Cole ignored them. He swung the barrel toward the firelight and peered through it, admiring the elegant twists of the rifling. The dancing flames reflected on the bright metal. He thought about the power those simple twists gave a rifle. Looking through the barrel was like gazing into a whirlpool — or a tornado.
“Cole is also the best shot in the whole damn army,” Vaccaro said, bragging now. “He’s not just a pretty face.”
“How many Germans have you shot with that rifle?” Bauer asked matter-of-factly.
“He stopped counting at twenty, or was it thirty? I don’t remember exactly,” Vaccaro said. “But it’s a lot more than that.”
“Is that right? You stopped counting? But why? German snipers are expected to report their kills,” Bauer said.
Finally, Cole spoke up. “It ain’t a game,” he said. “There ain’t no score. If I shoot some Kraut bastard before he shoots me, I reckon that’s good enough.”
“So many,” Bauer said. The shadows cast on his face by the firelight made him appear suddenly older, and sad. “So many dead.”
Cole reassembled his rifle, satisfied that it was clean. In the morning, he would put it to work again. He leaned it against a sofa, within easy reach.
He now felt relaxed and not a little sleepy. Since he had volunteered himself to keep the first watch, he looked over toward Rupert, who was closest to the fireplace, and asked, “Lieutenant, you got any coffee left in that pot?”
Rupert put down his book and reached over to give the coffeepot a shake. He had just opened his mouth to respond, but before any words came out, they all heard a distinct creak.
It sounded like there was somebody upstairs.
They all held their breath for the span of several heartbeats.
“Did you hear that?” Vaccaro whispered.
“Yeah, we heard it,” Cole replied, reaching for the rifle that he had just put down.
“Steady on,” Lieutenant Rupert said quietly. “Old houses make noises in the night. They settle and whatnot. Heating and contracting and all that.”
“Perhaps it is a ghost,” Bauer suggested, eyebrows raised, clearly amused that the others were so unnerved.
After a minute went by without another sound, Vaccaro said, “I guess it’s nothin’. Like the lieutenant said, it’s an old house.”
They had all just begun to relax when the sound came again, this time in a different spot.
Creak. Crack.
Maybe Rupert was right and old houses made noise, but this noise reminded Cole of nothing so much as a stealthy footstep.
“Dammit, city boy. I thought you and the lieutenant checked upstairs,” Cole said.
“We did check upstairs,” Vaccaro said. “There wasn’t nobody nohow.”
“There is an attic,” Lieutenant Rupert said, looking as white as a sheet. Out of all of them, Bauer’s comment about ghosts had seemed to unnerve him. “We didn’t go into it.”
“Why the hell not? Sir.”
“We searched upstairs and there was nothing,” he said, suddenly sounding like a flustered schoolboy who was explaining his actions to an irate headmaster. “It seemed pointless to search the attic as well. I stuck my head up the attic stairs, and I’m pretty sure there’s nothing up there but dusty furniture.”
“Well, we’re sure as hell gonna go take a look in the attic right now,” Cole announced.
Vaccaro and Rupert rounded up their weapons. Cole looked over at their prisoner, who was still lounging in an armchair, having made no effort to stir himself.
“You too, Herr Barnstormer.”
“The Geneva Convention states that I do not have to exorcise ghosts.”
“Very funny. But I ain’t leavin’ you here alone, not without tying you up again, and I ain’t got time for that. You’re coming with us.”
Reluctantly, the German did as he was told and joined them as they headed for the stairs.
Without electricity, the house was pitch black away from the firelit room. They navigated by flashlights, which cast odd, elongated shadows on the walls. Cole went up the stairs first, rifle at the ready, with Bauer behind him. Then came Lieutenant Rupert, with Vaccaro bringing up the rear.
“Search the bedrooms again,” Cole whispered.
They went from room to room, cautiously at first, but then with more confidence as it became clear that nobody was there. Then again, there was no doubt that they had heard those creaking noises that had sounded an awful lot like footsteps.
“Nobody here, just like I said,” Vaccaro said with a certain amount of righteous smugness. “Must just be the house settling.”
“But you didn’t go in the attic,” Cole pointed out. “That’s where we’re headed next.”
He nodded at the door in the hallway that led to the attic. He then nodded at Vaccaro, indicating that he should open it. Cole stood to one side and put his rifle to his shoulder, ready for anything.
The door creaked open. The steps were steeper here, bare wood, more utilitarian. He could understand why Rupert had decided that searching the attic wasn’t worth it.
Then again, they had heard something.
“Follow me and hold the flashlight, Lieutenant,” he whispered. “Vaccaro, you stay here with Herr Barnstormer.”
Cole let the muzzle lead the way up the steep attic stairs, the nervous Lieutenant Rupert so close that he was practically stepping on Cole’s heels.
One didn’t grow up in the mountains without developing a healthy respect for haints and ghosts — there were all sorts of things that couldn’t be explained in this world. Maybe the house really was haunted by the ghost of old Baron So-and-So or whoever had lived here. Maybe—
Something moved at the corner of his vision.
He swung his rifle in that direction just as the flashlight beam got there.
Two faces looked back at him. They were pale, all right, but they weren’t spectral.
And they were female.
“Hold it!” he shouted.
Immediately, the older of the two women began spouting angry French at him. He could recognize the language, if not the meaning. She did not seem frightened, but indignant.
She also held an ancient double-barreled shotgun, which she pointed meaningfully in Cole’s direction.
“No fusil!” he shouted at her.
This was about the limits of his French, but the woman seemed to understand. She pointed the shotgun elsewhere, but didn’t let go of it.
The pair had been hiding behind furniture. There was an abundance of it up here, much of it dusty, just as Lieutenant Rupert had predicted. He could also see bedding on the floor, a jug of water, and what appeared to be an old-fashioned chamber pot. Clearly, the two women were sheltering up here.
Cole waggled the rifle at them, indicating that they should come closer. Rupert played the flashlight over their faces, lingering a bit longer on the face of the younger woman.
Cole pegged them instantly as mother and daughter. The resemblance was clear. The mother was probably in her late forties or early fifties, tall and portly, but regal as a middle-aged Queen Victoria. The daughter was in her late teens or maybe early twenties, gently curved in all the places where her mother was rounded. Even in the harsh battery-powered light in the dusty attic, her good looks drew the attention of the men. She wasn’t pin-up pretty but something more elegant. Oddly, her face was covered in dark smudges, as if it had been rubbed with soot, but that was not enough to hide her obvious attractiveness.
Cole decided that these were not the household servants. No, these were the ladies of the manor.
The mother was still cackling French like an angry hen. Cole had no idea what she was saying and didn’t much care. Again, he waggled the muzzle at them, indicating that they should go downstairs.
When they still didn’t move, Lieutenant Rupert surprised everyone by making the request in French. It sounded halting to Cole’s ears, but apparently it was understandable to the two women.