Eyes Only
Report from Party Field Officer H. LeClerc:
On the evening of 04 May ’43, I beg to report that while conducting loyalty check and survey operations on Grayson Street in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, me and fellow Party Field Officer T. Carruthers encountered Party member Sam Miller. Miller refused to answer our questions. Miller refused to allow us entry into his home. Based on our earlier instructions, we were therefore unable to gain entry into his home at this time and perform further loyalty check investigations of the residence.
In light of Miller’s response and lack of cooperation, I recommend the future detention of Miller and family to determine the status of Miller and his home.
Sam got up early, his sleep restless and churning with bad dreams he couldn’t recall. He threw on some clothes without waking Sarah, then went downstairs. The cellar was empty. He took a breath, tore down the sheet, and folded up the cot, tossing the blanket to the floor. With cot and sheet in hand, he climbed a short set of stairs to the cellar bulkhead, which he shouldered open. Outside, it was cold and raw, the thin lawn glittering with frost. It was high tide. He moved to the hedge separating his yard from the Piscataqua River and, in one heave, tossed the cot and the sheet into the river.
He stood there, chest heaving, and then he went back into the house.
Maybe it was the exhilaration of having made it through the night without a Black Maria rolling up in the driveway, but breakfast that morning was full of smiles and laughter. Even Toby got into the act, finding a straw and blowing bubbles in his orange juice, announcing to his parents that these were “Florida farts” because orange juice came from Florida. Despite Sam’s bad dreams, the sight of Sarah smiling and making their morning meal cheered him. A couple of times he patted her bottom as he squeezed past her in the kitchen, and she laughingly retaliated by squeezing him back, though in a much more sensitive area that made him yelp and made her grin.
After the dishes were cleared and Toby had gone to his room, Sam spotted a paper bag by the stove. He looked in and saw a couple of old shirts and a pair of pants that had been torn but were now repaired by needle and thread.
He looked up at Sarah. “Another clothing run?”
She wiped her hands on a washcloth. “Yes, during our lunch break. A few of us from the school department are going over to the hobo camp.”
He closed up the bag. “Good. Just don’t go there alone. And I’m glad you’re doing it in the middle of the day.”
Sarah put the cloth down. “And that’s it, Sam. Just this… what we can do.”
He went over to her, kissed her, and held her tight. “Before day’s end, some folks who don’t have anything to wear will be in better shape, thanks to you. Just be careful, all right?”
She tugged at his ear. “I heard you twice the first time, Inspector. Now get going and stop cheating the taxpayers.”
Sam drove out alone to work, passing a horse-drawn wagon from one of the local dairies, detouring his way to Pierce Island, going over the wooden bridge. He found the dirt parking lot empty. He stepped out, maneuvered around the broken glass from some shattered beer bottles, saw a flaccid piece of rubber draped over a rock.
Sam looked around. “Tony! You out there?”
No reply. Just the cries of a few seagulls and the whistle of a piece of equipment out in the shipyard.
Sam reached into the Packard, took out a bag of sandwiches he had made quickly while Sarah and Toby got dressed. He went over to a path that led into the woods and, in a few moments, fashioned three sticks that pointed to the left. Another old Boy Scout message. Look to the left. And to the left, at the base of a large pine tree, he dropped the sack of sandwiches. Waited. Waited for movement out in the brush and the trees. One hand went into his coat pocket, about a set of handcuffs.
If Tony came out right now, Sam could get control of one problem. Get him back to his house, toss him in the cellar… So much going on, and to have his escapee brother roaming around…
Waited some more, checked his watch, and then went back to his Packard.
When he got to his desk, he was pleased to see that Mrs. Walton was out sick that morning. He hated having her nearby, listening in on what he was saying over the telephone, reading his notes and paperwork when he went away, and generally being the nosy woman that she was, keeping track of him and the others in The Log.
He had another pleasant surprise when he settled in his chair: an envelope on his desk with his name scribbled on the outside, and a stamped return address of Boston & Maine Railroad. Portsmouth Station. Portsmouth, N.H.
The envelope felt heavy in his hand. To do the smart thing, to be a smart fellow, would mean tossing the envelope into the trash without opening it. The case now belonged to the FBI and the Gestapo. It didn’t belong to him. But that old man, that tattooed man… Sam remembered what the medical examiner had said. Fuck ’em all. He leaned back in his chair, slit the envelope open. A thick sheaf of papers came out, with a note clipped to the top:
Sam—
Happy to get this to you quicker than I thought. Let me know if you need anything else.
Sam looked at the papers. A collection of blurry carbons listing the passenger manifest of the train from Boston to Portland, the one that just might have been carrying his John Doe.
He dialed the local four-digit number for the B&M station, and when Lowengard got on the phone, Sam told the station manager, “Pat, you did good. Thanks. The department owes you one.”
Lowengard’s voice was shaky, but he seemed happy to be praised. “So glad it worked out, Sam. Is there anything else I can do for the department?”
“Yeah, there is.”
Silence. Just the sound of the heavy man’s labored breathing.
“Only a question, Pat. According to the new internal transport laws, there’s got to be a manifest for the passengers, right? And the manifest is checked by a railroad cop assigned to that particular train?”
“That’s right,” Pat said carefully.
“Good. Now. According to the law, shouldn’t the manifest be checked when the train arrives? To match the number of people getting off the train against the master list?”
“Sam, please don’t hold me to this… I really don’t want to say anymore. I mean, look, I’m in an awkward position and…”
“Pat, whatever it is, you won’t be in trouble from me. I’m just trying to find out if my John Doe got tossed off that train to Portland. If there’s a name on the list that didn’t get checked off in Portland, then there’s a pretty good chance that’s my man.”
No answer.
Sam said, “Things get busy, don’t they? Paperwork gets sloppy. Train pulls in late, nobody wants to hold up the passengers, checking off names. So people look the other way. Maybe there’s a favor. Someone doesn’t even make the list. A good guess?”
“A very good guess, Sam.”
“Then tell me who to call up there in Portland, your counterpart. On the off chance that the paperwork was done right.”
“George Culley,” the station master said. “He should be able to help you.”
“Thanks, Pat.” But by then Sam was talking to a dead phone.
Sam took a quick bathroom break and then came back to his office, saw a note among the papers. It was from Sean Donovan, records clerk, and all it said was See me ASAP, v. important, Sean. Sam called down to the records department. No one picked up the phone.
Later, then, for now it was time for real police work. After going through the local New England Telephone operator, getting a long-distance line, he got hold of George Culley of the Portland office of the Boston & Maine. Culley’s tough Maine voice sounded as though he belonged on a lobster boat and not in a train station, but when Sam told him what he needed, the Mainer’s voice became conspiratorial, like that of a child who had spent too much time listening to Dick Tracy.
“Really?” George asked. “A murder investigation?”
“That’s right,” Sam said. “I believe the murdered man was on the express from Boston to Portland three days ago. I have the manifest of those passengers who boarded in Boston. If you have the manifest of the departing passengers, then—”
“Then we can find out who didn’t get checked out up in Portland, and you know who your dead man is! Hold on, let me get that paperwork.”
There was a thud of the phone being dropped. Sam looked about his tiny work area and was thankful again that Mrs. Walton was out.
“All right,” George said.
“I’ve counted the number of passengers on this manifest, and I came up with a hundred and twelve. What do you have?”
He could hear Culley murmuring, and then his voice came back, excited. “One hundred eleven. I counted it twice. One hundred eleven. So my manifest must have your John Doe.”
“Okay, let’s start, and remember, just the male names. Don’t need the females.”
“Sure,” George said. “First name on the list, Saul Aaron.”
Sam looked at the blurry carbon. “Check.”
“Okay, Vernon Aaron.”
“Check.”
Sam yawned. It was going to be a long afternoon.
About thirty-five minutes later, they found it.
“Wynn. Roscoe Wynn.” George’s voice sounded tired.
Sam rubbed at his eyes, looked again.
“Repeat that, George? What was that name?”
“Wynn. Roscoe Wynn. With a Y.”
He checked the fuzzy letters once more. There was a Roscoe Wynn, but another name was listed before it.
“Not Wotan? Peter Wotan?”
“No. It goes from Williams to Wynn. No Wotan. You think that’s it?”
“Not yet,” Sam said. “Let’s be thorough. It looks like there’s only a dozen left.”
Which was true, but at the end, as he felt a thrill of excitement course through him like a drink of cold water on a hot day, he knew who his dead man was.
Peter Wotan.
No longer John Doe.
Sam looked at the list again.
Peter Wotan.
Let’s find out who you are, he decided.
An hour later, he didn’t know very much more.
Using the long-distance operators, calls to the B&M office in Boston confirmed that Peter Wotan had boarded the express train from there to Portland. Sam even got a home address, 412 West Thirty-second Street, Apartment Four, in New York City. But a series of additional operator-assisted long-distance calls to various police precincts in New York City—he shuddered to think of what Mrs. Walton would say about next month’s long-distance bill—revealed that the address was a fake.
Fake address.
Fake name as well?
Where to next?
He looked to the clock on the near wall.
Time to go home, that’s what.
Toby was a handful at dinner, wanting to bring an Action comic book to the table and trying to sneak it in during a dessert of lime Jell-O. Distracted, Sam spoke sharply to him, sending him to his room in tears. Toby stormed out, yelling, “You never let me have any fun!” It took everything for Sam not to go after him and swat his butt. Sarah had asked him questions about his workday all during dinner, and he found himself giving her one-word answers.
Finally, when Toby had gone to bed and they were in their own bedroom, he stood by the door and remembered again what had happened just over twenty-four hours ago. “That was a real close run last night.”
“I know, I know,” she said. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, brushing her hair. The radio was on. It seemed like Sarah had found a new dance station, though it was peppered with bursts of static. Then the dance music stopped and was replaced by Bing Crosby singing “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning.”
“Do you?”
She turned, put the hairbrush down, her eyes teary. “Yes, I do. I truly do. I know I went too far with the last one, and it won’t happen again. I… Hearing those Legionnaires at the door really scared me. It really did.”
“All right, then, it’s done. If we’re lucky, they just came by scare us.”
She picked up the hairbrush, lowered it again. “If so, they did a good job, didn’t they? You know…”
“Go on.”
“There was a time when getting involved in politics… it was fun. Innocent. Like back when Dad first ran for city councilor, right after Mom died. He needed to get out of the house, stay busy, and I was so proud of him. Not even a teenager, and I was passing out leaflets and sliding brochures under doors. We’d stay up late at night at City Hall, watching the ballots get counted. That’s when I got the first taste of it, you know. By working on Dad’s campaigns, I knew one person could make a difference.”
“Still can,” he said, thinking that she was echoing what Walter Tucker had said.
She shook her head. “Not like before—not after Long got elected. Now you can still make a difference, but you can end up in jail. Or worse. And clothing donations—after the Underground Railroad, that’s all I have the taste for.”
“That sounds good. Look, what’s going on with Toby? Why is he acting up?”
“I wish I knew. Sometimes”—she looked at him, smiling—“I think the little guy takes after his uncle. A real hell-raiser.”
“Lucky us,” he grumbled. “It’s going to be a long ten years before he’s old enough to be on his own.”
She didn’t say anything, and then he turned away, and she looked surprised. “Sam, where are you going?”
“Just going to make sure the doors are locked,” he answered. He went through the house, taking his time, checking everything, making sure every window and door was locked, but he knew it was a futile gesture. Nothing was safe anymore, not your life, not your job, not when Legionnaires could show up on your doorstep on a whim.
When he got back to the bedroom, the light was off, the radio was off, and in the darkness he stripped and pulled on his pajamas. It took him a long time to fall asleep. Slipping away, he heard Sarah whisper, “I do love you so, Sam.” He reached up to her hand, gave it a loving squeeze, and then fell asleep.
As Curt promised, a side door in the small industrial building was left unlocked, and the all-clear sign was there, said sign being a burnt-out lightbulb over the door. The doorknob spun easily in his hand and he walked in, hearing the hum and feeling the vibration of the printing presses overhead. About him, stacked in huge piles up to the ceiling, were massive rolls of newsprint, with a tiny path between the rolls. He went in.
Two men stood there, not looking particularly happy; he didn’t particularly care. He recognized both but knew only the shorter one. The bulkier one he knew from a blurry photo passed to him weeks ago in New York, at the camp. But he was glad they were known to him and trusted.
“You’re late,” the man on the right said. He had on soiled khakis and a black turtleneck sweater, and at his side was a small table cluttered with cameras and other photo gear. He was the staff photographer for the Portsmouth Herald.
“Sorry, Ralph,” he said. “Decided getting here without getting arrested was more important than keeping a schedule. I don’t have to tell you what’s crawling around out there.”
Ralph said, “No, that’s not news to me, and it’s not news to our friend.”
He looked at the other man. He was stocky, with a bull neck and a nose that looked as if it had been broken once or twice. His clothes hung oddly. He was sure it was because this guy was used to wearing a uniform, not a uniform of the American or German armed forces or police.
Ralph added, “You or me get picked up, it’s a labor camp. For… Ike here, it’s a quick military trial and then a firing squad.”
“Yeah, well, we all got problems,” he said. “Can we get on with this?”
“Sure,” Ralph said, going to his photo gear, but then Ike spoke up, speaking English with only a hint of a Slavic accent. “Yes, we all have problems, and I’m here to make sure you will do what it takes to solve at least one of them.”
He stared at Ike. “I don’t need to be reminded, pal.”
Ike stared right back, and he imagined the guy wished he were back at Moscow’s Lubyanka prison, where he and his kind ruled the roost. Ike said, “Then I’ll remind you of this: We have gone to great trouble to assist this… effort. And we want to ensure what we’ve done will not go to waste.”
“It won’t,” he said.
“How can you guarantee it?”
“Pal, I can’t guarantee we all won’t be shot tomorrow, but I can guarantee we’re going to do what it takes to get the job done. Either me or somebody else. The job will get done.”
Ike looked to Ralph, who was busy with his photo gear. Ike said, “I’ve come here just to see what is what, and to tell you that there will be an announcement shortly from your capitol that will severely restrict the movements of people here. Our intelligence services have confirmed this information.”
“We’ve been anticipating that, too,” he said. “We’ve got our own people telling us stuff, even from D.C. So what else is new? That’s why I’m here.”
Ike said, “We need to know that you’ve made arrangements to have you and whatever else you need to be in place—or to otherwise be able to have freedom of movement, to get the job done.”
“Like I said, that’s why I’m here, guy, to get that taken care of. Anything else?”
Ike cocked his head as though hearing a whisper, far off. “This job… it should have been handled professionally, but we are forced to deal with you… amateurs. And we need to know that when the time comes, you will follow orders. You will do what it takes, no matter what.”
He gave the man a good hard stare. “I sure will. But know this. About the only thing we admire about you is that you’re fighting fascists over there, and you’re helping us fight fascists over here. For that you have our thanks. But we’re going into this with open eyes.”
The Slavic man demanded, “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean this—we’re no starry-eyed lovers of you or your system. Maybe, a while ago. Some years ago I even filed an application with your Amtorg Trading Corporation down in New York City. I was tired of the crap around here, thought I’d have a better life shipping out overseas. But two things changed my mind. The first was that I decided I wasn’t going to cut and run. I was going to take part in the struggle here.”
From the next floor up, there was a sharp whistle, and then the humming of the printing plant seemed to slow. Ike asked, “What was the other thing that changed your mind?”
“The other thing is that I had a couple of buddies go through Amtorg and get jobs at the Ford plant being built at Nizhny Novgorod, the one called the Gorky Plant. They went there and disappeared. Never to be heard from again. Crap like that, I wasn’t going to chance it. So here I am. And bud, I’ll follow orders and get the job done. Don’t you worry.”
Ralph spoke up. “Can we save the debating society for later? We got work to do.” He picked up his camera. “By the bye, I saw your brother last week.”
Not wanting to bring his brother into the conversation, he said, “Big deal. Let’s get this done.”
Ralph reached down to the open bag, pulled out a shirt and necktie. “Put these on, and then we’ll start. Amateurs… hah, we’ll see about that.”
Ike said to the photographer, “You, then. Why are you helping, eh?”
Ralph stopped and then rubbed the roll of newsprint next to him. “There was a time when this wasn’t rationed by the government. When we had a free press. When we could write what we wanted, print any photos we wanted. Sure would like to see that again.”
He stepped over, took the shirt and tie from Ralph. “I’m sure two out of three of us here would agree.” At that, Ike suddenly laughed, and then so did Ralph, and seeing the dark humor in it, he joined in as well.
The next morning Sarah was cheerful and smiling, fixing him and Toby bacon and eggs—a weekday splurge—and Sam ate well, even though he had a headache from not sleeping well. At one point, when Toby was busy drowning his scrambled eggs in ketchup, Sarah leaned in to Sam and said, “Like I said last night, I do love you so.” Her lips brushed his ear.
Even with his headache, he smiled up at her, feeling relieved as it came to him: no more overnight guests, no more Railroad, and by God, if they kept their heads down, all might just be all right.
“And I do love you back, even though you keep giving my clothing away to strangers.”
That brought a laugh from her and a snicker from Toby. He took Toby to school, as Sarah once again had to visit her sick aunt. Sam took Toby’s hand as they walked out to the shed where the Packard was parked.
“I’m sorry for being a brat last night, Dad,” Toby said suddenly. “Sometimes… sometimes I just get mad. Like at school. When the other guys call you a rat. It just happens. Mom understands. I really, really wish you did, too.”
Something caught in Sam’s throat. It was times like these that his boy reminded him most of Tony. “Just be a better boy, all right? At least for your mother.”
“Dad? Have you ever arrested a spy?”
“A spy? No, never have. Why do you ask?”
“Nothing. Just thinking.”
Sam was going to say something and stopped. “Toby, where did you get that pin?”
His son rubbed at the Confederate-flag pin on his coat lapel. “I got it at school yesterday. Some kids were passing them around.”
“I see,” he said. “Did they tell you what that flag means?”
“It’s the flag from the South. And the President likes this flag, so it’s like a club, you know? Next week a couple of guys are coming at recess, and everyone who wears the pin will get free ice cream. Isn’t that neat?”
Sam said, “Give me the pin, Toby.”
“Ah, Dad, c’mon….”
“I’ll tell you later what the pin means, okay? And if there’s ice cream that day, I’ll make it up to you.”
Toby’s face turned sour, but he undid the pin and passed it over. Sam pocketed it and opened the door to the Packard, and Toby clambered sulkily up onto the big front seat, holding his dark green book bag. “Mom said something about you this morning when she came in to wake me up.”
“Really? What was that?”
Toby looked so small in the wide front seat. “She said that Daddy was a good man, no matter what other people said.”
Sam shifted into first. “Thanks for telling me, Toby. And for that, you get ice cream no matter what.”
When they reached the Spring Street School, Sam pulled to the curb and let Toby out. He sat there, watching his serious little boy walk to the old brick building, as though entering a place that had been his work site for decades. Sam thought about what kind of world Toby was inheriting, a place where the dwindling number of free men and women were under brutal assault, day after long damn day, all over the world. At the grocery store nearby, the owner hadn’t done such a good job of whitewashing the graffiti from the other day. The letters that said DOWN WITH LONG and the hammer and sickle were still faintly visible, as if the idea or protest just wouldn’t go away.
He reached for the gearshift. Woolgathering. Time to get to work.
And then a flash of color caught his eye.
Yellow.
He moved in the seat, saw a car make its way up the street.
A yellow Rambler.
Just like that railroad guy had noted from the other day. The car that had made the train slow down the night the body was discovered.
Coincidence or part of a plan?
A plan to make sure that Peter Wotan—or whoever the hell he was—was dumped and later found in Portsmouth.
He put the Packard in reverse, backed up the street dodging one kid going to the school, the transmission whining, and when he came to the intersection, looked both ways.
Gone.
Gone for now, he thought. But how many yellow Ramblers could there be in the Portsmouth area? He should be hearing soon from the motor vehicle division about the Rambler listings, and it wouldn’t take much to match that list with addresses in Portsmouth.
The blare of a car horn made him curse.
A Portsmouth police cruiser drew up next to him, engine idling, and he rolled down his window. An older officer leaned out, a guy named Mike Schwartz, with a thin, drawn face. “Sam, I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but we’ve all been recalled to the station. On shift, off shift, even those on vacation. Everybody to report in.”
Sam shifted the Packard into first. “What’s going on?”
“Who the hell knows? But it sounds important, and I’ll be fucked if I’m going to be late.”
The cruiser pulled away, and after performing a highly illegal U-turn, Sam followed him in.
At the station, he was stunned at what he saw: every patrolman, sergeant, and officer in the department was milling about in the crowded lobby. Frank Reardon stood by the door, and Sam went up to him. “What the hell’s going on?”
“Cripes, who knows.” Frank cupped a lit cigarette in one hand. “Got a phone call, just a few minutes ago. Everybody to report to the station. Even the guys on shift are rolling in. Shit, now’s gonna be a good time for every second-story guy or bank robber to hit us.”
Sam looked around for a certain young cop. “Where’s your buddy Leo?”
“You didn’t hear?” Frank replied. “Gone. Two nights ago a Black Maria came by his apartment and took him away.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Wish I was. Kid obviously screwed up along the way, and he got picked up. You saw him back at the tracks. Liked to ask lots of questions. That’s always a dangerous habit.”
“You going to do anything to help him out?”
Frank dropped his cigarette butt on the dirty tile floor, crushed it under his heel. “Like what? Too late for Leo. That’s just the way it goes. Asking questions, poking around, just leads to more trouble. Leo was okay, but I’m not putting my ass on the line for him. You know how it is.”
“Yeah, Frank, I know how it is.” Sam broke away from Frank, knowing very much how it was. Stay out of trouble. Keep your head down.
There was a loud murmur of voices that went on for a few minutes, and he was going to head up to his desk when Marshal Hanson appeared, carrying a large Philco radio. Mrs. Walton was with him, notepad in hand. Hanson put the radio on the desk sergeant’s counter and raised a hand. “Okay, listen up, fellas, all right? Christ, shut your mouths back there.” The room fell silent. Hanson looked satisfied and turned to the desk sergeant. “Paul, plug her in, will you?”
“Hey, boss, what’s up?” came a voice from the rear of the room. “We at war or something?”
“Or something,” Hanson said, pulling out his pocket watch from his vest and checking the time. “All I know is I got an urgent message from Party headquarters in Concord that there’s going to be a national announcement coming across at nine A.M., an announcement that everybody—and I mean everybody!—needs to hear. Okay, my watch says it’s one minute till, so everybody keep your yap shut. Paul, put that radio on and turn the volume on high.”
There was a faint crackle and then a click as the switch was thrown, a hum as the vacuum tubes warmed up. Then a shot of jazz music burst from the speaker, making a couple of the guys laugh, but Sam didn’t feel like laughing.
The music suddenly stopped, replaced by the familiar three musical tones for NBC, and a voice said, “We interrupt our morning program with this special news bulletin. Flash from Washington, D.C., we bring in our special correspondent Richard Harkness.”
A burst of static, and then the voice, fainter, began to speak, and in a split instant, Sam knew just how accurate the phrase was that you could hear a pin drop. In a crowded room with nearly thirty men and Mrs. Walton, the only sound was coming from the radio.
“This is Richard Harkness, reporting from Washington, D.C., with a special news bulletin. It is being announced simultaneously today in Washington and in Berlin, Germany, that a treaty of trade and peace has been reached between the government of the United States and the government of Germany. This treaty will put into place a framework of peace and cooperation between the United States and Germany and will also see an immediate increase in trade between the two countries, with a substantial rise in employment and the stimulation of the American economy.”
“Christ,” someone muttered.
“As part of this new trade agreement, Germany has announced that it will immediately begin purchasing substantial new armaments from the United States, including tanks, fighter planes, and bombers, to replace those German armaments being expended in the Eastern European war. In exchange, the United States will seek to improve relations with the government of Germany, including an understanding on the stationing of naval forces in the Caribbean and Atlantic, and new provisions associated with the criminal extradition treaty.”
A cop behind Sam whispered, “Such a deal. We get jobs paid for by stolen treasure from Europe, help kill millions more Russians, let the Krauts turn the Atlantic and Caribbean into their playground, and oh, by the way, if you’re here in the States illegally, we’ll help the Gestapo grab your ass and stick it in a concentration camp back in Europe.”
Someone told the whisperer to shut up, but somebody else griped, “Shit, you woke me up to listen to this crap? Who cares?”
And, Sam thought, in a matter of seconds, everybody within listening range of the radio instantly knew why they should care.
“To officially approve this treaty, a summit meeting will take place between President Huey Long and Chancellor Adolf Hitler seven days from now at the Navy Yard in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, site of the—”
What was being said on the radio was instantly drowned out by the burst of voices coming from the cops.
Since coming back to Portsmouth, he had lived in Curt’s attic. It was stuffy, tiny, with a sleeping bag on the floor and not much else save boxes of junk and a low roof that meant he banged his head at least twice a day. There were two small windows at either end of the attic, and even though it had been a cool May, it got stiflingly hot in the afternoon. Once in the morning and once in the evening, Curt let him out to use the bathroom and to grab a bite to eat, as plans and plots moved ahead here in Portsmouth and other places.
This morning he tried to stretch out his legs and arms after waking up, when he heard movement in the hallway underneath him. He froze, wondering if Curt was back early, and then there was a flare of light as the trapdoor in the middle of the attic floor came up. He looked around frantically for something, anything, to grab as a weapon, then almost burst out laughing at his fear.
A well-dressed woman slowly came up through the square opening, her eyes blinking from the dust. “So there you are, as promised,” she said, smiling.
He knelt and took one of her hands in both of his. “My God, I can’t believe it’s you.”
“I can’t stay long. I need to be at work. But here.” One of her hands went down and came back up with a brown grocery sack with twine handles. “Some more food. I know Curt is feeding you, but he’s a bachelor. This should be better. I’m sure what he gives you gets dull after a while.”
He picked up the bag and lowered it to the floor. Everything just seemed all right. The visitor before him was the prettiest thing he had seen in years.
“You doing all right?” he asked.
Her happy expression faltered. “I’m… I’m holding up. There’s a lot of danger out there. But it’s you I’m worried about. From what little I know about what you’re up against…”
He said, “That’s it. Don’t worry about me. Worry about yourself, worry about what we’re all doing. You do your job, I’ll do mine, and in the end, it will all work out.”
As she bit her lower lip, her eyes became weepy. “Okay, I hear you, but I’m still so scared for you.” She swiped at her eyes with one hand. “This is when… when I think about what might have been if you had been first to ask me out in high school instead of Sam. I know that’s a horrible thing to say… I mean, damn, I’m all mixed up. I just worry about you and miss you awful. And I think of you a lot.”
“Stop that,” he said. “If I had been with you back then, you would have been arrested, too. And you wouldn’t have that wonderful boy, my dear nephew. And my brother… he’s crazy about you. So please don’t say any more.”
She wiped her eyes again. He bent down, kissed the top of her head. “It’s all right. You get going now… and thanks. This was the best gift you could have given me.”
She smiled up at him through her tears. “It’s not much. Just some sandwiches and—”
“I wasn’t talking about the sandwiches. Now go.” She started to descend, and he thought of something. “Sarah?”
“Yes?” his sister-in-law asked.
“Stop thinking about the past, about what might have been. Think about the future. Toby… we’re doing this for Toby and the world he gets to grow up in. No matter what happens, no matter how much you and Sam and even I suffer, remember that.”
“I will,” she promised, and she closed the trapdoor, and the attic suddenly got dark again.
An earsplitting whistle cut through the chatter as somebody brought fingers up to his mouth. Hanson held up his hands and said, “Guys, I’m just as surprised about this as you are. Christ… Look, for now all days off are canceled. In fact, all time off is canceled. We’ll put cots in the basement because I know it’s gonna be a long haul between now and then. Okay, I want to see all the sergeants in my office, pronto, along with Captain Stackpole and Inspector Miller. Guys, this is going to be a hell of a thing. By the end of today, this city is going to be crawling with radio newsmen, newsreelers, newspaper reporters, and every nut with a grudge. I know you got questions, but I don’t have the answers. We’ll have a department meeting at ten o’clock, and we’ll know better then.”
A voice from the rear of the room: “Boss, all right if we go home, wrap a couple of things up, then come back?”
“Yeah.” Hanson nodded. “That makes sense. You officers on duty, go back to work. The rest of you fellas, if you need to go home, check in with the wife, or whatever, that’s fine. Just be back here by ten o’clock. And pack some clothes and essentials.” He slapped his hands together. “Let’s get a move on. There’s plenty of work to be done.”
Moving through the crowded lobby, Sam went upstairs, where Hanson’s door was open and Mrs. Walton was on the phone, desperately fielding message after message. The three shift sergeants and Art Stackpole, the sole police captain, were clustered around Hanson’s desk. Hanson was on the phone, nodding, saying, “Yeah, yeah, yeah” while writing something down. The sergeants and Stackpole ignored Sam as he entered. Four of his fellow officers, and four men who figured they should have had the inspector’s job instead of him.
Hanson hung up the phone. He tore off a sheet of paper and passed it over to Sam. “Change of plans, Inspector. Rockingham Hotel. Room Twelve. Get over there right now.”
“What’s going on?”
“What’s going on, Sam, is that FBI character you met the other day is still here, and he’s going to be part of the federal task force running the summit security. He wants a liaison officer with the department, and guess what, you just got picked.”
“But I can do more if—”
“Sam, just do it,” Hanson cut in impatiently. “Okay? Look, in the last five minutes, every goddamn newspaper, radio station, and newsreel outfit within a hundred miles called me. Not to mention the governor’s office and our two distinguished senators and two representatives. I’ve also got to see your father-in-law in about ten minutes. Then there’s the matter of coordinating everything with the Navy Yard and about a hundred other things have just landed on my desk, so please, Sam, just shut up and do this. All right?”
Sam folded the piece of paper, stuck it in his pocket. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Good. And one more thing. Here.” Hanson passed over an embossed piece of cardboard, and Sam glanced at it, saw a bad photograph of himself pasted on one side, and a drawing of an American eagle, and some lettering. Hanson said, “Your new commission in the New Hampshire National Guard. Congratulations. Stick it in your billfold, and for God’s sake, don’t lose it.”
“It says I’m a lieutenant. How in hell did that happen?”
“What? You got problems with being an officer and a gentleman?” One of the other cops snickered, and Hanson sighed. “Don’t worry about it, Sam. Automatic official rank and all that, reflecting your position in the department. Understand now?”
“Yes, I do.”
“So glad to hear it’s all clear for you, Inspector.” Hanson reached for his phone. “And if you can get to the Rockingham ten minutes ago, that would be goddamn delightful.”
Sam turned and left. As he passed Mrs. Walton in the outer office, he heard her say, “I don’t care if you’re NBC Red, NBC Blue, or NBC Pink, you can’t speak to the marshal. And he’s not a chief, he’s a—”
He took the stairs down to the main lobby two at a time.
The Rockingham Hotel was under a two-minute ride from the station, on State Street, and for Portsmouth it was an impressive building, brick, five-story, with two sets of narrow granite steps leading up to the wide swinging oak doors of the lobby. On either side of the steps was a massive stone lion, staring blankly out into the street.
The phones were ringing at the main desk, as people started calling in, demanding rooms, demanding reservations, demanding everything and anything for the upcoming summit. As Sam took the carpeted stairs up to the first floor and Room Twelve, he still found it hard to get his mind around what had just happened. His hometown, his Portsmouth, was hosting a summit between the world’s two most powerful men, Long and Hitler. It was one thing to grow up with history about you—the royal governors, the John Paul Jones house, the revolutionaries—but it was something else to know that history was going to happen here in the next few days and that you were stuck in the middle of it.
At Room Twelve he knocked on the door. A male voice invited him in.
“Inspector,” said Jack LaCouture of the FBI, standing up from a cushioned chair. “So glad to see you again. You remember my German traveling companion, don’t you? Herr Groebke.”
Groebke didn’t bother standing up. He stared at Sam through his cigarette smoke, his glasses obscuring his eyes. Both men wore white shirts. Both also wore holstered revolvers. Sam waited till LaCouture sat down, then sat and said, “So. How goes my homicide investigation?”
“Who cares?” LaCouture asked. “One dead guy here illegally. I only care if Hans here cares.” LaCouture said something in German and Groebke replied, and LaCouture said to Sam, “See? Hans said there are priorities, and the current number one priority is this summit meeting. So the dead guy will have to wait. You got a problem with that?”
Peter Wotan. The dead guy had a name. Peter Wotan, and I know that, Sam thought. I know that and you can’t stop me from finding out more.
Aloud he said, “No, I don’t have a problem with that.”
“Your chief, he tell you why you’re here?”
“Marshal Hanson mentioned something about being a liaison with you. He didn’t say anything about the Gestapo.”
LaCouture frowned. “Sorry if working with the Germans pisses you off, but I really don’t give a crap. We’ve got about a month’s worth of work to do in seven days, and we need to do it right. I just got a phone call a bit ago from God Himself to make sure nothing gets screwed up.”
“President Long?”
“Hell, no. J. Edgar Hoover. Chances are, Long won’t be President forever, but I can tell you that Hoover intends to be FBI director until the sun burns out. A phone call from that bastard can send you to either D.C. or fucking Boise, can make you or break you, and I’m not one to be broken. So let’s get to it.”
Sam was silent.
“Your boss probably told you boys in blue how important the next few days are going to be, a chance to do good, to shine, blah, blah, blah,” LaCouture continued. “Well, that’s just so much bullshit. The next few days belong to us and the Germans, the Secret Service and the navy. You Portsmouth guys are going to be controlling crowds and traffic. And you, my friend, you’re gonna go out now and get us info on traffic choke points, lists of restaurants and places that can maybe hold all the goddamn visitors that are going to be streamin’ in here. That’s it. Savvy?”
Sam watched Groebke stub out his cigarette, light another one. He thought of what he could be doing with the Peter Wotan case. Instead, he’d become a glorified errand boy. “Yeah, I savvy.”
“Super. Here’s something to hold on to.” LaCouture flipped over a white business card. It had the FBI seal and LaCouture’s name and a handwritten notation on the front with the Rockingham Hotel’s address of 401 State Street and phone number of 2400. On the back was another note: Bearer of card detached to federal duty until 15 May.
Sam looked up at LaCouture. “A get-out-of-jail card?”
The FBI man did not smile. “It’s a card that makes sure you don’t get your ass into jail. By nightfall this city is going to be cordoned off, there will be troops in the street, and I don’t need my liaison having to explain to some army captain why he needs to take a dump somewhere.”
“Look, I just want to—”
The phone rang. The FBI man swore and got up to answer it. “LaCouture. Hold on. Yeah. Yeah. Crap. All right, I’ll be right down.” He slammed the receiver down. “Having a problem with the manager about the number of rooms we need. Look. I’ll go straighten it out. You two can stay here and improve German-local relations or something.”
LaCouture grabbed his coat and left, slamming the door behind him. Sam sat still, the white business card pinched between his fingers. The Gestapo man stared at him, smoking. Sam thought about the stories in Life and Look and the newspapers, the radio shows and Hollywood movies. This was how it ended for so many people over in Europe. Alone in a room with a Gestapo agent. The German had no power over him, but a part of Sam felt paralyzed by that rattlesnake gaze, the cool stare of a man who had the power of life and death, didn’t mind using it, and rather enjoyed having it.
Groebke stubbed the cigarette out in his ashtray and said, “You look… unsettled.”
“First time I’ve ever been alone with the Gestapo,” Sam said.
“Most of what we do… most of what I do… just like you,” Groebke said with a shrug. “A cop.” His English was impeccable but thickly accented.
“Maybe you think so. I find that hard to believe.”
Groebke stared at him.
“You don’t like Germans,” he said.
“Doesn’t really matter, does it?”
Groebke cocked his head like a hunting dog catching a far-off scent, a sound of something rustling in the grass that must be chased and killed. “Have we hurt you in some way?”
“Yeah,” Sam replied, feeling his chest tighten. “You killed my father.”
The head moved again, slightly. “I think rather not. I have not had much experience with Americans. So I do not think I have killed your father.”
“Maybe not, but you and your people did.”
“Ah. The Great War, am I correct?”
“Yes, you are correct.”
“It was wartime,” the German said. “Such things happen during war.”
Sam thought, Oh yeah, such things, and mostly from the Germans. Flattening cities like Rotterdam or Coventry. Sinking passenger liners. Being the first to use poison gas. But this man was Gestapo, friends with the FBI and who knew whom. So Sam said, “Yeah. War. Not a good thing.”
“And your father,” Groebke persisted, apparently unoffended. “What happened to him?”
“He came home from the war, lungs scarred from German gas. Then he coughed his lungs out for another fifteen years before dying in the county home.”
“That was a long time ago, for which I am sorry. But what do you think of us now?”
Sam didn’t want to go any further with this German. “I’d rather not say. For reasons I’m sure you know.”
Groebke relaxed as if he knew he was winning this conversation. “I think I know Americans. You believe our leader is a dictator, a tyrant. Perhaps. But what of you? Hmm?”
Sam kept quiet. Wished LaCouture would hurry up and get back.
Groebke’s eyes narrowed. “Of you, I will say that your President is a fool and a drunkard. I will also say that my leader—he will be known as the greatest leader of this century. He took a country shattered by war, shattered by an economic depression, and brought it back in a brief time, to seize what was rightfully ours. Can you say that about your President? Your Depression still cripples you… your armed forces are an international joke… the Japanese are raping China and you stand by doing nothing… They are pushing you out of the Pacific by bribing you to abandon your bases, like the one at Guam… and you lifted not a finger when the Low Countries, France, and finally England itself fell into our laps.”
“You leader is a murdering bastard,” Sam said quietly.
Groebke was about to reply when LaCouture slammed in, banging the door behind him. “Nearly had to strangle the son of a bitch at the front desk, but it’s settled. Good. You guys okay up here?”
Groebke took his pale eyes from Sam and looked at the FBI man. “Ja. We are.”
“Good,” LaCouture said. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Inspector…”
Sam got up and went to the door just as somebody knocked. LaCouture said, “Shit, see who it is, will ya, Miller?”
Sam opened the door, saw two Long’s Legionnaires standing there, cocky grins on their young faces. Carruthers and LeClerc, the ones who had come by his house last night. “Oh, it’s you,” LaCouture said. “Get your asses in here and let’s get to work.”
As he went past Sam, LeClerc bumped Sam with his shoulder, then laughed as Sam did nothing. Carruthers called out, “Oh, yeah, bud, we haven’t forgotten about that survey!”
Sam closed the door behind him, shutting out more Southern-tinged laughter.
Nine hours later, Sam was back at the Rockingham Hotel, his notebook filled with scribbled notations of what the FBI was looking for—traffic control spots, restaurants to feed the arriving masses of federal agents, and rooming houses to lodge them all—but to his surprise, LaCouture and Groebke were gone. At the front desk, the harried clerk—working on a switchboard that wouldn’t stop ringing—pulled out a note and said, “Oh, Inspector Miller. Agent LaCouture said to meet him… let’s see here, meet him by the hobo encampment off Maplewood. He said you’d know where that was.”
Ten minutes later, Sam was right back where this had all started, walking up the railroad track past the Fish Shanty, past the spot where his tattooed John Doe—no, Peter Wotan!—had been found, and up to the hobo camp, the place where Lou Purdue and the others lived, the place where—
Smoke was billowing up from where the camp had been.
Sam quickened his pace, heard the low growl of diesel engines, saw black clouds billowing up. Two bulldozers from the Portsmouth Public Works Department scraped the charred ground into a burning pile, moving the crumpled boards and shingles of what been people’s homes. LaCouture was standing by a polished black Pierce-Arrow, watching the action. Groebke stood closer to the flames, talking to a Long’s Legionnaire.
LaCouture turned to Sam, looking satisfied underneath the brim of his wide black hat. His pin-striped suit was immaculate, as always. Even his shoes were unscathed. “Inspector. So glad you could join us.”
“What’s going on?”
“A little cleanup, what do you think?”
The bulldozers growled, and he watched a bureau, a chair, a child’s doll get shoved into the flames. Smoke kept billowing up, oily and stinking. “What’s the point?”
LaCouture laughed. “What the hell do you think, boy? In a week, the President hisself is going to be coming up these railroad tracks. Do you really think we’re gonna want him and the press to see a bunch of bums and their filthy shacks?”
Sam watched the orange flames do their work. A bulldozer grumbled by, scooping up trash, some dirt. Riding the top of the dirt was a Roadmaster bicycle, just like the one Toby had. Sam stared at the bicycle, willed it to fall to the side, safe, unharmed, but then the bulldozer bucked and the bicycle fell under the treads, was crumpled, chewed up, destroyed. His chest ached. What kind of place was he living in?
“There’s not enough bulldozers in this country to clean up all the places like this,” he said.
“Don’t matter none,” LaCouture said. “So long as it’s clean around here, that’s all I care about.”
“What about the people? What happened to them?”
“Trespassers all,” LaCouture said. “Those Long boys took care of ’em. Sent off to some transit camps, far away from the newsreel boys come summit day.”
Sam’s witness, Lou Purdue, had lived here, but he knew that wouldn’t get any sympathy from LaCouture. To the FBI, that matter was done.
LaCouture said, “All right, then, tell me what you got for me today.”
Sam took out his notebook, flipped through the pages, started telling LaCouture what he had learned. After a minute, LaCouture held up a hand and said, “All right, all right, type up your notes and pass it along. We’ll deal with it later.”
Sam closed the notebook. The smoke and the flames were finally dying down. The bulldozers and their operators had moved off to the side, the diesel engines softly rumbling. Talking with the Long’s Legionnaire, Groebke laughed, tossed his cigarette into the smoldering embers.
LaCouture leaned back on the fender. “You don’t like me, do you, Miller?”
“I don’t know about that,” Sam said. “You’re here, I’m working for you. Why don’t we leave it at that?”
“You know, I don’t give a bird’s fart if you didn’t vote for the Kingfish, but he is my President and yours, too, no matter if you don’t like him or me. Just so you know, I grew up in Winn Parish, down in Louisiana. You know Winn Parish?”
“That’s where Long came from.”
“Yep,” the FBI agent said. “That’s where he came from, and man, he never forgets that. I grew up in Winn Parish, too, barefoot, poor, Momma dead, and Daddy, he never finished grammar school. Could barely read and write. Worked as a sharecropper, barely makin’ it year to year. And that was gonna be my life, Inspector, until the Kingfish came to power.”
“You were lucky, then.”
“Yeah, you can call it luck if you’d like, but when Long became governor, he started taxin’ Standard Oil and the other fat cat companies, and he got me and my brothers free schoolbooks, built hospitals and roads. You got good roads up here. Down home, it was dirt tracks that became mud troughs every time it rained. When the Kingfish became our governor, there weren’t more than three hundred miles of paved road in the entire state, and when he became senator, that had changed to more than two thousand miles. He took care of his folks in Winn Parish, he took care of the great state of Louisiana, and believe you me, he’s takin’ care of this great country.”
“Sure,” Sam said. “Lots of new roads, lots of new labor camps, and lots of new railway lines to help fill ’em up.”
LaCouture’s eyes flashed at him. “The voters here wanted change. They wanted to make things better. If that means some losers get put away, that’s the way it’s gonna be. And for those of us he helped, those of us who got an education and got to be somebody, there’s nothin’ the Kingfish can do wrong. Maybe I serve two masters, Long and Hoover, but they both are doin’ what’s right for this country. Don’t you forget that.”
“I’m sure I won’t,” Sam answered.
On the coals, the child’s doll burst into flame.
“Good,” LaCouture said. “You talk to your marshal when you get back to the police station, Inspector Miller, and you tell him to contact Randall at Party headquarters. It’s on for tomorrow night, and that’s all you need to say. Your marshal can figure out the rest.”
Groebke joined them, smiling. He gave a crisp nod to Sam and said in English to the FBI agent, “That was nice, very nice. Herr Roland, over there, has just returned from a term of service with the Waffen-SS George Washington Brigade. He spent some time on the Estonian front with other Legionnaires, getting needed experience.”
Sam turned away from the smoldering pile of debris and wreckage that had meant so much to people who had so little. “Yeah,” he said. “Takes a lot of experience to burn things.”
Groebke gave him a stiff nod. “Fire is wonderful. It cleans, it purifies, it makes everything… clear.”
LaCouture grinned at his counterpart. “Christ, we get a job done, you get all philosophical on us, Hans. Inspector, you believe in philosophy?”
“Not today,” Sam said.
Minutes later, he was back at the police station pushing past people moving in and out of the lobby, newsreel cameras already setting up shop outside, reporters buttonholing him as he went inside. He shrugged them all off and went upstairs. Mrs. Walton said, “He’s busy talking to the governor. And when he’s finished with that call, the governor of Maine wants to talk to him. So he can’t see you for a while.”
Sam went back to his desk and started going through the top stack of file folders and—
File folders.
Records.
Dammit. Sean had wanted to talk to him.
“I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,” he called out to Mrs. Walton. He took some satisfaction in ignoring her when she called after him.
The records were kept in the basement. Sean’s desk was empty. Stretching out into the darkness were file cabinets and boxes, and Sam heard a squeaking noise approaching him. Clarence Rolston, the janitor and overall handyman for the police station, was coming toward him. A bucket of water on rollers was before him, and he was pushing it forward with the mop inside.
Clarence was the older brother of a city councilman. He’d once supposedly drunk some poisoned rotgut during Prohibition, and his brain had been slightly scrambled ever since.
Sam said, “Clarence.”
The man looked up. His gray hair was a tight ball of fuzz about his head. “Sam… I’m right, aren’t I? Sam.”
“That’s right, Clarence. Good job. I’m looking for somebody.”
The janitor shook his head. “My brother Bobby? I tell people all the time, I can’t help you. I can’t get you to see Bobby. Bobby does his own thing and I do my own. If you need a job or relief, then I can’t help you, I’m sorry.”
“That’s fine, Clarence, I’m not looking for your brother.”
“Oh.” The janitor looked relieved. “What is it, then?”
“I’m looking for Sean, the records clerk. Can you tell me where I can find him?”
A shake of the head. “I can, but I shouldn’t.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because they told me not to say anything, that’s why.”
“Who?”
“The G-men, that’s who.”
“Are you telling me that Sean’s been arrested by the FBI?”
“Darn you, you tricked me. You tricked me into saying something I shouldn’t’ve. Oh, darn it, I’m going to lose my job…”
Tears were trickling down Clarence’s cheeks. Sam grasped his upper arm gently. “Clarence. Look at me. I’m the police inspector here. And I know a lot of secrets. This is going to be one more secret, all right? I won’t tell anybody I was here, won’t say a word about you. You won’t lose your job, your brother won’t get into trouble, nothing like that’s going to happen. Just calm down.”
Clarence was smiling as he wiped away the tears. “That’s nice. That’s right nice of you to say something like that, Sam. Thanks a lot.”
“Not a problem,” Sam said.
Back upstairs he was pleased to find Hanson alone, no phone up to his ear. Sam took a seat and Hanson said, “Tell me what you’ve got.”
Sam spent the next fifteen minutes describing the requirements of LaCouture and Groebke. When he finished his briefing, Hanson pushed aside his notes and said with disgust, “Glorified travel agents and traffic cops. That’s all the damn feds and Krauts need us to do. All right, we’ll do what we’re told. Not like we have any goddamn choice in the matter. Anything else?”
“Two more things,” Sam said. “Agent LaCouture told me to tell you to contact Randall at Party headquarters in Concord. That something is on tomorrow night and you would know what that means. Do you?”
Hanson’s face seemed to lose color. “Yeah. Yeah, I know what that means. Shit. You and everyone else in the department… we have a dirty job set for tomorrow night.”
From the bleak look on Hanson’s face, Sam knew what was going to happen. The long-rumored and long-threatened crackdown on refugees was about to begin.
“What time?” Sam asked.
Hanson scribbled something in his notepad. “Probably early evening. Damn. Okay, you said two things. What’s next?”
“Sean Donovan. He’s been arrested by the FBI. Do you know why?”
“Not my business and not yours,” Hanson said. “Donovan was taken into federal protective custody two days ago. That’s all I can say.”
“And Leo Gray? Picked up by the Interior Department the other day?”
“Same answer. Not your business. You’ve got enough to do.”
“But Sean Donovan and Leo Gray, they work for you, work for the department, can’t you—”
Hanson glared at him. “Right now I have the bigname correspondents from the radios and the newsreels wanting a piece of me, the governors of two states, the FBI, the Gestapo, the German diplomatic corps and the State Department and the President’s people in D.C. and Concord. If you think I’ve got time to worry about a file clerk and a rookie cop, you’re seriously wrong. They’ve both been charged with federal offenses, it’s nothing I can fix, that’s it. None of us are above being rousted by the feds if they’re in the mood for trouble. Got it, Inspector?”
Sam tasted ashes in his mouth. “Got it, sir.”
“Good. Remember, you’re liaison, so if the FBI and the Gestapo are finished with you, go on home and get some rest. Check in with them tomorrow and see what they want.”
“And what might that be?”
“How in hell should I know?” Hanson exploded. “If they want you to strip naked and dance the Charleston in Market Square, do it! If they want you to fly to Hollywood and bring back Mae West for the Führer’s entertainment, do that, too!”
Sam got up and left without another word. So much going on, so very much, and right now he was late for dinner.
Outside of the police station, there was a crowd of people trying to come in, trying to be seen. There were a few children holding the hands of a mother or a father, crying, not wanting to be here on such a cold night. Under a streetlight, watching with amusement, stood another squad of Long’s Legionnaires.
In the dirt-floor basement, once again, Curt spread a set of cards and papers on the table. He examined them and said, “Damn fine job. Ralph did great with the photos, but my compliments to whoever finished this.”
Curt grunted. “I’ll make sure to pass that along if any of us make it alive through the next week.”
Up above, the cellar door opened and the man from before, Vince, clumped down the stairs, carrying a long cardboard box that said FRESH FLOWERS in a pretty script. Vince put the box on the table. “There you go. As promised.”
He pulled the box over, lifted the top. Inside was a long object wrapped in brown paper and twine. He pulled it out, undid the twine, and unwrapped the paper. A bolt-action rifle with attached telescopic sight was revealed, along with a small paper sack. Inside the sack were six rifle cartridges.
Curt said, “Do you recognize it? Will it work?”
He felt the cool metal and smooth wood of the rifle. “Sure. It’s a U.S. Army model 1903 .30-06 rifle. Nice and accurate. Holds eight rounds. Has a sweet Weaver 2.5 scope. Will do the job perfectly.” He picked it up, worked the action, held it up to the light. Nice light sheen of oil, no rust or specks of debris.
“Well?” Vince asked.
“As advertised,” he said. “Good job.”
“You know, I can still deliver it if you’d like, won’t be a problem at all, and—”
He put the rifle down, got up, and kicked out with his good leg, catching Vince at the back of the knees. Vince fell hard to the dirt. He rolled him over and put his knee at the base of the man’s spine, reached down to the man’s chin and top of his head, twisted, and pulled. There was a dull crack, a spasm of his legs, and that was that.
He stood, brushed his hands together. Curt said sharply, “Damn it to hell! Was that really necessary?”
“Afraid it was,” he said. “He wouldn’t give up trying to find out where I wanted the rifle stashed. I think he was a snitch. And whoever he’s working for… they only know I have the rifle. They don’t know where it’s going to end up.”
Curt said, “Think or know he’s a snitch?”
He remembered the other night, seeing Vince entering a nice new sedan. “Know.”
“Suppose you’re wrong?”
“Then he died for his country.”
Curt seemed to struggle with that for a moment. Then he said, “Now what?
He went back to the rifle and cartridges, and in a few moments, everything was back in the flower box. He handed it over to Curt. “You leave now, and soon as you can, put it where I want it, along with one or two other things. But you need to make sure you’re not followed. You’re smart enough, you’ve been at this long enough, but Curt—you can’t be followed.”
“I won’t be followed.”
“One more thing,” he said. “Once you make the delivery, get the hell out of town. Don’t come back home. Don’t go to anyone you know, any place you’ve been before. Just get in the car, pick a compass point, and start driving.”
Curt looked at him, his eyes moist. “You… you think you can do this?”
“I was born in a revolutionary town,” he said, trying to put confidence in his voice. “I can do it.”
At home, Toby had gone to bed and Sarah was in the kitchen, slicing up some cold roast beef from last Sunday’s dinner as fried potato pancakes splattered and sang in the frying pan. She had on a light blue cotton dress, and her white apron was snug around her hips. She turned, a length of hair falling across her face, smiling at him.
He remembered a cold fall day back in ’31 when he came off a muddy field, football helmet in hand, and for whatever reason that day, he saw that face, saw that smile, and instantly knew he would do almost anything to see it again.
“Sorry I didn’t call, tell you I was going to be late,” he said.
“I understand,” she said, turning back to the stove. “I heard over the radio what’s going on. My word, Sam, President Long and Adolf Hitler, coming to our town. I can’t believe it.”
He shrugged off his coat, took off his hat, and deposited them in the front closet along with his revolver and holster. “Believe it. It’s going to happen, and this place is going to be a zoo for the next week.”
Back in the kitchen, he came up behind her, grasped her slim hips, and kissed the back of her neck. Sarah made a quick purring noise, like a cat happy for the attention, and she leaned back up against him, her buttocks warm against his groin.
“I’m going to be helping the zookeepers,” he told her. “I’m now the liaison between the police department and the FBI. As things happen, it’s the same FBI guy from before, the one on my John Doe case. Accompanied by his German secret-police buddy.”
He kissed her again and went to the sink to wash his hands. Sarah said, “So what does that mean for you?”
“It means lucky me, I get to be the feds’ errand boy until this summit is over. Finding places to sleep and eat for all the government types coming into Portsmouth over the next week. Lots of FBI and Secret Service, people being rounded up, I’m sure… and damn, speaking of rounding up—you remember Sean Donovan?”
She turned, spatula in hand. “Sure. That crippled guy who works in records?”
“He got picked up two days ago. Off to a labor camp.”
“Can’t the marshal get him off?”
“It’s a federal charge. And Hanson can’t do much with something federal, as much as he’d like to. One other thing: As long as I’m being an errand boy, I won’t be able to investigate my John Doe case.”
She put the slices of roast beef on a plate. “What a world, what a time… and here in Portsmouth. I can’t believe it. Why Portsmouth?”
Sam yawned. He couldn’t help it. “I heard from somebody in the state police that Hitler hates the water, hates ships. He didn’t want to spend a day more on the water than he had to. So instead of New York or D.C., he’s coming to Portsmouth. A quicker trip. Plus, the Navy Yard’s an easy place to secure.”
Sarah put the potato pancakes on a plate, brought it over to the table. “Security, hah. Maybe if we’re lucky, a crane will fall on Long and Hitler at the same time. Make the world a safer place.”
He picked up his knife and fork as she sat across from him. “Maybe so, but if Long goes, some other creep takes over. What’s-his-name. That senator from Missouri. Same with Hitler.”
She placed her chin in her hand. “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t get the feeling our Vice President likes being Long’s lackey, the poor son of a gun. And I heard that—”
He put his silverware down, looked at the cheerleader who once won his heart, no longer listening to what she was saying. He thought of the boy at the Fish Shanty with the dollar in his hand. Sean warning him to watch his back. The train of prisoners heading up to Maine. The families outside the police station, the children crying. His brother, Tony, on the loose. Donna Fitzgerald and her man, Larry, back together. Leo Gray being picked up by the Black Maria. The visit last night from the two Long’s Legionnaires, who made a point of knowing the door in his living room led to the cellar. And what Hanson had said not over an hour ago.
No one was safe.
Her head came up. “Everything all right? Sam?”
He kept his face calm, picked up his knife and fork again, then laid them down. “Sarah… the next few days are really going to be hell around here. The FBI, the Secret Service, army and navy, you name it, they’ll be here. Not to mention Long’s bully boys.”
“I’m sure you’re right. What’s wrong, then?”
“You and Toby need to leave town during the summit.”
“Sam, you can’t be serious.”
“I’m very serious. There’s going to be roadblocks, protestors. People out in the streets. Lots of chances for punches being thrown, people getting arrested, maybe even people getting shot. I don’t want you or Toby caught in the middle.”
“We could just stay home.”
“And suppose the Secret Service or the Department of the Interior do some digging, talking to people, and hear about you and your school friends? Or if the Long’s Legionnaires decide to finally act on what they know about the cellar? You two could be in a boxcar headed west before I knew it, before I could do anything about it.”
“Sam…”
“Look, a department employee just got himself arrested, and his boss, the city marshal, couldn’t do a damn thing. Someone who worked for him! How much pull do you think I’d have if anything happened to you and Toby?”
“But my dad—”
“Sarah,” he interrupted. “Your dad, he could help. His summer place up at Lake Winnipesaukee. In Moultonborough. It would be a good place to stay for a few days. Quiet, remote, far away from this madhouse.”
“Take Toby out of school? And not go to work?”
“Schools are going to be closed, Sarah. You know it makes sense. With my brother out there, the place crawling with cops and feds and all that…”
She sat back in the chair. “Sam… okay, we’ll talk about it later, okay? After you eat.”
“Sure,” he said. “But you know it makes sense. Just for a few days. That’s all.”
She took a breath. “Okay. For now—I hate to say this, but after you’re done, I need you to go upstairs and see Walter.”
“Why? What’s up? His typewriter too loud?”
“No, nothing like that. He’s got a visitor up there, and they were talking loud a while ago, keeping Toby awake. You know Walter promised to keep quiet. Could you just remind him, please?”
“Sure,” he said. “Anything else I should know?”
“Yeah. I hate it when you’re right.”
That should have brought a witty response, but he kept his mouth shut. They ate silently for a little bit, and then, remembering something from the morning, he said, “Sarah, do you know anyone from school who drives a yellow Rambler? Four-door, a big car.”
She sliced a piece of meat. “No, I don’t think so. Why?”
He hesitated. Should he tell her the car was connected to his murder investigation? And if he did that, suppose it belonged to someone in the Underground Railroad movement—could he trust her to keep quiet? Sarah might warn this person and—
“Oh, just something that happened when I dropped off Toby this morning,” he led quietly. “Yellow Rambler came up the street, nearly clipped me. Ticked me off a bit, that’s all.”
“Oh,” she said, bringing her fork up to her mouth. “I see.”
No, he thought, you don’t. What you don’t see is that earlier, when you didn’t tell me about Paul Robeson coming to our house, you had kept it a secret from me. And now I don’t know what other secrets you might be keeping. And if I don’t trust you, then our marriage has just taken a big hit, but I can’t say that to you, because then there would be more and more questions, voices and tempers raised, and I just don’t have the energy for it.
So he kept quiet, as a good inspector—and lousy husband—should.
After Sam finished dinner, he grabbed his coat and went to the outside staircase. He trotted up the steps and knocked on the door, calling out, “Walter! It’s Sam. Open up, please.”
It took three more knocks before Walter opened the door. “Sam!” he said a bit too enthusiastically. “How good of you to join us. Of course, I assume you’re here as a landlord and neighbor and not as part of your duties in the constabulary… constabulation… the police force.”
“Walter, can I please come in?”
“But of course!”
Walter opened the door wider, and Sam stepped inside. A one-legged man was sitting at Walter’s table, smoking a cigarette, crutches leaning against his wooden chair. He had on a shapeless black sweater and khaki trousers, the right leg of the pants folded over and pinned just above the knee. His brown hair was cut very short, and the way he held his cigarette said “foreigner” to Sam. “Sam, may I present my guest… my boon companion for the evening… Reginald Hale, late flying lieutenant in His Majesty’s Royal Air Force. Reggie, this is Sam Miller, inspector for the Portsmouth Police Department, good neighbor, and kindly landlord. Gentlemen.”
Reggie said in a drawling British accent, “Charmed, I’m sure.”
“Hi, yourself,” Sam said.
Walter put both hands on the back of a chair, as if depending upon it for support. On the chair was his leather valise. “Reggie is helping me with a bit of technical advice. You see, I’m working on a story in which the hero is a fighter pilot suddenly transported in time to the future, where civilization is under siege and the civilized ones have forgotten how to fight and—”
The professor must have noticed the look on Sam’s face, for he swallowed hard and continued, “But of course, my plotting means nothing to you. What was important was knowing the technical details of flying, which the good lieutenant”—Walter pronounced it in the British fashion, “leftenant”—“was going to help me. And then we started listening to the news about this wonderful bit of bloody diplomatic business that the butcher of Europe and the Kingfish of Louisiana managed to pull off, and well, a bottle emerged and other tales were told.”
“I see,” Sam said. “Walter, look, no offense, but Sarah heard some loud noises up here, Toby’s trying to sleep and—”
The RAF man stubbed out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray, struggled upright, reaching for his crutches. “Not a problem, Inspector, it was time for me to leave anyway. Professor, thank you for your hospitality.” He hopped, grabbed his crutches, and Sam didn’t know whether to keep looking or glance away. So he did nothing. The crutches went underneath the man’s arms and Sam said, “Do you need a hand getting down the steps?”
“Thanks awfully, but I’ve had lots of practice. Months and months, if you must know. First time I’ve ever met an American copper. You wouldn’t be interested in my immigration status, would you?”
“No, I wouldn’t, but others might.”
Reggie smiled, leaned on his crutches. “Bloody awful, this. Hopping around like a toad. Once upon a time I was somebody important, one of those knights of the air, ready to do battle against the invading Hun. We were the last hope for our island, and we were going to repulse those bloody bastards. That was the plan, at any rate. Too bad nobody told Jerry about the plan. They had their own ideas. Bomb the shit out of our airfields and radar sites, clearing the way for the paratroopers to seize ground and hold it for the follow-up invasion troops. Still, we fought, against terrible odds… It sounds strange, but I was the lucky one. Lost my leg after an ME-109 jumped me, and managed to get out on one of the evacuation ships.”
Reggie made his way to the doorway, turned awkwardly, and said wistfully, “We might have made it, you know. If Winnie hadn’t been tossed out, if the Cabinet hadn’t sued for peace after the first landings, if the king hadn’t died in the bombings, if you… if you bloody Yanks hadn’t sat on your hands and decided not to help us. We might have made it. And then Herr Hitler would be fighting both us and the Bolshies.”
“Bunch of us thought we had done enough last time,” Sam said. “It just looked like another European squabble, and the last one didn’t end well. So most of us didn’t want to get involved.”
Reggie shook his head. “Oh, you’ll get involved. Maybe not this year or next year, but I guarantee this, Inspector: Once that fucking German housepainter gets the Reds hammered down, he’s going to turn west again. And your mighty wide ocean won’t help. Maybe then you’ll wish you had helped us.”
Walter opened the door, and Reggie hobbled out. Cold air came in, and when the door was shut, Walter turned to Sam and said, “I’m sorry again for disturbing your lovely wife.”
“Apology accepted, Walter. There’s one more thing… and I swear to God, you haven’t heard it from me.” Sam never thought he would do this, but after the past few days, he couldn’t stay quiet any more. “Tomorrow night. You might want to tell Reginald, and any other similar friends, that they shouldn’t be in their usual haunts. Something’s going on. Do I make myself clear?”
“As clear as crystal. Sam… I cannot tell you how much I owe you, this is going to be—”
“Walter, I have no idea what you’re talking about. And neither do you.”
His tenant grabbed his arm. “I’m not a religious man, but God bless you for what you’ve done.”
Sam broke free from the man’s grasp. “I think God’s got His hands full enough without worrying about me.”
Before going to bed, Sam checked in on Toby. His boy had his crystal radio set on low; thankfully, it was just playing soft dance music from someplace where people had enough money and time to go dancing. He reached down to unplug it, and Toby stirred and said, “Dad?”
He sat down on the edge of the bed. “Yeah, sport. What is it?”
“Mmm, Mommy said we’re gonna go on a trip tomorrow… up to Grandpa’s camp.”
He touched Toby’s hair. “That’s right. Just a few days. You and Mom.”
“And I won’t get in trouble at school?”
“No, no trouble at all.”
“Good. I’ve been in trouble enough.”
His boy’s breathing eased, and Sam stood up to leave. Toby stirred and said, “I told ’em, you know. That my dad wasn’t a rat. I had to tell ’em you’re not a rat. So I did okay. I didn’t fight, Dad, but I didn’t let him get away with it, either…”
Sam went out, closing the door softly behind him.
He slid into bed next to Sarah, who rolled over and nuzzled up against him and said, “You win.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Dad’s coming to pick me and Toby up tomorrow.”
“He’ll get over it,” he said, kissing her and feeling the silkiness of lace on her body. She kissed him back and then pressed her lips against his ear and whispered with urgency, “Sam… forgive me, will you?”
“For what?” he whispered back. Both of them kept their voices low from habit, being so close to their dozing son.
“For who I am. A disappointment… a shrew… and… oh, just forgive me.”
He kissed her again, deeper, as she moaned and moved underneath him. “Forgiven, Sarah, always forgiven. Though I don’t agree with what you just said.”
“Shhh,” Sarah replied, lowering her hand on his belly, “let’s stop talking for a while. Here’s the rain check I promised you from a long time ago, big guy.”
In the darkness he sighed at the touch of his cheerleader. “Not that big.”
Her warm hand lowered some more. “Just you wait.”
At breakfast that morning, his heart nearly broke at the sight of the two suitcases—one large, the other small—at the door, huddled there like frightened children. It was wrong, it was awful, but he knew it was the right thing to do.
Sarah had made a good breakfast for them all, pancakes and bacon. Toby kept on asking if the water was warm enough up at Grandpa’s camp, could he do some swimming when he got there if Mom was there to watch him?
Sam said, “If your mother says so, then it’s fine.”
Now the dishes had been gathered and he stood behind Sarah, hands on her hips, and kissed the curve of her neck, and said, “Leave them. I’ll do them later.”
“Please. It gives me something to do. Something to keep me busy. All right?” Her voice quivered.
Sam ran his hands up and down her slim hips, recalled with delight the passion that these same hips had brought him last night. He brought his lips to her ear and said, “What did you mean last night, asking for forgiveness? Where did that come from?”
In an instant, her body tensed, as if she had heard something disquieting. She shook off his hands with a sharp movement. “Can we not talk about this now, please? Dad will be here any moment, and I need to get the dishes done.”
Message received. Once again he was struck by the contradiction that was his wife: the passionate lover of last night and the irritated housewife this morning. Sam went out to the living room to get his revolver, coat, and hat and, through the front window, saw his father-in-law, Lawrence Young, striding up the walkway as if he owned the damn place, which he once wished to do. Back during those long days and nights as a newlywed, when Sam had struggled to come up with the down payment, Larry had hinted at how his new son-in-law could get the desperately needed money: Sam’s ass working weekends at the furniture store.
Larry had never gotten what he wanted, Sam thought. But Sam had gotten something else. Bloody hands and a memory that would never leave him.
Larry came in, dressed in a fine dark gray overcoat, looking pleased with himself. “Morning, Sam.”
“Hello, Larry.”
“I understand my daughter and grandson need some protection.”
“In a manner of speaking,” he replied.
“I thought that was your job.”
Sam felt his shoulders tense. “It is. Which is why I’m getting them out of town during the summit.”
“Maybe you’re getting them out of town, but I’m putting them up, driving up there and back, taking the better part of my workday. I hope you appreciate that.”
From the kitchen, Sarah came out, smiling. “Dad, thanks for helping us out.”
Toby was there, saying, “Grandpa!,” his face radiant.
Sam picked up the two suitcases. “Tell you what, Toby. You two get your coats, and I’ll put your suitcases out in Grandpa’s car. Okay?”
Before anybody said anything, he was outside in the blessedly cool and free air, carrying both suitcases.
Sarah said, “I’ll try to call you the moment we’re settled in if the damn phone’s working.”
He kissed her and said, “You sure you’ve got everything packed?”
She squeezed the back of his neck and whispered, “Not really, but I’m leaving all my frilly things behind for later… for another rain check.”
Another kiss exchanged. “When it’s all over, I’ll come up to fetch you. The city’ll owe me some time.”
Sarah got into the front seat of the Oldsmobile. “Dad could come get us.”
“I owe him too much already.”
From the rear seat, Toby called out, “So I can go swimming? Really?”
“If your mother says so.”
“Good,” his boy said, and then, “Dad? Make sure my models are okay, will you?”
“Sure, Toby,” he promised. “Nothing will happen to them.”
He closed both car doors and walked up to his father-in-law. “Larry, thanks. I mean it. Thanks.”
“Always nice to know I can fill in when you can’t. Just need to discuss—”
For the benefit of his wife and boy watching from the Oldsmobile, Sam smiled up at his father-in-law. “Let’s not keep my wife and boy waiting. All right?”
Lawrence said, “Just one moment, that’s all. Look, I understand you’ve taken my advice. To become more active in the Party.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“I see.” Lawrence’s voice turned frosty. “But I’ve been told you’re probably going to become more active under the sponsorship of Marshal Harold Hanson.”
“Look, can we get into this some other time, because—”
“No, we don’t have to go into it some other time. You’ve made your choice, and you’ll have to live with it. You’ve tossed your lot in with the marshal. That’s fine. And when budget time comes, don’t think you can come to me looking for help if your position in the police department is eliminated. When it’s eliminated.”
“Is that a threat, Larry? What, you think I’m your slave? Someone you can order around because I owe you?”
“Owe me? For what? Taking my daughter and grandson up to Moultonborough?”
“You know what I mean,” Sam said. “Everyone knows how I got my inspector’s job. You pulled some strings and talked to the Police Commission and—”
Lawrence laughed. “You stupid little dope. Whatever gave you that idea?”
“It was common—”
“Some smart inspector you are. I lobbied against you, you numbskull. Even knowing it might hurt Sarah. It would have been worth it to see you fail and stay a sergeant. Got that? And I still don’t want you to make it—a punk like you, son of a drunk and brother of a criminal, with my only girl. And having you active in the Party… besides everything else, I just wanted you somewhere I had you by the short hairs. That’s all. And now that you’re sponsored by that fool Hanson, I know you’re going to fail. I’m going to enjoy every damn second of it.”
Sam took a breath, thinking of the secret he knew about this man, the one he had pledged he would never divulge. “The only thing I’m looking for now is to see you get the hell off my porch.”
Sam went in and closed the door, then stood at the window to see the Oldsmobile back out of the driveway and head away. He watched until it made the corner, turned, and his family was gone.
He didn’t bother going to the police station after his family left. Instead, he headed straight to the Rockingham Hotel. Two army MPs stood at the entrance, clipboards in their hands. Their khaki uniforms were pressed and their boots and helmets gleamed. So did their Sam Brown belts and the holsters for their Colt .45 pistols. Their faces were lean and serious, as if they spent a lot of time saying no to people.
“Sorry, pal,” the MP on the left told Sam. “Place is closed for the duration.”
“I’m sure, but I’m here to see Agent LaCouture of the FBI.”
“Name and identification?” the MP on the right said.
“Sam Miller. Of the Portsmouth Police Department.” He showed his inspector’s badge, his police identification card, and just for the hell of it, his officer’s commission in the New Hampshire National Guard. All three were scowlingly examined by the MP on the right while his companion checked the clipboard and nodded. “Yeah, he’s on the list. ID check out all right?”
“Sure enough,” the other MP said, passing the identity cards back to Sam, who pocketed them. The lobby was chaotic, with piles of luggage, army and navy officers in full-dress uniform, and newsreel and radio reporters all thrust up against one another. He slipped through the crowd, went upstairs, and knocked on the door of Room Twelve.
Agent LaCouture opened the door, dressed for the day in shirt and tie and seersucker suit. Groebke was sitting at the room’s round table, a pile of papers in front of him. The Gestapo man was dressed plainly again, in a severe black suit with a white shirt and black necktie.
“Glad to see you, Inspector,” LaCouture told him. “You’re early.”
“Want to get a jump on the day,” Sam answered. The room smelled of cologne and stale tobacco and strong coffee. He wondered what the two of them talked about when they were alone together. Did they trade war stories about the Kingfish and the Führer?
LaCouture went to the desk, picked up a set of papers. “Here,” he said, handing them over. “Your task for the day. Here’s a listing of restaurants, hotels, and boardinghouses in your fair city. I want you to go to each of them, see how many people they can feed and house on a daily basis, get a master list together, and be back here by five o’clock. Got it?”
Sam looked at the papers. “This looks like something a clerk can do.”
“I’m sure, but this particular clerk I’m looking at is a police inspector and thereby knows everybody he’ll be talking to. And this particular clerk will know if someone is bullshitting him. So yeah, Inspector—a clerk can do this job, but I’m giving it to you.”
Sam said nothing, just folded the papers in half. The Gestapo officer was grinning. LaCouture said, “You don’t like it, do you?”
“I’ve had worse jobs,” Sam replied.
The day became a long slog of going through most of Portsmouth. As much as he hated to admit it, LaCouture was right: Anybody else would have been faced with some bullshit talk about availability and prices, but such crap wasn’t going to fly with him today. From the Irish landlady to the White Russian exile to the descendant of the first family into Portsmouth from 1623, he knew all of the lodging house owners, and he got the information he needed about the number of available rooms.
He was chilled at how quickly the checkpoints had been set up. It was like a newsreel from occupied Europe: soldiers with rifles over their shoulders, standing in the streets, mobile barriers made of wood and barbed wire blocking intersections and sidewalks. Several times he saw people held apart at the checkpoints as their papers were checked and rechecked by FBI or Department of Interior agents in dark suits with grim faces.
Now, having given the list to LaCouture, who appeared to have a phone receiver permanently attached to his ear, with Groebke sitting next to him, scribbling furiously with a fountain pen… well, he could now head home.
But home to what?
He went back to the police station, back to what he knew was ahead for him, another long night.
He had a dinner of fish chowder and hard rolls at his desk, watching the clock hands wander by, waiting and waiting. He had tried to call Moultonborough three times through the New England Telephone operator, and each time the call was interrupted by a bored male voice: “All long-distance phone calls from this county are now being administered by the U.S. Army Signal Corps. Is this an official military phone call?”
“No, it’s a call from—”
Click, as the line was disconnected.
Two more tries, using his police affiliation, got the same result.
So he gave up.
The marshal’s office door opened and Harold Hanson came out, his suit and shirt wrinkled, eyes puffy behind his glasses. “Time to ride, Sam,” he said quietly. “Let’s go.”
Sam got up from his desk, wiped his hands on a paper napkin, and followed the city marshal to the station’s basement. He smelled gasoline and fuel oil from the department’s maintenance garage on the other side. There was a crowd of off-duty cops, all wearing civvies, talking in low voices. Large cardboard boxes were set by the near brick wall.
Hanson stepped up on a wooden box, held up a hand. “All right,” he told them. “This isn’t going to be easy, but it’s something we’ve been ordered to do. This is a National Guard action. We’re heading out in a few minutes.”
“Boss,” came a voice. “What the hell’s going on?”
“The summit’s taking place in a few days. We’re under orders from the White House to clear out all undesirables in the city. This place has to look perfect for the radio, newsreels, and newspapers.”
The basement was silent. Sam thought about that hobo encampment, bulldozed and burnt to the ground. What about Lou Purdue? Where in hell had he gone, with what he knew about a witness? One more loose end about Peter Wotan…
“So that’s what we’re doing.” Hanson’s voice was hesitant, unlike his usual style. “We’ve got flophouses and other places to check out. Anyone who’s a refugee, anyone who doesn’t belong in Portsmouth, we’ve got to remove. That’s orders straight from the White House.”
“Remove them to where, boss?”
“Not our problem. The army will have transports set up, and they’ll be taken out to a resettlement camp.” He rubbed his eyes. “Look at it this way, guys. We’re just following orders. All right? Just following orders.”
From the cardboard boxes, military gear smelling of mildew was hauled out: old-style round metal helmets from the last war (Like one Dad probably wore, Sam thought), canvas web belting, wooden truncheons, and green cloth armbands that said GUARD in white block letters. He put his gear on, feeling as if he were dressing up for Halloween, and joined four other cops—Pinette, Lubrano, Smith, and Reardon—in an old Ford cruiser that took three tries to start up. He sat in the rear, silent, with the helmet in his lap. There was joking and laughing from the others about being in the Kingfish’s army, but he didn’t join them.
Lubrano said to Reardon, “You know, I’ve always wondered how we got so many Jews and refugees in town. Bet you they paid off Long and his buds to look the other way when they got smuggled in.”
Reardon laughed. “Too bad they can’t get their money back after tonight.”
They pulled up at Foss Avenue, a narrow street about a block away from the harbor, with sagging buildings of brick and wood, dirty trash bins on the crooked sidewalks. Sam knew the street well: taverns, flophouses, and boardinghouses. A place for people struggling to make a go of it. The luckier ones moved on to better neighborhoods. The others never left except in ambulances or funeral home wagons.
There was another reason for remembering this place, for something Sam had done on Thurber Street, two blocks over, just before he and his very pregnant Sarah had bought their house. Thurber Street. Even being this close to the street made him uncomfortable. He turned away. There was a wooden and barbed-wire barrier overseen by two regular National Guard troops in uniform, gear spotless, boots shiny, Springfield rifles hanging from their shoulders. Sam noted their grins as he and the others got out of the cruiser with their surplus gear. The real National Guard and the play National Guard.
Sam hung back as other cops dressed in helmets and gear approached. From the gloom came a man in a dark blue suit, Confederate-flag pin on his lapel, carrying a small flashlight and a clipboard stuffed with papers. “Eddie Mitchell, Department of Interior,” the man said. “Listen up, okay?”
Sam and the others gathered in a semicircle around Mitchell, a tall man with glasses who spoke with a soft Tennessee accent. “The other end of this street is sealed off, and we’ve got the alleyways covered as well. Y’all gonna be used as chutes. There’s a place down there, the Harbor Point Hotel. In about”—he put the flashlight beam to his watch—“ten minutes, we’re gonna have that place raided and trucks backed up to take the undesirables away. Y’all just gonna be flanking the front entrance. Just make sure nobody gets away. Got it?”
A murmur of voices, but Sam kept quiet. He wished he was in his empty home, taking a bath and having a beer. Any place else than here.
A rumble of approaching truck engines, and Mitchell waved a hand. The regular National Guardsmen pulled the barrier aside. Two army deuce-and-a-half trucks growled by, canvas sides flapping, diesel fumes belching. Mitchell yelled, “Let’s go, boys. Follow ’em!”
The more eager of the bunch followed the truck at a half-trot. Sam pulled up the rear, walking at a brisk pace, truncheon in hand, helmet hard and uncomfortable on his head. Ahead, voices were yelling, and there was a throng of people in front of the hotel, some wearing uniforms, others not. Flashlights were being waved around, and there were other guys in suits directing the flow of people, blowing whistles. The place was three-story, wooden, with a rotting porch out front, a blue-and-white wooden sign announcing HARBOR POINT. One of the trucks backed in, the tailgate rattling open. Sam took a position by the porch as lights blazed, as the other officers in helmets and webbed gear made up two lines leading to the truck.
Amazing, too, was what followed. Wooden tables were unfolded, chairs lined up. It was strange, like seeing a voting booth set up in the heart of a riot. Then people started filing out of the grandly named hotel. They were old and young, the men clean-shaven or bearded, some women wearing colorful kerchiefs on their hair, some holding children by the hand. Most carried small suitcases, as though they had always expected this night to come.
He heard a jumble of voices—French, Polish, Dutch, British—but the faces all looked the same. Pale, shocked, wide-eyed, as if they could not believe this was happening to them in this supposed land of liberty. All had the look of having been put through this before, but with soldiers in gray uniforms and coal-scuttle helmets, soldiers with crooked cross symbols on their vehicles, not white stars.
A woman in a thin black cotton dress stared at him as she went by. She called out in a thick accent, “Why are you doing this? Why?”
He looked away. He had no answer.
At the nearest truck, a line had formed by the wooden tables. Paperwork was being checked, clipboards consulted. The men manning the tables shook their heads, made a motion with a thumb, and up into the rear of the truck the people went. As if they had practiced it before, the younger undesirables helped the older ones up.
“Shit,” someone whispered. “This is like those damn newsreels from Europe, you know?”
“Yeah, I know,” Sam replied. “I guess we’re all Europeans now.”
A motion caught his eye. A man came down the wooden steps alone, using crutches, one leg usable, the other cut off at the knee. RAF Lieutenant Reggie Hale, the guest of Walter Tucker. Staring straight ahead, moving slowly and deliberately, heading over to the examining table. Sam watched, hardly able to bear seeing the slow progress of the crippled pilot. Walter probably hadn’t gotten to him in time. When Hale got to the desk and started talking, the thought came to him of how the poor bastard would get into the rear of the truck.
That was what did it for him.
Sam left the line and went over to the desk, where Hale was speaking low and proper. “Old boy, I tell you, someone must have stolen my papers, because they were in my coat just last week.”
“Yeah, fine, that’s only the sixth time I’ve heard that in the last five minutes,” replied the bored National Guard clerk. “Come along, up on the truck and—”
“Hold on,” Sam said.
The RAF pilot swiveled on his crutches, his face expressionless. The clerk said to Sam, “Fella, get back where you belong, all right?”
Sam handed over his badge, not using LaCouture’s card, wanting to keep the FBI man out of this. “I’m Inspector Sam Miller of the Portsmouth Police Department. This man is Reggie Hale, right?”
The clerk glanced down at his clipboard. “Yeah, so what?”
“Hale is a material witness in an ongoing investigation I’m conducting. He’s to stay here.”
“Hey, Miller, I don’t need—”
“The name is Inspector Miller, pal,” Sam said. “And Hale stays here. Or I’ll go get the rest of the Portsmouth cops and leave, and you can see how well you do your job with twenty or so fewer men. How does that sound?”
The clerk had a little Clark Gable mustache that twitched some. He handed back Sam’s badge with a clatter. “Fine, take the fucking limey. I’ll put your name down as the guy I let him go to. In case he shoots the governor or something, it’ll be your neck. Get back where you belong.”
Sam walked back to the line, then glanced behind to see if Hale was following, but no, the RAF pilot had limped away and faded into the shadows.
Well, he thought, how about that.
One of his fellow cops said, “Sam, what the hell was that?”
“That was a lesson,” he answered. “Sometimes you do a favor and you don’t get anything in return. Except pissed-off people.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
He stood there, the wooden truncheon cold in his hand, as the arrests continued, as the trucks backed up with their growling diesels, the children crying, the whistles blowing, seeing it all, not wanting to see it, not wanting to hear it, but forcing himself to do it just the same.
After about an hour of watching the refugees get processed, the coffee he had drunk earlier had percolated through his kidneys and bladder. He said to Lubrano, “Hey, do you know anywhere a guy can take a leak?”
Lubrano shrugged. “Dunno. There’s an alley back there I used a couple of minutes ago.”
Sam left the line of police, found the alley. He went down the narrow stretch between two tenements, stinking of trash and urine. He found a couple of ash cans, propped up his wooden truncheon against the far wall, and unzipped his pants, did his business. Damn, what a night. After he was done, he zipped up his pants and—
Someone was singing.
There was a sharp moan of somebody in pain.
He picked up his truncheon, went down to the other end of the alley, heard some laughter. On the sidewalk, a streetlight illuminated a scene that froze him. A man lay on the sidewalk cowering, dressed in tattered clothes. Standing over him were two younger and better-dressed men, kicking him, laughing. Both wore short leather coats and blue corduroy pants. Two of Long’s boys hard at work, handing out their brand of street justice. The pair from the Fish Shanty, the guys whose car tires had been slashed.
“C’mon!” one yelled. “Let’s hear ya sing, ya drunk mackerel snapper!”
The other man laughed, too. “C’mon, sing! You know how to sing, don’t ya? Sing our song!”
The first one tossed his head back. “ ‘I wish I was in the land of cotton, old times there are not forgotten, look away, look away, look away, Dixie Land.’ ”
The man on the ground cried out, “Please, please, stop… I’ll… I’ll try! Jesus… just give me a sec… ow!”
It seemed as if time were passing by at a furious pace, with no time for thinking or reflection. Sam stripped off his helmet and his armband, dropped them on the ground. With his truncheon, he hammered the skull of the nearest Long’s Legionnaire, dropping him like a sack of potatoes. The other one looked up, startled, scared, and the astonished look on the Southerner’s face brought Sam joy.
“Here,” Sam said. “This one’s for you.”
He slammed the wooden truncheon into the side of the man’s skull. The Legionnaire stumbled and Sam followed, hitting him twice in the stomach. The Legionnaire tripped over his companion and stayed down. Sam helped up the old man they had been tormenting.
His face was bloody, his hair white and stringy. “Ohhh… ohhh… thank you, thank you, I—”
“Go. Get going.” Sam gently pushed him away.
The man stumbled down the street. Sam went back to the Legionnaires. He gave them both a swift kick to the ribs. Both yelped in pain.
He couldn’t resist one. He sang to them: “ ‘Yes, we’ll rally round the flag, boys, we’ll rally once again, shouting the battle cry of freedom!”
Then he left them, like trash on the street, and picked up his discarded helmet and armband.
When Sam got home, exhausted, all he wanted to do was grab a beer and take a hot bath and let the dirty memories of the night soak away. If he had been lucky, all those Southern clowns saw was some guy with a big stick. All right, a pretty stupid stunt, but still, he felt good about it. He felt even better about letting that hobo get away. A beer to celebrate sounded pretty fine.
But when he got through the front door, the radio was on in the darkened living room, “Sarah?” he called out, confused.
“Nope, ’fraid not,” came a voice, and Sam thought, Oh, great. After hanging up his coat, he flicked on a switch, lighting up the room. Tony sat on the couch, muddy feet splayed out in front of him.
“Thought I left the house locked this morning.”
Tony grinned, “Learned a lot of skills in labor camps, Sam. How to take your time cutting down trees. Best way to stow your gear without one of your bunkmates stealing it. And how to break into a house, even one belonging to a cop. You should have better locks.”
“And you should have better sense. What the hell are you doing here?”
Tony crossed his feet. “Man, there’s so many feds and National Guard troops crawling around, I had to get someplace safe, even for a little while, and this was it. You know, when we were kids, it’d take about ten minutes to get to this neighborhood from Pierce Island at a good trot. Tonight it took me almost an hour. Can you believe that?”
Sam took a chair, sat down heavily. “Yeah, I can believe that. You must have learned some skills up there, to miss all the patrols.”
“You wouldn’t believe some of the things I learned.” He looked around and said, “Toby and Sarah coming back soon? I’d love a chance to see ’em, I really would.”
“They’re gone for a few days. I stashed them up in Moultonborough, at her dad’s place. Too many chances of something bad happening while Portsmouth gets crowded with every nutball in the region.”
“A good idea. Too bad there aren’t enough safe places like that in the state for people who need them. Or the country. Or the world.”
Sam stretched out his legs. “Jesus Christ, do you have to make everything into some goddamn symbol of the times or something?”
“Why not? That’s the world we’re living in.”
“So says you,” Sam said, tired of it all.
From the radio came a familiar voice, that of Charles Lindbergh, speaking at some rally. In his Midwestern high-pitched tone, he said, “It is not difficult to understand why Jewish people desire the overthrow of Nazi Germany. The persecution they suffered in Germany would be sufficient to make bitter enemies of any race. No person with a sense of the dignity of mankind can condone the persecution of the Jewish race in Germany. But no person of honesty and vision can look on their pro-war policy here today without seeing the dangers involved in such a policy both for us and for them. Instead of agitating for war, the Jewish groups in this country should be opposing it in every possible way, for they will be among the first to feel its consequences. Tolerance is a virtue that depends upon peace and strength. History shows that it cannot survive war and devastations. A few farsighted Jewish people realize this and stand opposed to intervention. But the majority still do not. Their greatest danger to this country lies in their large ownership and influence in our motion pictures, our press, our radio, and our government.”
“Can you believe that rube?” Tony motioned to the radio. “The war’s all about Europe, all about the Jews. Just stay home between the two oceans and mind our own business and beat up the Jews ourselves and we’ll all be happy little children.”
Sam said, “Some would say the man makes a point, even if he has a lousy way of making it, of staying out of Europe’s war.”
“Yeah, some point. Just because you know how to fly a plane doesn’t mean you know shit about politics and history. The next hundred years of what kind of people we’re going to be, what kind of world we will inhabit, is being fought out in the steppes of Russia, small towns in occupied England and Europe, and our sainted Kingfish has just cast his lot on the side of the invaders.”
Sam felt his blood rise. “As opposed to what, Tony? Helping Joe Stalin and the Reds? You say you know so much. Ever hear of a place called the Katyn Forest, in Poland? Russians took over the eastern half of Poland back in ’39, as part of the Stalin and Hitler peace pact. When the Krauts overran that part in ’41, they found thousands of dead Polish soldiers and officers buried in pits, hands tied together, shot in the head by the NKVD, the Russian secret police. The Krauts invited reporters there, newsreel guys, showed the world what the Russians had done to those Poles. That’s the kind of people we should be helping?”
Tony glowered at him. “Just like you can’t choose your family, Sam, you can’t choose the ones to help you in a desperate fight.”
Lindbergh’s voice kept on coming, almost whiny. “I am not attacking either the Jewish or the British people. Both races, I admire. But I am saying that the leaders of both the British and the Jewish races, for reasons which are as understandable from their viewpoint as they are inadvisable from ours, for reasons which are not American, wish to involve us in the war. We cannot blame them for looking out for what they believe to be their own interests, but we also must look out for ours. We cannot allow the natural passions and prejudices of other peoples to lead our country to destruction.”
“Come on, Tony, what do you say? Should Long make an alliance with Stalin, help him fight the Germans, is that it?”
“The Germans gassed Dad, put him in an early grave. And the Navy Yard thought so little of him and the other workers that they didn’t care when he started coughing out his lungs. Don’t you ever think about that?”
“Sure I do, but having one doctor or six at the Yard wouldn’t have made much difference,” Sam said. “And you know what? I’m sure we go back far enough, we’ll find some English lord or gent made life miserable for the Millers back in Ireland. Does that mean we hold a grudge forever? Christ, that’s what they do in Europe, and look where it’s gotten them.”
“So we just give up?”
“Christ, Tony. What the hell do you want me to do? Buttonhole Long or Hitler in a few days, give ’em the point of view from my escapee brother? Is that it?”
Tony stayed silent for a moment. “No. I… I expect you to do your job, Sam. That’s all. Just do your job and do the right thing.”
It now made sense. “Tony. It’s no coincidence you’re here now. What’s going on?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, yes, it does,” he insisted. “You just told me to do my job. And that’s what I’m doing. My job. So why are you here? You’ve been a prisoner for a couple of years, you finally escape and end up in Portsmouth just when Hitler’s coming by for a visit. A hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?”
Tony got to his feet, face set. “Sorry, brother. Time to go.”
“You’re not leaving. Tell me why you’re here. The summit… what are you going to do? Make a scene? A protest? Tell me why you’re here.”
Tony stepped toward him. “You going to stop me? Arrest me? Pull a gun on me?”
Doing his job, doing what he had done with those two Long boys, that had been one thing. But his brother was something else. The room was still.
“Tony….”
“Still here.”
“Leave, then. But get out of Portsmouth. It’s too dangerous here. If you care for Sarah or Toby, get the hell out. Stop whatever it is you’re up to, and just get the hell out.”
“Good advice,” Tony said, brushing past him, heading to the door. “But you know me when it comes to advice. I hardly ever take it. Even if I do care for your wife and boy.”
The door slammed behind Tony and Sam wiped at his face with both hands. Such a goddamn day. He changed the radio station to some music, went into the kitchen, pulled out a bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, and emptied it before he headed for his bath.
When he left his brother’s house, he circled around, went to the backyard, where it seemed like so many lifetimes ago he had sneaked over to place three rocks on top of each other. At the rear steps, there was another rock, larger and flatter. He picked it up, removed the slip of paper from underneath, and then walked to the shrubbery separating Sam’s yard from the neighbor’s. He reached into the shrubbery, took out a bag he had hidden there earlier, and then looked up at the lights of Sam’s house.
He felt out of place here. He and Sam had never been close, had been rivals more than siblings, though he knew in his heart of hearts that Sam believed in the same things he did. But Sam was a straight arrow, believed in working within the system as much as possible, while he… well, he knew he was a hell-raiser, the proverbial bull in the china closet. He wished he could have told Sam more, wished he could have left him on better terms, wished he hadn’t lied about why he had come to the house, but it had to be this way. Plans were in motion, things were happening, and it wasn’t safe for Sam to know much. Even Sarah knew only her own small part of things, and he felt embarrassed, thinking of Sarah’s words in the attic, how it seemed she had been looking for an excuse to betray her husband, his brother.
A betrayal. In a way he supposed he was betraying Sam, and he hoped that eventually Sam would forgive him. But for now, all he could rely on was Sam being Sam, and sometimes, that was even too much to hope for.
He walked away from the house, ducking into other yards and alleyways, the lights of the shipyard always out there, keeping an eye on him. He was torn, seeing them. That’s where his other family was, the ones he had organized for, the ones he had tried to help, and eventually, that’s where it all crashed down on him, with his arrest and deportation from his home state.
But now—now things were different.
Under a streetlight, he opened the slip of paper, read the address, the meeting time, and the code phrase. Memorized it all, then tore the paper into tiny bits and tossed them into an open storm drain, looked once more at the shipyard lights.
This time it was different. This time he would succeed, would go after that despicable man, would make it all worthwhile, not only for himself but for his family across the river and the family who lived in that little house just a few blocks away.
Sam listened to Frank Sinatra singing some swing tune on Your Hit Parade on CBS as he stared at the exhausted face looking back at him from the mirror and thought about what he had done to get this place for his wife and son. He didn’t feel like thinking about Tony. He washed his hands, saw the flecks of dried brown blood from the old man circle down into the drain, and remembered.
Several years back, it had been a desperate time, trying to get the cash to make the down payment. Sam had borrowed and begged, had worked as much overtime as possible, but the cash just wasn’t there. And he wasn’t going to take his father-in-law’s employment offer, not on your life.
So Sam had gone elsewhere—to Thurber Street—and there he was this cold March evening. He stood by a pile of dirty snow, looked at the row of boardinghouses stretching down almost to the harbor. Officially, these sagging wooden structures were places where sailors, shipyard workers, and fishermen rented rooms for a week, a month, or a year, but Sam knew better. Some of these buildings had illegal bars set up for all-night drinking sessions, and others had rooms that rented for thirty minutes or an hour.
Quite illegal, quite profitable, and so far, Sam’s superiors hadn’t done anything about it. No doubt some folding green was being passed around, but he didn’t particularly care. He shifted his feet in the snow and ice, shivered. Far off, a church clock chimed three times, and he winced as he recalled the lie he had told Sarah, that he was working overtime tonight. It was almost true—he was working overtime for his family.
He looked up the narrow street, waited, his hands in his coat pockets. One pocket was empty, and the other contained a leather sap, filled with lead pellets. Out there was his target, and if he was very, very lucky…
There. Coming from the middle house, the one with the peeling yellow paint, a man shambled out, wearing a long raccoon coat and thick gloves and a sharply turned fedora. William “Wild Willy” Cocannon was a big man, broad in the shoulders. He owned most of these buildings, some legitimate bars and boardinghouses down on the harbor, and other businesses as well. Sam had followed him here and there for a couple of weeks, watching where he went, knowing that on these early Monday mornings after busy weekends, Wild Willy collected from his bars and whorehouses before going home to a nice little estate outside of Manchester.
Wild Willy rambled down the street, spotlighted for a moment by a streetlight, a plume of steam rising from his face in the cold. Sam stepped out and followed him down the sidewalk. Part of him still couldn’t believe he was doing this, but in his panic the past few weeks, he had tried to justify it: Wild Willy was a criminal who was getting away with lots of crimes, week after week, and Sam was just going to deliver a little rough street justice. That’s all. His plan was a quick robbery and racing home with what he’d stolen.
He took out the sap, grabbed Wild Willy by the shoulder, and in a voice he couldn’t believe was his own, growled, “Your money, asshole, and now!”
That was the plan.
But Wild Willy had his own plan.
The big man spun around and shouted, “Fuck you!” and a switchblade flashed in a gloved hand. Sam quickly backpedaled away, but not before the blade sliced across his knuckles. Sam punched back with the leather sap, catching Wild Willy on the side of the head, knocking his hat off. The large man cursed again and lunged at him. Sam stumbled back, slipping on the ice. Wild Willy was shouting, “You fucking little shit, you think you’re going to rob me? Who the fuck do you think you are?”
Sam fell on his ass. He had never felt so terrified, so alone. Other times he’d been in trouble, he’d at least had other cops to back him up, but out here on this cold night, he was alone. And he had crossed a pretty big wide line, for he wasn’t a cop at this moment, flat on his back, with Wild Willy coming after him. He was a criminal. He kicked out hard with his feet, caught Wild Willy in the shins. The larger man fell back, and Sam scrambled up and went after him again, slamming the leather sap into his shoulder, into his neck. As the knife came at him again, Sam struck down on Wild Willy’s face.
Something went crunch, and Sam was now pissed off that he had to be out here, stealing money for a house, acting like a criminal because he didn’t get paid enough, mad that Wild Willy was putting up a fight.
Sam straightened up, breathing harshly, like a racehorse nearing the finish line. Wild Willy was on his back, gasping, wheezing, flailing, making horrible gurgling noises from what used to be his face. Sam grabbed the man’s arms, dragged him into the shadows of an alley. He knelt, wetting his knees in the snow, then went through the man’s pockets, his hand shaking so violently he dropped the thick paper envelope that he found. He picked up the envelope, trembling, and then ran up the street, the cold air burning his lungs. He ran two blocks. That’s where the shakes really hit him hard, and he threw up among some trash bins, heaving until all that was left was bile.
He got home to the cramped apartment about fifteen minutes later. He pushed himself into the tiny bathroom, washing and rewashing his hands, the brown blood from Wild Willy streaming into the sink. The water was cold, the water was always cold, and when he was done, he dried with some toilet paper, flushed it away, and opened up the envelope.
Seven hundred and twelve dollars. Two hundred more than what he needed. He put the money back in the envelope, hid it on a shelf in a rear closet, and stumbled off to bed.
A month later, when they looked at their house on Grayson Street, his very pregnant Sarah hooked her arm through his and said, “Sam, besides our wedding day, this is the happiest day of my life.”
He couldn’t say anything, for when Sarah had spoken, all he could hear was the desperate wheezing of Wild Willy, broken and bleeding, in that frozen alleyway.
So there. He looked at himself in the mirror, then at his hands.
They were clear of blood. All that covered his hands was his own skin.
He shook his head, ran the water some more, picked up the bar of soap, and started scrubbing again, knowing there were some things that just couldn’t be washed out.