The train car was mostly empty, the other passengers farmers and a few traveling salesmen, and one heavyset woman with two young boys sitting in front of her. The boys were barefoot. She wore a coat made out of a gray wool blanket. There were just a few pieces of lonely luggage in the overhead racks. Sam sat alone, hungry, for he hadn’t the urge to take breakfast. All he cared about was getting up to Burdick, and then…
That was a good question. What then?
He continued looking at the small farms, the forests, and the distant peaks of the Green Mountains, the sisters of the White Mountains in his own home state. He thought about the special trains that had come up here, carrying its secret cargo of tattooed people. How had one of them escaped and ended up in Portsmouth? Why?
The train shuddered, slowed, as they entered a town, a few automobiles here and there, even some horse- drawn wagons. The train shuddered again and, with a great belch of steam and smoke, came to a halt. There was a station out there, even smaller than his home, and a wooden sign dangling beneath the eaves.
He got up from his seat, grabbed his hat, and walked down the grimy aisle. The pavement outside was black tar, cracked and faded. He looked up and down. Nobody else was getting off. Nobody, as far as he could see, was getting on. Smoke and steam streamed from the engine. He felt an urge to climb back on the train.
He waited.
The train whistle blew.
Another shuddering clank.
The train started moving.
He watched the cars slide by.
He could still make it if he wanted to. Just climb up and get inside, find a conductor, make arrangements for a return trip to Greenfield, then Boston and home to Portsmouth. If he was lucky, he could be home tonight.
Sam stood still.
The track was empty.
It was time to move.
He walked into the station, found it deserted. From his coat pocket, he took out the lapel pin, snapped it into place on his coat. There was a counter at one end, and he walked up to an older man working behind it. The man was wearing a stained white shirt and a black necktie that barely made it down his expansive chest, a black cap with the B&M insignia. He was doing paperwork with the nub of a yellow pencil and barely glanced up as Sam stood before him.
“Yep?” he finally asked.
Sam put his hands on the countertop. “Is there a taxi in this town?”
“If Clyde Fanson answers the phone, I s’pose there is.”
“Then I need a cab.”
“Where ya goin’?”
“To the camp,” Sam said.
At that, the man looked up, his eyes unblinking behind his black-rimmed glasses. “ ’Fraid I don’t know what you’re talkin’ ’bout.”
Sam pulled his new ID from his pocket, silently displayed it. The man swallowed. “You fellas… usually, you have your own transport, you know? Usually.”
Sam put the identification away. “This isn’t usual.”
“Guess not,” the man said, reaching over to a black phone. “I’ll make the call to Clyde, he should be outside in a few minutes.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
He walked outside into the late-morning sun. From here it looked like he could make out all of Burdick: a service station, a brick town hall, a white clapboard building that announced it housed the Burdick Volunteer Fire Department, and a grouping of two-story wooden buildings. A horse-drawn wagon clomped by, carrying scrap metal. He couldn’t imagine a train dumping its load of scared people at this station. There must be a spur farther down. Would it have made more sense to go that way, to walk the line?
No, he decided. Who knew how long a walk it could be and what he would find at the end.
An old Ford Model A came down the street, rattled to a halt. On its black doors, someone had painted in sloppy white letters FANSON LIVERY & DELIVERY. A small man came out, dressed in white shirt, necktie, and overalls, his brown hair slicked back. He looked over the hood of the Model A and asked, “You the fella needing a ride?”
“I am.”
He pointed to the passenger side. “Then get yourself in.”
Sam opened the door, sat on the worn and torn leather upholstery. Clyde Fanson shifted and the car engine coughed, stalled, and then caught as Clyde made a U-turn and started out of town. He glanced over at Sam. “First time here?”
“Yeah.”
“Good for you.”
Sam thought about peppering the guy with questions about the camp and decided it was too risky. Sam was an FBI agent. He should know what was going on. Too many questions could make this taxi driver suspicious, and a suspicious driver could make a phone call or two, and then this little quest would be over before it started.
Now they were out of the town, climbing a poorly paved road up into the hills. Pine trees and low brush crowded against the narrow road. Sam said, “What goes on here?”
His driver hacked up some phlegm and expertly spat out the window. “Not much of anything, but for a while, it was stone. Marble. Granite. Had some of the finest quarries in this part of the state. Now… well, you know.”
“Sure,” Sam said, thinking of all the horrors that had emerged from the Crash of ’29. “I know.”
The road widened, and Clyde pulled over on the right to a dirt road that led up into the woods. He let the engine rumble a bit and said, “Here ya go.”
Sam tried to hide his surprise. “You sure?”
He spat again through the window. “ ’Course I’m sure. Right up that dirt road.”
“The road looks pretty good. Why don’t you haul me up there?”
“I’m no fool, pal. You’re a fed and all that, which is fine, but we know enough to stay away. ’Nuff people over the past months got into lots of trouble, pokin’ around, never to be seen again, so I won’t be goin’. It’s up to you.”
“Okay,” Sam said. “I understand. How much?”
“Twenty-five cents.”
Sam passed over a quarter and a nickel. As he stepped out, Clyde called, “Hey, hold on.” He passed over a slip of paper. “I know how you feds work. Expense account and all that crap. Your receipt.”
Sam took the torn piece of paper. “Thanks,” he said, but Clyde had already pulled out and sped up the road, as if even being at the entrance to whatever was in the dark woods would bring him bad luck.
Sam adjusted his hat, started walking.
After about ten minutes, he could hear the sound of machinery up in the distance. While the dirt road was well maintained, there was evidence that lots of heavy trucks or equipment had passed through. By now the heat was getting to him, and he loosened his tie and unbuttoned his jacket.
The rumble of machinery grew louder, and then there was a wooden sign up ahead.
