Amerikan Eagle

Zell went into the guard shack and lifted up a phone, while Clive went to the gate and slid it open with a satisfying clank and rattle. Sam waited, arms crossed, willing his legs not to shake, knowing he was close, oh, so close. A memory charged into his mind, of skating one winter on Hilton’s Pond with Tony, going farther and farther out on the ice, hearing it creak and moan, knowing with cold hands and colder heart that he was so close to falling in.

There came the sound of a motor, and a dusty Oldsmobile appeared around the corner. It stopped, and another Long’s Legionnaire stepped out. Clive went over and talked to him, then called out, “Agent Munson? This way, sir. I’m gonna drive you up to headquarters.”

Sam walked up to the car, hearing within his mind the sound of ice cracking once he passed through the gate.

* * *

The inside of the Oldsmobile was surprisingly clean, and Clive climbed in, putting his gun on the rear seat. He made a three-point turn and said, “Hear me out, will ya?”

“Sure,” Sam said. “I’ll hear you out.”

“Don’t put no blame on me or Zell, okay? We were just doin’ our job. If we knew you was goin’ to show up, we’d’ve taken care of it. But we didn’t get told now, did we? Minute you showed us your badge and stuff, we cooperated, didn’t we?”

“That’s right,” Sam agreed. “You cooperated. I’ll make sure I mention that.”

Clive looked back at the road. “ ’Kay, that’s fair enough, then.”

The road rose up and then leveled off. Even over the car’s motor, Sam could make out other sounds, of engines working and tools pounding on stone. There was another gate up ahead, but this one looked ceremonial: just wrought iron with an arch. In the arch was a series of letters. Sam made out the words as they drew closer:

WORK WILL MAKE YOU FREE

Sam said, “That’s some kind of slogan.”

“Yeah,” Clive said. “Some kind of bullshit, if you ask me.”

The far slope of the road suddenly fell away, clear of brush and trees, opening to a wide hole in the ground, bare rock and dirt. Looking over, Sam realized that it was deep, very deep, with terraced rocks and roads, cranes overhead, smoke and steam rising, the cranes raising great blocks of stone. A quarry, he thought. “What kind of rock are they cutting out down there?” he asked.

“Marble,” Clive said. “Supposedly the best in the country. Ships all over the world. Real pricey shit, get lots of money for it.”

Then he saw the workers. Long lines of men in the distance, dressed in white prisoner clothing with thin blue stripes, wearing flat cloth caps. The road swerved to the right, and Sam wondered what he had just seen. They weren’t dressed like the prisoners at Camp Carpenter—they were different. Like Sean had said. A camp beyond the camp. Up ahead were buildings, and then another line of men, carrying pickaxes over their thin shoulders, overseen by two Long’s Legionnaires at either end, riding horses, pump-action shotguns at the ready. Sam stared at the prisoners as they went by. They were gaunt and they shuffled, as if each step was as hard as lifting a hundred pounds.

To a man, they looked as though they could be brothers of Peter Wotan.

Clive said, “See you lookin’ at our guests.”

“What?”

Clive said, “Guests. You know what I mean, right?”

Sam thought quickly. He was FBI. This sight shouldn’t be strange to him. “Sure, I know what you mean.”

He resisted an impulse to turn in the seat and look at the men again.

CHAPTER FORTY

Clive braked hard at the largest building, where white poles out front flew an American flag, what looked to be the flag of Vermont, and the standard of Louisiana. “That there’s the camp director’s building. They’ll take care of you in there. Just ’member, okay? Me and Zell, we cooperated.”

As he opened the door, Sam replied, “I’ll remember. You cooperated.”

He went up the wide steps. There was a bulletin board posted beside the doors, but he ignored it. Unlike his visit to Camp Carpenter, he didn’t have to force his way past a waiting sergeant. Another Long’s Legionnaire—this one wearing a leather Sam Browne belt with a holstered pistol—was already waiting for him as he went through the double doors. Offices and desks spread out from behind the lobby, but the man, short as he was, dominated the place. He had thick hair, slicked back and combed to one side, a prominent nose, and an equally prominent five o’clock shadow. Unlike those of his counterparts at the gate, his uniform seemed tailored and well made. Silver stars gleamed on his collar tabs.

“Agent Munson?” His Southern accent was smooth and polished.

“That I am,” Sam said, shaking the man’s hand.

“Apologies for not havin’ things set up for you. The name is Royal LaBayeux, Burdick commandant. I understan’ you’ve got somethin’ you’re investigatin’, so why don’t you come into my office.”