Free Evil for Evil by James R. Benn

gruesome and dirty, painful and demeaning, but at times—especially when you realized you were alive and had cheated death—there was something grand about it, something around the edges, in the light of explosions in the distance, the loud thuds of artillery, the rush of adrenaline, the eerie calm in the midst of a fight when time slowed and everything crackled with crystal clarity. There was grandness in the confusion I felt then, the feeling of wishing I could erase it all from my mind while knowing that it was the most significant, important, otherworldly thing I’d ever experienced. Sometimes I wondered if there was something holy in it all, as if I could almost see the best of creation in the midst of the worst of it.
    “There’s one more thing,” he said. “Mahoney—the dead guy with the money in his hand? Well, I’d seen him before. He looked a bit different then, with his brains all inside his skull, but I saw him drinking in a pub in Annalong, a little south of here.”
    “When was this?”
    “The Sunday before the theft. I had to get out of here for a while, so I drove down the coast road and ended up in Annalong. There’s a place, the Harbor Bar, right on the water, where I stopped and got something to eat and had a few pints. I noticed him because he was arguing with someone—quietly, but you could tell it was heated by the way they strained to keep their voices down.”
    “Would you know the other man if you saw him?”
    “No, his back was to me, and he had a cap on. But as soon as I saw the red hair on the corpse, I recognized him. Bright orange, like a carrot. That was Mahoney.”
    “OK, that’s something.”
    “I told Heck and Inspector Carrick about it, you can check with them.”
    “Yeah, I will. Anything else you remember?”
    “Nope. Now tell me what you need to find my BARs.”
    “Transport. I’ll need a jeep. And if I need some muscle, can I call on your MPs? I met Burnham and Patterson yesterday. They seem pretty capable.”
    “They’re good men. I’ll let them know you may be in touch. But go through me. I need to be kept up to date. Check in with me every day.” He scribbled out an order for a jeep and a pass to all 5th Division installations and handed them to me. “Motor pool is out and to the left. Follow the lane through the trees, about a quarter mile. Need a ride?”
    “No, sir. But one more thing. Can you tell me who received the radio dispatch about my arrival?”
    “I never saw one. Northern Ireland Command told me to expect you any day now but I never heard when or how you were coming.”
    “Then I’d like to start at your Signals Company, talk to whoever was on duty yesterday.”
    “Is there a problem?”
    “No, strictly routine.”
    He eyed me for a few seconds, then lifted his telephone and made a call.
    Ten minutes later I was in a Quonset hut crammed with radios and noisy with the static and tinny crackling sounds of communications gear. A technical sergeant named Lasner leafed through clipboards of dispatch sheets, all the documentation for signals sent and received. Below his sergeant’s stripes were two service stripes, meaning he’d been in more than six years. A regular, and it showed in everything from the shine on his boots to the gleaming brass Signal Corps emblem on his tunic’s lapels. There were six clipboards, all neatly arranged on a table with wire baskets where the forms were deposited when received.
    “Nothing here with your name on it, Lieutenant Boyle,” he said as he finished with the last clipboard.
    “It wasn’t for me, Sarge.”
    “I understand that, Lieutenant. I mean there are no messages here that include your name. Anywhere.”
    “Got it. Looks like you run a tight ship.”
    “Yes, sir. Anything else, Lieutenant?” I could tell he was eager to get rid of me but then again most noncoms would be eager to get a second louie out of their hair, especially if he was from another outfit and was making extra work for