Amerikan Eagle

“Don’t tell me who,” he interrupted, thinking of wiretaps. Who knew where the FBI could be tapping. “Don’t tell me a thing, Sarah. Just take our son and be safe. We’ll figure out how to get together once this summit is done. But you and Toby, you’ve got to go now. I mean it.”

“All right. I understand.”

She hung up. He stood there, holding the useless receiver in his hand.

* * *

Outside, as he was walking to his dust-covered Packard, he heard something clattering around the side of the diner, where there was a small wooden porch. Underneath the porch were cans of trash and swill. The lids to the metal cans were chained shut. Two old women were there, in tattered cloth coats, shoes wrapped in twine, wearing filthy kerchiefs over their gray hair. Both gripped rocks as they tried to break the locks.

One noticed Sam and said something to the other, and they both looked at him, cheeks wrinkled and hollow, mouths sunken from no teeth. Their eyes were filmy and swollen.

Sam slowly reached past his coat to his wallet and slipped out some bills. He had no idea how much money he was leaving.

He knelt down, put the money under a rock, and left.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

The time driving back to the coast seemed to fly by, for he was thinking things through, knowing what he was going to do, what had to be done to make it all right. When he got back to Portsmouth, he passed through one checkpoint without any difficulty, then drove to the police station and parked nearby. Run in, see if there were any important messages, and run out. It was going to be a long and dangerous night.

In the lobby, he gave a quick wave to the desk sergeant, who was talking to a drunk hobo going on about how he’d like to join the George Washington Brigade overseas and fight those Bolshies, and why couldn’t he sign up here, there was good money and hot meals and so forth. There was also a slight woman in a long coat and pink scarf about her head, speaking with a British accent, trying to get the sergeant’s attention.

By the stairs, Clarence Rolston was sweeping. “Sam! Am I right? Sam, good to see you.”

Sam knew the seconds were slipping away, but he stopped. “Good to see you, too, Clarence. How are you?”

Clarence blinked and smiled, a dribble of saliva escaping. “Doing good. And thanks about that other thing. I didn’t get into trouble. Thanks a lot, Sam.”

“Glad it worked out. Take care now, okay?”

Sam sprinted up the stairs. The door to Marshal Hanson’s office was closed. He looked up at the clock. Nearly seven P.M. He went to his desk, saw a pile of yellow message slips, all of them in Mrs. Walton’s neat cursive, and all saying the same thing: Agent LaCouture of the FBI needs to talk to you. The messages were an hour apart. He flipped through to see if there was anything else, like a phone call from Lou Purdue, but no.

Just the FBI. He would take care of LaCouture later.

He crumpled the message slips, tossed them in a trash can.

The door to Hanson’s office swung open. He came out, staring at Sam. “Inspector,” he said tonelessly.

“Sir,” Sam said, cursing himself for being stupid enough to get caught like this. Dammit, the man was getting ready for the Long-Hitler summit, of course he’d be working late.

“In my office, if you please.”

Sam walked in, and Hanson gently closed the door behind him.

Hanson went around his desk, sighing loudly and running a hand across the top of his hair. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he sat down heavily. “How’s it going, Sam?” he asked.

God, what a question. And what kind of answer? Sam said, “It’s been a busy day.”

“I’m sure. Look, do you smell anything unusual?”

Sam waited just a moment. “No, I don’t.”

Hanson said, “Well, you should. You should smell something charred. The phone lines between here and the Rockingham Hotel have been burning up all day with the damn FBI and his Gestapo buddy looking for you. What the hell is going on?”

Sam said, “I’m doing my job.”

“Your job right now is doing what the FBI tells you to do.”

“Which is what I’ve been doing,” Sam replied. “LaCouture told me this morning he was busy. He told me to come back later. He didn’t say when.”

Hanson stayed quiet, gently rocking his chair. Then he said, “So what were you working on? Besides being a wiseass.”

“Other cases. Trying to catch up. As you’ve instructed me.”

The room was so quiet, Sam thought he could hear a clock ticking somewhere else in the building. Hanson seemed to stare right through him.

A slow creak-creak as Hanson moved his chair back and forth. “Then it’s your responsibility to tell the FBI where you’ve been today. Not mine, is it?”

Sam thought, Nice job, Harold. Sam was the FBI’s boy now, and Hanson was all hands-off. If he was going down for anything he did today, Hanson wouldn’t be next to him.

“That’s right, sir.”