Tommy inhaled deeply. His imagination flooded with images of home, of school, of Lydia. He remembered his captain from Texas with his flat, dry laughter: Find its the way home. Tommy, willya? And Phillip Pryce, with his own sniffling sort of joy in the smallest and smartest of things. He thought right then that only a true coward turns his back on a chance at life, no matter how hard and slender that chance might be. And so, knowing that his reserves were well past exhaustion, with only the strength of desire remaining to him, Tommy bent down and with a great grunt, managed to sling the German officer's body over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. The body crunched sickeningly, and for a moment Tommy thought he might throw up. Then, staggering, he lifted himself to his feet, struggling to maintain his balance.
"Now, quickly," Fritz Number One urged.
"You must beat the morning light or all will be lost!"
Tommy smiled at the German's archaic turn of phrase, but saw as well that the gray streaks of dawn flitting on the horizon were taking root, growing stronger with each second.
He took a single step forward, half-stumbled, righted himself, and with what little voice he had, said, "Go ahead. I'm ready now."
Fritz Number One nodded, then pushed forward, deeper into the forest.
Tommy struggled after the German. Visser's weight was crushing, almost as if, even in death, the German was fighting to kill him.
Branches tore at his face. Tree roots threatened to trip him.
The forest ripped and grabbed at his every step, slowing him, trying to knock him to the ground. Tommy pushed through, slogging beneath the dead weight, fighting with every stride to maintain his balance, searching with every foot forward for the strength to go another.
His breathing was coming in exhausted short bursts. Sweat clogged his eyes. The pain in his left hand was nearly unbearable.
It throbbed and surged and sent fierce reminders searing through the rest of his body. It seemed to Tommy that he had no more strength, and then he would refuse to admit this and he would find just a little more, enough to stumble forward a few more feet.
He had no idea how far they traveled. Fritz Number One turned and urged him, "Quickly, Mr. Hart! Quickly. Not much farther!" and with those words. Tommy battled ahead.
Visser on his shoulder no longer seemed like something of this world; instead, he was like some great black crushing evil, trying to defeat him.
Just when he reached the point where he did not think he could travel another foot, he saw Fritz Number One abruptly stop, and kneel down.
The German gestured for Tommy to come forward next to him. Tommy staggered these few yards, and then dropped to the earth.
"Where…" he managed, but Fritz hushed him.
"Quiet. There are guards nearby. Can you not smell where you are?"
Tommy wiped his face with his good hand and breathed in through his nose. Only then did he become aware of the mingled smells of human waste and death that clogged the forest air around them. He looked at Fritz Number One quizzically.
"The Russian work camp!" Fritz whispered.
Then the German pointed.
"Take the body as close as you dare and leave it. Be quiet, Mr. Hart.
The guards here will not hesitate to shoot at any noise. And put this in the Hauptmann's hand."
Fritz Number One reached into his own tunic pocket and removed the Russian belt buckle that he had tried to trade to Tommy days earlier.
Tommy nodded. He took the buckle, turned, and dragged Visser's body onto his shoulder. He fought forward, only to have Fritz Number One hold out his hand. The ferret stared at Visser's dead eyes.
"Gestapo!" he muttered. Then he spat once into the murdered man's face.
"Now, go, and be quick!"
Tommy battled through the trees. The smell was nearly overwhelming. He could just make out a small opening, almost a glade, perhaps two dozen yards from the makeshift barbed wire and sharpened stakes of the Russian work encampment.
There was nothing of permanence in the Russian area; after all, the men it was designed to hold were not expected to survive the war, and there was no Red Cross organization in Geneva ostensibly monitoring their conditions.
To his right, he heard a dog bark. A pair of voices tripped the air around him.
He thought: This is as far as I dare.
With a great shrug, he tossed Visser's body to the earth. It thudded, then lay still. He bent over, thrust the Russian belt buckle into the German's dead fingers, then stepped back and wondered for a moment if he had truly hated Visser enough to kill him, and then understood that that wasn't really what counted. What counted was that Visser was dead and he was still clinging precariously to life. Then, without another look at the dead man's face, he turned, and moving as quietly, yet as swiftly, as he could, returned to the spot where Fritz Number One remained.
The German nodded when he arrived.
"You may have a chance, now, Mr. Hart," he said.
"But still, we must hurry."
The return through the forest was faster, but Tommy thought he was closing in on delirium. A breeze sliding through the treetops whispered at him, almost mocking his exhaustion. Shadows were lengthening around him, like dozens of searchlights trying to seize hold of his face, expose him. Kill him. His hand screamed obscenities of hurt, trying to blind him with pain.
It was the moment of the morning when dawn seems to decide to insist on taking hold of the day. Black fades to gray, and the first streaks of blue were soaring through the sky, chasing away all the stars that had been so comforting to him earlier. From a few feet distant. Tommy could easily make out the black hole of the tunnel exit.
Fritz Number One stopped, hiding behind a tree. He pointed at the tunnel. He took Tommy by the arm.
"Mr. Hart," he whispered sharply, "Hauptmann Visser would have had me shot when he learned that it was I who traded the weapon that killed
Trader Vic. The weapon that you returned to me. I was in your debt, but now, tonight, that debt is paid. Understand?"
Tommy nodded.
"Now we are, how you say, equal?" the ferret added.
"Even Steven," Tommy replied.
The German looked slightly surprised.
"Who is Steven?"
"It's another figure of speech, Fritz. When things are all equal, we say they're "Even Steven'…" Tommy smiled, thinking that he had finally gone completely crazy with exhaustion, for now he was giving an English lesson.
The ferret grinned.
"Even Steven. I will remember this, too. There is much this night to remember."
He pointed at the hole.
"Now, Mr. Hart, I will count to sixty, and then I will blow the alarm."
Tommy nodded. He pushed himself up and raced to the hole. He did not look back, but instead, almost threw himself back into the darkness, his feet finding the rungs of the homemade ladder, and climbing down into the pit. He fell to the dirt at the bottom, the pain in his hand screaming insults at him. Without thinking of all the terrors he remembered from childhood, or any of the terrors that night had held.