Amerikan Eagle

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

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

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

Sam climbed into the Packard, conscious of how moist his back was against the leather seat. The gate swung open and he released the parking brake, put the car into first gear, and drove out on the road, heading for the last gate.

The sentry box. The only obstacle between the camp and the outside world. The outside world, where at last he could work on this damn homicide, a case he had been ignoring—

The black-and-white crossbar was raised, one MP was talking to another, it looked pretty damn clear, and he let the speed increase a bit—

The guards were looking at him.

A gentle push on the accelerator.

The Packard sped up.

One of the guards stepped out. The man still wasn’t out in the road…

Twenty, thirty feet and he’d be out of the camp. Just a few feet, really.

An MP was now in the middle of the lane.

Holding up his hand.

Caught?

Caught.

Either Allard had made that phone call, or Ralph, in his terror, had shouted out something that had gotten their interest…

He braked, rolled down the window.

This was it, then.

The MP leaned down. “Sir?”

“Yeah?”

“Your vehicle pass. We need it back.”

“Oh.” Sam reached to the dashboard, grabbed the piece of cardboard, almost dropped it as he thrust it through the open window.

The MP took the cardboard and dipped his chin. “Drive safe, sir.” He smiled.

“Thanks.”

Sam drove out to the country road, turned left, and drove about two hundred feet before stopping and letting the shakes come over him.

Then he got over it and got the hell out.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Nearly an hour away from Camp Carpenter, Sam turned in to the Route 4 diner in Epsom. The lot was packed dirt, and there were two Ford trucks parked at the far end, black and rusting. The diner’s aluminum siding was light blue and flecked with cancerous rust spots. Stuck in one of the windows by the doorway was a faded poster of President Huey Long. Underneath his fleshy face was the decade-old slogan: EVERY MAN A KING. The ongoing motto of the true believers, or those pretending to be true believers to get along.

Sam got out the car and looked around. No kings in sight. The story of his country, he thought.

Inside, he sat at the counter and ate a dry hamburger and drank a cup of coffee that tasted like water. He ignored the waitress and the cook and the truck drivers and thought about what he had learned about Sean and LaCouture and Groebke and his brother, Tony.

And more than anything else, the story of the hidden camps. The ones that held tattooed prisoners supplied by secret trains. Somehow one of those prisoners, Peter Wotan, had ended up murdered in his town.

He finished his meal, left a dime tip. Near the doorway was a public phone box. He pulled the glass door shut, pumped in some nickels, and got the long-distance operator. At least in this part of the state, in a different county, he could get through without that damnable Signal Corps oversight. On the floor was a copy of the President’s newspaper, The American Progress. Someone had left a muddy bootprint on the first page.

That other thing Sean had said… about family. An idea was coming together about what to do next, and he had to make new arrangements. Had to. The phone at his father-in-law’s cottage in Moultonborough rang and rang and then—

“Hello?”

He leaned against the side of the booth. “Sarah?”

“Oh, Sam, I was hoping it was you! I can’t believe I—”

“Sarah, there’s a problem.”

“What is it?”

Sam turned, made sure he wasn’t being watched. “You’ve got to leave. Right away.”

“You mean… back to Portsmouth?” Her voice was puzzled. “Are you going to come up and—”

“No, not Portsmouth,” he said, thinking fast. “You’ve got to go somewhere else up there. A neighbor, a friend, anyone who can put you and Toby up for a few days.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. What do you mean I—”

“I don’t have time now. Trust me on this. It’s very important. You’ve got to get out of there. With Toby. Do you understand?”

Even across the crackling static, he could hear from her voice that she was trying not to cry. “Oh, Sam—”

“Can you do it? Can you?”

“I could go to—”