farm called Thebes in 1948. But Thebes was the site of the research station which the late Dr. Stone directed when he was a major in the?' he made a show of checking notes, though he knew it by heart?'the medical corps, in that unit, the 2809th Tropical Disease Research Unit.'
'Yes, that is what it was.'
'And as you might expect, the state of Mississippi isn't being particularly helpful. It's not much interested in being sued. So I'm hoping to uncover testimony that shows that the situation in Thebes under Army control was quite benign and it turned somewhat ugly when the prison reverted to state control, under a civilian warden, and such things could occur too often.'
'I would very much like to help. I'm a great believer, along with dear Mrs. Roosevelt, in the plight of the American Negro. It is a shame on the bosom of our country.'
'I agree, ma'am, and possibly the work I'm involved in'?Sam half-hated himself for the nobility he was pretending to, particularly in the presence of the widow of a man who was genuinely noble?'will help advance that cause.'
'You are a man of stern belief, Mr. Vincent.'
'No, ma'am. Your husband was a man of stern belief. I'm just a country lawyer, taking a deposition. May I ask, how did he die, if it's not too indelicate a subject?'
'It was a disease. He wanted to destroy it; it destroyed him.'
'I'm so sorry.'
'No need to apologize. It was a mighty enemy, and he lost a noble battle. I think of Hector and Achilles. He was Hector. Heroic, but sadly human, at war with one of God's most favored killing machines.
He'd never been dipped in immortality. It ravaged him and he died, that's all. Some bug stung him, some dying patient breathed on him, some germ crept into his water or food. It's very tragic. He could have done so much more than he got to do. He wanted to help so much.'
'I take it the Department of the Army was very aggressive in setting up this project.'
'As you might imagine, tropical diseases weren't of much interest in this country until the war came along. Then our boys started suffering from them in the Pacific. So of course it all changed, and David was suddenly very popular. He was commissioned directly, given a budget and an agenda. I'm not sure why Mississippi was chosen as opposed to Florida, the Everglades or something, which at least would have been close to a sophisticated city, Miami. But for some reason, he had to go to God's Little Acre, Mississippi. I gather its impenetrability was part of its allure. The conditions were primitive in that part of the state.
It was much like being in an African jungle. And you couldn't fly there or drive there; just getting in was arduous enough. But he loved the work, and he was very optimistic about his research.'
'I'm sorry, but wasn't there a road? I mean, couldn't you have flown to New Orleans, traveled to Pascagoula, then driven up the road parallel to the river?'
'Well, there was, until the Army Engineers destroyed it.'
'They destroyed it?'
'They cut it off. I suppose it had to do with security. Possibly they were worried about German or Japanese spies, or inquiring newspaper men, or whatever. But they went to a great deal of trouble to isolate it.'
This was new. The people in the area believed the road had just been destroyed naturally. But now the government was destroying it, to protect whatever Dr. Stone was working on.
Sam wrote down this development.
'Do you know, exactly, what it was he was studying?'
'You know, I haven't a head for medicine. I believe it was malarial virus work of some sort. He may have explained it to me at one point or other, but if I understood it then, I honestly can't say I do today.'
'Did he ever specify the exact nature of the work? I mean, was he treating patients? Was he examining blood? Was he looking for cures and running a medicine test of some sort?'
'As I understand it, they had volunteers who agreed to be infected with various strains so that their progress could be monitored and cures tried. The whole point was to do it quickly, to arrive at some kind of cure or medical protocol years in advance of the normal techniques. It was very accelerated, that I know.'
'Would they have used prisoners?'
'I'm sure they were volunteers, Mr. Vincent. It would be very dangerous work, and you couldn't possibly force a man to risk his health, his body, his life like that, now could you?'
'No, ma'am. Well, then, would he have sent back photographs of any sort?
I'm looking for a way to document the changes at Thebes Penal Farm.'
'No, Mr. Vincent. David was not a photographer, I'm afraid. He was caught up entirely in his work.'
'I see.' 'Now,' she said, 'there were letters. Lots of letters.'
Sam swallowed and hoped he didn't give away both his surprise and his idiocy for not having come up with this possibility on his own. He finally said, 'I suppose you've got them?'
'Of course, Mr. Vincent.'
'Would it be all right if?'
'Of course, 'she said.
IN the dark, men breathed heavily as they snored through sleep painfully earned. Some farted away the pressures of a bean-rich diet, some moaned in pain or dread, and occasionally someone cried out from the unconscious but far more pleasant other world for a Rosie or a Mama or an Alberta.
But even in this darkness there were gradients in the shadings, as there always were in any darkness. That deeper patch over there, was it the shape of a man, prowling, hunting? Or was it a discoloration on the wall, the play of obscure shadow? That small ticking sound: the ancient timbers settling yet again, another tiny degree? Or a man opening a secret pocketknife to do some powerful cutting?
He watched, waiting for movement, waiting for some indication of assault, trying to control his breathing.
Earl had slipped from his bed an hour after lights out, and oozed with a sniper's patience slowly along the floor an inch or so at a time, until he crouched a few feet from the mattress where he'd been sleeping these past nights. He was in his underwear but had his heavy work boots on. He tried to be soundless as he cocked his legs for a spring and readied himself for a fight.
He even had a weapon, for he could not fight in the dark without one.
It was a knot of branch, secreted into his pants late in the day, heavy for clubbing, pointed and broken for stabbing.
But what if they didn't come tonight?
If they didn't, he'd lose the sleep and he'd never gain it back; the work in the hole was grinding him down inexorably, and he could feel his strength ebbing. And with his strength, his will was going.
He'd been thinking about one thing: escape.
But it seemed impossible.
The problem wasn't the fences or the guns or even the swamp; he could slide under the fence, he could evade the guns, he could navigate the swamp. He'd already figured two ways to escape the barracks at night.
No, the problem was those goddamn dogs, who'd hunt him down long before he could reach the only fair chance at escape, which was the river.
Before, he'd been able to plan, to build traps and switchbacks to throw the hounds off. No chance of that here: he'd be blind in the swamp, and the dogs would be on him in no time.
Yet that wasn't the worst. He knew the worst: it was that each day he was here, he lost a little strength, a little spirit, a little hope. He had to move soon or he'd never move. It was too much. It was horrible.
In the war, at least you had responsibilities and comrades to get you through, to share the ordeal and lend you their strength.
Here he had nothing: no Negro would have a thing to do with him, and Bigboy and his bullies wanted him dead, and this braying monster Section Boss wanted him dead slowly. Only the warden was keeping him alive, and for how long? Eventually the warden would conclude that enough time had passed, and that if Earl were indeed the agent he believed him to be, his agency would come looking for him to make a big stink. Absent that proof of Earl's importance, the warden would conclude he was just what he said he was: a nobody. And being a potential embarrassment, he'd be easy enough to dispose of. Who would say a thing?
He tried to keep his mind sharp. He couldn't. He kept sliding off into blurry reverie. He remembered so many
