Blood alone bbwim-3

by James R Benn

  "I had some unfinished business." He was breathing hard, looking back at the cathedral, as if we might be pursued.

  "What-" My words were cut off as the driver took a hard left. I caught a glimpse of brown uniforms, hunched low, crossing the street ahead of us in the direction we'd been driving. It felt odd to be evading the American troops fighting to take the town. Sciafani turned to look and I noticed the cuff of his once white shirt was soaked red. Not the dark rusty color of yesterday's blood, but the fresh, unmistakable red of a fresh blood stain. I pulled his jacket aside. The Blackshirt's dagger was still tucked into his belt. He pulled his jacket tight once more and stared out the window, holding onto the empty passenger seat in front of him as our driver weaved in and out of narrow roads and alleys.

  "Enrico," I said quietly. He shook his head before I could continue. The burlap sack was at his side, the strap still over his shoulder. It wasn't hard to see the butt of the big Italian Bodeo revolver crammed in next to the loaf of bread.

  I didn't know if the driver spoke any English or whether he'd admit it if he did, so this wasn't the time to come out and ask Sciafani if he'd killed Tommy the C. Anyway it was obvious he had even if I didn't know why. A doctor would know exactly where to stick that dagger. Sharp on both sides, the thin blade was perfect for a surprise jab through the ribs and up into the heart. The victim would lose consciousness and die within seconds. Had Sciafani hesitated, I wondered? Long enough for Tommy the C to comprehend he was dying? As he pulled the dagger out had he looked into the dying man's eyes while a spray of blood soaked his shirt cuff? I watched him as he glanced away from me and out the window, not sure if he was looking for GIs or staring at his own reflection.

  Whichever, it didn't amount to a hill of beans. I was stuck with Sciafani for now and had to hope we could get away before any of Don Calo's men heard about Tommy the C bleeding out in the cathedral basement. I wondered what would happen to us when they found out. I wondered if Tommy the C would end up in a special underground chapel for sacristans, his hands on his chest, wearing white gloves for eternity. I wondered about what would make a doctor turn killer, and who he might stick next with that dagger. It was a lot to wonder about.

  The car swerved around a switchback as the road descended to the valley below, and the burlap bag slid on the seat. The pistol was halfway out and I started to make a move for it, but Sciafani was too fast. He clutched the bag to his chest and sighed as he turned his face away from me. I followed his gaze to the spare, rocky ground, dotted with cactus and spindly green trees. I recognized the place. I'd been here before. We were entering the Valley of the Temples.

  The driver slowed, rolled down his window, picked up a long strip of white cloth, and held it out. It fluttered in the breeze like a banner, a flag of truce, as he shouted the same few phrases over and over again. I had no idea what he was saying, so I made up my own version, based on the cadence of his words. Don't shoot, it's only a mafiusu, a demented doctor, and an amnesiac American. One of us is harmless, take your chances on the other two.

  We must have passed through the front lines. The GIs here were either standing around, marching in single file, or busy, stacking boxes and setting up an aid station by the side of the road. Ruins dotted the landscape for miles, some of them no more than heaps of rubble with two or three columns left standing. Others consisted of rows of columns holding up empty sky.

  There was one that was different. What was it?

  " Viva gli americani," the driver shouted to a file of GIs trudging up the road, kicking up little clouds of hot dirt with their shuffling feet. They laughed and waved, but it all seemed distant, as if I were watching a newsreel. Troops on the move. Heat and grit from the road flowed into the car, and I had to rub my eyes to clear the sweat, dust, and fatigue away. My heart began to beat faster and faster as a cold shiver ran through my body and sweat trickled down my back. I felt dizzy, and the windows seemed to fog over, encasing the tiny vehicle in a hazy cocoon. I shut my eyes and clasped my hands over them, hoping when I opened them again everything would be normal. I breathed deep and heard the blood pounding in my ears as images flashed into life, brighter and clearer than they ever could have been, sharp and focused, so real I could feel them slashing and clawing at my eyelids.

  A man in a black robe. The sacristan, one hand on my shoulder, the other pointing to the valley below the city.

  "There," he said. "The only temple still intact. See it on the hill? The Temple of Concordia." The setting sun lit it, casting fingers of soft yellow light along the narrow building.

  "Our contact will meet us there, you're sure?" That was Nick.

  "It's all been arranged." Tommy the C nodded and walked away.

  As in a dream, the scene changed swiftly. I saw myself standing at the bottom of the steps leading into the temple. Harry was there.

  "Do you see anyone?" Harry asked me, swiveling his head and squinting his eyes to pick up any movement in the fading light.

  "No. Nick?" Nick had gone inside. He appeared, waving us on.

  We were all wearing the same thing. Nondescript khaki jackets. Khaki pants. Boots. We could have been anyone on a dark night. That was the point, I guess. I felt my boots clomp against the stone steps as I passed between two columns looming above us, blocking the light. Patches of stars showed through the ruined roof. Inside the columns was another building, supported by its own set of smaller columns. A temple. It was disorienting. I turned, looking for Harry. He was gone.

  "Billy?" Nick said in a whisper.

  "What?"

  "Give me the handkerchief. Now." I felt the hard, cold barrel of his automatic pistol press against my neck.

  "What's got into you?" Panic fluttered in my chest.

  "Never mind. Give me the handkerchief and get lost. I don't want to shoot you but if I have to, I will."

  "What did you do to Harry?" I was trying to buy time.

  "I sent him to watch for the contact. Give it to me now," he ordered. He made his point by pressing the tip of the automatic harder against my neck, so hard I could feel the front sight dig into my skin.

  "OK, OK," I said. "I don't want to get shot over a piece of silk."

  I felt him relax. But the automatic was resting on my shoulder, still pointing at my neck.

  "I'm sorry, Billy, I have to have it."

  "OK, stay calm. It's in my jacket pocket." I thrust my hand into my jacket. As I did, I swung away from the pistol and smashed him with my elbow in the back of his neck. He went down with a grunt, but the automatic went off. The sound echoed off the temple walls, and I heard the zing of a ricochet.

  "No, no!" Nick coughed up the words as he struggled to get up, one hand on his neck and the other clutching the automatic.

  I drew my. 45 and aimed it at his head. I heard footsteps running toward us and tried to comprehend Nick's actions. Had he gone mad? He seemed determined and anguished at the same time.

  "Nick, drop your weapon."

  He held onto the automatic, grasping it loosely in his hand as he rose to his knees. "I need the handkerchief," was all he said, his eyes cast down to the stone floor of the temple.

  "What's this?" Harry said, stepping carefully around a column, pressing his back to it and keeping both of us covered with his Italian Beretta submachine gun.

  "I need the handkerchief," Nick repeated, as if that explained everything.

  Harry and I exchanged dumbfounded glances. Nick, with his Sicilian connections, was the key to this mission. We needed him, but it occurred to me that except for the handkerchief, he didn't need us.

  Nick stood, placing his body between Harry and me. He didn't drop his weapon. He held my eyes and it seemed he was searching for something, an answer to an unfathomable question.

  "Give it to me, Billy, and go hide out somewhere, both of you. I'll take it from here."

  "I can't-"

  He turned and squeezed off two shots, aiming high, over Harry's head, but close enough to drive him back under cover.
He judged me right. I couldn't shoot him, not in the back anyway. He ran from me while angling away from the column Harry had hidden behind. I fired, high too, wanting to let him know I meant business but reluctant to hit him. He disappeared behind rows of columns and I followed, darting between the stone pillars, listening, trying to stay close but not too close.

  I heard footsteps again, heavy this time, not like Harry's stealthy approach. I tried to see beyond the outer row of columns but it was too dark.

  "Chi va?" The voice was demanding something, and more boots tramped the ground outside the temple. A single shot sounded in response, and I figured that Nick was about to make his break, covered by a hail of gunfire. It was risky, but he probably figured every nervous Italian soldier standing in the open would keep his eyes on the temple as he blasted away.

  He was right. Shots rang out, bright flashes sparkling in a rough line that slowly moved closer. The soldiers were yelling, firing, advancing. I backed into the interior temple, hoping to find Harry and escape before they pulled the ring tighter. I made it to the rear corner of the temple and hid behind a wall that gave me a view along the perimeter of the colonnade.

  More shouts from inside the temple, one voice, probably an officer, rising above the others. I couldn't understand but I was sure the words meant Come out with your hands up!

  Boots scraped against the hard floor, moving in my direction. I needed to do something, to take the initiative away from them. I pulled a grenade from one of the big side pockets of my jacket. I holstered my. 45 so I'd have both hands free and looked down the shorter row of columns that ran along the rear of the temple. It was clear. I stepped out and pulled the pin of the grenade, holding the safety lever down. I judged the distance and figured I could roll the grenade halfway down the length of the corridor formed by the two rows of columns. The explosion would distract the soldiers and force them to take cover, giving me a chance to beat feet out of there.

  I stood exposed between two pillars, listening for the bootsteps to get closer. They were behind me. It was time. I let go of the lever and it sprang away, bouncing off the stone with a metallic twang. I threw underhanded, rolling the grenade perfectly, watching it bounce on the uneven paving and come to rest. I had about two seconds left.

  I saw Harry. He came from behind a column, just a few feet forward of the grenade. I opened my mouth to warn him, but before I could make a sound, something hard hit me in the head and a blinding flash of pain sent me to my knees. I tried to shout, to warn Harry, but I couldn't fight through the sharp electric stabbing sensation in my skull. My hand went to my holster, there was a rapid babble of Italian, more pain, then an explosion, right where Harry had been.

  I opened my eyes and saw the Temple of Concordia. GIs wandered around it craning their necks and gawking at the ancient columns. Did they wonder at the bloodstained floor inside? The stonework glowed softly golden in the bright sun. It was beautiful in the daylight, not at all the place of dark shadows from my memory. I saw one officer focusing his camera on it, a tourist in dogshit brown, snapping photos to impress the folks back home while other soldiers fought house to house less than a mile away. The temple receded from view as the little Fiat sped down the road, churning up dust behind us, obscuring the brightness and leaving me with my memories of betrayal and death in the night.

  My right hand shook as I recalled the feel of that grenade in my hand, the grooved case iron cold against my palm. My heart was thumping to beat the band and I glanced at Sciafani to see if he'd noticed. It was hard to believe everything I remembered hadn't just happened. Sciafani's head was slumped against the window as he stared at something very, very far away, clutching the burlap bag to his chest. I relaxed and shut my eyes again, wishing for oblivion, clasping my left hand over my right to hide its trembling, hoping the visions wouldn't return. Thanks for the memories.

  So what did this tell me? Nick had betrayed us, demanding the handkerchief for his own purposes. That was important, but there was something else equally important. He had been desperate and anguished. Not cold and calculating. He wanted the handkerchief; no, he needed the handkerchief. That meant he was under pressure to get it, the kind of pressure that makes a man turn a gun on his friend and beg him to give him what he wants and then leave. He'd gotten away, that much Tommy the C had confirmed. Too bad Sciafani had killed Tommy. I would have liked to ask him a few more questions, like who we were supposed to meet and how they had eluded the Italian soldiers. He'd said their officer was killed in a grenade blast, and then some of them deserted. That had to have been my grenade. With their officer dead, the Italians must have lost interest and gone their separate ways, some back to their unit, one to report to the caporegime at the cathedral, the rest headed for the hills. Except for Roberto.

  Now it came to me. The cut on my arm had been from a bayonet. One of the soldiers had stabbed at me when I tried to unholster my. 45. It had been Roberto. It was a halfhearted stab, more of a push to dissuade me from shooting. His officer had stepped in front of us, his pistol raised. If Roberto hadn't stopped me, he would have had plenty of time to plug me. Roberto had saved my life.

  Wait a minute. The Italian officer had stepped in front of us. The grenade was a few yards behind him, then there was a couple of yards more to where Harry stood. Would Harry have stayed rooted to the spot, out in the open, with an enemy officer yards away? Maybe yes. He might have advanced, to take him out before he could shoot. Maybe no. He might have ducked behind a column to take cover. Which was it?

  "Enrico," I said, nudging Sciafani in the ribs.

  "What?" He turned away from the window and answered, like a drunk at a bar who only wants to stare into his glass. His eyelids were lowered, half hiding the redness of his eyes.

  "Ask the driver if he was the one who was to meet me and two others at the Temple of Concordia." He did, and the driver shook his head.

  "It was not him," Sciafani said. "It was his brother."

  "Jesus, man, ask him what happened. Ask him if one of the other two men died!"

  Sciafani shrugged and obliged. They exchanged some rapid-fire Italian, and Sciafani shrugged again, that all-purpose gesture that I'd seen more of in Sicily than I had before in my whole life. "He says Don Calo will tell you what happened, if he wishes to, and to stop asking questions."

  I was pretty sure Sciafani had added that last part himself.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  We drove north, on back roads through little villages. The Fiat strained up a dirt track climbing through orchards and olive groves until the road straightened out and we saw a small hilltop town in the distance. A signpost said Montaperto, and I could make out a collection of orange-tiled roofs clustered together on the highest point around. I looked back and was rewarded with a view of green rolling hills and a dusty, brown view of Agrigento farther out. The car slowed, and I saw an Italian soldier approach us carrying a shovel on his shoulder. He wore his bustina but no shirt and he was soaked in sweat. I tried to shrink into the backseat, to make my American uniform invisible.

  It didn't matter. He and the driver chatted amiably as four packs of cigarettes were handed over to the soldier. They were Echt Orients, a German brand. I guessed the Mafia liked to spread its business around. The driver ground his gears as the Fiat struggled with the incline. The soldato called to his buddies and they left the entrenchment they were digging to claim their smokes. As we passed, the snout of a heavy machine gun was visible, protruding from the sandbags and covering the lovely valley behind us. A mortar was set up behind it, surrounded by sandbags and shells. Camouflage netting covered the emplacement, making it look like a natural fold in the terrain. By the time you got close enough to see it, you'd be dead.

  "They are Sicilian," Sciafani said, as if that explained everything: the easy passage, the cigarettes, the deadly ambush.

  We drove through the narrow street that cut through the village. The buildings were two or three stories tall, covered in faded stucco that had crumbled aw
ay in places, revealing rough brickwork underneath. Probably a few hundred people lived in these homes, crowded along the roadway at the top of the hill. I knew what would happen to them if our guys came up that hill and got hit by the mortar and machine gun. The soldati would take out a dozen or so GIs before they were pinned down. Some energetic lieutenant might try flanking them, but there was no cover on either side of the road. That would fail, and finally he'd radio Battalion HQ for artillery or an air strike. They might have to wait a while. Or maybe they'd have armor support coming up. Either way, the small emplacement would be smashed, along with a good portion of the village. People would hide in their cellars, and tons of brick would fall on them, fires would rage, and the ground would shake with each hit. A couple of hundred people would die, all because four Sicilian soldiers stayed at their post.

  Had Nick betrayed our mission? Or could he have needed the handkerchief for something else? I couldn't think about him. Right now I had enough to worry about with Sciafani. He was armed and in his own strange world, and I had no idea how that was going to impact mine.

  We cleared the village and the Fiat bounced over a potholed dirt track, descending into the valley due north. Sciafani pulled his dagger out and cleaned it, using the burlap bag to wipe it down. When he was finally satisfied, he smiled weakly, almost apologetically, and cut a piece of cheese and bread with it. He handed them to the driver, who took the food without comment or thanks. Then he cut up the rest and we shared it, washed down with wine from the bottle, which we passed around. A communion of secrets.

  We picked up a good road and passed by more fields and orchards. Lemons hung heavy on branches, and the ground between rows was freshly turned. The air was cooler here, tinged with a hint of green richness emanating from the dark, fertile soil. There were no houses, no roadblocks or hidden entrenchments. It was peaceful, and part of me wished I could sit in the shade beneath an orange tree, drink wine, and sleep.