And I don’t mean the marshal. He was just giving me hints earlier. This is much more serious.”
“How can you tell?” she asked softly.
“Because those two Long’s Legionnaires, they saw an open door, and they knew it led into the cellar. They know, Sarah, they already know. At some point, the hammer’s going to fall hard.”
He kept silent for a bit, and then she pressed against him, perhaps frightened more by his silence than the threat the two uniformed men at their door presented. He kissed her cheek, her lips, and she said, “Sam… thanks for keeping them out, for standing up for us.”
“My wife… my little revolutionary… we’re in this together, okay? No matter what. You and me and Toby. The three of us. Always.”
“Yes, Sam. Thank you. The three of us. Always.”
He fell asleep with her sweet scent all about him.
PART THREE
Eyes Only
Report from Party Field Officer H. LeClerc:
On the evening of 04 May ’43, I beg to report that while conducting loyalty check and survey operations on Grayson Street in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, me and fellow Party Field Officer T. Carruthers encountered Party member Sam Miller. Miller refused to answer our questions. Miller refused to allow us entry into his home. Based on our earlier instructions, we were therefore unable to gain entry into his home at this time and perform further loyalty check investigations of the residence.
In light of Miller’s response and lack of cooperation, I recommend the future detention of Miller and family to determine the status of Miller and his home.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sam got up early, his sleep restless and churning with bad dreams he couldn’t recall. He threw on some clothes without waking Sarah, then went downstairs. The cellar was empty. He took a breath, tore down the sheet, and folded up the cot, tossing the blanket to the floor. With cot and sheet in hand, he climbed a short set of stairs to the cellar bulkhead, which he shouldered open. Outside, it was cold and raw, the thin lawn glittering with frost. It was high tide. He moved to the hedge separating his yard from the Piscataqua River and, in one heave, tossed the cot and the sheet into the river.
He stood there, chest heaving, and then he went back into the house.
Maybe it was the exhilaration of having made it through the night without a Black Maria rolling up in the driveway, but breakfast that morning was full of smiles and laughter. Even Toby got into the act, finding a straw and blowing bubbles in his orange juice, announcing to his parents that these were “Florida farts” because orange juice came from Florida. Despite Sam’s bad dreams, the sight of Sarah smiling and making their morning meal cheered him. A couple of times he patted her bottom as he squeezed past her in the kitchen, and she laughingly retaliated by squeezing him back, though in a much more sensitive area that made him yelp and made her grin.
After the dishes were cleared and Toby had gone to his room, Sam spotted a paper bag by the stove. He looked in and saw a couple of old shirts and a pair of pants that had been torn but were now repaired by needle and thread.
He looked up at Sarah. “Another clothing run?”
She wiped her hands on a washcloth. “Yes, during our lunch break. A few of us from the school department are going over to the hobo camp.”
He closed up the bag. “Good. Just don’t go there alone. And I’m glad you’re doing it in the middle of the day.”
Sarah put the cloth down. “And that’s it, Sam. Just this… what we can do.”
He went over to her, kissed her, and held her tight. “Before day’s end, some folks who don’t have anything to wear will be in better shape, thanks to you. Just be careful, all right?”
She tugged at his ear. “I heard you twice the first time, Inspector. Now get going and stop cheating the taxpayers.”
Sam drove out alone to work, passing a horse-drawn wagon from one of the local dairies, detouring his way to Pierce Island, going over the wooden bridge. He found the dirt parking lot empty. He stepped out, maneuvered around the broken glass from some shattered beer bottles, saw a flaccid piece of rubber draped over a rock.
Sam looked around. “Tony! You out there?”
No reply. Just the cries of a few seagulls and the whistle of a piece of equipment out in the shipyard.
Sam reached into the Packard, took out a bag of sandwiches he had made quickly while Sarah and Toby got dressed. He went over to a path that led into the woods and, in a few moments, fashioned three sticks that pointed to the left. Another old Boy Scout message. Look to the left. And to the left, at the base of a large pine tree, he dropped the sack of sandwiches. Waited. Waited for movement out in the brush and the trees. One hand went into his coat pocket, about a set of handcuffs.
If Tony came out right now, Sam could get control of one problem. Get him back to his house, toss him in the cellar… So much going on, and to have his escapee brother roaming around…
Waited some more, checked his watch, and then went back to his Packard.
When he got to his desk, he was pleased to see that Mrs. Walton was out sick that morning. He hated having her nearby, listening in on what he was saying over the telephone, reading his notes and paperwork when he went away, and generally being the nosy woman that she was, keeping track of him and the others in The Log.
He had another pleasant surprise when he settled in his chair: an envelope on his desk with his name scribbled on the outside, and a stamped return address of
The envelope felt heavy in his hand. To do the smart thing, to be a smart fellow, would mean tossing the envelope into the trash without opening it. The case now belonged to the FBI and the Gestapo. It didn’t belong to him. But that old man, that tattooed man… Sam remembered what the medical examiner had said. Fuck ’em all. He leaned back in his chair, slit the envelope open. A thick sheaf of papers came out, with a note clipped to the top:
Sam—
Happy to get this to you quicker than I thought. Let me know if you need anything else.
Sam looked at the papers. A collection of blurry carbons listing the passenger manifest of the train from
