edge of the water, just a flicker in the glinting moonlight. Without thinking about it, I ran. First across the sand, lifting my feet high; then across a spongy running surface, sand moistened and solidified by the sea, picking up speed.
As the shadowy figure ahead of me angled away, I realized that it was a thin man with long legs and limbs. A man who from this distance-about two hundred yards behind-appeared in every respect to be Corporal Robert R. Pruchert.
“Halt!” I shouted, inanely. I had no pistol to back up my command.
Where was he going? What lay to the northeast on the far edge of Haeundae Beach? Rice paddies? Shipyards? I had no idea, and my guess was that neither did Pruchert. He’d panicked when he saw me, then he’d hidden; finally he’d sneaked out the back of the casino and run. Where, he couldn’t be sure.
I was catching my stride now, settling in for the distance. He was too far ahead for me to sprint and catch up. With no end to this beach in sight, this pursuit was becoming an endurance contest. Pruchert was panicked, running hard, not pacing himself. If I kept close, controlled my breathing, and settled into a good pace for a two- mile run, I’d probably catch up with him eventually. Once he collapsed.
Every soldier in the United States Army is required to take a physical training test every year. The test includes push-ups, sit-ups, and a two-mile run. I take pride in my scores. I’d yet to max the test but I’d come close. My training regimen consisted mainly of doing push-ups and sit-ups first thing in the morning and then jogging, as time permitted, around the Yongsan South Post gymnasium.
I hadn’t jogged for a few days, not since the Blue Train rapist investigation began, but my body hadn’t forgotten what to do. Slowly, across the wet sand, I was gaining on Pruchert. And then, without warning, he veered sharply to his left.
As I came closer, I saw what he was heading toward: a low line of shacks. Some sort of shops for the crowds that jammed Haeundae Beach during the daytime. Pruchert was running right toward the center of the shops, and in the dim light I watched as he approached the shops as if he were going to ram into one of them headfirst-and then he disappeared.
I blinked, straining to see what had happened.
As I plowed through sand, a gap appeared in the center of the line of shops. A passageway, dark now, and covered so that not even moonlight entered. Where did it lead? Either to the other side or, maybe, into a courtyard. When I reached the passageway, I slowed to a trot. No movement. No sign of Pruchert. Walking quickly, I entered the dark passage. After a few steps, I was blind, realizing that I’d made a mistake. I groped forward, holding my hands out, expecting at any moment to step into a pit lined on the bottom with punji sticks. Instead, I reached the inner courtyard I had imagined. Some of the shops were covered with wooden doors or metal shutters, but a few still had dim blue lights on within, behind polished glass. I stepped close to one of the windows. Two yellow eyes and a row of teeth darted toward me. I jerked back. Then I realized what it was.
A fish tank.
Live fish. It figured. These were not shops, but seafood eateries. I read the signs in cursive hangul: hot noodles, fresh seafood, raw squid, spiced octopus. Everything the discerning gourmand could desire. The fish seemed to sense my presence; tail fins waggled, jaws gaped open and then clamped shut, tentacles raised themselves in squiggly greeting.
I trotted to the far side of the courtyard. Another passageway. I ran through it, quicker this time, figuring Pruchert had already emerged on the other side and would be a half mile up the beach by now. As I hurried, I was reckless about where I stepped and ran into a straight-back chair that had been left in the center of the passageway. I was alert enough not to fall, although I banged my shins pretty hard, and I managed to catch myself on the back of the chair as I kept moving and to toss it off to the side where no one else would run into it.
As I did so, something moved out of the shadows. I caught a glimpse of him just before he hit me. Corporal Robert R. Pruchert. It was a good left and caught me moving into it, and I staggered. Then I was hit again and, for a few seconds anyway, that’s all I remembered.
When I came to, I was kneeling on all fours. I looked up, slowly becoming aware of where I was and what was around me. There was no sign of Pruchert. I stood unsteadily, took a step forward and then another. I breathed deeply, the sharp tang of fish and salt entering my lungs. Soon I was running away from the conclave of seafood restaurants; by the time my head cleared, I had reached the pathway that paralleled the beach. The moon hung no higher in the sky, so I knew I hadn’t been out long, only stunned, and now I had a good view down the beach for about a mile. No sign of Pruchert. Once he thought he had me off his tail, he would’ve headed toward civilization, maybe tried to hide until curfew was over and then find a cab. Where to hide? Near a tourist hotel, where there’d be plenty of taxis waiting outside at four a.m.
I ran back toward the casino.
About a hundred yards off to my right, in the old town section, someone darted into a dark alley. I barely caught a glimpse, but my impression was that this was someone taller and heavier than Pruchert. That didn’t make sense at this time of the morning in this part of the world. Near the alley, cobbled lanes wound sinuously between tile-roofed homes. I slowed to a walk, listening. No running footsteps. All was quiet in this sleepy neighborhood at this early hour. I entered the alley.
It ran about twenty yards, curving to the left out of sight, lined on either side by the backs of brick-walled homes. Finally it opened into an unkempt rose garden surrounding an open-sided pagoda. A fat bronze kitchen god smiled out at me. In a stand in front of the pagoda, incense glowed. I passed the kitchen god with his fragrant environs and entered another alley emanating like the spoke of a wheel from the round garden. It was a clear pathway running downhill toward the tourist hotels. About twenty yards away, beneath a tiled overhang, two men were standing. As I approached, they emerged from the shadows.
Pruchert, Corporal Robert R.; and, next to him, the somewhat taller black G.I., the one Pruchert had been talking to in the casino. Both of them were holding bricks in their hands.
I could’ve turned around. In fact, I seriously considered it. I was exhausted, my head throbbed with an exploding headache, my nose still hurt, and I was still perspiring from the long run down the beach. However, whatever decision I was going to make had to be made immediately. I made it.
Striding forward, I didn’t slow my pace. Everything in my face and my demeanor was meant to convey that I was here to kick some serious ass. Although in my current depleted condition I didn’t believe I could take these two guys, I had to give the impression that there wasn’t the slightest bit of doubt in my mind that I could turn them both into pulverized hamburger without even working up a sweat. As I strode forward, I reached in my jacket pocket and pulled out my badge. I held it up, pointing it at them like a shield.
“You!” I shouted. “You with the brick in your hand,” addressing the tall black man. “You are not in trouble yet, but if you continue on this course you soon will be. Do you understand me?”
I stared into his eyes, waiting for him to nod assent. He did.
“Now drop the brick,” I said, “and step aside.” Although he hesitated, I pretended I hadn’t noticed. “I’m Agent Sueno, badge number 7432, of the Criminal Investigation Division, Eighth United States Army. Any interference in this enforcement action will be considered a criminal offense. Is that understood?”
Neither man dropped his brick. Neither man stepped back.
I strode toward Pruchert, completely ignoring the other man with the brick, and shoved Pruchert on his shoulder. He stared at me dumbly. I ordered him to turn around. He did. Then I slipped my badge into my pocket and started frisking him. He hadn’t yet dropped the brick. The man behind me held his ground.
I frisked Pruchert as if it were the most routine operation in the world. As I did so, I slapped the brick out of his hand. It clattered to the ground.
I cuffed him. At any moment, I expected to feel something heavy and solid landing on the back of my head. Nothing happened. When Pruchert was securely handcuffed, I turned and stared at
the other G.I.
“What’s your name?” I said.
“Bollington,” he replied.
“Rank?”
“E-4.”
“What unit?”
At this he balked. He looked away and said, “I don’t want to get into any trouble behind this.”
“So far,” I said, “you haven’t done anything to get in trouble for.”
