Hanging on

street, a nunnery, a churchyard… Kelly smiled, fond of his creation.

The window was well greased. It slid up with only a faint rasp of wood on wood. Slight though it was, that whispered reluctance seemed like a scream on the calm night air.

Kelly froze, holding up the bottom half of the window, listening for the thud of jackboots in the hall outside his room.

Two minutes later, when no one had stirred, Kelly squeezed through the window and stepped onto the board-shingled roof over the back porch. He eased the window down, not quite closing it. Stepping softly to the corner of the roof where a rose-vine lattice had been built to serve as his ladder, he climbed down to the ground.

He crouched at the edge of the porch. The night wind chilled the back of his neck as he surveyed the rear lawn.

He was alone.

Aware that the rectory windows were covered by blackout blinds, convinced that the night was dark enough to hide him from any German soldier patrolling the streets, Kelly ran to the fence that marked the, southern perimeter of the rectory property. A three-foot section of this shoulder-high barrier served as a hidden door. Kelly found the key panel, pressed on it, walked through. On the other side, he pushed the boards back into place and winced at the protracted squeak they made.

He was now on the southern half of the block. Four fake houses, a shrine to the Virgin, four outhouses, and one elm tree offered hiding places. He crept eastward along the fence, then left it for the less promising shelter of the second in a row of three outhouses. He pressed his back against the rough wall of the tiny building and tried to melt back into the purple-black shadows.

Beame was waiting as planned, his own back against the east wall, right around the corner from the major. In a trembling voice, Beame said, “Is that you, Major Kelly?”

“Beame?” Kelly whispered.

“Is that you, Kelly?”

“Beame?”

Beame did not move. Why wouldn't the man around the corner answer his question? Was it because the man around the corner was not Major Kelly — was, instead, some kill-crazy, sten-gun-carrying Nazi monster? “Major Kelly, is that you?”

“Beame?”

“Kelly? Sir? That you?”

“Beame, is that you?” Kelly asked. He put his palms flat against the outhouse wall, ready to push off and run if this turned out to be anyone but Lieutenant Beame.

“Major Kelly, why won't you answer my question?” Beame was shaking violently. He was certain that a wild-eyed, bloodsucking, death-worshipping Nazi maniac was around the corner, ready to pounce on him.

“What question? Beame, is that you?”

“No,” Beame said. “There's no one here.”

“No one?”

It was hopeless, Beame knew. “There's no one here, so go away.” Beame thought he was going to vomit any second now. He hoped that if he had to die he would be shot before he suffered the indignity of vomiting on himself.

Major Kelly risked a quick glance around the corner and saw Beame. The lieutenant was rigid, arms straight down at his sides, eyes squeezed shut, face contorted with a grimace of expected pain. Kelly slipped around the edge of the building and joined him. “Beame, what in the hell is the matter with you?”

The lieutenant opened his eyes and was so relieved to see Kelly that he nearly collapsed. Leaning against the outhouse, he said, “I didn't think it was you, sir.”

“Who else would it be?” Kelly whispered.

“I thought you were a kraut.” Beame wiped sweat from his face.

“But I was speaking English, Beame.”

The lieutenant was surprised. “Hey, that's right! I never thought of that.” He grinned happily, suddenly frowned, and scratched his head. “But why didn't you identify yourself at the start, when I first asked you?”

“I didn't know who you were,” Kelly said, as if the answer must be obvious even to a moron.

“Who else would it be?” Beame asked.

“I thought you were a kraut.”

“But I was speaking English—”

“Let's get down to basics,” Kelly hissed. He crouched, forcing Beame to hunker beside him. He looked around at the backs of the fake houses in which his men were sheltered, at the other houses, at the dusty streets that he could see between the buildings. Lowering his voice even further, he said, “Have you checked on the men?”

“Yes,” Beame said. “It wasn't easy with a kraut at every intersection. Thank God they didn't park the whole convoy in the clearing — or search the buildings. They aren't going to search, are they?”

“No,” Kelly said. “Look, what about the men? They okay?”

“They're all in their assigned houses — except for Lieutenant Slade.”

Kelly's stomach turned over and crawled around inside of him, hunting for a way out. “Slade?”

“He was supposed to be in one of the platform houses with Akers, Dew, and Richfield. None of them have seen him since early this evening.”

“You mean he's on the loose?” Kelly asked.

Beame nodded.

“What's the sniveling little bastard up to?” Kelly wondered. “What does that rotten little son of a bitch have up his sleeve?”

For a while, they were both silent, trying to imagine the inside of Slade's sleeve. At last, Beame could not tolerate any more of that. “What will we do?”

“We have to find him,” Kelly said. “Whatever he's got up his sleeve, it's rotten as month-old salami.”

“Maybe he ran away,” Beame said.

“Not Slade. He wants to fight, not run. He's somewhere in the village — somewhere he shouldn't be.” And we're all dead because of him, Kelly thought.

And then he thought: No, we're all dead because death is the theme of this fairy tale. Slade's a particularly ugly plot problem, that's all. What we have to do is go after him and play our roles and make ourselves small, please the crazy Aesop behind this so maybe he'll let us live. And then he also thought: Am I losing my mind?

“Won't be easy finding him,” Beame said. “Every intersection has a sentry.”

Kelly wiped one cold hand across his face, pulled at his clerical collar. “It doesn't matter how difficult it is. We have to find him.” He stood and moved away from the outhouse. “Let's get away from this place. It smells like shit.”

2

Lieutenant Slade wished that his mother could see him now. For the first time since he had been assigned to Kelly's unit, he was getting a chance to act like a real soldier. Tonight, he had the opportunity to prove that he was as heroic as all the other men in his family had been.

He lay flat on the ground beside a fake stone well, watching the sentry who patrolled the Y-B intersection. The kraut walked twenty paces east, then twenty west, turning smartly on his heel at the end of each circuit. He did not seem to be interested in anything around him. Probably daydreaming. Just like half the other guards Slade had thus far observed. Fine. Good. They were not expecting danger from nuns, priests, and deaf-mutes. When it came, they would be overwhelmed.

Slade waited for the sentry to turn toward the west. The moment the man's back was to him, he pushed up and ran silently across Y Street into the darkness between two of the single-story platform houses. From there, he slithered westward on his stomach, over to the Y-A intersection where he made notes on yet another sentry.