Blackbone (29 page)

Ten minutes earlier, Hopkins had entered the camp alone, armed with a .45 automatic holstered at his waist.

He felt like the marshal walking into a town full of bank robbers, cattle rustlers, and mother rapers. That’s all the Germans were to him anyway: the bad guys, the black hats in the Saturday matinee serials he had devoured back in the thirties. In high school, while the other guys had spent their weekend afternoons lining up dates, Hopkins had wallowed in fantasy at the movies. It had never mattered to him that he couldn’t find a “nice girl” to go out with. He had known a few who weren’t so nice, and they had suited him fine.

Hopkins had learned a lot from Tom Mix, Buck Jones, and Hoot Gibson. He had learned that if you really wanted to show them who was boss, you had to do it alone. You had to buckle on your six-gun and walk onto their turf. You had to go looking for it.

He knew the Germans were responsible, that the deaths of Gebhard, Eckmann, and Schliebert were all part of some vast, well-coordinated kraut plot, and that Bruckner and Steuben were the ringleaders. Gilman couldn’t see it, because Gilman had no experience with Germans, except to lose his fucking command to them in France.

Spreading the story hadn’t worked out as he’d hoped. The MPs were too uneasy over the recent mysterious deaths to concern themselves over something Gilman had done in Europe, so Hopkins had decided to dispose of the mystery first. One step at a time.

The Germans were using lengths of board to clear snow off their volleyball court. He felt their eyes on his back as he swaggered past.

That’s the way it should be: they hate me and I hate them, and no bones about it.

He walked on, contemplating means and ends. Their scheme was obvious: murder a few of their own and blame it on the Americans. Hopkins would expose that. But Gilman would never mete out sufficient punishment and, among the MPs, that would be a strike against him. They would come to Hopkins and say, What’s with this asshole, anyway? Then Hopkins would remind them of what they had ignored before. Gilman in France—Second Battalion—Window Hill—weak jerk-off coward Major former-Lieutenant Colonel David Gilman. Well, what do we do about him? they would ask. Give him the treatment, Hopkins would suggest. Put the screws to him, let things go wrong, make him crack, make him request a transfer. In the middle of winter, the brass wouldn’t bother sending up a new C.O. They’d look around to see who was already in place, holding all the crap together. They would discover Hopkins. The number two man would become number one. It was easy, the best plans always were.

Hopkins walked on, smugly satisfied.

Yes, sir. Can’t miss. Like sliding into home.

Hopkins went between Huts 8 and 9. Damnit, where was Bruckner? Should be out somewhere walking that fucking dog. Step number one, shake Bruckner up. Invite him to the shower hut for a conference, pretending concern for what’s been happening. Once alone with him, Hopkins would grab him by the throat, shove the automatic down his pants, and threaten to blow off his cock if he didn’t squeal and say exactly who had cut Gebhard’s water, and who had stretched Eckmann’s neck. And if he didn’t talk, maybe Hopkins would accidentally shoot his fucking dog.

A twig snapped. Hopkins glanced back. There were four Germans strolling up behind him, hands jammed in their pockets, blank-faced. Ignoring them, Hopkins rounded the corner of Hut 9.

Three more of them were blocking his way. Hopkins stopped. They closed in on him a bit, then they stopped too. Hopkins braced his hands on his hips and glowered at them—the marshal surrounded by black hats.

“Well, sprechen me zum English!” he barked. He figured they wanted something, some complaint or other. He could deal with it quickly and still find Bruckner.

But it was Bruckner who stepped into view next, around the corner of Hut 10 with the dog cm a leash. In broken English, Bruckner said, “How did you kill zem, Hopkins?”

Hopkins glanced back. Surrounded, he decided to bluff it out. “With my prick, kraut.”

They glared at him. An alarm went off in his head. Mentally, he spelled the word
backfire.
“You think I did it?” he said.

Bruckner nodded.

“That’s funny. I think
you
did it.”

Bruckner shook his head—universal gesture meaning a flat no. But to Hopkins it translated as, I’m calling you a liar. And that made him mad. He hitched up his pants; his right hand settled on the butt of his automatic.

Bruckner wasn’t fazed. Carefully he enunciated, “And who will you kill next?”

Hopkins started to worry. As they drew closer, he saw hatred in their eyes. They all had a few days’ growth of stubble. It made them look like derelicts, like the angry and haunted jobless he recalled from the early years of the Depression. Robbed of their self-esteem, their only solace lay in occasionally beating the crap out of somebody better off than themselves.

Fury broke in Hopkins’ brain. He yanked out the .45. He was grabbed from behind. He tried to get his index finger through the trigger guard, but they took the gun away from him and pinned his arms back. He started hollering. They threw him to the ground and shoved his face into the snow.

Standing over Kirst with the bag of herbs in his hand, Steuben saw through the window what was happening between Huts 9 and 10. With a guttural curse, he flung the bag down on Kirst’s cot and bolted for the door.

An instant later, Gilman ran after him.

Chapter 21

The wind was up, whipping at Steuben’s clothes as he bellowed in German at his men, flung them aside, and reached down to help Hopkins up. Hopkins scrambled away and backed against a wall. “You fucking krauts!” he screamed. “I’ll rip your fucking balls off! You’ll all end up like Eckmann... !”

The man holding Hopkins’ gun leveled it at him. Steuben’s fist came around so hard the man was knocked flat on his ass in the snow. Steuben scooped up the .45 and pointed it at his own men. They froze, their own anger checked by the fury in Steuben’s eyes. Slowly they backed off.

“Give me that,” Hopkins growled, his hand outstretched toward Steuben. “Hand it over right now, Major, or you’ll be playing oom-pah with the Pearly Gates Band.”

Steuben’s gaze shifted to Hopkins. His finger closed on the trigger. Gilman stepped between them and said calmly, “I’ll take that.”

Steuben relaxed and handed it to him.

Brushing snow off his clothes and retrieving his cap, Hopkins joined Gilman and balefully eyed the Germans. “Jumped me, sir. I was just out here minding my own business—”

“Alone. And they took your weapon away,”

“Well, yessir, but—”

Raising the automatic over his head, Oilman fired till it was empty, snapping off an entire clip as the Germans flinched around him. When the sound of echoing cracks had died, he glared at Hopkins. “Loaded, too, huh?”

Hopkins glanced at the Germans. They were grinning. “Sir, are you insinuating this was my fault?”

“Hopkins, the dumbest MP in our barracks wouldn’t walk in here armed and alone with the prisoners out of their huts. You could have gotten yourself killed, which I can promise you would not make headlines in the
Army Times.
Or they could have used your gun to kill someone else, in which case you’d be court-martialed!”

“You’d give those krauts a medal if they killed me.”

“I don’t understand how you ever made captain.”

“I don’t understand how you only got busted to major!”

Gilman stiffened then abruptly grabbed Hopkins, propelled him around Hut 10, and slammed him against the wall. “You think you know something?”

“I know plenty “

“Do you know where your asshole is?”

“What are you gonna do, Major? Punch me like you did the general?”

Gilman hesitated, listening to Steuben, around the corner, angrily dismissing his men. Shoving the .45 back into Hopkins’ holster, he released him and said, “Get out of here.”

Hopkins saluted stiffly and stalked off.

Steuben fell in beside Gilman and they walked back to the
Krankenhaus.
Steuben was apologetic for the behavior of his men. Gilman brushed it off. “As far as I’m concerned, Major, the incident was provoked. It’s over. Nobody gets punished.”

Steuben thanked him, then added, “I must tell you, Major Gilman, there is suspicion among the prisoners that your soldiers were responsible for the deaths of Eckmann and Gebhard, and that Hopkins himself was behind it.”

“Do you believe that”—Gilman opened the door to the
Krankenhaus
and gestured inside—”now?”

Steuben shook his head. They went in.

There was an empty space where Kirst’s cot had been. For a moment, Gilman and Steuben both stood staring at it, thinking the worst—that Loring Holloway’s demon had somehow broken loose and demolished the bed, Loring, Cuno, and Borden in one stroke, and now it was loose somewhere in the camp.

Gilman edged farther into the ward, looked around, then in great relief heard voices coming from the back. They found everyone in the rearmost cubicle, gathered around Kirst’s cot.

“For a light sonofabitch, it just about threw my spine out to carry him,” complained Borden. “She made us drag him back here. She wants him isolated.”

Gilman checked Kirst. He was still out. “What have you got in mind now, Miss Holloway? More tests?”

“No.” She was opening the bag of herbs and carefully sprinkling them over the bedclothes and around the cot on the floor.

“What’s that going to do?” Gilman asked.

“Hopefully, keep the djinn from getting out tonight,” Loring said. “One or more of these herbs should have some effect and conceivably could keep the thing at bay.”

“Like the tar?” Borden said with a grin.

“I take it you have an explanation for that, Major Borden?”

Borden’s grin faded and he shook his head.

Loring sprinkled the last of the herbs at the rear threshold, just beyond the cubicle, then she turned to Gilman. “You’ve got three dead men, Major. If you don’t want more, I suggest you stop laughing at me and post some guards in here tonight—men who can stay awake! I want Kirst watched! If you’re not convinced I’m right, at least humor me.”

Gilman frowned then finally nodded. Behind him, Steuben muttered, “Thank you, Major.”

Steuben stood outside the
Krankenhaus
as the MP detail summoned by Gilman double-timed down the slope and ran up the steps inside. Curious prisoners were slouched outside the huts. Catching Steuben’s eye, a few gestured with their hands, “What’s up?” Steuben ignored them. Borden emerged from the rear door with Loring Holloway. Gilman held the door open so Steuben could see the arrangement inside.

Kirst was stretched out on the cot as they had left him. MPs were stationed one at the cubicle, one at the rear door, and the rest deeper inside the ward as relief. Satisfied, Steuben nodded to Gilman and backed off. Gilman shut the door and said, “Any problems tonight, Major, don’t hesitate to scream bloody murder.”

“At the top of my lungs, Herr Kommandant.”

Gilman prodded Loring Holloway and, with Borden hefting her suitcase, he followed her out of the camp. Watching them go, Steuben saw the way she glanced at Gilman, and the way Gilman ignored her. Steuben smiled to himself and contemplated how he would handle her. Mentally, he had her pants off and her legs spread on the bed before the image of his wife intruded.

He walked back to his men. Bruckner met him with Churchill on a short leash, several loops of it wrapped around his wrist. After that brush with Hopkins, he was taking no chances: he expected reprisals, and he knew Churchill would be an easy, cheap target.

“What’s going on with Kirst?” he asked Steuben.

Steuben thought carefully before replying. It wouldn’t do to describe everything that had happened in the
Krankenhaus.
That would most certainly provoke panic among his men. “They have agreed to isolate him,” Steuben said. “They will keep him under guard tonight.”

“Why?”

“To prove to us that he’s no spy. To put our minds at ease.”

Bruckner laughed.

“Hans, listen to me. I want you to reassure the men that the Americans had nothing to do with the deaths of Eckmann and Gebhard. If there were a plot to exterminate us, Gilman would have to know. But he’s as concerned about the deaths as we are. I think we have to trust him.”

“I see. Trust him, even if we all die.”

“Hans, we are prisoners. They have no reason to murder us. If they were our prisoners, we wouldn’t do it to them.”

“No?”

Bruckner pulled Churchill along, motioning Steuben to follow and gesturing at the other men to leave them alone. He led Steuben behind the shower hut and stopped. Churchill sniffed at the foundation then took a healthy piss.

“Do you really know what is going on in this war, Walter?”

“We are losing it.”

“Have you ever seen a concentration camp?”

Steuben sighed impatiently. “No, Hans. No, I haven’t.”

“I have. I’ve been inside one. I’ve tried to forget it, tried to put it out of my mind but, whenever I hear our friends carry on about their lofty ideals and their grand moments in this war... all I can think is, You fools! You don’t see. You haven’t been there.”