"Take your time, make it last," Tommy said quietly.

"It will fill you up better that way."

Scott paused, his fingers filled with a morsel of meat halfway to his mouth. The black flier considered what Hart had said and then nodded.

"That's right. But damn, Hart, I'm starved."

"Everyone's always hungry, lieutenant. You know that. The question is: To what degree? You say "I'm starved' back home, and all it means is that it's been maybe six hours since you ate last and you're ready to sit down and tuck in. Pot roast, maybe. With steamed vegetables and spring potatoes and lots of gravy. Or a pan-fried steak with french fries. And lots of gravy. Here, of course, "I'm starved' means something much closer to the truth, doesn't it? And if you were one of those poor Russian bastards that went marching by the other day, then, well, "I'm starved' to them would be even closer to reality, wouldn't it? It wouldn't just be a couple of words. A throwaway phrase. Not at all."

Scott paused again, this time chewing his bite of food slowly, deliberately.

"You are correct, Hart. And a philosopher as well."

"Stalag Luft Thirteen brings out the contemplative side of my nature."

"That's because the one thing we all have in abundance is time."

"That's true."

"Except, perhaps, for me," Scott said. Then he shrugged and managed a small smile.

"Fried chicken," he said quietly.

Then he laughed outward, a single burst.

"Fried chicken with greens and mashed potatoes. The typical black folks' Sunday afternoon at home after church with the preacher coming to dinner meal. But damn, cooked just right, with a little garlic in the potatoes and some pepper on the chicken to give it a little bite.

Cornbread on the side and with a cold beer or a glass of fresh lemonade to wash it all down…"

"And gravy," Tommy said. He closed his eyes for an instant.

"Lots of thick, dark gravy…"

"Yes. Lots of gravy. The type that's so thick, you can hardly pour it out of the container…"

"That you can stick a spoon in, and it'll stand upright."

Scott laughed a second time. Tommy offered him a cigarette, which the black flier took.

"These things are supposed to cut the appetite," he said, inhaling.

"I wonder if that's true."

Scott looked down at the empty tins.

"You think they'll give me a fried chicken dinner for my last meal?" he asked.

"I mean, isn't that traditional? Condemned man gets his choice before facing the firing squad."

"That's a ways off," Tommy said sharply.

"We aren't there yet" Scott shook his head fatalistically.

"Anyway, Hart, thanks for the food and the clothes. I'll try to pay you back."

Tommy took a deep breath.

"Tell me. Lieutenant Scott. If you didn't kill Vincent Bedford, who did? And why?"

Scott turned away. He blew a smoke ring up toward the ceiling, watching it waft back and forth and then dissipate in the gloom and growing darkness.

"I haven't the slightest idea," he answered sharply. He tugged the blanket draped around his shoulders tight to his body, then slowly lowered himself into the corner of the cooler, almost as if he were descending into a pool of still, dark waters.

Fritz Number One was waiting outside the cooler entrance to escort Tommy back into the American compound. The ferret was smoking, and shuffling his feet nervously. He tossed the half-smoked cigarette away when Tommy emerged from the cooler, which surprised him, because Fritz Number One was a true addict to tobacco, just like Hugh, usually burning the cigarettes down to their stubs before reluctantly discarding them.

"It is late, lieutenant," the ferret said.

"Lights out will be soon. You must be in your quarters."

"Let's go, then," Tommy said.

The two men marched deliberately toward the gate under the gaze of a pair of machine gunners in the nearest tower, and a Hundfuhrer and his dog that were readying themselves to check the perimeter. The dog barked once at Tommy before being hushed by its handler with a jerk on the glistening metal chain around its neck.

The gate creaked shut behind them and the two men continued wordlessly across the assembly ground, heading toward Hut 101. Tommy thought he would probably have more questions for Fritz Number One at some later point. But at this moment, he was mostly intrigued by the ferret's fast pace.

"We should hurry," the German said.

"What's the rush?" Tommy asked.

"No rush," Fritz replied, and then contradicting himself again, added,

"You must be in your bunk room. Quick."

The two men reached the alleyway between huts. The fastest route to

Hut 101 led down that way. But Fritz Number One grabbed Tommy by the arm, tugging him toward the outside of Hut 103.

"We should go this way," the ferret insisted.

Tommy stopped in his tracks. He pointed ahead.

"That's the right way," he said.

Fritz Number One pulled at his arm a second time.

"This way will be fast, too," he said.

Tommy looked oddly at the ferret, then down the near-black alleyway.

The searchlights had been turned on, and one swept over the top of the nearest hut. In the passing light, Tommy could see the misty rain and fog. Then he realized what was located at the end of the alleyway, just around the corner of the two huts and just beyond his sight line.

The Abort where Bedford's body was found.

"No," Tommy said abruptly.

"This is the way we're going."

He pulled his arm from Fritz Number One's grip with a jerk, and took off through the gloomy shadows and lurking darkness of the alleyway.

The ferret hesitated only a second before joining him.

"Please, Lieutenant Hart." He spoke quietly.

"I was told to take you the longer way."

"Told by whom?" Hart asked, continuing to march forward.

Both men were walking from darkness to darkness, their path illuminated only by weak light that crept from the interior of the huts, where the modest electricity was still functioning, and the occasional sweeping searchlight beam.

Fritz Number One did not answer, but he did not have to. Tommy Hart strode determinedly around the corner" and immediately saw three men standing outside the Abort. Hauptmann Heinrich Visser, Colonel

MacNamara, and Major Clark.

The three officers turned when Tommy appeared. MacNamara and Clark instantly looked angry, while Visser seemed to grin slightly.

"You're not authorized to be here," Clark blurted out.

Tommy came to attention, saluting stiffly.

"Sir! If this has something to do with the current case…"

"You are dismissed, lieutenant!" Clark said.

But as he said this, three German soldiers struggling to carry a long, dark rubberized sheet between them, emerged from the interior of the Abort. Tommy realized that Vincent Bedford's body was wrapped inside the sheet, shrouded from view. The three soldiers gingerly walked down the stairs and set the body down. Then they came to attention in front of Hauptmann Visser. He quietly gave an order in German, and the men lifted the body again. They carried it around the building corner and out of sight. At that moment, another German soldier appeared in the doorway to the Abort. This man was wearing a black butcher's-style apron and carried a soapy, dripping scrub brush in his hand. Visser barked another order to this soldier, who saluted, and then returned inside the Abort.

Clark then took a step forward, toward Tommy. His voice was narrow, pinched, and angry.

"I repeat: Lieutenant, you are dismissed!"

Tommy saluted again, and rapidly headed toward Hut 101.

He thought he'd seen several interesting things, not the least of which was the curious idea that it had taken over twelve hours to remove the murdered man's body from the location where it had been discovered. But more curious was that the Germans were cleaning the Abort. This was a task the kriegies routinely performed for themselves.