Ashes Of America

  Ashes Of America

  Fergus McNeill

  For Desaraye, and all my American family.

  Truly Missouri’s finest.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Epilogue

  Also by Fergus McNeill

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Draft of Charles Lindbergh’s speech

  America First rally, 1953, Des Moines, Iowa

  I stood before you in 1941, to plead the case for American independence, and to warn against the madness of entering a European war.

  This was never our fight. It was never our place to defend the interests of the British Empire, nor to calm the ancient prejudices of nations on the far side of the world.

  Our leaders assured us that we could support our friends by providing them with the implements of war -- tools, machines, and raw materials -- but how much American blood has since been spilled on the battlefields of Europe?

  This policy of intervention brought war to America, with the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, and for a time we were drawn into a larger conflict, fighting nations that we had no quarrel with. Yet, even through this time, America and Germany might still have been allies: two noble countries, united against the mindless hordes that threatened to sweep away our great civilizations. Because, for all that has been written about National Socialism, it is now clear that Communism was ever the real danger.

  Germany knew this and, despite the British aggression which forced her into unwanted conflict, Germany never lost sight of the true enemy. After they negotiated a peaceful surrender to the western allies in 1945, it was German forces that turned to weather the storm of Soviet invasion, holding back the Russian army until American atomic bombs destroyed Moscow, and brought an end to the war.

  But this was never our fight. And now, while France enjoys her freedom, and Britain rebuilds its vast empire, America is somehow still paying the price for a war it did not start.

  Too many of our brave servicemen have fallen, sent overseas to fight other nations’ battles, and too many of them are still there, risking their lives to restore order that other nations destroyed. It is time for us to bring them home. It is time to put America first.

  Fall, 1953

  Joplin, Missouri

  1

  Frank Rye exhaled – a long, contented sigh – then lifted himself and rolled over, falling back onto the pillow. Right now, as he stared up at the sunlit ceiling, everything was good, like that blissful first moment after waking…

  Beside him, the rhythm of Beth’s breathing gently slowed, fading back into the respectable quiet of the house.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting that,’ she said, reaching out a slender hand to touch his arm. ‘I thought you’d be hard at work this morning.’

  Frank glanced over at her.

  ‘I am,’ he said.

  Her brow wrinkled into a brief frown, then she blushed and gave him a half-hearted dig in the side.

  ‘I meant, I didn’t think you’d be here this morning.’

  ‘I’m not here.’ He tilted his head away from her to gaze up at the rosewood ceiling fan with its brass rotor. For some reason, he’d never liked that fan. ‘I’m down in Newton County. Official police business.’

  Beth propped herself up on one elbow. Her hand traced a slow line from his chest to his belly, and a faint smile played across her lips.

  ‘Is that what I am?’ she asked. ‘Official police business?’

  She lay there, studying his face, waiting for him to speak, but he wasn’t ready for conversation. After a moment, her smile faded and she seemed to lose patience, twisting her body around to get out of bed.

  ‘Must be nice, to get whatever you want,’ she said.

  Frank blinked, then sighed once more. Satisfied yet unsatisfied…

  Rolling into a sitting position, he let his feet drop to the floor, pressing his toes onto the bare wooden boards. Absently, he leaned over to touch the ugly scar that ran like a smear of pink wax down his leg, but there was no feeling in it.

  ‘You didn’t do much to stop me,’ he reminded her.

  ‘No.’ Beth hesitated, then gathered up the towel that she’d spread across the sheets, folding it ready to drop into the laundry. ‘No, I suppose I didn’t.’

  He watched her, naked and pale, as she moved around the bed, quietly tidying up the room. Hers was a careful discretion… he liked that about her.

  On a whim, he reached out as she went to move past him, grabbing her wrist and dragging her back. She pulled against him for a moment, then relented, wrapping her arms around his head, and hugging him close against her bare breast. He caught a whiff of perfumed soap, mingled with her own natural scent.

  No words. He was glad of that. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself the last of the moment.

  After a time, she released him, stepping back to gaze down into his face, then turning away and walking to the door. He watched her disappear into the hallway, heard the bathroom door close. With a yawn, he stood and began to gather up his clothes.

  She was waiting at the foot of the stairs as he came down, a lit cigarette already in her hand. Beth looked good, wearing that prim yellow dress once more, her long brown hair tied back with a matching ribbon. He followed her through to the parlor, doing up the last of his shirt buttons as he went.

  ‘It’s almost lunchtime.’ She spoke casually, but there was something in her voice. ‘I could fix you a sandwich if you’d like…’

  He dropped into one of the armchairs, keeping his eyes on her as he leaned forward to lace up his shoe.

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll get something later.’

  She had taken the cigarette from her lips and blew out a stream of pale blue smoke. Reaching to his pocket, he started to take out his own pack, then checked himself and took one from the box on the coffee table instead.

  While he was here, it was better that he smoked hers.

  Beth turned the dial on the radio until it clicked, then moved to the liquor cabinet, her hand reaching out to lift a bottle.

  ‘You want a drink?’ she asked, turning towards him.

  That tone of voice again. Frank glanced over, then shook his head.

  ‘Wouldn’t sit right with me, drinking another man’s bourbon,’ he replied.

  Beth glared at him, then slammed the bottle down on its tray, rattling the glasses.

  ‘You’re a bastard, Frank Rye,’ she said.

  H
e held her gaze, then nodded slowly.

  ‘True enough,’ he said. ‘And you know it better than most.’

  She gave him a hurt look, then smoked in silence for a while, though her expression softened a little as the radio warmed up and Rudi Schuricke’s voice crackled and swelled to fill the room.

  One perfect day we'll be together,

  One perfect day I'll hear you say,

  That in my heart you'll stay forever,

  And from my arms you'll never stray…

  Neither of them spoke as the music played, but the song seemed to thaw the mood between them and, as it ended, Frank saw the familiar shy smile was returning to Beth’s face. She smoothed down the front of her dress then moved over to stand by his chair.

  ‘Won’t you stay?’ she asked. ‘Just for a while?’

  Frank looked up at her. It was tempting… but the longer he was away the more questions people would ask. He checked his watch then shook his head.

  ‘I should probably go and call in,’ he said, stubbing out his cigarette in the ash tray.

  Beth nodded to herself. ‘Busy day, right?’

  ‘Won’t know that until I call in.’ Frank glanced up, caught the disappointment in her expression. ‘How about you?’

  Beth turned away and wandered back to the liquor cabinet.

  ‘Oh… you know me.’ She picked up a glass, then set it down again. ‘Nothin’ to do, and all day to get it done.’

  Frank rose to his feet and walked over to stand behind her. Turning her gently, he lifted her chin so he could gaze down into her eyes, then kissed her softly on the forehead.

  ‘Yeah. I know you,’ he whispered.

  He opened the back door, stepping out onto the porch and pulling on his hat. Pausing, he took a moment to check he hadn’t left anything behind – wallet, keys, badge, gun – then took the two steps down and wandered quietly across the yard. It must have been quite a place when Beth’s parents owned it, but now everything spoke of neglect. Two tattered lawn-chairs lay forgotten beside the barbecue, the grass was scorched yellow and the bleached wooden birdhouse leaned over on its tall pole. He resisted the temptation to straighten it – he had no business meddling with anything here.

  The yard backed onto the railroad track and he stood silent for a moment, making sure there was nobody around, before calmly vaulting the fence. Brushing the dirt from his hands, he set off, walking between the shining steel rails.

  It bothered him, the way Beth had wanted to give him lunch. Maybe it was nothing – just a courteous gesture – but gestures like that reminded him of caring, of attachment…

  No place for that in what they had.

  He liked Beth, liked the way she abandoned herself to him, but he knew he had to keep a little distance between them if he wanted to continue seeing her. And he did want that… he just knew that this was all it could ever be.

  The track swept away in a gentle curve, cutting through a lonely line of dogwood trees, before it straightened out closer to the edge of town. Here, he stepped over the rail and down onto the bare ground, picking his way between the piles of ore and heading towards one of the old zinc mills that had stood empty since the war. Walking around the side of the abandoned building, he glanced up at the peeling posters, faded almost white in the sun, still reminding people that they should Salvage scrap to blast the Jap. He shook his head. It all seemed like a lifetime ago.

  The patrol car was where he’d left it, tucked away out of sight in the shadows at the back of the main building. Getting in, he placed his hat on the seat and started the engine. Then, spitting up a plume of dust and grit behind him, he accelerated in a long arc around the empty lot and bumped the car out onto the road.

  Main Street was quiet when he pulled in to the curb, just outside the theatre. Joplin had become a nothing-doing kind of town since the war finished. The mines had all but gone – even the streetcars had stopped running – and the whole place seemed to have forgotten why it was here… but that was fine by him. He liked the quiet, the isolation; it was why he’d come back.

  Getting out of the car, he glanced up at the marquee. They were showing the new William Holden picture, The Brave German, but someone had scrawled the word KRAUT across the movie posters in red paint. He sighed to himself. Out here, opinions took time to change. After years of propaganda telling people that Germany was the enemy, it’d take years more to convince them that Germany was now a friend.

  Crossing the street, he pushed the door of the diner and went inside. The waitress looked round as he walked in and set his hat down on the counter.

  ‘Good afternoon, ma’am.’

  ‘What can I get you, officer?’ She was young, with curly brown hair that framed a sunny face, and large, innocent eyes.

  Frank glanced up at the menu board.

  ‘Well now… I reckon I’ll have the scrambled eggs with bacon and toast,’ he said.

  ‘Coming right up,’ she replied. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Coffee. And could I use your telephone?’

  ‘Sure.’ She indicated along the counter. ‘It’s just there, in the back.’

  He knew where the phone was, but she was obviously new here, so he looked where she was pointing, then smiled his thanks.

  ‘I’m obliged, ma’am.’

  Taking out a cigarette, he lit it, then walked along the counter and picked up the phone. He watched the waitress while he waited to be connected, catching her eye again as she set a cup down beside his hat, and nodding his thanks. A moment later, when the phone clicked, he heard Kirkland’s voice and knew straight away that something was wrong.

  ‘Where the hell have you been, Frank?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I thought you were supposed to be down in Newton County this morning.’

  Damn! Frank shut his eyes. How had Kirkland found out? The man had a real talent for sniffing out lies, hangovers, officers going AWOL…

  He had to say something, but there might still be a chance he could talk his way out of this, if he was careful.

  ‘I had an errand to run, and Pete wasn’t busy so I had him go down instead.’ He hesitated, wondering what Pete had said. ‘Why? What’s the problem?’

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Kirkland’s voice pitched up a notch. ‘We’ve had the Newton County Sheriff on the phone. They found Pete’s body. Some bastard killed him, Frank.’

  2

  Frank killed the engine and sat in silence, peering out through the windshield. He’d driven the twenty miles south with his foot to the floor but, now that he was here, he couldn’t bring himself to get out of the car.

  Why the hell hadn’t he kept his dick in his pants and come down himself?

  He stared along the side street, with its two-story brick buildings, noted the local patrol cars, nosed in at an angle to the sidewalk like they’d arrived in a hurry… but there was no point hurrying now. Pete wasn’t going anywhere.

  Why the hell would anyone want to kill Pete Barnes?

  He shook his head and stared down at the napkin from the diner, where he’d scribbled the address they’d given him. It hadn’t been hard to find the place – Neosho was a quiet town, draped neatly over the rolling green hills that ran down to the creek – but he hadn’t sent Pete to this address; he’d sent him to collect some letters from a woman who worked at the Skordeno Upholstery factory, away on the other side of town. How the hell had the poor bastard wound up here?

  And why were the Newton County boys so vague about what had happened?

  Further along the street, just beyond the two patrol cars, Frank saw an officer emerge from a doorway and stop to light a cigarette.

  One of the local deputies might be more forthcoming.

  With a sigh, he got out of the car and slammed the door, then started towards the man. However bad the truth was, it couldn’t be worse than the thoughts in his head.

  The deputy had a restless way about him – early twenties, with a faint blond mustache that was probably meant
to make him look older. His serious expression shifted to awkward sympathy as he recognized Frank’s uniform, and he hurriedly tossed his cigarette as he stepped forward.

  ‘Afternoon, sir.’

  ‘Afternoon.’ Frank noted his pallor, the slight tremble in the hands; maybe it was the kid’s first corpse. ‘I’m looking for Sheriff Carson?’

  ‘Oh, he’s inside.’ The deputy jerked his thumb to indicate the building behind him. ‘It’s the second floor. If you just go on up, you’ll… well, you’ll see where.’

  Frank looked past him, his eyes moving along the line of upstairs windows, then nodded to himself.

  ‘Thank you.’ He started towards the doorway, then paused. ‘About Officer Barnes…’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Can you tell me… what happened to him?’

  The deputy’s face flickered from sympathy to discomfort.

  ‘Did you know him, sir?’

  Answering a question with a question; not a good sign.

  Frank sighed. ‘Yeah. I knew him.’

  It was never easy, stepping into a room and seeing a body sprawled out across the floor, but it was so much worse when the body belonged to someone you’d known. Frank stood in the doorway, forcing himself to look, to see the scene as a cop should see it.