The Red Horse

by James R Benn

  Those wounds were where these murders originated, I was sure of it. Something had happened behind enemy lines. A betrayal. Death. A promise broken and lives lost. Someone had lost something so dear that they needed to take their revenge on these three people.

  Or maybe two, I had to admit as I rounded the rear of the main building. Holland’s death was different. There had been no red horse on his body. Maybe it was suicide, maybe it wasn’t connected. Or if there was a connection, it was only seen by the killer.

  I picked up my pace, the wind howling at my back. I had to get away from the south wing where Kaz would be either getting stitched up or wheeled down to the morgue. Holland, Cosgrove, and Densmore, all dead. Angelika and Diana prisoners of the Nazis. V2 rockets falling on Paris. And me, still locked up in this nuthouse.

  I began to run, feeling the cold splat of rain on my face and the terror rising in my gut. For all I knew, Kaz and Diana were already dead. A slip of the scalpel and a bullet from a Nazi guard. I stumbled, catching my toe on a loose stone and falling forward, arms flailing as I tried, and failed, to keep my balance. I went down on my shoulder, rolling off the path and onto the soft grass.

  Lightning cracked, vivid whiteness shattering the sky. Thunder rumbled and rolled over me, and I crawled to the base of a tree as rain pelted the earth. Taking what little shelter the leaves offered, I lay on the sodden ground, grabbing a tuft of grass in my hand to steady my growing tremor.

  The storm felt like hell. I considered the possibility that it was hell, and I was paying for all the lives I’d taken in this war. Some people certainly were healed and released at Saint Albans, but I seemed to be permanently moored here as those I loved drifted farther and farther away. How could I possibly help Diana?

  Another bolt of lightning shot to earth, striking a tree on the edge of the forest. It exploded in a flash of fire, showering the lawn with branches and bark trailing red-hot embers onto the lawn. I scuttled backward, even though the burning tree was fifty yards away.

  I wiped the rain from my eyes and watched the small fires burn out. Smoke mingled with falling rain and drifted on the wind. I got up and raised my face to the heavens.

  You want to explain that one?

  The Bible was full of signs and portents. Back in the old days, people were better at understanding them. All I knew was that it could have been the tree I was hiding under that got hit as easily as that old oak, now smoldering in the rain.

  So, what’s the message?

  More lightning lit the sky behind me, and I got it. Keep moving. Always keep moving. Do something, even if you’re still in a prison.

  Back on the path, I headed for the canteen. I felt good. Nothing like a near miss by a blast of lightning to put things in perspective. There was still a lot to do, beginning with more questions for Sergeant Jenkins before I checked in on Kaz.

  As I approached the entrance to the canteen, two men exited, buttoning up their rain capes. I entered, shaking off the wet onto the stone floor.

  “We’ll have to sign you up, Boyle, if you like spending time here so much,” Jenkins said from his seat by the fire. “What is it now?”

  “A minute or so, Sarge, if you can spare it,” I said. His tone was friendly enough, if a touch impatient. I could feel the tension in the room as five other men huddled around the coal fire waiting for his response.

  “I can spare it, and some of the warmth as well. Come, sit. You’re soaked through,” Jenkins said, waving a hand for his men to make room.

  “I didn’t have a chance to speak with you after that incident with Sinclair,” I said. “Seemed like Major Snow was on a tirade.”

  “That he was. Said he wanted to get rid of the lot of us,” Jenkins said. He didn’t seem too upset at the prospect. Then he grinned. “The good major told me he’d been turned down by the army, and all he was getting were five military police, for two days. Said he planned on conducting a search with them. A thorough search.”

  “It’s a big place,” I said. “You ever been up on the top floor of the main building?”

  “No. Off-limits to the likes of us. None but those with top security clearances allowed. They bring in people now and then, keep them there for a few days, then ship ’em out. No idea what they do up there.”

  Listening to recordings, I’d bet. Snow would need help eavesdropping, if only to catch up now and then.

  “The night Major Cosgrove was killed, Private Fulton relieved you, right?” I watched the tiny wisps of steam rise from my trousers as the fire warmed the soaked fabric.

  “That’s right,” Jenkins said. “He showed up about an hour after you left. Why? You’re not suspicious of him, are you? He’s a decent lad.”

  “No, but I wondered if he stayed at his post the whole time, and when he went off duty,” I said.

  “Of course he didn’t desert his post,” Jenkins said, sitting up straight and making a good show of being insulted. Without looking me in the eye, he said he’d ordered Fulton to stay until 0530, when the first light of dawn started to show itself.

  “I didn’t say desert, Sarge. I just want to know if he had to leave. Call of nature, or to talk to a pal.”

  Jenkins sighed. “He’d been to the pub. It’s likely he had to relieve himself at some point. I wouldn’t expect him to piss on the porch, so it would make sense that he left for a minute or so.”

  “Does he smoke?”

  “He does. Picked up the habit once he joined us. Why?”

  “I found a couple of crushed cigarette butts by a tree at the side of the guest quarters. The soil was still damp and carried a faint odor of urine. Is there a chance he met someone and shared a smoke?”

  “Who?” Jenkins asked. “We were short on men, that’s why I had him hauled out of the pub. I figured it was easy duty, sitting instead of standing for once. But I don’t allow smoking while on duty, even if it’s in a comfortable porch chair. Fulton knows that and probably took the opportunity to sneak a smoke. Do you think that’s when the killer struck?”

  “It’s certainly possible,” I said. “Or, the killer could have hidden inside before we went in. You didn’t see anyone about, did you?”

  “No. Major Snow found me in the canteen and told me to find someone to stand guard at the guest quarters. There was but one man with me, and he’d come off a double shift. Snow told me not to worry and to do the duty myself until midnight, then to check on you.”

  “That’s right, I forgot he said he’d post a guard on my room as well,” I said.

  “Well, you were sleeping like a lamb, so I took myself off home. Shame that we’re so short of men. But there’s little reason these days for the boys to take the time away from work and family now that Jerry’s not about to come knocking,” Jenkins said. “Anyway, Fulton was willing enough once I got word to him, and he came as quick as he could.”

  “Okay. You’re sure you saw no one lurking around while you were on the porch?”

  “Positive. Other than you and that big sergeant,” Jenkins said.

  “Someone told me they saw a Yank out after curfew,” I said. “Or at least someone wearing an American field jacket and wool cap.”

  “When I say I saw no one, I mean no one, Yank or not,” Jenkins said. “Who told you? One of your fellow inmates?”

  “Griffin,” I said. “He may be off the deep end, but he’s got a watchful eye.”

  “He’s a strange one,” Jenkins said. “I would put some stock in what he says, but I don’t trust him. He’s convinced this is a training camp. Could be dangerous once the truth of it sinks in.”

  “What about Miller?” I asked.

  “Big talker. The kind of brash fellow who gives Yanks a bad name. Mad as a hatter. I’d think him capable of violence if he didn’t talk about it all the time. But what do I know?” Jenkins gave a slight shrug and moved closer to the fire, rubbing his hands togethe
r.

  “Robinson?”

  “The head doctor? Bit of a stretch, Boyle,” Jenkins said.

  “He’s a Yank,” I said. “Not that many here. If Griffin is right, there was an American on the grounds the night Cosgrove was killed. But I’ve never seen Robinson out of his service uniform with that tailored Ike jacket.”

  “Oh, I’ve seen him a few times, early mornings, running around the place. He wore fatigues and a field jacket when there was a chill in the air. Wool cap, too,” Jenkins said. “But even I managed to grab one of those caps. Nice and warm they are.”

  “That’s right, Robinson told me he ran track in college. Looks like he’s staying in shape,” I said.

  “Does any of this help?” Jenkins said.

  “Everything helps,” I said, standing and warming my hands at the fire. I thanked him and made my way outside. It was almost time to check on Kaz.

  Everything did help, I told myself as I headed to my room. It helped to be doing something other than waiting. It gave me the illusion of having some control over my life. Or if not mine, at least over the killer’s life if I could uncover who was responsible. But as for clues, it had been thin helpings. The killer could have been in Cosgrove’s room or entered it unnoticed while Fulton was pissing on a tree.

  The rain had stopped. The air was still after the heavy winds, the dank smell rising heavily from the ground. I went inside, took a hot shower, and put on a fresh set of fatigues.

  I was ready. At least that’s what I told myself.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  As I left my room, I heard the tromp of heavy boots coming up the stairs. The orderly at the end of the corridor looked up in surprise and backed up against the wall when two British Army Redcaps burst out of the stairwell and began to shout at the top of their lungs.

  “Everyone out, now!”

  “Out of your rooms!”

  “You, against the wall!” one of them said, pointing to me. Since it was midday, most people were already out of their rooms, but one other patient stumbled out, looking confused. He and I were both pinned against the wall and quickly, but expertly, searched.

  “Move along,” the Redcap told us, giving me a hard shove. These guys were British military police, known as Redcaps for the red fabric covers worn over their service caps. I didn’t argue and headed for the stairwell, wondering what sort of contraband their search would turn up, and if any of it would connect to the murders.

  I doubted it. Glad to have something else to think about, I took my time walking to the south wing. Secret agents were trained to hide incriminating materials, so I doubt any clues were going to be found under a mattress. But there were plenty of other people here, staff included, who might not be as adept. I wondered what Snow expected to find, or if he was simply going through the motions to look like a no-nonsense head of security.

  Good luck to him. And good luck to me if the news from Dr. Harken was bad. I’d already wished Kaz all the luck in the world, and now it was time to find out if he’d made it through. I paused at the south wing entrance, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

  The main floor was quiet. A few patients in blue bathrobes ambled along the corridor, while a cluster of orderlies and nurses huddled on the far side of the nurses’ station. Their whispers were harsh and worried, their faces creased with anger. As I walked by, I caught a few phrases before they took note of me.

  Who do they think they are? Made a mess of my room!

  The Redcaps had paid them a visit. They’d found something. People were always hiding stuff. Cash, drugs, jewelry they’d nicked from a coworker, love letters. All the secrets buried away in belongings and pillowcases would be pawed over by Snow’s searchers. But they’d offer nothing but distraction.

  I hoofed it upstairs, my heart pounding with dread as I neared Kaz’s room.

  It was empty.

  It was half past twelve by the clock downstairs, thirty minutes later than when they’d told me to come back. I went out into the hall and waited for the sound of a gurney. I paced up and down, my imagination getting the better of me. I thought about checking the operating room, but I didn’t know what the hell I’d do if I found that empty too.

  To pass the time, I headed up to the top floor where they had Skory secured. There was still a guard at the door, and when I asked if Lieutenant Feliks Kanski was with Skory, he hesitated for a second before telling me to scram.

  “Listen, you don’t have to say Feliks is in there,” I said. “But if he is, tell him his pal Kaz is coming out of surgery and should be downstairs any minute.” I hoped.

  “I can’t comment on personnel. Now get a move on,” he said. In sort of a nice way. I got the message that knowing Feliks’s name had given me a touch of credibility, even with my obvious status as a nutcase.

  As I exited the staircase, I spotted the two Shirleys at the end of the corridor, one on either side of a gurney pushed by Marty, with Harken at his side. They were still in their operating gowns, decorated with splashes and sprays of blood. I noticed another guy with them, also in an operating gown. Dr. Powell, it had to be.

  “Is he okay?” I said, running to meet them as Marty wheeled the gurney into Kaz’s room. All I could see of Kaz was his face, pale, drained of all color. He didn’t look good, and the rest of them looked worn and worried.

  “The surgery was successful,” Harken said, his eyes fixed on Kaz.

  “But?” I could sense the tension in the small room.

  “His blood pressure dropped as we were closing,” Dark Shirley said. “An alarming drop. We gave him a transfusion and he stabilized, finally.”

  “He’ll recover, then,” I said, trying to make my question sound like a statement.

  “If nothing happens within the next few hours, he should be fine,” Harken said. “We’ll keep a close watch. Dr. Hughes was to have two nurses standing by.”

  “I’ll organize that,” Marty said, darting out of the room. Harken introduced me to Powell, and, with the help of the Shirleys, they transferred Kaz to his bed, carefully lifting him in his sheets. It looked like it took no effort at all. I knew Kaz had lost weight, but right now he looked like a bundle of sticks.

  Harken listened to Kaz’s heart while the nurses tended to him. Powell kept his fingers on Kaz’s pulse and finally nodded as Harken glanced up at him.

  “He lost a lot of blood,” Powell said. “But he should weather the storm.”

  “Tell me about his heart,” I said. “You fixed him up, right?”

  “The mitral valve repair went perfectly,” Powell said. “Once the patient wakes up, he’ll start feeling better soon. The anesthesia will cause nausea, but once that wears off, he will notice a marked improvement, even with the pain of the incision.”

  “That right, Doc?” I said to Harken. I didn’t mean any disrespect to Dr. Powell, but this was Harken’s show. He was the heart specialist.

  “Yes. I’ll feel better about the prognosis in a few hours. We need to be sure he doesn’t experience another drop in his blood pressure. Then it’s just a matter of recovery time.”

  “You won’t believe this, Doc,” Marty said, bursting into the room. “Dr. Hughes said he didn’t schedule the nurses because he didn’t expect the patient to survive. He’s sending them up now.”

  “Oh, I believe it, Marty,” Harken said. “Do I ever.”

  The Shirleys stayed to brief the nurses while I went with Harken and Powell to a dayroom down the hall for medical staff. They discarded their gowns, and we sat near a window, rays of sunlight flooding the room as the sky outside cleared. A thermos of coffee and a tray of sandwiches had been laid out for them. At least Hughes thought the doctors and nurses would live through the operation.

  “Congratulations,” I said. “You did it. Hasn’t been done since that guy in the twenties, right?”

  “That’s correct, young
man,” Powell said, pouring himself a cup of joe. “It was Henry Souttar in 1925. His colleagues saw so little value in it, they refused to allow him to perform the surgery again. Dr. Harken was even forbidden from removing foreign objects in the area of the heart in North Africa. One can only guess at the lives he could have saved.”

  “There is mention of suturing open chest wounds in The Iliad,” Harken said. “Three thousand years later, the medical profession hasn’t progressed far beyond the chest wall. I was lucky to have superiors here in England who saw that the war demanded a higher level of surgery.” He grabbed a sandwich, studied it to determine its ingredients, but soon gave up and took a mouthful.

  “But we have to move carefully,” Powell said. “The American army hasn’t given permission for this mitral valve surgery. It’s not necessary to repair damage from the battlefield.”

  “Which is why it had to be off the books,” Harken said, setting down his sandwich.

  “My hospital is also not ready to accept any handling or cutting of the heart,” Powell said. “For now, we simply have to be content with knowing it can be done. Your friend is lucky, but we are also in his debt, as are patients who will benefit in the future.”

  “So we keep this on the q.t.,” I said.

  “Absolutely,” Harken said. “The time will come, soon. But as Souttar said, it never pays to be ahead of one’s time. Especially in medicine. There are too many physicians, like your Dr. Hughes, who are blinded by their long-held beliefs.”

  “Sure,” I said. I was about to say he wasn’t my Dr. Hughes, but in a way he was. I had him in my hip pocket, since I knew about the bribe. Once he took it from Big Mike, he’d be nice and snug in that pocket.

  I thanked them again and left them to their coffee, taking Harken up on the offer of a mystery-meat sandwich on the go. I went back to the room and found Feliks by Kaz’s bedside. One of the Saint Albans nurses was taking Kaz’s blood pressure, while the other looked on with a clipboard in hand.

  “What happened?” Feliks asked. I held up a hand to silence him, waiting for the nurse to finish. She nodded and said it was holding steady. I paused a second to silently thank Saint Camillus. You had to follow through with the saints, as far as I was concerned. Calling on them when you were desperate was bad form, and they might not listen the next time if you hadn’t given them their due.