“What I mean is this,” Sam said, raising up his revolver. “Petr Wowenstein escaped from a research facility in New Mexico and made his way to Portsmouth. He was coming here to reach the Underground Railroad, a station that was going to help him get to Montreal, with something very important he was carrying. A station I know you’re familiar with, with all those hints you’ve given me. Wowenstein was a courier with a package that meant the life and death of hundreds of thousands, maybe millions. But the package never got delivered. Just as he was coming into Portsmouth, just as he was about to leave the train, he was murdered. His neck was snapped, and he was tossed off the train like a piece of garbage.”
Hanson said, “Well? So what?”
Sam held the revolver level and steady. “What’s what is the truth,” he said. “Harold, you were on the train that night. You were trying to get the package off Petr Wowenstein. And when you couldn’t find it, you killed him.”
He stared at his boss, wanting to see a reaction. Except for a quiver of the lips, there was nothing. Sam said, “No reply, Harold?”
“Sam, you’ve drawn a gun on me. You’re making crazy accusations. What do you want me to say? And what the hell gives you the right to call me by my first name?”
“The right of someone who’s no longer your errand boy. You were on that train, Harold, and you murdered Petr Wowenstein.”
“Sam—”
“Then tell me it’s not true.”
“Of course it’s not true!”
Sam took one hand off the revolver, went back into his coat pocket, and took out two pieces of paper. He tossed them in the direction of Hanson, where they fluttered to the ground. “Pick them up.”
Hanson stared at him for a moment, then squatted down, picked up the slips of paper.
“The one with the blue lines,” Sam went on. “You’ll recognize it, I’m sure. It’s a page taken from Mrs. Walton’s log. You may run the department the way you see fit, but by God, Mrs. Walton demands to know where everyone is. No one dares to cross her by telling a lie. And the night the Boston express train came through, that’s where you were. It says so right there in her writing. How did you get back and forth to Boston? On the train, and with your National Guard and police marshal IDs, you could ride for free, no paperwork. Right? But remember what you told me that morning I came to see you? You said you were in Concord the day of Petr’s murder. Not Boston.”
Hanson crumpled the paper, let it drop back to the dirt. “So?”
“Check out the other paper. It’s a carbon copy of my report on my first homicide. My first homicide, Harold. Read the last two lines, will you.”
Hanson, his voice dripping contempt, said, “Since you’re holding a gun on me, I guess I have no choice.” He brought the piece of paper up and read it:
Sam said, “Sound familiar?”
“I guess.”
“I’ve talked to Dr. Saunders. He said he never filed a follow-up report, and he never talked to anyone after he was visited by me, LaCouture, and Groebke. So how did you know Petr’s neck was snapped?”
“What?”
Sam stepped closer, his revolver inches from his boss’s chest, knowing he was taking a path that he could never, ever retrace.
“Back in Burdick, you told me to ignore the case, that it was just one refugee who had his neck snapped and got dumped off the train. But I never told you his neck was snapped. Dr. Saunders never told you his neck was snapped. None of my reports ever mention his neck. Nobody ever told you his fucking neck was snapped. So how did you know?”
Now he saw a reaction in Hanson’s face. It was as if he had aged ten years from the time he’d stepped out of his car.
Sam knelt down, picked up a rock with his free hand, and tossed it at Hanson’s head. The marshal ducked and brought up his left hand to block the flying stone. Sam stood up, breathing hard. “And another thing. The killer was left-handed. Just like you. So. How and why was the courier killed?”
The air was cold, still, and heavy, and then Hanson nervously cleared his throat. “It was an accident.”
“How was killing him an accident?”
Hanson spat on the ground. “Because it was, dammit! The son of a bitch wouldn’t give it up!”
“Give what up?”
