In time, Thomas composed himself well enough to dress. He put on his school uniform, which John had not known Thomas had packed.
John's son, tall and strong, regarded himself in the lodge's one mirror, checking that his tie's knot was symmetric and his swastika armband was straight. He paused at attention, perhaps looking for a sign in his own face that he was up to the task before him.
Thomas went outside, not sparing John a backward glance, and returned with the wheelbarrow. Not too gently, he tipped John's still numb body into it. He wheeled John out behind the lodge to the well in the yard overlooking the lake. It was an old-fashioned thing, an open shaft with a bucket on a rope.
"The well is perfect,' said Thomas, the emotion gone now, replaced by a honed iron edge. "Did you think to use it? If not, that would be the final disappointment. When you fall down it head first, it will align your body and guarantee a broken neck. Since you didn't pack any booze, I made sure to bring some. I'll show the police the empty bottle and admit, with a bit of embarrassment, you were drinking when I fell asleep. I'll say I found you in the well this morning after a long search. I will be shocked, but I won't cry, and everyone will admire my fortitude. They will not be surprised when Heydrich, devastated by news of the tragedy, takes me on as his unofficial stepson."
Thomas quit talking and he performed the awkward task of lifting John's deadweight so to sit him on the rim of the well.
Thomas! Do not do this! Think of what Heydrich will do to you, once you're no longer useful…!
Thomas positioned himself directly in front of John's balanced body and came to attention with a click of his polished heels.
"Heil Hitler!"
Thomas saluted with just the barest hint of a smirk. He aimed his outstretched arm low so his fingers tapped John's chest.
The touch toppled John backwards and he fell headfirst down the well.