John smelled something terrible, a foreign, chemical smell. Rather than anger him, the odor made him confused. Where was he? Why couldn't he see? What was happening?
A sting in his arm jolted John awake. The lamps were out and the fire had died down to embers. In the dark stood Thomas, still in the underwear he slept in, pulling a syringe out of John's vein with one hand while holding a damp cloth in the other.
John recognized the smell: chloroform!
John struggled to stand. He tried to bark out a question, but his mouth felt cottony and wouldn't move properly. John's knees buckled and as Thomas stepped back to make way, John fell flat onto the rough boards of the lodge floor.
"Good. He promised me the drug would take immediate effect." That was Thomas' voice, sounding distant, and with its usual boyishness gone.
Who promised you…? was the question John's mouth refused to utter. John's entire body was in rebellion against him. He could do nothing but lay on the floor and gasp.
"Really, Father. I hope you're not blaming me for the fix you're in." Thomas, showing no physical weakness now, lifted his father upright on the floor and leaned his torso against the base of the chair. Already, John was losing all feeling in his extremities.
"This is your own damn fault. I gave you many opportunities—but you refused each one."
John's confusion was giving way to anger, and worse than anger, fear.
"It's not like there was no risk to me. Blank shotgun shells can still injure at close distance. I was gambling you wouldn't shoot me point blank. But here: let me explain the whole thing."
Thomas sat down on the floor right in front of John, cross-legged, the picture of relaxed, confident privilege. The picture of a son of an elite Nazi.
"I've been in communication for some time now with Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich."