Stardust (62 page)

“Make the call.”

“You’d kill yourself? You can’t really believe in it anymore. Not after everything.”

“I did believe in it. So that’s something. You don’t—betray that.”

“Just your own people. And kill them. What did that feel like, killing Danny? All those years.”

“It will be easier to kill you. You wouldn’t keep out of this. Daniel—” He stopped. “I don’t know why he changed. ‘I won’t do that to my country.’ Foolishness. What country? We don’t have a country.”

“Not Russia?”

“Russia,” he said, a hint of scorn. “No, no country. The future. The rest is—politics. They want to scare themselves to death here. Look
under your bed, what do you see? A Communist? No! So give the fools a few Communists. But not the weapons. You don’t give weapons to children. You can’t put guns in their hands.”

“Just yours.” He looked at Dieter, suddenly weary, something seeping out of him with the blood. “Do you listen to yourself anymore? The future.” He shook his head. “It was a mistake. You wasted your life on a mistake. Like my father.”

Dieter stared back, surprised, as if he’d been struck.

“And Danny.”

Dieter said nothing for a moment, then motioned the gun toward the phone. “Make the call. Slow steps. Not too fast.”

Ben turned, feeling Dieter following behind. A fire alarm lever he could pull, but that would be a suicide move, the bullet in his back before the lever was down. Overhead light switch, but not the master switch, a fuse box farther away. The phone itself, some kind of coded message out? But Dieter had already thought of that, reaching around to pick up the receiver himself, the gun close to Ben. He asked the switchboard for the front gate, then handed the phone to Ben.

“Carl? Mr. Kohler,” he said, a name all the émigrés still thought he used. “You can open the gate again.” But would Carl hear the name change or simply recognize the voice and move on? “Sorry for the inconvenience,” Ben said, but Dieter was waving him to finish and hang up, and Carl didn’t reply.

“Over there,” Dieter said, indicating the stage door, the smaller one people used, not the huge sliding wall for the sets, activated by a button switch.

“You can’t hide a body in here,” Ben said.

Dieter pointed to one of the large black storage cases stacked by the wall. “Move the light out of the way.” A flood lamp, heavy.

Lights. He looked back to the nightclub set, the floods already set up, spotlights hanging in rows from the high rigging, a boom set up for a mike, the camera at the top of the ramp, pointed down toward the dance floor. Lights, camera, action. A phrase he’d never actually heard on set. All right, people, let’s go. Okay, Jimmy? Action. But never the
full phrase. Why was he even thinking about this? A case big enough for a body. Do something. He’s going to kill you. Lights. Already connected, ready to go tomorrow. Action.

He flicked the switch on the lamp, swerving to face Dieter, a blinding light in his eyes, like a flashbulb that kept going, so that he raised his arm against it. An automatic response, a second, enough to let Ben duck and roll away to his right, into the set, hidden by one of the tablecloths.

“Don’t be stupid,” Dieter yelled, but the flash had disoriented him. He headed toward the door, the logical place for Ben to have gone. Ben moved farther into the set, a kind of desperate table hopping, until he was under the platform for the band, then out behind, moving slowly counterclockwise. Lath and plaster. Dieter moved over to the flood lamp, still bright, and tilted it down, beginning to search the tables, a lighthouse sweep to the bar.

“Come out,” he yelled, focused now on the bar, an easy hiding place.

Ben tried to remember where his gun had gone, slithering across the floor. Toward the door. Exactly in Dieter’s field of light. He had now reached the camera platform. Across the dance floor, the long shine of the mirror behind the bar. Dieter was still moving the light, shafts reflecting off the mirror, his back to Ben but still between Ben and the door.

Ben heard the sound of his own breathing, a ragged panting, and tried to close his mouth, holding it shut. A vacuum quiet. You could actually hear a footfall, the faint mechanical turning of the lamp. His whole body tensed with a feral alertness. Not like the war, people yelling over all the noise, shell explosions and the whistle of flying shrapnel. War was about luck. This was something else, a hunt, crouching with ears up, waiting to hear a twig snap.

He looked behind: the shadowy clutter of the sound stage, cables and dolly tracks, equipment that never appeared on screen. The sound console. A diversion. He breathed out a little and slipped over to the panel, trying to remember how it was operated. No time. He shoved a
whole row of switches, hoping for anything, and got the squawk of feedback, then ran in the other direction. Dieter swung the light around, walking carefully now toward the sound, pausing at the foot of the ramp to peer into the dark behind of the stage, using the lamp as a kind of flashlight. Another sweep. Ben lifted himself up onto the platform, the upper tier of the nightclub, and crawled on his stomach toward the camera, his sounds still masked by the screech coming out of the console. Dieter took another step, wary, as if the sound were a trap, looking at each side of it, not hearing the clicks on the platform as Ben carefully unlocked the brakes on the camera wheels, the whole heavy weight now free. Action.

Ben rose slightly on one knee and pushed the camera to the edge of the ramp, the rubber wheels gliding smoothly, responsive, the way they would during a shoot, steady. It was only after they had tipped down the ramp, pulled by gravity, that they wobbled with speed, racing, finally loud enough to make Dieter turn and jerk away from a direct hit, so that only his leg was caught, the crash bringing him down, but not crushing him, knocking over the lamp, which crashed, too, sputtering out.

Ben rolled off the platform, running hunched over across the club floor, exposed now. He heard a grunt, Dieter trying to pick himself up, then a shot, louder than the sound console. He dropped flat, heard the smash of bar bottles as the bullet struck. Real glass, not breakaway. He lunged again for the door. The gun was here somewhere, but no time to look. Instead he reached up for the hangar door switch and pushed the button, then jumped away from it before Dieter could fire again, and moved along the wall, toward the console and heaps of equipment. Another grunt as Dieter got up, lurching toward the door, the obvious place, sliding open now, a loud clunking on its tracks. Where Ben would try to rush out.

But Ben burrowed deeper into the equipment pile, every sound hidden by the door motor, the console still squawking. He moved farther back. There had to be other exits, not yet lit up as this one was, the nightclub lights now spilling out in shafts onto the back lot. He raised his head
to see Dieter standing in place, turning side to side, then reaching down to his leg, evidently hurt by the falling camera. The console would draw outside attention now, the soundproof stage open to the night.

Still aiming his gun at the door, Dieter started moving back to the panel to cut it off. There would be a fumbling with switches, just a few seconds, but a distraction. Ben kept moving back, picking his way over cables, afraid of knocking into something, an unexpected sound. Dieter was close enough now to hear, even with the door still winching open. It was dimmer here, almost dark, and then blank, a temporary wall thrown up to divide the stage. He followed it, feeling for a door. There must be another set behind, another outside door. His hand touched a knob.

He turned it carefully, hoping no light would shoot in to give him away, but the other stage was dark, the floor empty of clutter. Nothing was being shot here. He closed the door behind him and moved back to the outer wall. Suddenly the hangar door motor stopped, presumably all the way open now. The console feedback was lower, too, intermittent. In a second Dieter would find the panel switch, every sound Ben made audible again. Perfect for stalking.

He took another step and bumped into something waist-high, putting his hands out to steady himself, prevent anything from crashing over. A table? Some prop. He moved his hands over it. Big, a construction. Then, like Braille, plaster rising out of the smooth surface in jagged clumps, mountains. Japan. Continental’s contribution to the war effort. He tried to remember the layout, how near it had been to a door. An entire country lying on trestles, waiting to be photographed, what the bombers would see. The console stopped.

Ben looked up. The quiet had become physical again, something you could feel. He heard Dieter moving, then saw the ceiling get lighter. More lights in the nightclub, Dieter now obviously at the central switches near the stack of camera cases. Ben looked at Japan. Nothing else on this part of the stage, not even a spool of cable. A few footsteps, Dieter exploring. Don’t panic. He ducked down and slipped between the trestles, a hiding place. But all Dieter would have to do was shine a
light underneath, catch Ben’s eyes. He felt above him. The whole frame was supported by slats lying across the trestles, nailed in place to prevent wobbling. The diorama itself was like an attic crawl space—if you managed to climb into it, you could lie on the slats, off the floor. Japan over your head.

The spaces were irregular. Ben tried to wedge up into one, but couldn’t get through. He tried to remember the shape, where the load-bearing sections would be. Think of it as a box spring, the springs clustered, not even. He moved toward the center, where the plaster would rise highest, allowing more wiggle room. A mountain range. If it worked anywhere, it would work here. He put his head through, then grabbed two of the slats to pull the rest of him up. His shirt caught, then freed itself with a tug. His feet were off the floor, another push with his elbows, then inching forward over the empty space onto another slat, trying to distribute his weight, slat, space, slat, space.

His head bumped into wood. Of course there’d be cross struts. His feet were still dangling, but he managed to draw them up a little, so that only his toes dropped over the slat. There was nowhere else to go, his body suspended now, his hands clutching hard to the slat on either side. The injured hand was still throbbing, and he tried to relax its grip. Maybe a bone had been smashed, shooting out darts of pain. But it wouldn’t be much longer. Dieter would check the sound stage, then inevitably be drawn back to the door and out, the logical escape. Just try to stop breathing. Become, literally, part of the woodwork.

The floor beneath him got lighter. Dieter must have found more switches. These would be the utility lights above the catwalks, making the stage visible while the gaffers arranged the set lights on the rigging. The light would come straight down through the open ceiling, flat, not strong enough to make shadows. Ben clenched his hand on the slat again. Keep still. Footsteps on the other side of the dividing wall, a shout, as if Dieter were testing the echo effect. Over his head, lights were shining down on the simulated hills. It occurred to Ben, a surreal idea, that his body was under Hiroshima.

“Can you hear me?”

The voice seemed nearer. Ben held his breath. The slats might creak if he moved. In the silence, there was a sound so small it might be inside his head, light as a bubble popping, no, a drip, an invisible tap, a single bead of water. He looked down. Not invisible. A red dot on the floor, now another. Frantic, he looked at his hand, blood seeping, a line moving down off the side, then falling. He relaxed his grip, turning his hand. The line changed course but kept flowing down, another drip. There was nowhere to move the hand without shifting his weight. Impossible. But you’d have to be on top of it to hear. And now it fell on the previous drip, muffled, not like a fresh drop on the floor. He stared at the hand, willing it to stop.

“It’s very foolish.” Dieter’s voice again, moving with him through the door, flicking on more lights.

Ben looked down. A tiny puddle, not a river. But still dripping, a little more quickly. Dieter had stopped, probably trying to figure out the map. Another minute, fascinated, like any set visitor.

“You know I have to do this,” he shouted finally. “It’s nothing to do with me.” His voice lower, reasonable. What everyone thought, dropping bombs, firing into streets. Years of it, something that couldn’t be helped. “You don’t use the door,” he said, loud again, not sure where Ben was. “Hide and seek. Shall I tell you my plan? It’s good—no bullets to explain.” He waited, as if expecting an answer back. Ben stared at the blood. “These places. They should clean up. Did you see the paint cans? Thinners. A hazard. One match. Well, a few, to make it all go at once. The door locked. It’s a good idea, don’t you think? A pity. A whole building for this. And such a way to die. To burn. What they say will happen in hell, it’s so terrible. Much easier, a bullet. Quicker. You decide. One or the other. Are you listening?”

Another silence, Ben watching the droplets on the floor.

“I know what you’re thinking. The fool leaves, I make an alarm. Ben. Not such a fool. It’s easy to disable. I’m a good mechanic, did you know that? No alarm. The door locked. Yes, they see the light
maybe. But paint makes so much smoke. You know most people die from smoke in a fire. Before they burn. So by the time— Are you listening?”

But it was Dieter who suddenly paused, hearing a noise, indistinct, behind him. Ben could see his feet move back to the partition door. “Hello?” No answer. Dieter waited another minute to be sure, then moved back toward the map. “So is it fire?” he said to the rafters.

Ben went still, watching the blood run along the floor, a thin line, but moving.

“We don’t have time. With the barn door open,” he said, a forced joviality. “Before the horses get out.” Another pause. “So.”

Ben saw his feet turn back to the nightclub and the equipment piles, stepping carefully, still listening. The blood seemed to be following him, almost at the edge of the trestles now. Leave. Even a fire would give him a chance. Dieter couldn’t disable the sprinklers. Unless the heat didn’t reach them in time, high up, designed to save the building, not someone trapped in it.