Power from death.
Power from terror.
Energy, sweet bubbling electricity of the mind, the human mind that the djinn knew so well. Fear for power. Fear and frustration, the human equation, the formula for power.
Bauhopf and Mueller struggled with Eckmann but couldn’t break his grip on Schliebert’s neck. Eckmann’s sobs and groans filled the tiny room, and only the dead could have slept through it.
Kirst did.
And in the commotion, unseen by the men dragging Eckmann off Schliebert, the nightform oozed back toward Kirst and was swallowed up between his parted lips.
Eckmann cried out then, throwing his hands to his head and realizing in one blinding instant what he had just done. As they held him down, struggling and kicking, he looked around wildly.
“Frieda! He had Frieda! He was fucking her! He was fucking my Frieda!”
His eyes shot in all directions, searching for his Frieda’s sweat-streaked body. She was gone. The door slammed open and Sergeant Vinge crashed into the room, brandishing his .45.
Gilman ran off without a coat. The duty officer who had rousted him now double-timed behind him. Gilman charged through the gate and was out of breath as he stumbled into Hut 7. Hopkins was waiting for him, calm and cool but giving off an aura of impending vengeance. Everybody from Eckmann’s room was lined up in the corridor for interrogation, guarded by a squad of nervous MPs. Eckmann was at the far end of the hut, handcuffed under guard, sobbing uncontrollably.
Gilman glanced at the Germans. They were pale and frightened, eyeing him expectantly, worried. All except—
Kirst again.
He was slumped against the wall, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, lost in a world of his own, apart from the others. Gilman stared at him.
“In here, sir,” Hopkins said in his ear. Gilman turned. Hopkins toed the door open with his foot.
Gilman edged past Vinge, who was just inside, and stared down at the body covered with a blanket. “Who is it?” he asked.
“The prisoner Schliebert, sir,” said Hopkins, barely concealing an excited gloat.
Gilman swore under his breath. “Go wake Steuben.”
“Don’t you think I’d better interrogate the—”
“That’s an order!”
Hopkins grabbed an MP and hustled out the door. Gilman lifted the blanket.
Schliebert’s bulging eyes stared up at him. His tongue was a black knob nearly bitten off between clenched teeth. There was a pool of blood beneath his head. Gilman glanced at the wound. The skin was broken. He could see cracked bone.
“He
is
dead, Herr Major.”
Gilman stiffened and looked around. A German officer was sitting on a bunk, hands clasped between his open knees. He had a shiny bald head with a wispy fringe from ear to ear around the back. “I am Leutnant Cuno,” he said. “The medic. There was nothing I could do.”
Gilman glanced at Vinge. The sergeant was as pale as the Germans in the corridor. As he looked down at Schliebert, something worked behind his eyes. Fear? Anger? Gilman wasn’t sure, but he sensed something was going on among the MPs. It wasn’t just Vinge. The men in the doorway were giving him grim, sidelong looks, as if they knew he wouldn’t handle this right.
“What happened?” Gilman asked Vinge.
Vinge quickly explained about hearing the excitement, bursting in, discovering the others restraining Eckmann, who was raving, and finding Schliebert dead on the floor.
Gilman turned to the medic. “Cuno, I suggest you get back to the
Krankenhaus.”
“Certainly, Herr Major.” Cuno stood up and walked to the door. He paused. “What shall we do about Eckmann? He’s sick, you know.”
Gilman felt all eyes on him. “We’ll see,” he said.
Solitary was a small hut separated from the rest. There were eight cells lined up four and four opposite each other with a narrow corridor between them. The cells each had a single barred window, a cot, blankets, and a thick door with a tiny barred window in it. The only light was in the corridor so, under the sentry’s wavering flash beam, Gilman had Eckmann placed in one of the cells with a round-the-clock guard. There were no other prisoners in solitary at that moment. Gilman was not inclined to use it for any but the most incorrigible offenders. But in Eckmann’s case, it was a necessity for mutual protection. He didn’t want the Germans taking matters into their own hands. Nor did he want Eckmann outside the compound until he determined what was wrong with him, if anything.
Gilman questioned him about the killing. He didn’t remember it. He could only whimper repeatedly that Schliebert had been making love to his wife.
Major Borden arrived and, at Gilman’s request, injected Eckmann with a sedative. While waiting for him to fall asleep, Gilman explained the events to Borden and asked for his offhand opinion.
Borden lit a cigarette, drew on it deeply, and said, “Pent-up frustration, war experiences he couldn’t subconsciously justify—God knows. Could be anything. Just went crackers, huh? Well, I know he was preoccupied about his wife back home, always mailing letters and bugging us for the replies. I examined him a couple of times. The German medics claimed he was suffering depression, but I wouldn’t say he ever exhibited any violent tendencies. The wife was all he talked about. You know—glowing. The most fantastic creature on the face of the earth—that sort of thing. Sensitive fellow, not really suited for prison life.”
“Who is?” said Gilman.
“Some take to it better than others.” Borden chuckled. “Don’t happen to care for it myself.” He coughed, and it turned into a deep smoker’s hack. Recovering, he added, “Eckmann has some idealistic attitudes about fidelity, but I wouldn’t call that abnormal.”
“It is if it leads to murder,” Gilman said. “What about claiming that Schliebert was banging his wife?”
“Paranoid delusion. Don’t know what would bring that on, but then I’m not a psychiatrist. Maybe we ought to send for one.” He hesitated. “I’ll tell you, though—if I had sensed any homicidal tendencies—in him or anyone else—I would have drawn it to someone’s attention.”
“Okay,” said Gilman. “Let’s see how he is in the morning.”
Hopkins was waiting outside with Steuben, who demanded to see Eckmann. Gilman refused. “He’s been sedated. You can’t help him anyway, Major. Everyone else in that room saw him crack Schliebert’s head open. Either it’s murder, or he’s nuts.”
“How will you handle this?”
“We’ll conduct an investigation—psychiatric and otherwise—hold a hearing. If Eckmann is found guilty, he’ll be punished. If insane, he’ll undergo treatment.”
Hopkins rolled his eyes, dissatisfied. Steuben stared at the solitary hut, and at the sentry posted just inside the door, “What’s going on here?” he said.
A silence passed among them. Gilman and Hopkins both knew what Steuben meant. A series of bizarre events, particularly last night’s “attack” on Vinge in the shower hut, and now tonight—a murder. Steuben found himself thinking of that and of all the other oddities he could trace back to... the arrival of Kirst.
Friction between Kirst and Gebhard. Gebhard’s assertion that Kirst was a spy. Kirst running from the shower hut the other day, exposing himself to the camp. Kirst being removed for questioning. Kirst reciting details of submarine life by rote. Kirst’s “blackout” at dinner. Kirst in Hut 7. Kirst in the same room with Eckmann. Eckmann murdering Schliebert...
Steuben quivered as a nervous chill shot up his back. Kirst. Could Gebhard be right? But how could Kirst have induced Eckmann to... ?
Gilman too had flashes of Kirst in his mind. Kirst’s elusive image on Loats’ photographic plates. Kalmus’ story about Strann on the train. Kirst last night, accused by Vinge—and tonight in the corridor of Hut 7, the only one who hadn’t looked frightened to death.
“What the hell are we standing here for?” growled Hopkins. “We ought to be questioning those bastards, one by one.”
“Not tonight,” Gilman said. “Major Steuben, I would suggest that you post a sentry in that room in Hut Seven.”
“I was just thinking that myself.”
“Do it.”
Steuben turned and hiked back to the huts. Gilman imagined that he might do more than that—roust Eckmann’s roommates and put them through a kangaroo court. That might not be bad, if it got closer to the truth.
“The whole thing stinks,” Hopkins said as he hiked out of the compound beside Gilman. “They always stick together, never snitch on each other. So why were they so quick to point the finger at Eckmann?”
“They’re edgy. Don’t forget last night. We closed the shower hut. That didn’t make them too happy.”
“That wouldn’t stop them. Monkey business is their only business, Major. I’m telling you, they’re up to something. Maybe Eckmann didn’t do it, or maybe he wasn’t alone. Maybe they all did it and it’s leading up to some kind of escape attempt, or a riot or—”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Gilman snapped. “They killed one of their own men and made it look like Eckmann went insane? Does that make sense? I should put
you
in a rubber room.”
Hopkins’ reply caught in his throat.
“Why don’t you quit imagining conspiracies, Hopkins, and do something useful. Make out reports to the International Red Cross, the Judge Advocate General’s Office, the Criminal Investigation Division—whoever is appropriate. Check the regulations under what to do in the event of a prison homicide. And make sure every move is right, so nothing backfires. What’s important now is to make the prisoners believe we are
doing
something about this, that it’s under control. Agreed?”
Hopkins forced himself to nod. “Agreed, sir.”
“Then get on it.”
Gilman quickened his step as he passed through the gate, anxious to get away from Hopkins. He glanced up at the sky and, even in the blackness, he saw thick clouds stirring above.
Hopkins watched Gilman slam back indoors.
Sonofa-fucking-bitch. You want to go by the book? Okay. But when it comes to a test of wills, asshole, I wrote the book.
Von Lechterhoeven sat on a rickety chair in the doorway of Room 2, Hut 7. The lights were out but, in the gloom, he kept a wary eye on the bunks. Steuben had posted him to a four-hour shift that would run until 0500. Bauhopf had left the room, taking von Lechterhoeven’s bunk down the hall. He had begged out, claiming he couldn’t sleep in a room where a man had died. The others weren’t too happy about it, either. They were lying awake, staring at the ceiling, glancing now and then at each other.
Gebhard stared at Kirst, hating him now more than ever. Kirst was asleep, oblivious, as if he didn’t know or care what went on around him. Gebhard believed Kirst was responsible. Somehow he had engineered Eckmann’s eruption. He was a spy, and a clever one. Always watching everybody. Well, he hadn’t been careful enough. During the mad ruckus when the others were pulling Eckmann off Schliebert, Gebhard had turned to watch Kirst and had found him lying barely awake on his bunk, detached, aloof, indifferent.
How could anyone remain indifferent while a murder was being committed?
Easy, if he had caused it.
Gebhard did not know how, and he felt powerless in the face of his enemy’s ability to manipulate in secret. He was conscious of the way others were regarding Kirst now—increased suspicion, wariness. Tomorrow there would be talk, and Gebhard wouldn’t hesitate to throw in his two pfennigs’.
Mueller curled up in his bunk and thought about the killing. He was convinced that this camp would be a happy farm before New Year’s, and that he was right in wanting to escape. He thought of the mine shaft, and the long dark tunnel he would have to travel to reach freedom. He didn’t like tunnels. He had been lost in one once when he was a boy. Trapped without food or water for more than five hours, and ever since he had trouble dealing with long dark hallways, bunkers, crawl spaces.
But he would go through fire to escape this camp. He would go into the bowels of Blackbone Mountain and find the other side, find the river, find freedom....
If Kirst and Eckmann didn’t fuck it up for him,
Bruckner had a small room of his own across from Steuben’s. He lay in the dark on his bunk, Churchill curled up at his feet, convinced something was very wrong at Blackbone. It wasn’t just Eckmann and Kirst and all the little things, it was all of that adding up to something big. And deep in his heart, he knew what it was. The Americans were behind it all.
Churchill woke with a start and looked around.
Do dogs dream? Bruckner wondered. Churchill edged up the bunk and found a warm spot between Bruckner’s body and the wall. Ordinarily, Bruckner would boot him off but tonight they both wanted the company.
Night drew a shroud of thunderheads over Blackbone Mountain. The djinn pulsed inside Kirst with renewed energy and power, raw power, and hungered for more.
PART THREE
Chapter 16