“I’ll tell you, but Christ, it doesn’t make sense… something like that to get me in a labor camp.”
“Sean, what did he say?”
He shrugged. “The FBI guy said something like ‘Right from the start, he’s our man.’ ”
“ ‘Right from the start, he’s our man’? That’s what he said? What in hell does that mean?” Sam asked.
Sean said, “If I knew, do you think I would be here?”
They talked for a few minutes more, with Sam trying to jiggle something, anything from Sean’s memory of what he’d overheard. But the records clerk kept insisting the same thing: Right from the start, he’s our man. Sam looked at the MPs, ready to take Sean back. And if ordered, ready, no doubt, to take Sam prisoner as well.
He asked, “How’s it going here? How are you treated?”
Sean had one dirty hand on top of the other on the picnic table. “There’s been stories, you know. In Life and The Saturday Evening Post. And movies. I Was a Fugitive from a Labor Camp. But that’s all bullshit. Nothing like the real deal, my friend.”
Sam was silent.
“The real deal is, you get picked up and then tuned up slapped around, that kind of shit. Driven out here, dumped in a compound. Lined up, names checked, and first lesson you get, some of the older prisoners, they’re on the other side of the fence. They whisper to you, ‘Hey, toss over your watches, your extra shoes, food packages,’ that sort of thing. The guards will confiscate everything you’ve got. So some of the guys—hell, some are just kids—they toss stuff over just like that. You know what happens next.”
“They never see their things again.”
“Of course. And then you get shaved, deloused, showered, and given these lovely clothes. Another tune-up here and there, and you meet your bunkmates. Oh, really trustworthy fellows. What wasn’t taken at the fence is stolen during the night. Off to work the next morning… chopping wood, making furniture, waiting for your billet for a train out west… oh yeah, you learn a lot. Food is rotten, the bunks have fleas, and it’s every man for himself.”
Off in the distance, a burst of gunfire followed by another. Sean winced. Sam said, “What the hell was that?”
“Officially, weapons practice. Unofficially, guys decide that being here in a transit camp is their best chance to get out before being sent out west. Most of ’em have relatives in easy driving distance. So you get the occasional breakout attempt, the occasional shot-while-trying-to-escape. All unofficial, of course.”
“Yeah.”
Tears welled up in the record clerk’s eyes. “Other thing you learn, Sam, is what kind of coward you are. All the talk of being brave and not knuckling under our new government order, it’s all bullshit. You get dumped here, pretty soon all you care about is a good sandwich for lunch, hot water for a shower, and being able to sleep without getting beaten up. Stuff like freedom of speech, freedom of assembly, that’s all crap. Just keeping your own ass well fed, warm, and safe. That’s all you care about.”
The wind shifted, and instead of hearing gunfire, Sam heard a man’s scream. It seemed to go on and on and then gurgle off. Sean looked at him and said, “Bad, I know, but at least it’s not as bad as the other camps.”
“What other camps?”
“Shit, I think I’ve said too much already.”
“Come on, Sean. What do you mean? What other camps?”
“Word is, there are other camps out there. Not officially part of the system. Highly restricted. Here, at least, and the regular labor camps, you get in, you’re serving a sentence. These other camps, they work you to death.”
“Where are they?”
“Mostly in the South, from what I hear, but Jesus, the rumors are something else. If you step out of line, just for one second, you’re shot on the spot.”
“Who’s in these camps?”
“Who the hell knows? Not regular political prisoners, that’s for sure. Word is, there are special trains that take the prisoners to these camps.”
“What the hell do you mean, special trains?”
“Sealed. With markings painted on the side, so they get priority through all stations and sidings.”
That damnable memory of when he was a patrolman, hearing that train roar through with no identifying marks save the yellow stripes painted on the side, hearing the screams and moans from within…
“Another thing, Sam. The prisoners in those special trains… they’re tattooed. Numbers on their wrists. Can you believe that? Tattooed, like fucking cattle.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Sean was looking at him expectantly, but Sam couldn’t say a word. He was thinking furiously.
Peter Wotan.
Special trains.
Tattooed wrists.
He had to leave.
Had to leave now.
Sam stood up and motioned the MPs over. As they started walking toward them, he said softly, “I’ve got to go, Sean. But I’ll do my damnedest to try to get you out.”
Sean said, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. And remember this. You get their attention, both you and your family are targets. Not just you. My wife and her brother—they’re not here, but they’re on a list. One more screwup and they’ll be right here with me, chopping wood and scratching flea bites.”
The warning chilled him as he thought of Sarah and Toby. Sam told the MPs, “I’m finished with this prisoner. You can bring him back to his quarters.”
“Very good, sir,” said the older MP, who still looked displeased at having been told to stay away. The younger one produced a set of handcuffs. Sam said, “Oh, I need something from you both. Give me your smokes.”
The MPs looked at each other and then reluctantly reached into their shirt pockets. Full packs of Camels and Lucky Strikes were brought out. Sam passed them over to Sean, who made them disappear into his jumpsuit. The MPs didn’t look happy.
Sean put his hands out, and as the handcuffs were clicked into place, Sam said to the MPs, “I know you don’t like what just happened. But if I get word that this man’s been mistreated, I’ll have both your asses. Got it?”
Allard looked up at Sam, a sharpened pencil in his hand. “Was the prisoner cooperative? Did you get what you needed?”
“Yes, sir, on both counts,” Sam said.
“And you’ll make note in your official report of the cooperation you received here today?”
“Yes, sir, I will.”
Allard tossed the pencil to the desktop. “Very good. Now, mister, get the hell off my post.”
From the captain’s tone, Sam thought a salute might be in order, but since he was in civilian clothes, he didn’t know what to do. So he got the hell out of the building. A black Chevrolet sedan was parked next to his Packard. As Sam went down the steps, two men in dark brown suits emerged from the sedan, putting on gray snap-brim hats, and went inside.
Sam went to his Packard and stopped when someone called out, “Inspector? Inspector Miller?”
He turned. Someone was sitting in the back of the Chevrolet. Sam went over, saw the rear window halfway down. The shape moved closer to the window, and Sam stopped, shocked. It was Ralph Morancy, the photographer from the Portsmouth Herald. His right eye was swollen shut, a bruised streak along his jaw. The photographer looked like he had been weeping.
“Ralph… what the hell happened to you?”
“Hazards of the job, I suppose. Took photographs that I shouldn’t have, of trucks with prisoners heading out of one of the poorer neighborhoods in town. Two Long’s Legionnaires and an officer from the Department of the Interior took offense. They ordered me to stop, told me to turn over the film, and I said fuck you and mentioned the First Amendment. One of the Long boys, he slugged me, told me he didn’t know shit about the First Amendment. Here I am.” Ralph edged closer to the open window. “Inspector, please. I only have a minute or two before they take me in and process me. Can you help me out? Please? For the love of God, I can’t believe I’m being sent to a labor camp for doing my job… for taking photos… God, what’s the world coming to…”