Dark Full of Enemies(40)

“Sir,” McKay said, “I humbly submit that such a question is… above me.”

“You know about the largesse that has enabled Mister Stallings to study here? Against all odds, owing to his unfortunate situation?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How is such largesse more grossly wasted? By letting a prodigal—and criminal—continue to expend it, or by allowing that it has come to naught, and ending it?”

McKay dizzied. “Sir, I—”

“I’m sorry, son,” Sikes said, and McKay knew the interview was over, that he was free from taint, that he would never see Stallings at Clemson again. “I’m sorry. I know that you, especially among the corps, have made especial efforts to keep Mister Stallings in line. He has had no truer friend.”

He let McKay go. McKay, afraid, sensing the sickness that hovered over him, left the office without looking at Stallings. He did not even say good bye.

The next time McKay saw Stallings had been six days ago, in a Quonset hut in the south of England.

They finished loading the Thompson magazines and Graves put the box of 9mm pistol ammunition on the table. Each of them had three magazines, one for their Browning and two for the pouch on their belts. McKay had already loaded his aboard the Viking. He helped load for Ollila and Graves, and they quickly finished. Stallings’s stolen Colt had only one magazine, which he loaded with seven leftover .45 rounds for the Thompsons.

They stripped and cleaned their weapons.

McKay found out later that the Greenville police had spotted a man and a car departing the scene of an illegal moonshine delivery. They gave chase but were easily outrun. They had seen the car before and, this time, finally pooled their resources with other cities and towns in the area. Throughout piedmont South Carolina, railway stops like Seneca, Walhalla, and Central and benighted shitholes like Westminster had all tried in vain to catch the same man in the same car. They began searching. They found Stallings.

He had put his ingenuity into only a few things—mechanical works, anything with gears and electricity, and into his business. Both had, in a way, landed him in jail.

When McKay had finished cleaning the Thompson, the Browning, and the Welrod, he sat back against one of the wineracks and closed his eyes. He felt himself on the edge of sleep, about to tip over into it, when Stallings spoke.

“You think Petersen’s going to feed us?”

“You got Crations,” McKay said. “Eat some of that.”

“Dammit.”

“But better than no food at all, right?” Graves said.

Stallings laughed. “Maybe in extremis.”

McKay grinned. Stallings had never been totally immune to education.

“Back in Africa,” Graves said, “a bloke couldn’t keep the sand out of his grub stakes. Then a bloke couldn’t keep it out of his teeth. It was especially bad with the gyppo.”

“The hell?”

“Soup, right? You get sand in there, mate, you can’t get it out.”

“Well, hell, if it’s going to be much longer before they get back, I’m going to eat something.”

“Go ahead,” McKay said. “But you better boil that chocolate if you don’t wanna lose any teeth.”

Stallings and Graves laughed, and McKay opened his eyes. He checked the time. They had been in the basement of Petersen’s house for four hours. He sat back again and saw Ollila, now seated in the far corner, his arms around his rifle, watching.





They sat in the basement eight hours before McKay decided to leave. Petersen might have been arrested. German troops, the Gestapo following like ravens behind a Viking army, could be drawing a cordon around the house as they sat idle.

He stood, took off his pistol belt, and picked up the Welrod and its magazine. Stallings and Graves looked up. Ollila, who sat sleeping in his corner, opened his eyes.

“What are you doing?” Stallings said.

“Sir,” McKay said, and grinned. He seated the magazine in the Welrod’s ugly metal slot and slapped it home. “I’m going to take a look around. Graves, you’re in charge.”

“Aye, sir.”

“I’ll knock three times, slow, when I come back.”

“What’s going on?” Stallings said.

“He worries,” Ollila said from his corner. They looked at him. He shrugged. “He thinks maybe Petersen is a Quisling, or is arrested. I wonder too.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“That’s enough, Grove,” McKay said. “Yes, I’m having a look around. I don’t like it down here.” He stuffed the Welrod into the front of his jacket. “I’ll be back shortly.”

He let himself out and stood alone in the dark stairwell. It was dim in the basement, but he still needed to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Late afternoon, and pitch black. With the sliver of moon down, everything lay even darker than before. After several minutes he could see individual stones in the wall of the stairwell and, if he leaned close to the stack of firewood, the grain in the rough hewn logs. He started up the stairs.

The village bells had stopped ringing hours before but the church spire still glowed in the darkness. He stopped and listened for noise, but heard only the fjord. He went up the few stairs to the back door of the house and peeked in the windows, but all was dark inside. He climbed down and continued around the way he had first come.