Amerikan Eagle

“Because I don’t want to, all right? Because it doesn’t suit me. Because I’ve got dozens of things to do before I get to bed tonight, and worrying about your family is not on that fucking list. What’s top on that list is finding your criminal brother, so I suggest you get your ass out of here and find him if you want your wife and son out of that camp. Bad enough what can happen to a woman in one of those camps. I’ve heard stories about young boys and—”

Only Groebke leaping up and grabbing his arms prevented Sam, in a white-hot fury, from leaping onto the FBI agent. LaCouture kicked back his chair and stood up, nostrils flaring, and said, “That’s right, son, you hit me and that might feel right, but your family will still be in that camp. I got the fucking lock that keeps ’em there, and your brother is the key. So find that key. Don’t come beatin’ up on me; that won’t serve you none.”

Sam broke free from Groebke’s grasp. “You better pray they’re okay. You got that, Jack?”

“I stopped prayin’ to God above the day I got into the FBI, ’cause my savior then was the Kingfish, who got me there. Get out, Sam. I don’t have time for you bullshit.”

* * *

Outside, Sam was still shaking with anger. He strode over to the Packard and got in and slammed the door. He lowered his head, thinking about Sarah, frightened, imprisoned… And poor Toby. Sam’s heart ached so hard he was dizzy, thinking about his boy there, away from his home, his bedroom, his radio, his models.

He stared blankly out through the dirty windshield. All the models broken, shattered, by those thugs of Long’s, breaking into his home without worry or legal warrant. The bastards.

He knew he should keep on looking for his brother, but for Christ’s sake it was dark, and what could he do? Just flail around from one well-guarded building to another, going through checkpoints, hopefully not get shot by some trigger-happy National Guardsmen. And going home to that violated place, no, that wasn’t an option. He put the Packard into drive and edged himself out on the streets, drowning in his troubles.

And then it came to him.

Where did he and Tony always go when they got into trouble?

That little island in the harbor. Pierce Island.

* * *

He was surprised to see two cars parked at the far side of the island’s dirt parking lot. It looked like more people than he thought had those prized windshield passes. He got out and took his flashlight, played it around the interiors of both cars. One was empty. In the other was a man and woman in the backseat, so busy that they didn’t even notice Sam’s presence.

He scanned the lot. Called out, “Tony? You out here?”

He moved down the path, the flashlight beam slicing a wide area ahead of him, and then—

A noise. He whipped to his left, let his light play out.

A man stood there, trying to move away.

“Freeze! Portsmouth police! Don’t move!”

He drew his revolver, held the flashlight out, saw a man standing there, his back to him.

Another man scrambled to his feet before the first man, holding a hand up to his face to block the light. He wore the dress blues of a sailor. “Hey, pal, get the light outta my face, will ya?” came the sheepish voice, with a thick New York accent.

Sam saw the other man adjust his pants and shook his head at what he had just interrupted. He lowered the light. “All right, sailor, beat it.”

“Uh…” The sailor backed away, “Not sure how to get back. This fella gave me a ride.”

“Oh, Christ, the both of you just beat it. You, turn around.”

Now something was familiar, something was wrong, for he knew this man, knew him very well.

The mayor of Portsmouth, his father-in-law, the honorable Lawrence Young. With his pants around his knees.

“Sam.” His head was tilted so he wasn’t looking at the man who had married his daughter.

“Pull your pants up, all right?”

Lawrence bent over, yanked up his trousers, drew the zipper up, and fastened the belt. “Look, this isn’t what you—”

“Larry, you never gave a damn what I’ve thought, so why start now?”

“It’s just the pressure, you know? The summit and the President coming and—Just a onetime thing, that’s all. Something to take the pressure off.”

Sam edged the flashlight beam back up to his father-in-law’s face, knowing he couldn’t tell the bastard anything about Sarah and his grandson, for LaCouture had made it clear: Only by getting Tony would they get out of Camp Carpenter. Bringing in Lawrence… Christ, who knew how that could complicate things? But there was something else that had to be said.

“Larry, you ever hear of a street over in Kittery called Admiral’s Way?”

“Perhaps… I’m not sure… Why?”

“Cut the crap. Some months ago I went along with some Maine state troopers and Kittery cops on a raid at a whorehouse on Admiral Way. Nice, quiet Victorian house. I was just observing, but you know what? Something I observed was you coming out in handcuffs. How the hell did you think you got freed that night? Because of your voting record? No, I asked a favor from one of the Kittery cops. So he went over and uncuffed you.”