What had he done? What in God’s name had he done back there?
A matter of minutes, and then the one doing the searching stepped back and the other went to the gate. “Very good,” the tall MP said. “You’re clear to leave.”
Sam climbed into the Packard, conscious of how moist his back was against the leather seat. The gate swung open and he released the parking brake, put the car into first gear, and drove out on the road, heading for the last gate.
The sentry box. The only obstacle between the camp and the outside world. The outside world, where at last he could work on this damn homicide, a case he had been ignoring—
The black-and-white crossbar was raised, one MP was talking to another, it looked pretty damn clear, and he let the speed increase a bit—
The guards were looking at him.
A gentle push on the accelerator.
The Packard sped up.
One of the guards stepped out. The man still wasn’t out in the road…
Twenty, thirty feet and he’d be out of the camp. Just a few feet, really.
An MP was now in the middle of the lane.
Holding up his hand.
Caught?
Caught.
Either Allard had made that phone call, or Ralph, in his terror, had shouted out something that had gotten their interest…
He braked, rolled down the window.
This was it, then.
The MP leaned down. “Sir?”
“Yeah?”
“Your vehicle pass. We need it back.”
“Oh.” Sam reached to the dashboard, grabbed the piece of cardboard, almost dropped it as he thrust it through the open window.
The MP took the cardboard and dipped his chin. “Drive safe, sir.” He smiled.
“Thanks.”
Sam drove out to the country road, turned left, and drove about two hundred feet before stopping and letting the shakes come over him.
Then he got over it and got the hell out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Nearly an hour away from Camp Carpenter, Sam turned in to the Route 4 diner in Epsom. The lot was packed dirt, and there were two Ford trucks parked at the far end, black and rusting. The diner’s aluminum siding was light blue and flecked with cancerous rust spots. Stuck in one of the windows by the doorway was a faded poster of President Huey Long. Underneath his fleshy face was the decade-old slogan: EVERY MAN A KING. The ongoing motto of the true believers, or those pretending to be true believers to get along.
Sam got out the car and looked around. No kings in sight. The story of his country, he thought.
Inside, he sat at the counter and ate a dry hamburger and drank a cup of coffee that tasted like water. He ignored the waitress and the cook and the truck drivers and thought about what he had learned about Sean and LaCouture and Groebke and his brother, Tony.
And more than anything else, the story of the hidden camps. The ones that held tattooed prisoners supplied by secret trains. Somehow one of those prisoners, Peter Wotan, had ended up murdered in his town.
He finished his meal, left a dime tip. Near the doorway was a public phone box. He pulled the glass door shut, pumped in some nickels, and got the long-distance operator. At least in this part of the state, in a different county, he could get through without that damnable Signal Corps oversight. On the floor was a copy of the President’s newspaper,
That other thing Sean had said… about family. An idea was coming together about what to do next, and he had to make new arrangements. Had to. The phone at his father-in-law’s cottage in Moultonborough rang and rang and then—
“Hello?”
He leaned against the side of the booth. “Sarah?”
“Oh, Sam, I was hoping it was you! I can’t believe I—”
“Sarah, there’s a problem.”
“What is it?”
Sam turned, made sure he wasn’t being watched. “You’ve got to leave. Right away.”
“You mean… back to Portsmouth?” Her voice was puzzled. “Are you going to come up and—”
“No, not Portsmouth,” he said, thinking fast. “You’ve got to go somewhere else up there. A neighbor, a friend, anyone who can put you and Toby up for a few days.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. What do you mean I—”
“I don’t have time now. Trust me on this. It’s very important. You’ve got to get out of there. With Toby. Do you understand?”
Even across the crackling static, he could hear from her voice that she was trying not to cry. “Oh, Sam —”
“Can you do it? Can you?”
“I could go to—”
“Don’t tell me who,” he interrupted, thinking of wiretaps. Who knew where the FBI could be tapping. “Don’t tell me a thing, Sarah. Just take our son and be safe. We’ll figure out how to get together once this summit is done. But you and Toby, you’ve got to go now. I mean it.”
“All right. I understand.”
She hung up. He stood there, holding the useless receiver in his hand.
Outside, as he was walking to his dust-covered Packard, he heard something clattering around the side of the diner, where there was a small wooden porch. Underneath the porch were cans of trash and swill. The lids to the metal cans were chained shut. Two old women were there, in tattered cloth coats, shoes wrapped in twine, wearing filthy kerchiefs over their gray hair. Both gripped rocks as they tried to break the locks.
One noticed Sam and said something to the other, and they both looked at him, cheeks wrinkled and hollow, mouths sunken from no teeth. Their eyes were filmy and swollen.
Sam slowly reached past his coat to his wallet and slipped out some bills. He had no idea how much money he was leaving.
He knelt down, put the money under a rock, and left.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The time driving back to the coast seemed to fly by, for he was thinking things through, knowing what he was going to do, what had to be done to make it all right. When he got back to Portsmouth, he passed through one checkpoint without any difficulty, then drove to the police station and parked nearby. Run in, see if there were any important messages, and run out. It was going to be a long and dangerous night.
In the lobby, he gave a quick wave to the desk sergeant, who was talking to a drunk hobo going on about how he’d like to join the George Washington Brigade overseas and fight those Bolshies, and why couldn’t he sign up
