He paused, licked his dry lips. A hand went to his pocket, where his fake ID rested. It had been good enough to fool a B&M railroad clerk. He would soon find out if it was good enough to fool whoever was beyond that sign.
He kept on walking, the weight of his revolver no comfort at all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The dirt road circled and widened to a small wooden gatehouse painted bright white, with chain-link fence. Another gate, another barrier. The chain-link fence had barbed wire around the top, and the center of the fence was on metal wheels, serving as the gate. Two men stood in front of the guardhouse, watching him. Sam kept his face impassive. The men weren’t local cops or National Guardsmen; they wore the leather jackets and blue corduroys of Long’s Legionnaires. They also weren’t the kind of young punks he had seen in his hometown: They were lean, tough-looking, and hanging off their shoulders were Thompson submachine guns with drum magazines.
One stepped out from the shadow of the guardhouse. His face was freckled, and his hair was a sharp blond crew cut. “You lost, boy?”
Sam said nothing, walked closer. The other guard came out. His hair was black, slicked back, and parted in the middle. “He asked you a question, boy.” His gumbo-thick accent was the twin of his companion’s.
Sam kept quiet. The closest guard unshouldered his gun. “On your knees, now, boy!”
Sam stopped about four feet away from the two guards. “Names.”
“What?” the blond guard asked.
“I want your names. The both of you.”
The second guard muttered, “The fuck you say.”
Sam said, “No. The fuck
The two Cajun guards looked confused. The one with the crew cut demanded, “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the report on my trip here, starting from when I got to the station and there was no automobile waiting for me.” Sam kept his voice low and determined. “I had to arrange for a taxi up here, in a piece-of-shit Ford that nearly broke my back. And once I got here, I get you two morons ready to shoot me instead of finding out who I am.”
“Who the hell are you?” the second guard asked, his voice not as harsh as before.
“We weren’t told anything ’bout an investigation,” the first guard protested.
“Fine, glad to hear that,” Sam said. “But I don’t give a shit. Right now I want both of your names, and after, I want that gate open and a car to get me up to the administration building. Or whatever you call it.”
The guard with black hair said, “The name’s Clive Cooley. This here is Zell Poulton.”
Sam made a show of taking out his notebook, writing down both names. He cocked his head and said, “Well?”
Zell went into the guard shack and lifted up a phone, while Clive went to the gate and slid it open with a satisfying clank and rattle. Sam waited, arms crossed, willing his legs not to shake, knowing he was close, oh, so close. A memory charged into his mind, of skating one winter on Hilton’s Pond with Tony, going farther and farther out on the ice, hearing it creak and moan, knowing with cold hands and colder heart that he was so close to falling in.
There came the sound of a motor, and a dusty Oldsmobile appeared around the corner. It stopped, and another Long’s Legionnaire stepped out. Clive went over and talked to him, then called out, “Agent Munson? This way, sir. I’m gonna drive you up to headquarters.”
Sam walked up to the car, hearing within his mind the sound of ice cracking once he passed through the gate.
The inside of the Oldsmobile was surprisingly clean, and Clive climbed in, putting his gun on the rear seat. He made a three-point turn and said, “Hear me out, will ya?”
“Sure,” Sam said. “I’ll hear you out.”
“Don’t put no blame on me or Zell, okay? We were just doin’ our job. If we knew you was goin’ to show up, we’d’ve taken care of it. But we didn’t get told now, did we? Minute you showed us your badge and stuff, we cooperated, didn’t we?”
“That’s right,” Sam agreed. “You cooperated. I’ll make sure I mention that.”
Clive looked back at the road. “ ’Kay, that’s fair enough, then.”
The road rose up and then leveled off. Even over the car’s motor, Sam could make out other sounds, of engines working and tools pounding on stone. There was another gate up ahead, but this one looked ceremonial: just wrought iron with an arch. In the arch was a series of letters. Sam made out the words as they drew closer:
Sam said, “That’s some kind of slogan.”
“Yeah,” Clive said. “Some kind of bullshit, if you ask me.”
The far slope of the road suddenly fell away, clear of brush and trees, opening to a wide hole in the ground, bare rock and dirt. Looking over, Sam realized that it was deep, very deep, with terraced rocks and roads, cranes overhead, smoke and steam rising, the cranes raising great blocks of stone. A quarry, he thought. “What kind of rock are they cutting out down there?” he asked.
“Marble,” Clive said. “Supposedly the best in the country. Ships all over the world. Real pricey shit, get lots of money for it.”
Then he saw the workers. Long lines of men in the distance, dressed in white prisoner clothing with thin blue stripes, wearing flat cloth caps. The road swerved to the right, and Sam wondered what he had just seen. They weren’t dressed like the prisoners at Camp Carpenter—they were different. Like Sean had said. A camp beyond the camp. Up ahead were buildings, and then another line of men, carrying pickaxes over their thin shoulders, overseen by two Long’s Legionnaires at either end, riding horses, pump-action shotguns at the ready. Sam stared at the prisoners as they went by. They were gaunt and they shuffled, as if each step was as hard as lifting a hundred pounds.
To a man, they looked as though they could be brothers of Peter Wotan.
Clive said, “See you lookin’ at our guests.”
“What?”
Clive said, “Guests. You know what I mean, right?”
Sam thought quickly. He was FBI. This sight shouldn’t be strange to him. “Sure, I know what you mean.”
He resisted an impulse to turn in the seat and look at the men again.
CHAPTER FORTY
Clive braked hard at the largest building, where white poles out front flew an American flag, what looked to
