His shovel clanged against metal. Lansdale waved them away, telling them to go rest out of sight.

Lett and the commando sat sucking on canteens under the shade of a neighboring tree. A Plymouth arrived; two white men got out. They looked like adventuring engineers in their civilian khaki, slouch hats, metal-rimmed eyeglasses, and bulging briefcases. They inspected the dig, conferred with Lansdale and others. Steel pipes were laid down. One of the trucks pulled up and its winch deployed.

“Be honest, you thought maybe we were digging our own graves,” the commando muttered before spitting out a projectile of tobacco. “Not that we don’t deserve it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lett shot back, but neither discussed it. They were too tired, and too busy watching. The huge truck had difficulty dragging out two large boxes from the pit, even when they rolled along the steel pipes other men had laid, but it got them out. Lansdale, the Japanese brute, and the engineering types assembled around the boxes. One of the engineers crouched at a box while the Japanese stood over his shoulder as if coaching him. Lansdale had stepped back a few paces, Lett noticed—curiosity wasn’t going to kill a cat like that. But nothing blew, no booby traps triggered. The engineer flipped the box open, the lid blocking Lett’s view, and all stepped forward as if gathering around a newborn baby, nodding, and two were smiling. But one engineer looked like a doctor who knew something was wrong with the baby, and Lansdale wasn’t smiling, either. He shot a glare across to Lett and the commando, as if something were somehow their fault.

“You two,” he barked. “Inside the tent.”

***

The face was bloated on one side. Dried blood caked the bulges and filled the cracks and crevices, some of the blood still shining gooey there. It filled an eye socket. The man’s clothes were soiled and torn, and most of his fingernails were missing, just tips of coagulating blood.

Inside the wall tent, Lett smelled urine and feces and that unmistakable smell of burnt hair and flesh. The man, slumped in a folding chair, wasn’t tied up. But he wasn’t going anywhere. Whenever he slumped enough to topple, a man pulled him back up, setting his shoulder straight like a soft pillow that wouldn’t stand.

The man propping up their interrogation target was none other than Frankie.