“You want to know what I think, Major?” Hopkins said.
“Not particularly.”
“I think the fucking krauts are bumping each other off.”
“Hopkins, you’ve got a particularly nasty habit of jumping to conclusions.”
Hopkins slammed a fist against the cell door. “Well, what the hell do you think is going on, sir?”
“I don’t know!”
“Great! I suppose you think Gebhard’s an accident, and Schliebert slipped and strangled himself, and nobody else had anything to do with it! That’s three bodies, Major! I don’t know about your head count, but to me that’s a lot! Or don’t you care? When people are under your command—
don’t you care?”
Gilman whipped around, his fist balled for a punch.
Hopkins held his ground, wanting it, needing an excuse.
“Outside,” Gihnan said quietly.
In front of the formation, Gilman reported to Steuben that Eckmann had evidently hanged himself, but that Gebhard’s death would require a full investigation. Bruckner interrupted in a torrent of angry German. Steuben snapped at him to shut up.
“It’s all right,” said Gilman. “What did he say?”
Steuben translated wearily. “He is saying that since Eckmann was in the custody of your guards, they could have ‘arranged’ his suicide.” Bruckner jabbered more German. “And they could have taken Gebhard to the shower hut and killed him.”
Bruckner eyed Hopkins, as if to suggest who was responsible. Churchill obligingly helped by erupting into a barking frenzy aimed at Hopkins.
“Shut that fucking dog up!” Hopkins yelled. He made a move to grab it. The dog leaped backward and bared his teeth. Hopkins grabbed his sidearm. There was an answering surge from the Germans. Almost as one, they stepped forward.
“Hopkins, knock it off!” Gilman bellowed.
Hopkins glared at the Germans, then released his grip on the weapon. He turned away from the dog. After a moment, Churchill stopped barking. Bruckner soothed him. Gilman caught the Germans whispering to each other and casting unpleasant looks at the surrounding MPs.
“Major Steuben,” said Gilman, “no purpose is served by standing here throwing accusations. Dismiss your men back to their huts. Tomorrow morning, we will conduct an investigation.”
Steuben dismissed the prisoners. Gilman watched them fall out into little muttering groups and slowly move back to the huts.
“Hopkins, get them back inside.”
Hopkins came instantly alive, shouting orders at the MPs, who moved in and prodded the Germans along, busting up the groups. Gilman watched Mueller and Bauhopf approach Steuben and tell him something. They were pointing at Kirst. Steuben’s face fixed in a stunned frown. He glanced once at Gilman then scolded Mueller and Bauhopf ferociously, dismissing them and stalking back to his hut. Mueller and Bauhopf stared after him then were shoved toward Hut 7 by an MP.
Gilman watched Kirst shamble up to Hut 7 and feel for the doorjamb to pull himself up. He moved as if completely preoccupied. Gilman didn’t know why, but he felt something curl in his innards.
What’s going on? What did they tell Steuben?
Hopkins confronted him, “Let me in there, sir. I can sweat the truth out of them.”
“You’ve got a sweaty solution for everything, Hopkins. Get those bodies picked up and over to Major Borden right away. I want cause-of-death first thing in the morning.”
Hopkins watched Gilman turn and trudge back up the hill. Hatred bloomed in his frustrated brain. It was time to put the screws to Major Gilman. Take off the gloves. Make use of all that shit Chilton had dug up. He wouldn’t wait any longer. Now, while everyone’s confused, and their confidence in Gilman hangs by a thread, now is the time to give him a little push. He glanced around. The MPs were mopping up, slamming doors, shouting “Lights out,” and moving out in little groups. Hopkins went up to one of them and bummed a smoke. Then he started talking.
Gilman ran into Loring at the gate. She was wrapped in a blanket and wearing a woolen nightdress beneath it. She’d gotten the news from the gate guard, a PFC named Cokenaur.
“I think we’d better talk,” she said urgently.
“Given the circumstances, Miss Holloway, you’d better leave in the morning. We’ll be crawling with CID in the next few days. I can’t deal with them and with you at the same time.”
“Major,” she said tightly, “three deaths in two days. Don’t you find that odd?”
Gilman grabbed her arm and hustled her away from the curious MPs. “Stay out of it,” he said, “unless you want to tell me who’s responsible.”
“Kirst.”
He stopped and stared at her. She watched fear and confusion cut through his eyes, then they clouded over with anger as he rejected her flatly. His mouth opened. He was going to tell her off again. She turned her back on him and ran up the hill, ran all the way upstairs and slammed inside.
Gilman stared after her again. The fear came back.
“Someone from another hut had to know Gebhard was going out,” said Bruckner. “They had to know what time.”
“Or they sat up all night waiting,” Dortmunder suggested.
“They could have been waiting
in
the shower hut.”
Churchill was curled up at the foot of Steuben’s cot. Steuben’s room was crowded with officers and cigarette smoke and full of the tension of frayed nerves. They were trying to figure who’d gotten Gebhard. Eckmann they didn’t even want to think about. If he’d committed suicide, it was only fitting justice after what he’d done to Schliebert. But if, as Bruckner suggested, the Americans had rigged it to look like suicide, that was another matter. That they would discuss among themselves tomorrow.
“No one saw Gebhard go out of Hut Seven,” Bruckner said. “They were all asleep, but it’s well known Gebhard liked his showers, that he was upset over the shower hut being closed down. Yesterday he talked openly about breaking in. Whoever killed him must have overheard that.”
“Gebhard had no enemies,” said Steuben.
“Yes, he did,” Dortmunder piped up. “Kirst.”
That set everyone to muttering. Steuben reconsidered what Mueller and Bauhopf had told him. He had ordered them not to repeat it, but what good would that do? By morning, the story would be all over camp—Kirst speaking the names of the dead before anyone knew they were dead.
Steuben tried to short-circuit the budding rumor. “Kirst is a heavy sleeper. He sleeps through everything. He slept through Eckmann’s attack on Schliebert.”
“That could just be an act,” said Bruckner.
More muttering. Steuben had to concede it was possible. If no one had heard Gebhard leaving Hut 7, they could just as easily have missed Kirst.
Bruckner’s voice rose above the chatter. “I think what’s most odd about Hut Seven is that all three dead men—Schliebert, Eckmann, now Gebhard—were from the same room in that hut. And so is Kirst.”
More muttering. Louder.
“What do you propose to do?” Steuben snapped.
“What does it take, Walter?” said Bruckner. “More deaths?”
“You want to kill him? Is that what you want? What if you’re wrong?”
They were quiet a moment. “Let’s clear out Room Two and lock Kirst in alone,” said Bruckner.
There were murmurs of agreement.
“Before we go dancing off on the wrong foot,” said Steuben, “let us examine facts. Kirst did not kill Schliebert. Eckmann did. There were witnesses. Kirst did not kill Eckmann. He couldn’t get into solitary—not with a guard on duty. Eckmann either hanged himself or was murdered by the Americans. The only death where Kirst had either a physical possibility or a motive is Gebhard’s. But out on the field”—he shot a finger at Bruckner—
“you
suggested Hopkins was to blame!”
“Kirst is a spy,” Bruckner replied. “He’s working for the Americans. Gebhard was onto him. Hopkins
ordered
Kirst to kill Gebhard.”
More muttering, louder than before, outright hostility. Steuben knew he had lost: it was what they
wanted
to believe. It gave them something to fight over, a rallying point. Kirst a spy, in league with their jailers, a traitor. Steuben sighed, and though he tried to shout them down, he knew he wouldn’t be able to control this.
The meeting split up a few minutes later, the men under strict orders from Steuben not to take matters into their own hands, to wait for the results of an investigation tomorrow.
Dortmunder slipped out and scurried across to Hut 7. Mueller let him in. “What did they decide?” asked Mueller.
“What do you think?” Dortmunder replied bitterly.
“Well... too late anyway.” Mueller nodded down the corridor. Dortmunder hurried down to Room 2 and peered in. All the bunks were empty except one. Kirst was lying sprawled in a heap. There was blood on his face. His breathing rasped. He quivered now and then.
“Couldn’t stop them,” said Mueller. “Just about everyone had a hand in it.”
Dortmunder whistled. “Steuben won’t be happy.”
“Who cares? Besides, what can he do?”
“Shouldn’t we get him to the medic?”
“He’s not that badly off. Look, if Bruckner’s right, and Kirst is a spy, they’ll remove him tomorrow.” Mueller leaned into the room and spoke quietly. “Good-bye, Kirst. May you rot in hell.”
Churchill raised his leg against the side of the hut and decorated a foundation block. Finished, he romped happily around Bruckner and sniffed at the ground. Bruckner snapped his fingers. Churchill jumped up the steps and ran inside ahead of him. Bruckner glanced around, always afraid of discovery when he took his dog out for a nighttime piss. He paused on the top step and looked over at Hut 7. It was dark and silent. A chill brushed the nape of his neck. Something was very wrong in Hut 7 and Kirst was at the center of it. Bruckner’s accountant’s mind kept seeing details that wouldn’t add up. He turned, went in, and shut the door.
A cloud of blackness rolled out of the crawl space above Hut 7, descended like liquid shadow to the ground, and flowed across the compound in darkness.
The djinn chortled to itself over its success. Fear was on the rise. The djinn was playing it carefully, manipulating the Germans, terrifying them one minute, letting them think they had power the next. Right now the men in Hut 7 believed they had matters in hand. Kirst lay in a battered stupor, his insides rearranged by their angry fists. That had been worth a lot to the djinn. Power from their anger. Power from Kirst’s feeble terror. But the deaths of Eckmann and Gebhard had been the most nourishing’so far. The explosion of spiritual terror at the moment of death was the vital nutrient that the djinn needed for growth. Tonight it was bigger, more powerful. After tonight, it would be able to do bigger things, cause more death, gain more power, and grow grow grow....
Overhead, the stars were crowded out by thick black clouds rolling in from the west. Deep winter had arrived at last.
Gilman couldn’t sleep. Plagued by confusion, he sat at the desk in his quarters and smoked.
What the hell does she know about what’s happening here?
One cigarette burned almost to the end. He lit another. He kept seeing Gebhard and Eckmann—one drowned, the other hanged. When the reports went in tomorrow, there would be a volcanic eruption in Washington. Investigators would be dispatched immediately, but they would have to come by train. There was no airfield within a reasonable distance. That might give him some time.
For what?
Gilman’s hand shook. It was France all over again. Men entrusted to his care. Men dying because David Gilman wasn’t decisive enough. At Window Hill, he had protested the general’s order enough to get himself relieved, but he hadn’t carried the fight any farther than that.
Hell. How could you have known there would be a slaughter?
“Caution does not win wars,” General Malkin had said. “Aggressive action and bold, decisive moves win the battles and save lives.” It was Malkin’s bold, decisive move that had killed Gilman’s men.
But you didn’t do enough. You could have gone around Malkin. Directly to General Patch at Seventh Army HQ. If your battalion had come back victorious, you would have looked foolish. Isn’t that why you held off? You didn’t want to appear a coward. So you kept quiet, and the men got wiped out.
Gilman looked out the window. Things were getting out of hand here at Blackbone. If the story of Window Hill got around, would anyone look to him for leadership?
Gilman punched out his cigarette, pulled on his boots and a coat, and slammed out of the room. The barracks were dark when he came out on the hill. Spotlights swept the camp slowly. Gilman passed several MPs on duty. Their conversation stopped as he passed. He felt their eyes on him, heard their thoughts, and in that moment he knew.
The story was out.
He just knew it. He had nothing to base it on other than one tiny little incident, but he had a commanding officer’s sensitivity—he knew when trust was no longer there.
He moved on slowly, feeling their eyes still on him. He passed the day room. There was an NCO inside. Gilman could see him through the window, sitting under a conical light with his feet up and his cap on the table, reading a magazine.