Amerikan Eagle

“I’m no fool, pal. You’re a fed and all that, which is fine, but we know enough to stay away. ’Nuff people over the past months got into lots of trouble, pokin’ around, never to be seen again, so I won’t be goin’. It’s up to you.”

“Okay,” Sam said. “I understand. How much?”

“Twenty-five cents.”

Sam passed over a quarter and a nickel. As he stepped out, Clyde called, “Hey, hold on.” He passed over a slip of paper. “I know how you feds work. Expense account and all that crap. Your receipt.”

Sam took the torn piece of paper. “Thanks,” he said, but Clyde had already pulled out and sped up the road, as if even being at the entrance to whatever was in the dark woods would bring him bad luck.

Sam adjusted his hat, started walking.

* * *

After about ten minutes, he could hear the sound of machinery up in the distance. While the dirt road was well maintained, there was evidence that lots of heavy trucks or equipment had passed through. By now the heat was getting to him, and he loosened his tie and unbuttoned his jacket.

The rumble of machinery grew louder, and then there was a wooden sign up ahead.

RESTRICTED AREA

AUTHORIZED VISITORS ONLY

U.S. DEPARTMENT OF THE INTERIOR

TRESPASSERS SUBJECT TO IMPRISONMENT

USE OF DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED

He paused, licked his dry lips. A hand went to his pocket, where his fake ID rested. It had been good enough to fool a B&M railroad clerk. He would soon find out if it was good enough to fool whoever was beyond that sign.

He kept on walking, the weight of his revolver no comfort at all.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The dirt road circled and widened to a small wooden gatehouse painted bright white, with chain-link fence. Another gate, another barrier. The chain-link fence had barbed wire around the top, and the center of the fence was on metal wheels, serving as the gate. Two men stood in front of the guardhouse, watching him. Sam kept his face impassive. The men weren’t local cops or National Guardsmen; they wore the leather jackets and blue corduroys of Long’s Legionnaires. They also weren’t the kind of young punks he had seen in his hometown: They were lean, tough-looking, and hanging off their shoulders were Thompson submachine guns with drum magazines.

One stepped out from the shadow of the guardhouse. His face was freckled, and his hair was a sharp blond crew cut. “You lost, boy?”

Sam said nothing, walked closer. The other guard came out. His hair was black, slicked back, and parted in the middle. “He asked you a question, boy.” His gumbo-thick accent was the twin of his companion’s.

Sam kept quiet. The closest guard unshouldered his gun. “On your knees, now, boy!”

Sam stopped about four feet away from the two guards. “Names.”

“What?” the blond guard asked.

“I want your names. The both of you.”

The second guard muttered, “The fuck you say.”

Sam said, “No. The fuck you say. I want your name and your buddy’s name. This whole day has been a fuckup since I came to this little shitty town. Both of your names are going in my official report when I get back to Boston.”

The two Cajun guards looked confused. The one with the crew cut demanded, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the report on my trip here, starting from when I got to the station and there was no automobile waiting for me.” Sam kept his voice low and determined. “I had to arrange for a taxi up here, in a piece-of-shit Ford that nearly broke my back. And once I got here, I get you two morons ready to shoot me instead of finding out who I am.”

“Who the hell are you?” the second guard asked, his voice not as harsh as before.

Now, Sam thought, now comes crunch time. He opened up his wallet and flashed his fake credentials. “Sam Munson, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’ve spent the better part of a day on a train coming up to this little dump. I was told when I started that I’d have full cooperation for my investigation. So far all I’ve gotten is crap.”

“We weren’t told anything ’bout an investigation,” the first guard protested.

“Fine, glad to hear that,” Sam said. “But I don’t give a shit. Right now I want both of your names, and after, I want that gate open and a car to get me up to the administration building. Or whatever you call it.”

The guard with black hair said, “The name’s Clive Cooley. This here is Zell Poulton.”

Sam made a show of taking out his notebook, writing down both names. He cocked his head and said, “Well?”