mexico. Worked in some sort of research facility, reported missing just over a week ago.” He put the paper down. “Congratulations, Agent Munson. You’ve got your man. Just like the Mounties from up north.”
Congratulations, Sam thought. He now knew who his dead man was. Knew where he came from, knew where he had been. But still didn’t know why. Still didn’t know what Wowenstein was doing in Portsmouth, why he was killed, why—
LaBayeux started picking at his teeth with a toothpick. “Now what?”
Sam wiped his hands on the napkin. “If I can impose upon you, I’d like a ride back to the railroad station. I need to get to the Boston office, compile a follow-up report, and my report will include the fine cooperation I received from you and your staff.”
LaBayeux grinned. “That’s pretty white of you. If you’re finished eatin’, let’s go.”
Sam got up, heart pounding, the lunch just rolling around in his stomach, thinking, Almost there, almost there, let’s just keep it cool and get out of here.
He didn’t it make it past the dining hall.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Six Long’s Legionnaires stood watching him. LaBayeux grabbed his right arm and said quietly, “Now, whoever the hell you are, I know you’re carrying a piece. Probably a revolver in a shoulder holster. Get it out with your left hand, drop it on the porch.”
Sam looked at the ring of faces about him, all of them staring, unfriendly, waiting. With his left hand—and part of him was proud that his hand wasn’t quivering—he reached in under his coat and grabbed the butt of his revolver. He let it fall to the porch steps.
LaBayeux said, “Okay, now kick it off the porch.”
Sam did that, watching his weapon clatter to the ground. Oh, what a mess, what a goddamn mess.
LaBayeux twisted his arm, and Sam grunted in pain. The camp commandant leaned in and said, “What, you think we’re from the South, we’re stupid, son? Huh?”
Another twist of the arm, and Sam was silent this time, not wanting to give the man any satisfaction by asking him to stop. LaBayeux said, “Minute you got in this camp, the phone calls started up. You ain’t from the Boston FBI office. They don’t got no one comin’ up here to check on us. So who the fuck are you?”
“I’m a police inspector from Portsmouth, New Hampshire.”
“You Sam Munson?”
“No, the name is Sam Miller.”
“Why the fuck are you here, Sam Miller?”
“Because of Wotan … Wowenstein … he ended up dead in my hometown. I’m a cop. It’s my job. To find out why he was murdered there.”
LaBayeux let his arm go abruptly. “And it’s my job to do what my President tells me to do, and keep it secret, and keep shit asses like you out of the way if I have to.”
“You said earlier, do I think Southerners are dumb?”
“And?” LaBayeux had a merry grin on his face.
“No, most Southerners I meet are okay guys. Not dumb.”
LaBayeux’s grin got wider. “Nice to hear.”
“So why don’t you be an okay guy and let me out of here so I can do my job?”
“Guess I don’t feel like being an okay guy today, Yankee.”
LaBayeux punched Sam in the face, and after he fell to the ground, the kicking started.
After a few long minutes the kicking stopped, and then he was picked up, ears ringing, nose bloody, ribs aching, and LaBayeux called out, “Process him, boys, take ’im away and process ’im. His ass is now ours.”
And so he was processed.
* * *
He was dragged off the porch, and he struggled, fighting, and cried out as two burly Legionnaires twisted his arms back and cuffed him, then threw him on the ground. He tried to get up and was kicked in the head. He fell flat, eyes blurry, spit running down his chin. A car came up, and more hands grabbed him, threw him in the rear, his head and torso on the floor. A Legionnaire climbed in and Sam winced, feeling cold metal at the back of his head.
“Move or fight me, bud, and then what little brains you got are gonna be splattered o’er this fine leather, got it?” came a thick Southern voice.
Sam closed his eyes, thinking, God, what a screwup, what a total and complete screwup. “Look, I’m a cop … okay? Get ahold of my boss, this’ll all be straightened out.”
The pistol barrel pressed into his skull. “Shut up. Last month I had to clean blood ’n’ brain off this leather, don’t wanna do it again.”
He shut up.
The car sped along, taking corners and dips, and Sam was thrown back and forth. The car stopped, words were exchanged, and the car sped up again, then quickly braked.
The door flew open, hands came in, and dragged him out, stood him up. He was in a fenced-in area, facing a building, concrete and stone, letters on a wooden sign outside: PROCESSING—NO TALKING.
“Let’s go,” and he was shoved in the back, then half dragged, half propelled into the building. He was slammed through an open door and was halted on a concrete floor with a drain in the center and gray metal benches on either side of the stained plaster walls. Before Sam was a metal counter with a slim man sitting on a stool, a leather-bound ledger open before him. Bare lightbulbs hung from the concrete ceiling.
The thin man coughed, picked up a fountain pen. His Legionnaire’s uniform hung off him as if it had once belonged to a heavier man. “Name?” he said, his voice reedy.
“Sam Miller. Look, can I see LaBayeux again, the commandant, there’s been a mistake—”
A slap to the rear of his head. He tried to turn, but the Legionnaires held on to him vise-tight.
The man with the pen laboriously wrote something down in the ledger. “Son, just to make it easy for you, these be the rules. I ask you a question. You answer. You give me more than an answer, then Luke back there, he’ll whack your thick head. And each time he’ll whack you harder. You keep it up, you’ll be on the cee-ment down there, bleedin’ from your noggin. So let’s go on. Address?”
“Fourteen Grayson Street, Portsmouth, New Hampshire.”
“Occupation?”
“Police inspector, city of Portsmouth.”
The man looked up. “Religion? You don’t look Jewish. What be you, then?”
“Catholic.”
The man scribbled again. “Thought so. All right, fellas, you know the drill. Get ’im through.”
His arms were twisted up, and they pushed him past the counter. Sam thought sourly of how many tim
es he had brought prisoners to be booked back in Portsmouth, back when he was in charge, back when the prisoners weren’t people, weren’t anything save the offenses they had done: public drunkenness, brawling, petty burglary. Sam’s offense? A simple one, a new one, of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
A smaller room, also made of concrete and soiled plaster, stinking of chemicals, another drain in the center of the room. Lockers and laundry baskets and another blow to the head. “Here. Strip.”
Sam didn’t move.
Another, harder blow. His knees sagged and then the cuffs were freed, and he was lifted back up. A Legionnaire said, “You’re gonna be naked here in a sec, and your choice whether you’re gonna be bleedin’ hard or not.”
Sam fumbled at his buttons while three Legionnaires watched him, and he had a quick, sharp memory of his first time in a locker room in high school, his first time being naked in front of other men, feeling awkward, shy, embarrassed, like everybody was staring at him.
He stripped. Stared at a brown spot on the far wall that looked like old blood spatter. His legs started shaking. “Stand still,” and a hand on his shoulder, the hum of an electric razor, and his hair was on the floor. “Keep still.” A man with a hose in his hand stood in front of him, laughed. “Poor bastard’s hung like a hamster,” and sprayed him with a cloud of dust. Sam coughed, his legs shaking harder, and some clothes were tossed at him. Thin cotton, not even thick enough to be called pajamas, striped blue and white, and his shoes fell at his feet.
“Feeling generous today,” one of the men said. “You get to keep your shoes.”
“But no socks!” another one called out. “Don’t want people think we’re goin’ soft.”
Sam awkwardly put his bare feet into his leather shoes. “Guys, let me make one phone call, to the FBI, a guy named LaCouture, and—”
The Legionnaire who had disinfected him raised his truncheon. “Shut up or those new clothes of yours, they’re gonna be stained. Now let’s go. And it’s your lucky day, asshole, our tattoo man is gone for the day. So no number on your wrist. Tomorrow.”
