CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The next morning Sarah was cheerful and smiling, fixing him and Toby bacon and eggs—a weekday splurge —and Sam ate well, even though he had a headache from not sleeping well. At one point, when Toby was busy drowning his scrambled eggs in ketchup, Sarah leaned in to Sam and said, “Like I said last night, I do love you so.” Her lips brushed his ear.
Even with his headache, he smiled up at her, feeling relieved as it came to him: no more overnight guests, no more Railroad, and by God, if they kept their heads down, all might just be all right.
“And I do love you back, even though you keep giving my clothing away to strangers.”
That brought a laugh from her and a snicker from Toby. He took Toby to school, as Sarah once again had to visit her sick aunt. Sam took Toby’s hand as they walked out to the shed where the Packard was parked.
“I’m sorry for being a brat last night, Dad,” Toby said suddenly. “Sometimes… sometimes I just get mad. Like at school. When the other guys call you a rat. It just happens. Mom understands. I really, really wish you did, too.”
Something caught in Sam’s throat. It was times like these that his boy reminded him most of Tony. “Just be a better boy, all right? At least for your mother.”
“Dad? Have you ever arrested a spy?”
“A spy? No, never have. Why do you ask?”
“Nothing. Just thinking.”
Sam was going to say something and stopped. “Toby, where did you get that pin?”
His son rubbed at the Confederate-flag pin on his coat lapel. “I got it at school yesterday. Some kids were passing them around.”
“I see,” he said. “Did they tell you what that flag means?”
“It’s the flag from the South. And the President likes this flag, so it’s like a club, you know? Next week a couple of guys are coming at recess, and everyone who wears the pin will get free ice cream. Isn’t that neat?”
Sam said, “Give me the pin, Toby.”
“Ah, Dad, c’mon….”
“I’ll tell you later what the pin means, okay? And if there’s ice cream that day, I’ll make it up to you.”
Toby’s face turned sour, but he undid the pin and passed it over. Sam pocketed it and opened the door to the Packard, and Toby clambered sulkily up onto the big front seat, holding his dark green book bag. “Mom said something about you this morning when she came in to wake me up.”
“Really? What was that?”
Toby looked so small in the wide front seat. “She said that Daddy was a good man, no matter what other people said.”
Sam shifted into first. “Thanks for telling me, Toby. And for that, you get ice cream no matter what.”
When they reached the Spring Street School, Sam pulled to the curb and let Toby out. He sat there, watching his serious little boy walk to the old brick building, as though entering a place that had been his work site for decades. Sam thought about what kind of world Toby was inheriting, a place where the dwindling number of free men and women were under brutal assault, day after long damn day, all over the world. At the grocery store nearby, the owner hadn’t done such a good job of whitewashing the graffiti from the other day. The letters that said DOWN WITH LONG and the hammer and sickle were still faintly visible, as if the idea or protest just wouldn’t go away.
He reached for the gearshift. Woolgathering. Time to get to work.
And then a flash of color caught his eye.
Yellow.
He moved in the seat, saw a car make its way up the street.
A yellow Rambler.
Just like that railroad guy had noted from the other day. The car that had made the train slow down the night the body was discovered.
Coincidence or part of a plan?
A plan to make sure that Peter Wotan—or whoever the hell he was—was dumped and later found in Portsmouth.
He put the Packard in reverse, backed up the street dodging one kid going to the school, the transmission whining, and when he came to the intersection, looked both ways.
Gone.
The blare of a car horn made him curse.
A Portsmouth police cruiser drew up next to him, engine idling, and he rolled down his window. An older officer leaned out, a guy named Mike Schwartz, with a thin, drawn face. “Sam, I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but we’ve all been recalled to the station. On shift, off shift, even those on vacation. Everybody to report in.”
Sam shifted the Packard into first. “What’s going on?”
“Who the hell knows? But it sounds important, and I’ll be fucked if I’m going to be late.”
The cruiser pulled away, and after performing a highly illegal U-turn, Sam followed him in.
At the station, he was stunned at what he saw: every patrolman, sergeant, and officer in the department was milling about in the crowded lobby. Frank Reardon stood by the door, and Sam went up to him. “What the hell’s going on?”
“Cripes, who knows.” Frank cupped a lit cigarette in one hand. “Got a phone call, just a few minutes ago. Everybody to report to the station. Even the guys on shift are rolling in. Shit, now’s gonna be a good time for every second-story guy or bank robber to hit us.”
Sam looked around for a certain young cop. “Where’s your buddy Leo?”
“You didn’t hear?” Frank replied. “Gone. Two nights ago a Black Maria came by his apartment and took him away.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Wish I was. Kid obviously screwed up along the way, and he got picked up. You saw him back at the tracks. Liked to ask lots of questions. That’s always a dangerous habit.”
“You going to do anything to help him out?”
Frank dropped his cigarette butt on the dirty tile floor, crushed it under his heel. “Like what? Too late for Leo. That’s just the way it goes. Asking questions, poking around, just leads to more trouble. Leo was okay, but I’m not putting my ass on the line for him. You know how it is.”
“Yeah, Frank, I know how it is.” Sam broke away from Frank, knowing very much how it was. Stay out of trouble. Keep your head down.
There was a loud murmur of voices that went on for a few minutes, and he was going to head up to his desk when Marshal Hanson appeared, carrying a large Philco radio. Mrs. Walton was with him, notepad in hand. Hanson put the radio on the desk sergeant’s counter and raised a hand. “Okay, listen up, fellas, all right? Christ, shut your mouths back there.” The room fell silent. Hanson looked satisfied and turned to the desk sergeant. “Paul, plug her in, will you?”
“Hey, boss, what’s up?” came a voice from the rear of the room. “We at war or something?”
“Or something,” Hanson said, pulling out his pocket watch from his vest and checking the time. “All I know is I got an urgent message from Party headquarters in Concord that there’s going to be a national announcement coming across at nine A.M., an announcement that everybody—and I mean
