by Joseph Kanon
“Come out,” he yelled, focused now on the bar, an easy hiding place.
Ben tried to remember where his gun had gone, slithering across the floor. Toward the door. Exactly in Dieter’s field of light. He had now reached the camera platform. Across the dance floor, the long shine of the mirror behind the bar. Dieter was still moving the light, shafts reflecting off the mirror, his back to Ben but still between Ben and the door.
Ben heard the sound of his own breathing, a ragged panting, and tried to close his mouth, holding it shut. A vacuum quiet. You could actually hear a footfall, the faint mechanical turning of the lamp. His whole body tensed with a feral alertness. Not like the war, people yelling over all the noise, shell explosions and the whistle of flying shrapnel. War was about luck. This was something else, a hunt, crouching with ears up, waiting to hear a twig snap.
He looked behind: the shadowy clutter of the sound stage, cables and dolly tracks, equipment that never appeared on screen. The sound console. A diversion. He breathed out a little and slipped over to the panel, trying to remember how it was operated. No time. He shoved a whole row of switches, hoping for anything, and got the squawk of feedback, then ran in the other direction. Dieter swung the light around, walking carefully now toward the sound, pausing at the foot of the ramp to peer into the dark behind of the stage, using the lamp as a kind of flashlight. Another sweep. Ben lifted himself up onto the platform, the upper tier of the nightclub, and crawled on his stomach toward the camera, his sounds still masked by the screech coming out of the console. Dieter took another step, wary, as if the sound were a trap, looking at each side of it, not hearing the clicks on the platform as Ben carefully unlocked the brakes on the camera wheels, the whole heavy weight now free. Action.
Ben rose slightly on one knee and pushed the camera to the edge of the ramp, the rubber wheels gliding smoothly, responsive, the way they would during a shoot, steady. It was only after they had tipped down the ramp, pulled by gravity, that they wobbled with speed, racing, finally loud enough to make Dieter turn and jerk away from a direct hit, so that only his leg was caught, the crash bringing him down, but not crushing him, knocking over the lamp, which crashed, too, sputtering out.
Ben rolled off the platform, running hunched over across the club floor, exposed now. He heard a grunt, Dieter trying to pick himself up, then a shot, louder than the sound console. He dropped flat, heard the smash of bar bottles as the bullet struck. Real glass, not breakaway. He lunged again for the door. The gun was here somewhere, but no time to look. Instead he reached up for the hangar door switch and pushed the button, then jumped away from it before Dieter could fire again, and moved along the wall, toward the console and heaps of equipment. Another grunt as Dieter got up, lurching toward the door, the obvious place, sliding open now, a loud clunking on its tracks. Where Ben would try to rush out.
But Ben burrowed deeper into the equipment pile, every sound hidden by the door motor, the console still squawking. He moved farther back. There had to be other exits, not yet lit up as this one was, the nightclub lights now spilling out in shafts onto the back lot. He raised his head to see Dieter standing in place, turning side to side, then reaching down to his leg, evidently hurt by the falling camera. The console would draw outside attention now, the soundproof stage open to the night.
Still aiming his gun at the door, Dieter started moving back to the panel to cut it off. There would be a fumbling with switches, just a few seconds, but a distraction. Ben kept moving back, picking his way over cables, afraid of knocking into something, an unexpected sound. Dieter was close enough now to hear, even with the door still winching open. It was dimmer here, almost dark, and then blank, a temporary wall thrown up to divide the stage. He followed it, feeling for a door. There must be another set behind, another outside door. His hand touched a knob.
He turned it carefully, hoping no light would shoot in to give him away, but the other stage was dark, the floor empty of clutter. Nothing was being shot here. He closed the door behind him and moved back to the outer wall. Suddenly the hangar door motor stopped, presumably all the way open now. The console feedback was lower, too, intermittent. In a second Dieter would find the panel switch, every sound Ben made audible again. Perfect for stalking.
He took another step and bumped into something waist-high, putting his hands out to steady himself, prevent anything from crashing over. A table? Some prop. He moved his hands over it. Big, a construction. Then, like Braille, plaster rising out of the smooth surface in jagged clumps, mountains. Japan. Continental’s contribution to the war effort. He tried to remember the layout, how near it had been to a door. An entire country lying on trestles, waiting to be photographed, what the bombers would see. The console stopped.
Ben looked up. The quiet had become physical again, something you could feel. He heard Dieter moving, then saw the ceiling get lighter. More lights in the nightclub, Dieter now obviously at the central switches near the stack of camera cases. Ben looked at Japan. Nothing else on this part of the stage, not even a spool of cable. A few footsteps, Dieter exploring. Don’t panic. He ducked down and slipped between the trestles, a hiding place. But all Dieter would have to do was shine a light underneath, catch Ben’s eyes. He felt above him. The whole frame was supported by slats lying across the trestles, nailed in place to prevent wobbling. The diorama itself was like an attic crawl space-if you managed to climb into it, you could lie on the slats, off the floor. Japan over your head.
The spaces were irregular. Ben tried to wedge up into one, but couldn’t get through. He tried to remember the shape, where the load-bearing sections would be. Think of it as a box spring, the springs clustered, not even. He moved toward the center, where the plaster would rise highest, allowing more wiggle room. A mountain range. If it worked anywhere, it would work here. He put his head through, then grabbed two of the slats to pull the rest of him up. His shirt caught, then freed itself with a tug. His feet were off the floor, another push with his elbows, then inching forward over the empty space onto another slat, trying to distribute his weight, slat, space, slat, space.
His head bumped into wood. Of course there’d be cross struts. His feet were still dangling, but he managed to draw them up a little, so that only his toes dropped over the slat. There was nowhere else to go, his body suspended now, his hands clutching hard to the slat on either side. The injured hand was still throbbing, and he tried to relax its grip. Maybe a bone had been smashed, shooting out darts of pain. But it wouldn’t be much longer. Dieter would check the sound stage, then inevitably be drawn back to the door and out, the logical escape. Just try to stop breathing. Become, literally, part of the woodwork.
The floor beneath him got lighter. Dieter must have found more switches. These would be the utility lights above the catwalks, making the stage visible while the gaffers arranged the set lights on the rigging. The light would come straight down through the open ceiling, flat, not strong enough to make shadows. Ben clenched his hand on the slat again. Keep still. Footsteps on the other side of the dividing wall, a shout, as if Dieter were testing the echo effect. Over his head, lights were shining down on the simulated hills. It occurred to Ben, a surreal idea, that his body was under Hiroshima.
“Can you hear me?”
The voice seemed nearer. Ben held his breath. The slats might creak if he moved. In the silence, there was a sound so small it might be inside his head, light as a bubble popping, no, a drip, an invisible tap, a single bead of water. He looked down. Not invisible. A red dot on the floor, now another. Frantic, he looked at his hand, blood seeping, a line moving down off the side, then falling. He relaxed his grip, turning his hand. The line changed course but kept flowing down, another drip. There was nowhere to move the hand without shifting his weight. Impossible. But you’d have to be on top of it to hear. And now it fell on the previous drip, muffled, not like a fresh drop on the floor. He stared at the hand, willing it to stop.
“It’s very foolish.” Dieter’s voice again, movin
g with him through the door, flicking on more lights.
Ben looked down. A tiny puddle, not a river. But still dripping, a little more quickly. Dieter had stopped, probably trying to figure out the map. Another minute, fascinated, like any set visitor.
“You know I have to do this,” he shouted finally. “It’s nothing to do with me.” His voice lower, reasonable. What everyone thought, dropping bombs, firing into streets. Years of it, something that couldn’t be helped. “You don’t use the door,” he said, loud again, not sure where Ben was. “Hide and seek. Shall I tell you my plan? It’s good-no bullets to explain.” He waited, as if expecting an answer back. Ben stared at the blood. “These places. They should clean up. Did you see the paint cans? Thinners. A hazard. One match. Well, a few, to make it all go at once. The door locked. It’s a good idea, don’t you think? A pity. A whole building for this. And such a way to die. To burn. What they say will happen in hell, it’s so terrible. Much easier, a bullet. Quicker. You decide. One or the other. Are you listening?”
Another silence, Ben watching the droplets on the floor.
“I know what you’re thinking. The fool leaves, I make an alarm. Ben. Not such a fool. It’s easy to disable. I’m a good mechanic, did you know that? No alarm. The door locked. Yes, they see the light maybe. But paint makes so much smoke. You know most people die from smoke in a fire. Before they burn. So by the time- Are you listening?”
But it was Dieter who suddenly paused, hearing a noise, indistinct, behind him. Ben could see his feet move back to the partition door. “Hello?” No answer. Dieter waited another minute to be sure, then moved back toward the map. “So is it fire?” he said to the rafters.
Ben went still, watching the blood run along the floor, a thin line, but moving.
“We don’t have time. With the barn door open,” he said, a forced joviality. “Before the horses get out.” Another pause. “So.”
Ben saw his feet turn back to the nightclub and the equipment piles, stepping carefully, still listening. The blood seemed to be following him, almost at the edge of the trestles now. Leave. Even a fire would give him a chance. Dieter couldn’t disable the sprinklers. Unless the heat didn’t reach them in time, high up, designed to save the building, not someone trapped in it.
Dieter turned, taking a last look around the stage, and stopped. He began walking back slowly, coming directly toward Ben, shoes getting closer, not stopping until they were at the trestles. Close to the blood, but not yet touching it. Ben waited. Then he saw a finger reach down, swiping at the blood and moving up again. Was he tasting it or was the look enough? All he’d have to do now was shoot through the plaster, leaving Ben’s body to hang, unseen for days, until someone followed the smell.
Instead his face suddenly appeared, crouched down. “So. Come out now.”
Ben looked at him, gulping air. “Why?”
“As you wish,” Dieter said, raising the gun.
Every second a bargain, maybe a chance. Ben began to wriggle back, dropping his feet, moving down to the floor and out from under the map. The line of blood streaked as he pulled himself up, now facing Dieter.
“The preservation instinct,” Dieter said. “It’s wonderful, yes?”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Then burn down the studio? Such a colorful ending.” He shook his head. “It’s a question of attention. Something quiet.” He motioned him toward the dividing wall, back to the nightclub. “A fire. Everyone wants to know. Questions.”
“They’re going to ask anyway. There are always questions.”
“Not always,” he said, nudging him with the gun into the nightclub. He swerved suddenly. “Who’s there?” He tilted his head, listening.
“You’re hearing things,” Ben said. “Conscience?”
A diversion. He reached down to nurse his hand, hurting again, then looked up and stopped. The wall phone, its receiver dangling. Someone here. He moved to his left so that Dieter would face away from it.
“Stay.”
A sound of movement, rustling, then a faint cling, something touching metal. Keep him talking.
“Hadn’t you better close the door? The whole studio will hear the shot.”
“Quiet,” Dieter said, listening.
“Security would come running.”
Dieter looked at him. “You’re right. There’s not much time.”
More footsteps somewhere, a whisper, then a hum of one of the studio carts passing outside. Night sounds. Air moving through the cottonwoods. Carpenters. No posse coming. Dieter held the gun out before him.
“They’ll hear it.”
“Yes, I heard it, too. Where do you think it came from? Shall I help them look? But not there.” He nodded to one of the camera cases.
A thump, unmistakable this time, inside the sound stage. Dieter swung toward the bar. “Come out!”
“I’m here,” Liesl said, coming up behind him.
He whirled around and froze, taking in the gun in her hand, the improbable gown, the whole moment inexplicable. “Liesl.”
“Stop. I can shoot.”
“Get out of here. You don’t know-”
“Yes. It was you. I know now. So you’d have to kill me, too.”
“Don’t talk crazy. Put down the gun. Where did you-?”
“By the door,” she said simply. “Someone dropped it.” She looked at Ben.
He started to move toward her, but Dieter stopped him with the gun. “No. We finish this.”
“What do you want?” Liesl said. “Everyone shoots?”
“You won’t.”
“Yes, I can do it. It’s loaded, I checked. I took the safety off. They taught me. For War Bride. I shoot a soldier who’s trying to rape me. It’s my secret. So I know how. Move away from him,” she said to Ben.
He took a hesitant step, but Dieter grabbed his upper arm, holding him, gun still raised.
“No,” Liesl said. “It’s enough, Dieter. It’s the end now. Not him, too.” She stepped forward to maneuver him away from Ben. “Not him, too.”
“You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Yes. Now I do.” Her voice trembled a little, not as steely. “My god, do you know what I said to him? To Daniel. When he asked me? What to do? I said, ‘Go ask Dieter. He’ll know what to do.’ The sensible thing. I sent him to you.”
“And now what? You want to shoot me for that? A man who was unfaithful to you?”
She shook her head. “That? Little lies. But for you, big lies. To everyone. He didn’t betray me with her-with you.” She nodded at Ben. “Let him go.”
“I can’t do that,” Dieter said calmly. “What do you think this is? It’s real now, not acting.”
But for a second Ben felt, the gun still pointed at him, that they had merged. She was still moving, glancing up quickly as if she were hitting marks, positioning them for a take, under her key.
“Go. You don’t want to see this.” Dieter raised the gun higher, to Ben’s head.
“I’ll shoot,” she said, her voice not as steady, still moving.
“No. Shall I tell you what will happen? I have to shoot him. It’s not so nice, to see that. It’s better to leave now. You won’t shoot me.”
“My father was right. You never listen.”
“Now,” he said, then clicked back the hammer on his gun.
“Go!” she yelled to Ben, but all he heard was the explosion in his ear as his body jerked. For a second he wasn’t sure whether he had ducked or whether this is what it felt like to be shot, pushed away by the blast. But it was Dieter who was staggering, the gun no longer at Ben’s head, his hand clutching his chest. “Get away!” Liesl yelled. Ben dived to the floor, rolling to the side.
Dieter stood holding himself, his eyes disbelieving, and turned the gun toward Ben again, determined to finish. Ben saw the hand come up, the red patch on the chest, a sheen of sweat, still not dead. They stared at each other, the only people there. Then suddenly, with a whoosh of air, Dieter was crumpling, one
of the overhead lights smashing down on him, a terrible thud as the heavy weight hit his body, pinning it to the floor. Ben heard footsteps running on the catwalk, Liesl’s name being shouted, but his eyes were fixed on Dieter, gun hand sprawling on the floor, the heavy block of metal sliding halfway off his chest, his head already open, leaking blood. He bent over and took the gun from Dieter’s hand, not yet trusting death, then looked up at Liesl. She was still holding the gun, her hand shaking now, eyes blinking. Behind her, someone was climbing down the catwalk ladder.
“Is he-?”
Ben said nothing, his head still pounding, everything around him slow.
She looked up to the empty spot in the rigging. “I tried to move him faster,” she said vaguely, to no one in particular.
“Darling, you got there,” Bunny said, visible now, a soft reassurance. “Are you all right?”
She handed him the gun. “So now I’ve done this.”
Bunny took the gun, looking at it, suddenly queasy. He put one hand to his mouth, collecting himself, seeing Dieter’s head in the pool of blood, then the gun again, his eyes darting. He breathed out. “Whose?” he said to Ben. “Yours?”
Ben nodded. “From the Bureau.”
Bunny began wiping it with a handkerchief. “So it’ll want explaining. You must have left it lying around. On your desk. So he-” He turned to Liesl. “Go and change. Before anyone comes. You were doing lines in your trailer, waiting for him. You know how people wander. When they visit.” He held her arms. “All right? I’m sorry you had to-”
She was staring at Dieter’s body. “We were fond of each other,” she said quietly. “All my life.”
Bunny glanced at her, alarmed at the trance quality of her voice, then held her arms tighter, almost a shake. “Well, that’s what makes it worse, isn’t it? These accidents-”
“Accidents?” Ben said.
“Darling, now,” Bunny said to her. “Before the Keystones. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Just stay calm. It’s over.” He looked at Ben. “Giving orders to the gate. Nobody gives the gate orders. Was that supposed to be a signal? Never mind. Off you go,” he said to Liesl. “It’ll hit you now, so be careful.” He looked at her gown. “Something simple. A blouse and a skirt. All right?” He was moving to Dieter, placing Liesl’s gun in his hand.