“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.