getting beaten up. Stuff like freedom of speech, freedom of assembly, that’s all crap. Just keeping your own ass well fed, warm, and safe. That’s all you care about.”
The wind shifted, and instead of hearing gunfire, Sam heard a man’s scream. It seemed to go on and on and then gurgle off. Sean looked at him and said, “Bad, I know, but at least it’s not as bad as the other camps.”
“What other camps?”
“Shit, I think I’ve said too much already.”
“Come on, Sean. What do you mean? What other camps?”
“Word is, there are other camps out there. Not officially part of the system. Highly restricted. Here, at least, and the regular labor camps, you get in, you’re serving a sentence. These other camps, they work you to death.”
“Where are they?”
“Mostly in the South, from what I hear, but Jesus, the rumors are something else. If you step out of line, just for one second, you’re shot on the spot.”
“Who’s in these camps?”
“Who the hell knows? Not regular political prisoners, that’s for sure. Word is, there are special trains that take the prisoners to these camps.”
“What the hell do you mean, special trains?”
“Sealed. With markings painted on the side, so they get priority through all stations and sidings.”
That damnable memory of when he was a patrolman, hearing that train roar through with no identifying marks save the yellow stripes painted on the side, hearing the screams and moans from within…
“Another thing, Sam. The prisoners in those special trains… they’re tattooed. Numbers on their wrists. Can you believe that? Tattooed, like fucking cattle.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Sean was looking at him expectantly, but Sam couldn’t say a word. He was thinking furiously.
Peter Wotan.
Special trains.
Tattooed wrists.
He had to leave.
Had to leave
Sam stood up and motioned the MPs over. As they started walking toward them, he said softly, “I’ve got to go, Sean. But I’ll do my damnedest to try to get you out.”
Sean said, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. And remember this. You get their attention, both you and your family are targets. Not just you. My wife and her brother—they’re not here, but they’re on a list. One more screwup and they’ll be right here with me, chopping wood and scratching flea bites.”
The warning chilled him as he thought of Sarah and Toby. Sam told the MPs, “I’m finished with this prisoner. You can bring him back to his quarters.”
“Very good, sir,” said the older MP, who still looked displeased at having been told to stay away. The younger one produced a set of handcuffs. Sam said, “Oh, I need something from you both. Give me your smokes.”
The MPs looked at each other and then reluctantly reached into their shirt pockets. Full packs of Camels and Lucky Strikes were brought out. Sam passed them over to Sean, who made them disappear into his jumpsuit. The MPs didn’t look happy.
Sean put his hands out, and as the handcuffs were clicked into place, Sam said to the MPs, “I know you don’t like what just happened. But if I get word that this man’s been mistreated, I’ll have both your asses. Got it?”
Allard looked up at Sam, a sharpened pencil in his hand. “Was the prisoner cooperative? Did you get what you needed?”
“Yes, sir, on both counts,” Sam said.
“And you’ll make note in your official report of the cooperation you received here today?”
“Yes, sir, I will.”
Allard tossed the pencil to the desktop. “Very good. Now, mister, get the hell off my post.”
From the captain’s tone, Sam thought a salute might be in order, but since he was in civilian clothes, he didn’t know what to do. So he got the hell out of the building. A black Chevrolet sedan was parked next to his Packard. As Sam went down the steps, two men in dark brown suits emerged from the sedan, putting on gray snap-brim hats, and went inside.
Sam went to his Packard and stopped when someone called out, “Inspector? Inspector Miller?”
He turned. Someone was sitting in the back of the Chevrolet. Sam went over, saw the rear window halfway down. The shape moved closer to the window, and Sam stopped, shocked. It was Ralph Morancy, the photographer from the
“Ralph… what the hell happened to you?”
“Hazards of the job, I suppose. Took photographs that I shouldn’t have, of trucks with prisoners heading out of one of the poorer neighborhoods in town. Two Long’s Legionnaires and an officer from the Department of the Interior took offense. They ordered me to stop, told me to turn over the film, and I said fuck you and mentioned the First Amendment. One of the Long boys, he slugged me, told me he didn’t know shit about the First Amendment. Here I am.” Ralph edged closer to the open window. “Inspector, please. I only have a minute or two before they take me in and process me. Can you help me out? Please? For the love of God, I can’t believe I’m being sent to a labor camp for doing my job… for taking photos… God, what’s the world coming to…”
Sam looked up at the building’s closed doors. “Ralph, I don’t know what I can do.”
“You’re a cop. You could tell them I’m your friend. I’ll pay you. You could say it was all a mistake, a misjudgment, I’ll do anything they want. Please, can’t you help me?”
Sam’s mouth tasted of old pennies. Go back in there? Plead Ralph’s case while he was here on a pretense? He lowered his head, turned away. “No, Ralph, I can’t help you.”
Ralph called out, “But I can’t go with them… your brother, I’ve got to tell you something about your brother—”
There were more yells, but Sam got into his car, and the engine started up after the third attempt. He ground the reverse gear as he backed up, suddenly sweating. One phone call… Allard had to feel grumpy enough to make one phone call to LaCouture, and then he’d never leave this place except in a boxcar stuffed with straw, shit, and sweat. Never to see Sarah or Toby again.
In the rearview mirror, he saw the two men come out and go to the black Chevrolet, saw them drag Ralph Morancy out, the poor man’s legs giving way as they went up the steps, carrying him like a sack of cement.
He forced himself to look straight ahead as he accelerated. Poor Ralph, sweet Jesus… and what was that babbling about Tony? What had Ralph been trying to pull? He didn’t know. But he now knew something: The FBI and Gestapo were interested in his brother. More important, he also knew more about Peter Wotan. He wasn’t sure how and why the man ended up dead in Portsmouth, but he sure as hell knew where he had come from.
Special camps that worked people to death, populated from sealed trains traveling at night with no identifying marks, just a few swabs of paint…
He kept the speed down as he approached the first gate, where the MPs stood. One held up his hand and he slowed. He rolled down the window and the MP leaned over and said, “Vehicle inspection, sir. I’ll have to ask you to step out.”
Sam put the car in idle, engaged the parking brake, got out into the late-afternoon air. Working quickly and professionally, no doubt having done this hundreds of times, one MP searched the car, going into the trunk, lifting up the rear seat, even checking the undercarriage. The other stayed motionless, submachine gun ready in his hands. He tried not to think of what Ralph was going through now, what was happening. He had gotten close enough to the photographer to smell the stink of fear on him.
