wanting a piece of me, the governors of two states, the FBI, the Gestapo, the German diplomatic corps and the State Department and the President’s people in D.C. and Concord. If you think I’ve got time to worry about a file clerk and a rookie cop, you’re seriously wrong. They’ve both been charged with federal offenses, it’s nothing I can fix, that’s it. None of us are above being rousted by the feds if they’re in the mood for trouble. Got it, Inspector?”
Sam tasted ashes in his mouth. “Got it, sir.”
“Good. Remember, you’re liaison, so if the FBI and the Gestapo are finished with you, go on home and get some rest. Check in with them tomorrow and see what they want.”
“And what might that be?”
“How in hell should I know?” Hanson exploded. “If they want you to strip naked and dance the Charleston in Market Square, do it! If they want you to fly to Hollywood and bring back Mae West for the Fuhrer’s entertainment, do that, too!”
Sam got up and left without another word. So much going on, so very much, and right now he was late for dinner.
Outside of the police station, there was a crowd of people trying to come in, trying to be seen. There were a few children holding the hands of a mother or a father, crying, not wanting to be here on such a cold night. Under a streetlight, watching with amusement, stood another squad of Long’s Legionnaires.
INTERLUDE VI
In the dirt-floor basement, once again, Curt spread a set of cards and papers on the table. He examined them and said, “Damn fine job. Ralph did great with the photos, but my compliments to whoever finished this.”
Curt grunted. “I’ll make sure to pass that along if any of us make it alive through the next week.”
Up above, the cellar door opened and the man from before, Vince, clumped down the stairs, carrying a long cardboard box that said FRESH FLOWERS in a pretty script. Vince put the box on the table. “There you go. As promised.”
He pulled the box over, lifted the top. Inside was a long object wrapped in brown paper and twine. He pulled it out, undid the twine, and unwrapped the paper. A bolt-action rifle with attached telescopic sight was revealed, along with a small paper sack. Inside the sack were six rifle cartridges.
Curt said, “Do you recognize it? Will it work?”
He felt the cool metal and smooth wood of the rifle. “Sure. It’s a U.S. Army model 1903 .30-06 rifle. Nice and accurate. Holds eight rounds. Has a sweet Weaver 2.5 scope. Will do the job perfectly.” He picked it up, worked the action, held it up to the light. Nice light sheen of oil, no rust or specks of debris.
“Well?” Vince asked.
“As advertised,” he said. “Good job.”
“You know, I can still deliver it if you’d like, won’t be a problem at all, and—”
He put the rifle down, got up, and kicked out with his good leg, catching Vince at the back of the knees. Vince fell hard to the dirt. He rolled him over and put his knee at the base of the man’s spine, reached down to the man’s chin and top of his head, twisted, and pulled. There was a dull crack, a spasm of his legs, and that was that.
He stood, brushed his hands together. Curt said sharply, “Damn it to hell! Was that really necessary?”
“Afraid it was,” he said. “He wouldn’t give up trying to find out where I wanted the rifle stashed. I think he was a snitch. And whoever he’s working for… they only know I have the rifle. They don’t know where it’s going to end up.”
Curt said, “Think or know he’s a snitch?”
He remembered the other night, seeing Vince entering a nice new sedan. “Know.”
“Suppose you’re wrong?”
“Then he died for his country.”
Curt seemed to struggle with that for a moment. Then he said, “Now what?
He went back to the rifle and cartridges, and in a few moments, everything was back in the flower box. He handed it over to Curt. “You leave now, and soon as you can, put it where I want it, along with one or two other things. But you need to make sure you’re not followed. You’re smart enough, you’ve been at this long enough, but Curt—you can’t be followed.”
“I won’t be followed.”
“One more thing,” he said. “Once you make the delivery, get the hell out of town. Don’t come back home. Don’t go to anyone you know, any place you’ve been before. Just get in the car, pick a compass point, and start driving.”
Curt looked at him, his eyes moist. “You… you think you can do this?”
“I was born in a revolutionary town,” he said, trying to put confidence in his voice. “I can do it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
At home, Toby had gone to bed and Sarah was in the kitchen, slicing up some cold roast beef from last Sunday’s dinner as fried potato pancakes splattered and sang in the frying pan. She had on a light blue cotton dress, and her white apron was snug around her hips. She turned, a length of hair falling across her face, smiling at him.
He remembered a cold fall day back in ’31 when he came off a muddy field, football helmet in hand, and for whatever reason that day, he saw that face, saw that smile, and instantly knew he would do almost anything to see it again.
“Sorry I didn’t call, tell you I was going to be late,” he said.
“I understand,” she said, turning back to the stove. “I heard over the radio what’s going on. My word, Sam, President Long and Adolf Hitler, coming to our town. I can’t believe it.”
He shrugged off his coat, took off his hat, and deposited them in the front closet along with his revolver and holster. “Believe it. It’s going to happen, and this place is going to be a zoo for the next week.”
Back in the kitchen, he came up behind her, grasped her slim hips, and kissed the back of her neck. Sarah made a quick purring noise, like a cat happy for the attention, and she leaned back up against him, her buttocks warm against his groin.
“I’m going to be helping the zookeepers,” he told her. “I’m now the liaison between the police department and the FBI. As things happen, it’s the same FBI guy from before, the one on my John Doe case. Accompanied by his German secret-police buddy.”
He kissed her again and went to the sink to wash his hands. Sarah said, “So what does that mean for you?”
“It means lucky me, I get to be the feds’ errand boy until this summit is over. Finding places to sleep and eat for all the government types coming into Portsmouth over the next week. Lots of FBI and Secret Service, people being rounded up, I’m sure… and damn, speaking of rounding up—you remember Sean Donovan?”
She turned, spatula in hand. “Sure. That crippled guy who works in records?”
“He got picked up two days ago. Off to a labor camp.”
“Can’t the marshal get him off?”
“It’s a federal charge. And Hanson can’t do much with something federal, as much as he’d like to. One other thing: As long as I’m being an errand boy, I won’t be able to investigate my John Doe case.”
She put the slices of roast beef on a plate. “What a world, what a time… and here in Portsmouth. I can’t believe it. Why Portsmouth?”
Sam yawned. He couldn’t help it. “I heard from somebody in the state police that Hitler hates the water, hates ships. He didn’t want to spend a day more on the water than he had to. So instead of New York or D.C., he’s
