There was just enough moonlight for Tommy Hart to make out the distant exit. A skinny passageway that unless you were looking for it wouldn't be noticed.
The hut was probably not more than thirty feet from side to side, but to Tommy this seemed an impossibly long road. He shook his head again, but penetrating past the voice within him that refused to follow was Scott's urgent whisper: 'Come on. Hart! Damn it! Hurry up!'
He told himself: It's not a tunnel. It's not a box. It's not even underground. It's just a tight fit with a low ceiling. In the daylight, it wouldn't be a problem. Just like crawling under a car to work on a transmission.
He heard again, more insistent: 'Come on. Hart! Let's go!'
Tommy realized it was his idea to be out of the bunk rooms at midnight.
He realized that searching for the murder location at night was his idea. Everything was his idea. He realized that this was something he had to do, and so, trying feverishly to clear his mind of all fears and tremors, locking his eyes on the distant exit, he thrust himself under the building, crawling rapidly with a desperate man's urgency.
He scrambled forward, pawing at the loose dirt beneath the hut. His head bumped against the flooring above him, but he pushed ahead, feeling the first awful taste of panic rise in his throat, threatening to freeze all his muscles. For an instant, he thought he was lost, that the exit had disappeared.
He imagined he was drowning and he struggled against the wave of fear.
He lost track of time, unable to tell whether he'd been in the passageway for seconds or hours, and he started to cough and choke as he scrambled ahead. He could feel the panic taking him over, thought that he was going to pass out and then he burst through, rolling forward, only to be grabbed by Scott, and pulled to his feet.
'Jesus, Hart!' the black airman whispered.
'What the hell's the matter?'
Tommy gasped for breath, like a man rescued from wildly tossed seas.
'Can't do it,' he said slowly.
'Not in enclosed spaces.
Claustrophobia. Just can't do it.'
His hands were shaking and sweat streaked down his face.
He shivered, as if the night had suddenly turned cold.
Scott draped an arm around Tommy's shoulder.
'You're okay,' he said.
'You made it. It wasn't that bad, huh?'
Tommy shook his head.
'Never again,' he said.
Breathing in harshly, he picked up his head and surveyed the darkness around them. It was like being in another world, to suddenly arrive in the alleyway between two unfamiliar huts. Though there was little difference in reality, it seemed to be odd, unique. He swept his eyes down the corridor.
And then he saw what he thought he needed to see.
The huts had been laid out in typical German regimentation, row upon row. But Hut 103 had been angled slightly nearer the end of Hut 102.
The stump of a large tree that had been cut when the campsite had been cleared had not been removed, and the building had been pushed closer to the adjacent hut. The narrowing V shape caused by the odd convergence of the two huts created a darker, shadowy spot. He pointed in that direction.
'Down there,' he said.
'Let's go.'
The two men maneuvered down the length of the barracks once again until they reached the end. He saw that there was some cultivated earth, and he just made out the shapes of some garden plants. But the area was far blacker, protected from the night better than the ends of the other huts. The roofline cut off the moonlight. The narrowing space seemed to defy the searchlight, which lingered on an opposite hut's roof, spreading some light in the alleyway, but creating many deep shadows as well. And the wire, with its perimeter guards and goon tower, was pushed out to accommodate another series of tree stumps. This made him pause, for he realized that in the day, the same spot would receive less sunlight. And this made it an odd location for any kriegie to place a garden.
Tommy considered. An easy place to wait hidden. A quiet place. Very dark. He walked forward, then turned, realizing that he was concealed by the darkness, while anyone making their way down the alleyway would be outlined against distant searchlights. He nodded slowly to himself, and spoke directly to his own imagination. A spot, he told himself, that provided much of what a killer needed.
Tommy felt a rush of excited satisfaction, though one lingering question plagued him, and dampened his enthusiasm: Why would Trader Vic have stepped into that particular darkness?
What had drawn him to that spot, where a man with a stiletto was waiting for him to turn his back?
Something had beckoned Vincent Bedford to the juncture of the two huts.
Something he thought was safe. Or profitable.
Either was a possibility with Trader Vic. But it was death that had waited there for him.
Tommy slowly turned, staring at the huts around him. He dropped to one knee, feeling the clumps of dirt of the garden.
And why would he have to be moved after he was killed? It would be far less of a risk for the killer to simply leave Bedford's body where the killing took place. Unless there was something nearby that he did not want to draw attention to.
'What do you think?' Scott whispered.
'This the place?
Sure seems like about the best place to do someone real quiet like, 'I think I'll make a point to come back in the daylight,' Tommy replied, as he nodded his head.
'See what I can see. But I'd say this spot's a good candidate for the murder location.'
'Then let's get the hell out of here.'
Tommy rose.
'All right,' he said. But as he took a step forward, Scott suddenly grabbed his arm.
Both men froze.
'What?' Tommy whispered.
'I heard something. Quiet.'
'What?'
'I said' Quiet Both men slipped back to the wall of the hut, squeezing hard against it. Tommy held his breath, trying to erase from the night even the noise of his own wind. And into this silence, he heard a thudding sound. Unmistakable but quick, and he couldn't make out where it came from. He slowly exhaled, and heard a second noise, almost a scraping or rustling sound. He bit down hard on his lip.
Scott tugged at Tommy's sleeve. He held a finger over Tommy's mouth to signal silence, then gestured for Tommy to stay close. The black airman then started to move, catlike, graceful, but with an undeniable urgency, through the darkness of the alleyway. Tommy thought Scott seemed to be well educated in the ability to move silently. He tried to keep pace, stepping forward as softly as he could manage, hoping his footsteps would be muffled against the surrounding night.
But every motion he made seemed to him to be a racket.
He could feel his pulse racing, and he pivoted his head, searching the darkness for the source of the sounds that trailed them. Every shadow seemed to move, every slice of nighttime held some form that eluded distinction. Each drop of blackness seemed to mask a gesture that threatened them.
Tommy thought he could hear breathing, then he thought he could hear boots tramping in the nearby exercise yard, then he realized he could hear nothing for real, save the nasty fear-noise of his own heart pounding away within his chest.
They reached the crawl space and Tommy's hands started to shake. Acid bile filled his dry
