He looked around, searching the rows of fliers for Fenelli, but was unable to spot him. Tommy figured he would be lurking in the back row of one of the formations, as distant from the men in Hut 101 as possible. This made no difference to Tommy, He intended to wait until the hour right before the lights were going out to make his real search. He was reviewing what he was going to say to the would-be medic, trying to find the right combination of anger and understanding that would get Fenelli to tell him why he'd changed his story, Clark and Townsend had reached him. Tommy knew.
But just how he wasn't sure, and that was what he needed to know. He also needed to know what it was that Fenelli was intending to say in the morning.
Other than that pursuit, he recognized that he was more or less out of tricks. He had no evidence to present. The only witness for the defense was Scott himself. Scott and whatever eloquence Tommy could muster. He shook his head. Not much to offer. He expected Scott to be a terrible witness, and he had great doubts over his own ability to sway anyone much less Colonel MacNamara and the other two members of the court with any sort of impassioned speech.
He heard the bellow of dismissal from the front of the formations and wordlessly he followed Scott and Hugh back across the parade ground toward Hut 101. He paid no attention to the buzz of voices around them.
As they walked down the center corridor of the barracks, Hugh spoke out.
'We need to eat something. But there's not much in the larder, I'll wager.'
'You go ahead,' Scott said.
'I have almost a full parcel left.
Take whatever you need and fix something for yourselves.
I'm just not that hungry.'
Hugh started to respond, then stopped. Both he and Tommy knew this statement for the lie it was, because everyone was always hungry at Stalag Luft Thirteen.
Scott stepped ahead of the two others and thrust open the door to their room. He pushed inside, but stopped after traveling only a few feet.
Behind him, both Tommy and Hugh paused.
'What is it?
'Tommy asked.
'We've had visitors again,' Scott said flatly.
'I'll be damned.'
Tommy slid past the black airman's broad shoulders. He could see that Lincoln Scott was staring at something, and Tommy fully expected another crude sign. But what he saw stopped him in his tracks as well.
Stuck into the rough-hewn wooden frame of Tommy's bunk, right above the threadbare pillow for his head, reflecting the harsh, bright light from the overhead bulb, was a knife.
Not a knife. The knife. The death's head skull at the tip of the handle seemed to grin directly at him.
Hugh had pressed forward as well.
'Well, about bloody time someone here did the damn right thing,' he muttered.
'That's got to be it. Tommy, my boy. The murder weapon.
And now, thank God, we've got it!'
The three men approached the knife carefully.
'Has anything else been disturbed?' Tommy asked.
'Doesn't look that way,' Scott replied.
'Is there a note?'
'No. None that I can see.'
Tommy shook his head.
'There should be a note,' he insisted.
'Why?' Hugh asked.
'The damn thing pretty much speaks for itself. Maybe that fighter jock, the fellow from New York who first told you about it, maybe he's our anonymous benefactor.'
'Maybe,' Tommy said warily. He reached out and gingerly removed the blade from the wood. It glistened in his hand, almost as if it had a voice of its own, which, in a way, it did. He raised it and inspected the knife as closely as possible. It had been cleaned of any blood or other incriminating matter, so that it appeared almost brand new. He hefted it in his hand. It was light, yet solid. He ran a finger up and down the double edges. They were razor-sharp. The point had not been dulled, not by being thrust into Trader Vic's neck or by being stabbed into the wood of Tommy's bunk. The handle itself was onyx-black and polished to a reflective sheen and obviously carved by a craftsman. The death's head skull was a pearly white color, almost translucent. The dagger seemed to speak of ritual and terror, simultaneously. It was a cruel thing. Tommy thought, that combined an awful mixture of symbolism and murderous intent. It was, he realized suddenly, the most valuable thing he'd held in his own hand in months, and then, just as swiftly, he thought this untrue, that any single one of his law books was more important and, in their own way, more dangerous. He smiled, and realized that he was being sophomorically idealistic.
'Well, that's the first bit of luck we've had,' Hugh exclaimed.
'Something of a surprise for Lieutenant Fenelli tomorrow, I'd 'say.' He took the blade from Tommy's hand, weighed it, and added, 'A nasty bit of business, this.'
Scott reached out and took his turn with the knife. He remained quiet until he handed it back to Tommy.
'I don't trust it,' he said sharply.
'What do you mean?' Hugh asked.
'That's the bloody murder weapon, all right.'
'Yes. That's probably true. And it shows up here magically?
Right at the darkest hour? At least that's what someone would say. A bad poet.'
'Maybe. But maybe it's about time someone saw how damnably unfair this whole show has been!' Hugh blurted out.
'Somebody finally thought to level the playing field a bit, and what right have we to complain?'
'You don't mean we, Hugh. You mean me' Scott replied softly.
Hugh snorted, but nodded in slow agreement.
Scott turned to face Tommy.
'No one in the camp wants to help. Not a person.'
'We've had this argument before,' Tommy responded.
'We don't know that what you say is true. At least, not for certain.'
Scott rolled his eyes skyward.
'Sure. If that's what you want to think.' Then he looked down at the ceremonial dagger again.
'Look at that knife. Tommy. It stands for evil and it's already served an evil cause. It has death all over it.
Now, I know you may not be all that religious with your Vermont Yankee stubbornness and everything'-he was half-smiling as he spoke-'and after all, I like to think that I'm much more modern than my old preacher father, who gets up on the pulpit on Sunday mornings and likes to loudly and forthrightly proclaim that anything not directly connected to the Good Book has little or no value on this earth, but still, Tommy, Hugh, you look at that thing, and you realize no good and certainly no truth can come out of it.'
'You're too bloody philosophical and not pragmatic enough,' Hugh said.
'Perhaps,' Scott replied.
'We'll see, won't we?'
Tommy said nothing. He put the blade down on his bunk after stroking the handle a final time. Even cleaned, it wasn't hard to imagine how an expert handling such a weapon would find it easy to slip it
