Deal with the Devil

by J. Gunnar Grey

  But Stoner’s anger faded before Faust could respond, and the grief flooded back. He picked up Harriet’s photo, lamplight sliding along the edge of the frame like silver fire, and settled it in his lap, as usual keeping her image to himself. “They won’t tell me, you know.” His voice sounded small and tired.

  Behind Stoner, Bruckmann shot a glance at his boss, then returned to his notes. But he no longer flipped the pages.

  “I’m not certain I understand,” Faust said.

  Stoner leaned his head against his chair back and draped one arm about the frame, cupping it in a loose hug with his index finger stroking the curlicued corner. “What happened to her. They won’t tell me.”

  Personally, he wasn’t certain he’d want to know. Across the desk, Stoner’s focus sharpened, his chin tilting, and Faust knew his reaction had been appropriately read. But instead of renewed rage, Stoner smiled thinly.

  “I believe the not-knowing is worse than any possible knowing.”

  It was a blunt and honest opinion, cutting through the tension and across the battlefield of the desk, and it was the most candid thing he’d yet heard the old man say. His next breath came easier. There was some sort of understanding here, in the uncertain relationship they’d hammered out in this sitting room-combat zone, something similar to the argumentative, wary trust he’d found with Tanyon.

  “I wish there was something I could do.” It was the simple truth.

  The ghost of a smile crossed Stoner’s narrow lips, and his eyes were grateful. “Good night.”

  Faust was reaching for the doorknob, Tanyon behind him, when the now expected interruption occurred.

  “Herr Major.”

  The old geezer timed it so well. Faust turned.

  Stoner’s face was again inscrutable, the moment passed. “Thank you for your assistance tonight.”

  “You’re welcome. But don’t expect it on a regular basis.”

  Again the ghostly half-smile, this time accompanied by a glimmer of mirth. “Perhaps not. Good night.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  the same evening

  Margeaux Hall

  When the door closed behind Faust and Tanyon, Stoner permitted himself a sighing, unguarded moment with his eyes closed. There were people out there in the wide world, he knew, who considered everyday reality no more than a stage for their performance, people who measured their actions based not upon what was proper and appropriate, but upon what reaction it would produce from those around them. Brigadier Marone was such a man, which was perhaps why they had such a difficult relationship. But personally, Stoner hated such duplicity and despised resorting to it.

  Not all his reactions during his brief conversation with Faust had been dishonest; far from it. He did feel grief and discouragement, and anger toward the murderer, whoever it turned out to be. That last he would have to deal with quickly; if it leaked out in another unguarded moment, it could curdle his future interrogation with this sensitive young man beyond redemption.

  Certainly he felt disheartened. But perhaps he didn’t feel quite so disheartened as all that.

  “Jack, my lad, I know you must be exhausted. But do you feel you could manage a spot of extra work tonight?”

  He heard a sigh behind him, quickly stilled. “Of course, sir. It’s something important, then?”

  “Perhaps the most important contribution you can make to our entire effort.”

  He didn’t need to look to know Bruckmann stiffened to sitting attention behind him. He smiled. Oh, to be such an age again, but to retain the wisdom earned by his poor grey hairs.

  “I’m ready.”

  He turned then. Bruckmann’s eyes, in his tired face, were alive and brimful of repressed excitement.

  Stoner chose his words with care. “I want you to update the regulations manuals in the guardroom tonight.”

  The excitement vanished as if ripped by a stout breeze. “The regulations manuals?”

  Stoner smiled his gentlest smile. “I believe you’ll understand my instructions perfectly when the time comes.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  the same evening

  Margeaux Hall

  Cavanaugh awaited Faust at the infirmary’s door and led him to the back of the room, where blackout shutters hid those wonderful windows and provided a backdrop for the examination table. A rubber ball and tourniquet, hypodermic syringe, and glass vial were set out on a white towel atop the instrument table nearby. Cavanaugh helped him strip to the waist and wrapped the tourniquet about his left upper arm.

  “Hitch a pew,” he said. “You ever done this before?”

  Faust scooted onto the examination table. “Oh, yes.” Not to say he enjoyed it.

  “Dr. Harris!”

  In the doorway, Tanyon grunted. “You need supervision to draw blood?”

  “A witness.” Cavanaugh gave Faust the ball. “Squeeze it a few times. He has to take custody of the sample so we know it’s not switched and when the police get the results, they know they’re getting the right ones.”

  Dr. Harris appeared through the inner door. His eyes, usually cheerful and cynical, were streaked with red; either he wasn’t sleeping or he was on a binge. Either way, it had to be difficult, keeping up with his usual work, attending to war casualties, and performing autopsies for the police, as well.

  “Right.” Dr. Harris folded his arms. “Go ahead.”

  Faust, busy studying Dr. Harris’ face, felt the sting as Cavanaugh slid the needle into his arm. He froze and decided not to look down. At the door, the doctor shifted.

  “Tell me,” Dr. Harris said, “what the flak were you thinking, taking off across country the day after surgery? Did we or did we not instruct you to give your arm time to heal?”

  It was an attack from an unexpected quarter and Faust flinched. “It’s my duty to attempt escape.”

  “Right.” Dr. Harris met his glare with one of his own. “Let’s say, for the point of discussion, you get clean away and even make it all the way back to France. What good are you going to be to anyone with a gaping bloody hole in the back of your arm?”

  His anger focused, spilled over, and he said the first thing that crossed his mind. “At least it would be a German doctor looking after me.”

  Oops. He shouldn’t have said that. But he’d been taken by surprise and if the man didn’t like it, he shouldn’t have started the fight. Besides, he could still feel the needle in the crook of his arm.

  Dr. Harris tilted his head back. Frost sparkled in his green eyes and lowered the temperature in the infirmary. “And what complaints have you to hurl at your English doctor?”

  It was time to backpedal. “The medical care has been good and I don’t have any complaints. It’s the official treatment that’s a pain.”

  He froze again, pulse suddenly accelerating. Stoner’s voice echoed in his inner ear. “The medical care I received as a prisoner was rather good. It was the overall treatment which was bad…”

  Had he been hoisted again?

  But Dr. Harris was still speaking. “I can’t do anything about that. But nor can I do anything for your arm if you keep mucking it about.”

  He’d have to think later. “I was careful.”

  “Not careful enough. I can see blood caking your bandage from here.”

  The needle slid from his arm. He and Dr. Harris sighed in unison.

  Cavanaugh, hypodermic in one hand and lips curving in a small smile, pressed a wad of gauze against the spot and tugged Faust’s arm up. “Hold that in place for me and keep your arm over your head.”

  Faust glanced at his right arm, plastered against his side, then back at Cavanaugh.

  “Makes it difficult, doesn’t it.” Dr. Harris stepped closer and took the hypo. Faust caught a powerful whiff of alcohol. “You hold that, Cavanaugh, and I’ll do this — ” separating the vial from the syringe and corking it “ — and then we’ll stitch up that bloody gaping hole — ” glaring at Faust “ — again.”

  H
e had to look ridiculous with his arm stuck up like a flagpole. But he was tired of taking it and clearly lack of sleep was not the doctor’s problem. “Are you drunk?”

  Cavanaugh’s brown eyes widened and his smile vanished.

  It earned him another glare. Dr. Harris dropped the red-filled vial into an envelope and sealed it. “You’re the second person tonight to ask me that question and I’ll give you the same answer I gave him — not drunk enough.” He yanked a pen from his breast pocket, jerked the cap off with his teeth, scribbled across the envelope’s seal, then recapped the pen and set it atop the counter. “However, unlike him, I am not asking you to join me for the remainder of my riotous debauchery.”

  But he would not flinch again, no matter how much the doctor irritated him. “I’m not begging for an invitation.” The last time he got drunk was bad enough.

  The ugly reminder brought another voice into the room with them, a ghostly voice speaking German and camouflaging steel within coaxing words. “Come on, come for a ride with papa. We’ll be back before dawn. No one will ever know.” But this time, the memory didn’t stop there. It unrolled further, as if his internal movie projector finally unstuck. Erhard had paused there and drilled Faust with a cocky stare. “Besides, you need to remember what we’re fighting for.”

  Faust shivered. If Erhard had said that, it meant — he didn’t know what it meant. Something else to consider.

  He quit arguing; the memory of Erhard’s perfidy, along with Dr. Harris’ stinging rebuke, cut too sharply. Instead, he sat still as Cavanaugh sliced the bandage from his right arm, flaked off the dried blood, and removed the old stitches. Dr. Harris didn’t apologize, but he did offer two aspirin before threading his needle, and Faust made certain to thank him, both for the painkillers and for the treatment afterward. By the time Cavanaugh tied off the fresh bandage and Tanyon straightened in the doorway, the temperature in the infirmary had risen a few degrees.

  Faust carried his tunic and shirt across the hall into the shadowy guardroom and folded them one-handed atop the worktable. Carmichael still sat at the radio, headphones aslant over his ears, but Whiteside and Peckham had joined him and rose from their chairs, near the rifle storage, as Tanyon followed Faust into the guardroom.

  “You know the drill.” Tanyon settled his hands on his hips. “Trousers.”

  Carmichael turned from the radio, grinning and ready for another show. But Faust had too much on his mind and didn’t feel like obliging. He removed his trousers without arguing and folded them with the rest of his uniform on the worktable, then grabbed his sling, cigarettes, and matches, and turned toward the cell. The cot was stripped, rumpled sheets and blankets lumped atop the pillow. It hadn’t been when he’d left.

  Tanyon and Peckham followed him through the barred gate. Whiteside stopped at the opening.

  Faust paused. Something was going on. Again. “What’s this? Sleeping space limited?”

  Tanyon removed his web gunbelt with its holstered Webley, and handed them to Whiteside. “I don’t expect you to like this. Won’t enjoy it myself, but I’ve got my orders and you know I follow them.”

  “What orders?” Faust didn’t move as Tanyon advanced on him. His pulse picked up speed.

  “I have to search you.”

  His pulse revved like a gunned engine. The English hadn’t done this when they first captured him. “Oh, no, you don’t.”

  Tanyon’s voice was quiet, excluding the young soldiers from the conversation. “It’s Chief Inspector Hackney’s doing. He wants to make certain you can’t pick up things when you’re out of the cell.”

  His skin was crawling and he didn’t want to give in. “What things?”

  “Pocket knives, things like that.”

  A pang of understanding deflated his first raw anger. “Was that how the two girls were killed?”

  “Yep.” Tanyon didn’t blink. “We have to do this the hard way, too?”

  Faust looked again at the cot. He hadn’t left it that way; someone had searched the cell in his absence. His stomach roiled. “Just get it over with.”

  Tanyon pushed him to the wall in a one-armed lean, like a common criminal. Faust tried to ignore the sergeant’s touch, patting him all over, sliding beneath his right arm, investigating every crease and fold beneath his shorts, even rumpling his hair, but the big rough hands were too intrusive. He fought the bile and won. But his intensifying rage would not be defeated.

  Finally Tanyon stepped back. Faust straightened and steadied his breathing. Privacy lost, he thought irreverently, and privacy regained.

  “Is this part of the drill, then?” His voice sounded harsher than he’d intended. “Whenever I go back into my cage, I’m searched?”

  Tanyon slammed the cell door and locked it. “Hope you don’t think I’m going to enjoy it. No wonder your girl threw her drink in your face.”

  His rage froze and solidified, and he welcomed it like an old friend, ignoring the ribald kissy noises from Peckham. “Try adding pressure next time. I’ve known pillows which were more fun than you.” He couldn’t sit, couldn’t stop pacing, and circled the cot. “You could at least have made the bed while you were at it.”

  “You two are dismissed,” Tanyon said to Peckham and Whiteside. They didn’t move, their grins a matched set. Tanyon ignored them, pulled the Webley from its holster, and threw the web belt into the storage compartment. “No one here is your servant. You can make your own lousy bed.”

  “It was made. You unmade it; you make it.” He slid the sling over his head and settled his arm. That was better. But his feet continued moving, circling him about the cell.

  Tanyon made kissy sounds, too, and locked the weapons cabinet on the Webley. Carmichael curled over the radio table and howled.

  “You wait, you sod.”

  The sergeant paused in the doorway, Peckham and Whiteside behind him. “You’re going to call me that once too often.”

  “And then what? You’re really going to kiss me?”

  “In the kisser, mate,” Tanyon said over his shoulder as he left. “In the kisser.”

  Faust grabbed the cell door. “Ready when you are, darling. I’ll take you any day.”

  But Tanyon was gone, leaving a vacuum in the room where the argument had been. Faust hung on the bars, panting, his pulse galloping in his ears. Revenge, when it came, was going to feel good.

  Carmichael sat up, his reddened face still split with a huge grin. “You want to watch it there. The sergeant’s done some boxing.”

  Had he, now. Faust eased back from the bars. When the time came to even the score, he’d have to swing hard. “So have I.” He sighed. “And I still have to make the lousy bed.”

  Surprisingly, the physical activity calmed him. When he finished, he was able to settle on the cot, crossing his legs and wrapping the blanket about his shoulders. He was more tired than he should be and it was deeper than a physical tiredness, more a sapping of his spirits or an exhaustion of the heart. He lit one of his precious cigarettes and inhaled deeply, letting the nicotine soak through his lungs and into his soul, looking at the fag as he let the smoke drift from his nostrils. This pack wasn’t going to last anywhere near a month. The heck with it; when he ran out, he ran out, and that was all.

  He still wasn’t happy he’d had to give Stoner and Bruckmann his escape plan. They’d use the information against him, as he intended to try again as soon as he got his boots back. If, of course, he ever did. He wouldn’t put it past Stoner to confiscate them. But escape was moot for now, and Erhard’s last words before their flight had finally surfaced.

  “Besides, you need to remember what we’re fighting for.”

  The memory was worse than a physical blow, as if Tanyon actually had slammed a rifle butt into his stomach. Faust must have said something to Erhard to make him respond in such a way. Although Faust still couldn’t push through the alcoholic fuzz and remember what they’d talked about all day long, with Erhard’s words as a starting point, he could imagine
a few possibilities.

  Maybe Faust had said what he’d been saying since the fall of France. No matter how poorly prepared the British Expeditionary Force had seemed, when fighting for their homes the English would not be pushovers. If the German Army was going to conquer England, they’d have to grab a foothold on the island and not let themselves be pushed off it, no matter how high the casualties, because the English would throw everything possible at them, from the Home Fleet to the Home Guard. There would be no second chance. Erhard, with his pride in German might and confidence in their final victory, would not like hearing it.

  Or maybe Faust had detailed the battle plan he’d been typing for the last week, the one with the gaping holes he’d tried to discuss with Oberst von Maacht. Maybe he’d pointed out all the reasons the plan couldn’t possibly succeed and why it would lead, not to another nation subdued and conquered, but to the slaughter of the German Ninth and Sixteenth Armies. Erhard wouldn’t like that, either.

  Or maybe he’d repeated what he knew Erhard had heard too often in the past — how much Faust had enjoyed his year at Oxford, the intellectual freedom, challenge, stimulation, a deeper companionship than he’d ever known before. Maybe he’d said how much he missed and feared for his two closest friends, how he longed for the war to be over so he could get news of them. Erhard, eager for glory and promotion, which would only come with the war’s continuation, would resent that.

  Maybe he’d spoken of gentle Siegi, so guileless and unprepared for the harsh reality of a cynical world. Maybe he’d reminded Erhard how Siegi’s death might have been an accident while cleaning his P-38, how it might have been suicide — or how it might have been murder, committed by one of those men Siegi had seen doing something so unutterable it couldn’t be forgotten by day or night. Erhard, who had been closer to Siegi than to any of the others in the orphanage, protecting him from some of those harsh realities he hadn’t been equipped to handle, wouldn’t like that, either.