"At home, the spring is always late, just like this," Hugh said quietly.

"Just when you think it will finally get warm and summer will come racing in, it will snow. Or rain. Or something."

"Vermont's the same," Tommy said.

"No one calls it spring. We call it mud season. The time between winter and summer. A slimy, slippery, useless, messy pain in the ass interlude."

"More or less what we have here," Hugh said.

"More or less." Both men smiled.

"What did you learn from our infamous client?"

"He denies having anything to do with the murder. But-" "Ah, Tommy, but is a terrible word," Hugh interrupted.

"Why is it that I doubt I'm going to like what I'm about to hear?"

"Because when MacNamara and Clark waltzed in to announce that formal charges were being prepared, Clark blurted out that Vincent Bedford's blood is on both Scott's boots and his jacket. I presume that's what he meant earlier when he said they had enough evidence to convict him."

Hugh released his breath slowly.

"That's a problem," he said.

"Blood on the boots and a bloody boot mark in the Abort. Bloody hell…"

"It gets a little worse." Tommy spoke softly.

Hugh snorted, slightly wide-eyed.

"Worse?"

"Yes. Lincoln Scott was in the habit of leaving his bunk in the middle of the night to use the toilet. Sneaking out of the bunk room to the latrine so that he wouldn't offend the sensibilities of whatever white officers didn't want to share a toilet with a black man. He did this last night, conveniently lighting a candle to find his way."

Hugh slumped back against the building.

"And the problem is…" he started.

"The problem is," Tommy continued, "someone probably did see him. So at some point during the night, he's absent from the bunk room and there's a witness somewhere in the camp who will testify to that. Clark will argue that was when the opportunity for murder arose."

"That could have been the most dangerous piss he's ever taken."

"I was thinking the same."

"Have you explained this to Scott?"

"No. I would not say our first meeting went particularly smoothly."

Hugh looked quizzically at his friend.

"No?"

"No. Lieutenant Scott has, shall we say, little confidence in his chances for justice."

"What did he " "He believes that minds are already made up. He may be correct."

"Bloody right about that, I'd say," Renaday muttered.

Tommy shrugged.

"We'll see. So, what did you find out?

Especially about Visser. He seems…"

"A little different from other Luftwaffe officers?"

"Yes."

"My impression as well. Tommy. Especially after watching him in that

Abort. The man has been to more than one crime scene, I'll wager. He went through the place like some sort of damnable archaeologist. There wasn't a square inch of that place that he didn't eyeball. He didn't say a word. Didn't even acknowledge my presence, except for one time, and that took me by surprise."

"What did he say?"

"He pointed down at the boot print stared at it for a good sixty seconds, like it was some speech he was trying to memorize, then he lifts up his head, looks over at me standing there, and he says,

"Flying officer, I might suggest you take a piece of paper and trace this as best you can." I bloody well took his suggestion. In fact, I made a couple of sketches.

Made some maps of the location of the body and the layout of the Abort.

I did a quick drawing of Bedford's body, showing the wounds. Tried to put in as much detail as possible. Actually, ran out of paper, and

Visser ordered one of the goons to go get me a brand-new pad from the commandant's office. It might come in handy in the days to come."

"Curious," Tommy said.

"It was like he was trying to help."

"Seemed that way. Which I wouldn't trust for one damn second."

Tommy thrust his back up against the hut. The small roof overhang kept the misting rain off their faces.

"Did you see what I saw in the Abort?" Tommy asked.

"Think so."

"Vic wasn't killed in the Abort. I don't know where he was killed, but it wasn't there. That's where he was put by somebody or somebodies.

But not killed."

"That's what I thought," Hugh said briskly, smiling.

"Sharp eyes. Tommy. What I saw was some blood on Trader Vic's blouse but not on those naked thighs. And none on the Abort seat or on the floor around him. So where's all the blood? Man gets his throat cut, ought to be blood jolly well everywhere. I took a closer look at the wound in the neck, too. Right after Visser did. Visser reached down with that single hand and like he was some sort of scientist, wipes away some of the blood, and measured with his fingers the slice in Trader Vic's throat. The jugular is cut, all right. But the slice sort of stops after no more than a couple of inches. Two inches, maximum.

Maybe even a little less. Visser doesn't say a word, but he turns to me holding his thumb and index finger apart like so."

Renaday held up his hand, demonstrating.

"And then there's the little matter of Vic's nearly severed finger and cut marks on the hands…"

"As if he was fighting back against someone with a knife."

"Right-o, Tommy. Defensive wounds."

Tommy nodded.

"A crime scene that isn't a crime scene. A Kraut who seems to be helping the wrong side. I'd say we have a few questions."

"True enough, Tommy. Questions are good. Answers are bloody well better. You saw MacNamara and Clark. Do you think it will be sufficient merely to throw doubts all over their case?"

"No."

"Neither do I." Hugh lit another cigarette, staring at the smoke that curled from his lips, and then looking at the glowing tip.

"Before we got shot down, Phillip liked to say that these things will kill us, sooner or later. Maybe so. But it seems to me that they're about fifth or sixth on the current list of deadly threats. Far behind the Germans, or maybe getting deathly sick. Or I don't know what else.

And right now, I'm wondering if maybe there aren't a few other items we could add to the list of deadly possibilities. Like ourselves."

Tommy nodded, as he reached into his own pocket and pulled out a package of smokes.

"Tell Phillip everything," he said.

"Don't leave out a detail."

Hugh smiled.

"He'd line me up at dawn and shoot me himself if I did. Poor old sod's probably pacing back and forth in the bunk room now, behaving for all the world like some overeager child on Christmas eve." He finished his cigarette and flicked it out onto the ground.

"Well, I'd better get going before he swoons from unchecked anticipation and curiosity.

Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow you meet Lieutenant Scott. Bring that famous policeman's eye to bear, will you?"

"Of course. Although it might be a damn sight easier for me if he was a lumberjack. And a drunken one, at that."

When he walked into the bunk room where Trader Vic had lived. Tommy was greeted with a dank silence and glares. The six remaining kriegies were packing their meager possessions together, readying themselves to move. Blankets; thin, scratchy German-issue sheets; whatever extra clothing the men had acquired; cooking utensils; and Red Cross foodstuffs were being gathered in piles on the floor. Men were also taking the hay-stuffed pallets off the bunks and folding them over for transport.

Tommy walked over to Lincoln Scott's space. He saw the Bible and Gibbons’ Fall on a makeshift wooden table constructed from a trio of parcel boxes. Inside the top box was Scott's stash of foodstuffs all the tinned meats and vegetables, condensed milk, coffee, sugar, and cigarettes that the black flier had accumulated. He also had a small metal church key for opening the tins, and he'd fashioned himself a metal frying pan, using the steel lid from a German waste barrel, attaching a flattened handle that was also steel to the lid by jamming the handle into a small slice on the lid surface.