Blackbone (32 page)

Dortmunder studied the fine ash on the end of his cigarette. For the fourth time since they had climbed through the window, Hoffman went to the toilet.

Mueller returned to the window for another look. They could go now, but there were still lights on in some of the huts. Men were awake. Anyone who happened to be looking out the back side of Hut 10 might see three figures scurrying through the storm and disappearing into a hole in the ground.

If we find the hole again....

And what about Kirst? So far, nobody had made a move against the
Krankenhaus.
Maybe the air had gone out of that idea. Or maybe they were all waiting, like he and Dortmunder and Hoffman were waiting.

We could wait ourselves to death.

Mueller turned his back to the wall and dropped to a squat on the floor. It was the first time he had sat down since they came in here. A moment later, he sprang up again.

He had the uneasy feeling that he wasn’t safe, whether he stayed in the shower hut, returned to his quarters, or went up that mine shaft. Something was waiting for him. But whatever it was, it would be easier to face than more of this sitting around.

“Let’s go,” he said.

The window at the back of the shower hut banged open. Mueller’s head and shoulders appeared. He hauled himself through and tumbled into the snow. Wind-blown icy particles bit into the exposed areas of his face. The gear came out next. Mueller gathered it all together and called softly. Dortmunder came through and, after him, Hoffman.

For an instant, a passing searchlight beam reflected off the snow. The men went rigid until darkness returned, then they snatched up their gear and charged off, floundering through the snow toward Hut 10.

Loring finished her third glass of wine and leaned back, warmed by the liquor, the storm forgotten, the djinn forgotten. All she could think of was David Gilman sitting across from her with his eyes boring into hers, intensely interested in what she was saying, his hand wrapped tightly about his own wineglass, the remains of dinner ignored between them.

“They all drowned? Every one of them?”

She nodded. “Never found a single body. Searched the entire riverbed. Vanished as if they’d never been alive.”

“And you think it was your fault?”

Her voice slurred. She caught it and tried to force the words past her uncooperative tongue. “I’m the one who recited the spell. I’m the one who brought the water.”

Gilman let go of his glass. His hands dropped beneath the table, and he clasped them together out of sight. Loring watched his frown deepen. “What’s the matter?” she said. “You don’t believe that, either?”

“Oh, I believe it. It’s just...”He looked up, pained. “You’re not alone.”

“What do you mean?”

France. Second Battalion. Window Hill General Malkin. Scorched grass and rivers of blood. Tramping among the dead.

He told her all of it, his whole remorseful tale, and at last she understood what drove David Gilman: the same thing that had brought her running to Blackbone—atonement.

They sat quietly, both a little drunk and both thoughtful until finally she said, “We have the same weakness. What if the djinn plays on that?”

Gilman looked at her briefly, then got up and moved to the window. He studied the storm-swept compound outside and realized that there was no general topping the chain of command. There was only destiny. Somehow, he had been brought here for a reason. So had she.

And so had the djinn.

He felt her body behind his, her hand on his shoulder. He turned quickly and kissed her, and her heated response surprised him. His hand brushed her breast, then both hands were moving rapidly, touching her all over. Her mouth covered his, and he tasted wine and flesh. His fingers curled in her hair and he held her against his mouth, in a sweeping motion picking her up and carrying her to his cot. Her mouth broke free and she gasped for air, then came back even harder.

They tumbled on the bed and tore at each other’s clothing. In a moment, he was inside her and driving hard, deep, and she groaned, her head whipping to one side, her hand feeling for where they were connected. Her hips arched upward, engulfing him. He gasped. Wildly, she followed his movements and helped him. The cot creaked. Gilman threw his body upward and locked his arms in place. Looming over her, he drove himself deeper, anxiously reaching for his peak. Her hips moved faster, the muscles inside starting to contract and pull. She stiffened and let out a long groan. Gilman exploded inside her.

The nightform spilled out of Kirst’s mouth while the guard’s back was turned. Black smoke boiled over the side of the cot and gathered in the shadows beneath. The djinn thinned itself out to a light mist, then seeped through the floorboards and re-formed beneath the
Krankenhaus.

After a moment, it moved out into the storm. Its fragile form took a terrific buffeting from the wind but held together and let itself be swept along toward the back of the camp.

In the next flash of lightning Vinge spotted a shadow moving between the huts. Through the driving snow he couldn’t be sure it was anything more than a trick of the light, but he was out of the rec hut like a shot, carbine held crosswise in front of him as he bounded through the snow and down to the gate.

Cokenaur saw him coming and held out the pack of cigarettes. “Knew you’d be back—”

“Open up!”

“What?”

Vinge missed his footing and skidded into the gate. The nearest sentry heard the rattle of fencing and swiveled his light to fix Vinge in its beam. Vinge sprang back and threw up his hands for a second, holding the carbine aloft so the sentry could see it.

“Open the gate!” he snapped again at Cokenaur, who stared at him in surprise.

“What’s going on?”

“I saw something! Come on, open it!”

Cokenaur jammed the cigarettes back in his pocket and came out of the booth. His gloved hand fumbled for the key and he undid the padlock. “I’ll get some men—” he said.

“No! Nobody else! I’ll handle this. Just stay here and keep watch. Give me your flashlight.”

Cokenaur handed him the heavy-duty light and an extra pair of snow goggles. Vinge fitted them on, slung the carbine over his shoulder, switched on the light, and went through the gate. The searchlight beam followed him until he signaled it away.

Then he was alone, lunging through the drifts.

Mueller was frantic. He couldn’t find the entrance to the mine shaft. Every time the searchlight came around, he and the others had to burrow into the snow and lie still. Then they would get up and resume digging for the branch or the blanket.

Dortmunder found the branch, but there was nothing beneath it except a foot of snow and hard ground. “It must have moved,” Hoffman shouted above the wind. “Probably slid away in the snow.”

Mueller started digging in a line directly up the slope, pitching snow behind him like a mole. When his fingers closed on the edge of the blanket, he let out a sharp laugh. They worked quickly then, ahead of the next pass of the light, piling snow up around the hole, digging out the blanket, one by one crawling into the hole and dragging gear after them.

Once inside, Mueller and Hoffman repacked the hole with dirt and the blanket until there remained only enough room to slip an arm through and sweep snow down from above the hole. It didn’t matter if any dirt was still visible, because in five minutes it would be covered with fresh snow. By morning no one would know there had ever been an opening.

Finished, Mueller drew in his arm and looked around. Hoffman had a candle lit. Dortmunder was lighting another. The chamber they had entered was littered with rubble. They had to crawl over twelve feet of it until they could stand, and then only in a crouch. The shaft was low and narrow. “Dug by elves,” snorted Hoffman. The beams and braces were old and far from sturdy. There was only enough room to move through in single file. But at least they were in and dry, and they had provisions and tools and light. They looked at each other and grinned. Two minutes later, with the gear hoisted on their backs, stooped low, they started up the tunnel.

The nightform found the armhole left by Mueller. It spilled into the shaft and nosed up after the flickering lights.

Chapter 23

Gripping his wrist and applying intermittent pressure to the artery just above the bandage, Bauhopf managed to reduce the pain in his hand. “Keep doing that,” von Lechterhoeven said quietly, “and it will rot and fall off.”

“Who died and made you medic?” Bauhopf growled. Slipping the back door of Hut 7 open an inch and disregarding the blast of cold air that ripped at his eyes, he gazed over at the silent
Krankenhaus.
Nothing had happened over there for quite a while. There was still a light on in the front of the ward, but in the back it was dark. Cuno and Heilbruner must have gone to bed. And Kirst—if he was anything but unconscious, there would be a light burning in the rearmost cubicle. There wasn’t.

“Those MPs should be good and tired by now,” Bauhopf said.

“I’m good and tired,” von Lechterhoeven replied.

“Where are the others?”

“Gone to bed. I don’t think anybody’s up for a midnight raid. What if we... ?”

“Shh!” Bauhopf held up his bandaged hand. Von Lechterhoeven fell silent and watched him stick his head out the door. “Someone’s out there.”

“Who?”

“Can’t tell.”

There was a long pause with the only sound the wind whistling through the door, then Bauhopf abruptly shut it, leaving just a crack to look through. “It’s an MP. That sergeant, I think.” He turned. Von Lechterhoeven watched his eyes work thoughtfully. “He’s alone. I think we can take him.”

“What?”

“He’s got a weapon—we need it!” Bauhopf opened the door.

Von Lechterhoeven shut it and grabbed him. “Wait a minute.”

“Let go of me.”

“Use your head! Think for a moment! They don’t let anyone patrol the compound alone when there’s a storm!”

“Their mistake—”

“So if he’s not authorized, what’s he doing here?”

Bauhopf stopped struggling and looked at von Lechterhoeven a moment, then he edged the door open again and peered out cautiously, shielding his eyes against the snow. The MP was gone, had disappeared around another hut most likely, and with him had gone Bauhopf’s chance.

“He’s up to no good,” said von Lechterhoeven. “Maybe Hopkins sent him.”

“All the more reason...”

“... to be careful.”

Vinge’s goggles were icing up. He looked back up the slope from his position behind Hut 9 and could vaguely make out the gate and the guard post next to it. But he couldn’t see Cokenaur and assumed he was back inside the booth, smoking another cigarette. The wind changed and blew snow up Vinge’s nose. Cursing to himself and shivering against the biting chill, he turned his back to the wind and let it propel him ahead.

There was no sign of that shadow and, now that he was back here among the huts, he was even less sure that it had been his elusive wildcat. Maybe it was a German making a latrine run. Or it could have been one of the MPs from the
Krankenhaus.

What would make that damn fool cat come down in this weather anyway? Why wasn’t he up on the mountain in some nice warm cave, hibernating with the rabbits and squirrels?

Hearing an unfamiliar noise, Vinge stopped to listen. But all he heard was the wind howling between the huts and loose tar paper flapping on the roof of Hut 9. Wait—there was another sound. Wiping his goggles, he looked around and saw only snow covering the compound and the dark huts. The wind changed again and swept off to the east, up the side of Blackbone Mountain, rattling the chain links on the back fence. He struggled to separate sounds and finally he caught it—a hollow sort of rush. He tensed and looked up at the mountain.

It was Blackbone itself, howling back at the storm. Wind blasting through the mountain’s secret orifices, rushing through the old abandoned shafts and emerging somewhere above so that the sound was directed back at the camp. Vinge shuddered. Even the goddamned mountain was creepy.

Sweeping the flashlight before him, Vinge tramped off, warily keeping an eye out, promising his frozen legs he would give this only another few minutes.

Hunched over, Mueller moved up the shaft. His candle cast an eerie glow on the dry dirt walls and rotted timbers around him. Carefully, he tested the ground before putting his foot down. Each step took several seconds, but it meant avoiding a fall through a rotted floor or a shift in the timbers that might bring the whole shaft crashing down on his head.

Hoffman and Dortmunder were right behind him, the gear on their backs making it difficult for them to move. Dortmunder had resorted to a crab walk. Hoffman, who was taller, had shifted the weight higher on his shoulders, almost up on his neck. He moved apelike, walking with his knuckles dragging.

Mueller carried very little gear. If a beam fell or the floor gave, somebody needed both hands free to rescue the others. As his cautious forward movement became more automatic, Mueller listened to the wind howling somewhere above him through an open shaft, turning the entire mountain into an echo chamber.