We were standing in the center of the casino, our feet sinking into plush carpet, wondering where Pruchert could have disappeared to. I was about to question the other American he had been chatting with when a shrill whooping noise pierced the air.
“What’s that?”
“The rear exit,” Han said. “Someone opened it.”
And then I was running.
Many people never really know exhaustion. They say they’re tired and they work around the clock, but the truth is that they’ve never pushed themselves beyond the demands their minds and bodies make of them. I’m not saying they don’t work hard. They do. But a nine-to-five job seldom demands as much from you as the military requires of its soldiers. One of the first things that the army subjects you to, once they have you trapped in basic training, is sleep deprivation. You’re seldom in bed before midnight and you’re up in the morning, like clockwork, at zero five hundred hours. Sometimes, during special exercises, they don’t let you sleep at all.
While undergoing this trial, you realize that sleep deprivation is one of the most painful parts of your training; it also starts to dawn on you that your judgment has clouded. Making the wrong decision, even in a situation that would normally be clear-cut, becomes a distinct possibility.
I ran out the back door of the Haeundae Casino.
The alley was modern-broad and covered in blacktop-not like the vile lanes in G.I. villages. Truck deliveries were made here. A four-foot-high cement loading platform loomed off to my left. I paused because I saw no shadows fleeing, nor did I hear any footsteps pounding on pavement. If I turned right, I’d be running toward civilization: tourist hotels, boutiques, fancy eateries; all along the main road that circles the bay and caters to the people who flock to Haeundae Beach, especially during the summer months. But now, during the midnight-tofour curfew in early autumn, there’d be no refuge there. All shops would be closed and there’d be no cabs to whisk you away to safety. The cement sidewalks would only make it easier to be spotted by the curfew police. If I turned left, I’d be heading toward the sea. Toward darkness. Toward the sound of breakers. Toward ships. Toward chaos. That’s where Pruchert would go.
I ran left, into the night.
Soon I hit the pedestrian walkway that arced along the curve of the shoreline, twenty yards in from the beach. I paused and studied dark waters. By starlight I spotted the vague shadows of ships bobbing in the center of the Port of Pusan; to my right were the high-rise buildings that lined the port. Along the sand, I saw nothing. No revelers. No families traipsing timidly up to the edge of the water. No vacationers toting travel bags to the shuttered bathhouse that squatted a quarter mile to my right. And then I saw movement, off to my left along the edge of the water, just a flicker in the glinting moonlight. Without thinking about it, I ran. First across the sand, lifting my feet high; then across a spongy running surface, sand moistened and solidified by the sea, picking up speed.
As the shadowy figure ahead of me angled away, I realized that it was a thin man with long legs and limbs. A man who from this distance-about two hundred yards behind-appeared in every respect to be Corporal Robert R. Pruchert.
“Halt!” I shouted, inanely. I had no pistol to back up my command.
Where was he going? What lay to the northeast on the far edge of Haeundae Beach? Rice paddies? Shipyards? I had no idea, and my guess was that neither did Pruchert. He’d panicked when he saw me, then he’d hidden; finally he’d sneaked out the back of the casino and run. Where, he couldn’t be sure.
I was catching my stride now, settling in for the distance. He was too far ahead for me to sprint and catch up. With no end to this beach in sight, this pursuit was becoming an endurance contest. Pruchert was panicked, running hard, not pacing himself. If I kept close, controlled my breathing, and settled into a good pace for a two-mile run, I’d probably catch up with him eventually. Once he collapsed.
Every soldier in the United States Army is required to take a physical training test every year. The test includes push-ups, sit-ups, and a two-mile run. I take pride in my scores. I’d yet to max the test but I’d come close. My training regimen consisted mainly of doing push-ups and sit-ups first thing in the morning and then jogging, as time permitted, around the Yongsan South Post gymnasium.
I hadn’t jogged for a few days, not since the Blue Train rapist investigation began, but my body hadn’t forgotten what to do. Slowly, across the wet sand, I was gaining on Pruchert. And then, without warning, he veered sharply to his left.
As I came closer, I saw what he was heading toward: a low line of shacks. Some sort of shops for the crowds that jammed Haeundae Beach during the daytime. Pruchert was running right toward the center of the shops, and in the dim light I watched as he approached the shops as if he were going to ram into one of them headfirst-and then he disappeared.
I blinked, straining to see what had happened.
As I plowed through sand, a gap appeared in the center of the line of shops. A passageway, dark now, and covered so that not even moonlight entered. Where did it lead? Either to the other side or, maybe, into a courtyard. When I reached the passageway, I slowed to a trot. No movement. No sign of Pruchert. Walking quickly, I entered the dark passage. After a few steps, I was blind, realizing that I’d made a mistake. I groped forward, holding my hands out, expecting at any moment to step into a pit lined on the bottom with punji sticks. Instead, I reached the inner courtyard I had imagined. Some of the shops were covered with wooden doors or metal shutters, but a few still had dim blue lights on within, behind polished glass. I stepped close to one of the windows. Two yellow eyes and a row of teeth darted toward me. I jerked back. Then I realized what it was.
A fish tank.
Live fish. It figured. These were not shops, but seafood eateries. I read the signs in cursive hanguclass="underline" hot noodles, fresh seafood, raw squid, spiced octopus. Everything the discerning gourmand could desire. The fish seemed to sense my presence; tail fins waggled, jaws gaped open and then clamped shut, tentacles raised themselves in squiggly greeting.
I trotted to the far side of the courtyard. Another passageway. I ran through it, quicker this time, figuring Pruchert had already emerged on the other side and would be a half mile up the beach by now. As I hurried, I was reckless about where I stepped and ran into a straight-back chair that had been left in the center of the passageway. I was alert enough not to fall, although I banged my shins pretty hard, and I managed to catch myself on the back of the chair as I kept moving and to toss it off to the side where no one else would run into it.
As I did so, something moved out of the shadows. I caught a glimpse of him just before he hit me. Corporal Robert R. Pruchert. It was a good left and caught me moving into it, and I staggered. Then I was hit again and, for a few seconds anyway, that’s all I remembered.
When I came to, I was kneeling on all fours. I looked up, slowly becoming aware of where I was and what was around me. There was no sign of Pruchert. I stood unsteadily, took a step forward and then another. I breathed deeply, the sharp tang of fish and salt entering my lungs. Soon I was running away from the conclave of seafood restaurants; by the time my head cleared, I had reached the pathway that paralleled the beach. The moon hung no higher in the sky, so I knew I hadn’t been out long, only stunned, and now I had a good view down the beach for about a mile. No sign of Pruchert. Once he thought he had me off his tail, he would’ve headed toward civilization, maybe tried to hide until curfew was over and then find a cab. Where to hide? Near a tourist hotel, where there’d be plenty of taxis waiting outside at four a.m.
I ran back toward the casino.
About a hundred yards off to my right, in the old town section, someone darted into a dark alley. I barely caught a glimpse, but my impression was that this was someone taller and heavier than Pruchert. That didn’t make sense at this time of the morning in this part of the world. Near the alley, cobbled lanes wound sinuously between tile-roofed homes. I slowed to a walk, listening. No running footsteps. All was quiet in this sleepy neighborhood at this early hour. I entered the alley.