Amerikan Eagle

here, there was good money and hot meals and so forth. There was also a slight woman in a long coat and pink scarf about her head, speaking with a British accent, trying to get the sergeant’s attention.

By the stairs, Clarence Rolston was sweeping. “Sam! Am I right? Sam, good to see you.”

Sam knew the seconds were slipping away, but he stopped. “Good to see you, too, Clarence. How are you?”

Clarence blinked and smiled, a dribble of saliva escaping. “Doing good. And thanks about that other thing. I didn’t get into trouble. Thanks a lot, Sam.”

“Glad it worked out. Take care now, okay?”

Sam sprinted up the stairs. The door to Marshal Hanson’s office was closed. He looked up at the clock. Nearly seven P.M. He went to his desk, saw a pile of yellow message slips, all of them in Mrs. Walton’s neat cursive, and all saying the same thing: Agent LaCouture of the FBI needs to talk to you. The messages were an hour apart. He flipped through to see if there was anything else, like a phone call from Lou Purdue, but no.

Just the FBI. He would take care of LaCouture later.

He crumpled the message slips, tossed them in a trash can.

The door to Hanson’s office swung open. He came out, staring at Sam. “Inspector,” he said tonelessly.

“Sir,” Sam said, cursing himself for being stupid enough to get caught like this. Dammit, the man was getting ready for the Long-Hitler summit, of course he’d be working late.

“In my office, if you please.”

Sam walked in, and Hanson gently closed the door behind him.

Hanson went around his desk, sighing loudly and running a hand across the top of his hair. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he sat down heavily. “How’s it going, Sam?” he asked.

God, what a question. And what kind of answer? Sam said, “It’s been a busy day.”

“I’m sure. Look, do you smell anything unusual?”

Sam waited just a moment. “No, I don’t.”

Hanson said, “Well, you should. You should smell something charred. The phone lines between here and the Rockingham Hotel have been burning up all day with the damn FBI and his Gestapo buddy looking for you. What the hell is going on?”

Sam said, “I’m doing my job.”

“Your job right now is doing what the FBI tells you to do.”

“Which is what I’ve been doing,” Sam replied. “LaCouture told me this morning he was busy. He told me to come back later. He didn’t say when.”

Hanson stayed quiet, gently rocking his chair. Then he said, “So what were you working on? Besides being a wiseass.”

“Other cases. Trying to catch up. As you’ve instructed me.”

The room was so quiet, Sam thought he could hear a clock ticking somewhere else in the building. Hanson seemed to stare right through him.

A slow creak-creak as Hanson moved his chair back and forth. “Then it’s your responsibility to tell the FBI where you’ve been today. Not mine, is it?”

Sam thought, Nice job, Harold. Sam was the FBI’s boy now, and Hanson was all hands-off. If he was going down for anything he did today, Hanson wouldn’t be next to him.

“That’s right, sir.”

“Very well. When this summit is over, you’re going to catch up on your casework. In addition, you’re going to run for the district council for the Party later this month, and you’ll win.”

Sam bit at his lower lip. “I… I’m not sure I’ll have the time to be more active.”

“You’re going to find the time,” Hanson told him. “Let’s avoid all the bullshit, all right? Sam, you’ve caught some people’s attention. People you don’t want to irritate. Some Legionnaire officers find it curious that two of their people in Portsmouth had their car vandalized, and the same two were later beaten up. Both events happened when you were in the vicinity. Do you have anything to add to that?”

Sam looked evenly at his boss. “Not a thing.”

“Glad to hear it,” Hanson said. “But if these same officers see an enthusiastic, active, and respectful Sam Miller involved in the Party, it would ease their concerns. It would also be helpful to me and not helpful to your father-in-law. Do you understand?”

“I don’t want to understand,” he said. “I just want to do my job.”

“You’re going to keep doing your job, and you’re going to be active in the Party, and you’re going to succeed at both. You know why? Because you’ve shown me what you can do. You ignore rules when you don’t like them. You go out on your own. And when push comes to shove, you’re not above administering a bit of street justice. All skills that the Party could use. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re wrong,” Sam said. “Absolutely one hundred percent wrong.”

Hanson smiled. “You may fool yourself into thinking that, but I know better. So when the summit is concluded and you’ve caught up on your casework, you’re going to take a little time off. There’s a special training session for up-and-coming Party members down in Baton Rouge. And when you come back, I’ll make sure you win the council election. How does that sound?”

“Sounds like nonsense,” Sam snapped. “I’m not leaving Portsmouth, I’m not going to Baton Rouge, and I’m sure as hell not becoming a whore for the Party.”

“Too bad it sounds like nonsense,” Hanson said evenly. “But in the end, it’s going to sound very good to you, your wife, and your son.”

“Leave my family out of it.”

Hanson’s eyes bored through him. “I’ll leave your family out of it if you will.”

“What the hell do you mean by that?”

Hanson said slowly, “You know exactly what I mean, and we’re going to leave it at that. That way we both can deny later that we discussed such a forbidden topic, even though your promised report on the demise of the Underground Railroad station hasn’t yet reached my desk. A subject I know that you’re intimately familiar with. Care to say anything more?”

Sam knew exactly what Hanson meant. The Underground Railroad. The marshal knew. Had always known.

“No,” he said slowly. “Not at the moment.”

“Very good.” His boss nodded. “And when the summit is over, I expect and will receive your enthusiastic participation in the Party, correct?”

Hating himself, Sam said, “Yes. Correct.”

Hanson opened his top drawer, reached in, and tossed something across at Sam, who looked down, saw the despised Confederate-flag pin. “And you can start by showing your loyalty, Probationary Inspector Miller.”

Sam picked up the pin. He looked over and saw the marshal’s suit coat hanging on its rack, the same pin on its lapel.

With his fingers trembling, he put the pin in his lapel. “There,” he said. “Satisfied?”

“Quite. Now get the hell out of here and make the fucking FBI happy, all right?”

Sam did just that.

* * *

He barely made it down the stone steps of the police station before ducking into an alleyway. The spasms were hard, sharp, and the lousy diner meal splattered against brick. When he was done, Sam pressed his forehead against the cool brick. Busted. The marshal and the Legionnaires knew about the Underground Railroad station at the house, had known for some time.

So why hadn’t it been shut down? And Sarah and he arrested?

Because they wanted more. They wanted a compliant and obedient Sam Miller, son-in-law to a connected politician, someone they could use for more important things down the road, helping out the Nats, disrupting the Staties in the Party structure.

He took out a handkerchief and wiped at his lips and walked out onto the sidewalk. He looked down at his lapel. Now an official member of the oppressors. How delightful. Sarah would be so goddamn proud.