Hellbound

by Chester Campbell

  Polly was back a few minutes later, disappointment showing on her chubby face. “It wasn’t there,” she said.

  “Maybe somebody else picked it up accidentally,” Tillie said. Then she got on the microphone. “Did anyone happen to pick up a red folder, one of the trip kits, from the table inside where the jackets were stacked?”

  When she got only head shakes, she turned back to Polly. “The bus boy probably threw it away. I’ll copy mine for you when we get to the motel.”

  Bryce had moved toward the front of the bus and was close enough to hear the conversation. As Chick drove toward the motel, Bryce reflected on what must have happened. Polly's trip kit he been picked up, not by an overzealous bus boy, but by New York enforcers. If so, they now had a passenger list and a detailed itinerary. His troubles were just beginning.

  Tillie passed out keys to the pairs of roommates, following down the list alphabetically by the first name in the pair. Since Troy and Sarah Anne were the names alphabetized, Bryce found himself rooming next door to Marge. He offered to carry her bag to the room, but she declined, doggedly toting it through the rain.

  “I noticed there was a restaurant up beside the office,” Troy said. He poked his key into the lock. “Anybody like a cup of coffee or something?”

  Marge shook her head. “Not me. I’ve seen enough of this rain for one day.”

  “Thanks, Troy,” said Sarah Anne. “It’s been a long drive. I think I’ll just get a hot shower and rest on my laurels.”

  It was nine o’clock. Bryce had no interest in wandering around in the dark and the downpour with only Troy for company. “I presume we’ll see you in the morning at the Continental Breakfast,” he said. “Did I hear Tillie correctly that it was complimentary?”

  “That’s right.” Sarah Anne waved her arm toward the front of the motel. “It will be up there across from the check-in desk. We’d better get there by eight. Tillie wants us to be all loaded and ready to go at nine.”

  Sarah Anne had the door open and Bryce waved as they disappeared inside. “Have a good night.”

  The room he shared with Troy was small but adequate, with one weary blue plastic-covered easy chair, two inviting beds and a TV that resembled a large vacant eye sitting forlornly on the long countertop.

  Troy tossed his small carryon on the bed toward the back of the room, pressing his hand to test its firmness. “Guess these are about the same.” He picked up the TV remote from the bedside table. “There’s a playoff game tonight. Want to watch it?”

  Bryce unzipped his bag. He wasn’t much of a baseball fan. “Turn on whatever you’d like, Troy. I think I’ll follow Sarah Anne’s example, just get a shower and relax.”

  “I’ll get mine in the morning.” Troy dropped onto the side of the bed and started surfing the channels.

  Pulling out his shaving kit, Bryce headed for the bathroom. The lavatory was in an open area, with the toilet and shower through a door to the left. He paused in front of the large mirror above the sink, compressed his lips and watched the creases ripple across his cheeks. Not exactly what you’d call a pretty face, he thought. Where had the time gone?

  The hot water helped relax his muscles and eased the pain that nagged at his upper back after a day of sitting on the bus. The pain was a holdover from an old compression fracture he had suffered years ago. He had passed out with the flu and fallen in the bathroom. Too bad it hadn’t been something more colorful that would be worthy of a conversation piece. Something Walter Mittyish like getting knocked down while apprehending a robber who had just held up a bank. He shook his head. The only exciting things he had done in recent years were ones he couldn’t afford to talk about.

  Reluctantly turning off the shower, he climbed out and toweled himself dry, pulled on a pair of blue-striped pajamas and padded back out into the bedroom. What he saw brought a big grin. Troy lay sprawled across the bed like a large rag doll. He snored softly while the sounds of an excited baseball crowd and the mindless chatter of the commentators poured from the TV. Bryce switched off the set and the bedside lamp and crawled into bed.

  He laced his fingers behind his head and lay there wide awake. He was a night person. Always had been. He did some of his best investment analysis work at night. His normal bedtime was around one a.m. So he lay there and listened to Troy's snoring in the darkened room. Finally, the snoring subsided, and he could hear the faint humming of an air conditioner somewhere down the covered walkway. Almost drowning out the sound was the determined splatter of raindrops just beyond. Mumbling voices moved quickly past the door.

  What if there were a knock on the door at three a.m.? How would he convince Troy that it shouldn’t be opened? Confess who he really was? Explain that he was an innocent man being hunted by the mob?

  Troy would likely believe his innocence about as readily as Matthew Kravitz, the FBI agent who had talked him into looking for incriminating evidence to nail the mob. Kravitz had courted him as a prosecution witness, but Bryce suspected the agent never really believed in his professed ignorance of the Vicario family’s illegal operations. Actually, most of what he had learned about Mafia activities came from a newspaper writer to whom Kravitz had introduced him, a man from the New York Times who probably knew as much about the mobsters as the FBI, maybe more. Bryce was certain the introduction stemmed from a deal the agent had made to get information from the reporter. Bryce had agreed to an interview reluctantly, even though he knew the name Pagano was not one he would be using in the future.

  The writer told him about the mob’s involvement in labor racketeering, how they forced payoffs from businessmen to assure union workers would not delay shipments or cause trouble on the job. They were involved in skimming money from government contracts and union pension funds. He confirmed something else Bryce had suspected, judging by the people he had observed around the Alcamo Corporation. The Mafia’s recruits came from tough, uneducated felons. The reporter had given graphic descriptions of how the soldiers were required to commit brutal crimes as their tickets to admission.

  Even the Vicario leadership had been backward in their business practices. They remained highly leery of such innovations as the computer. Bryce used one in his investment work, but none of the bosses wanted to get near the machine. When he discovered the incriminating records in Frank Salerno’s office, they were all hand-written.

  As he thought about it now, he realized his best chance of coming out of this alive would be to outwit them. Although they were brutally tough, most of them were not the brightest of adversaries. He would have to stay cool, stay smart, play his game, not theirs.

  When he heard a muffled thump, he lay still and strained to catch any further sound. There was none. He decided the noise had come from the room next door. Probably the result of a heavy suitcase dropping on the floor. The room was Marge’s. Picturing her face in his mind, he thought about the new dimension her appearance had added to the equation. At this critical point in his life, did he really need a distraction like her?

  If he were all that smart, he thought, wouldn’t he act to distance himself from Mrs. Walden Hunter right now? She had done nothing to encourage him, nothing that would cause him to think of her other than as just another passenger on the bus. He mused how women throughout history, like Samson’s Delilah, Mark Antony’s Cleopatra, Napoleon’s Josephine, had always been the nemesis of driven men.

  Driven men? Why had that notion popped into his mind? For most of his life he had been anything but driven. But there had been one exception. The winter of 1944-45. In Belgium–the Battle of the Bulge. More than half a century had passed, but it still lingered vividly in his memory.

  December 16, 1944. Nazi Gen. Gerd von Rundstedt's 5th and 6th Panzer Armies had launched a savage counterattack against the Allied forces that had been sweeping rapidly through France and Belgium. General Eisenhower’s troops were stretched out along a 600-mile front when the Germans unexpectedly struck. They chose an 80-mile sector in the Ardennes forest of Belgium an
d Luxemburg, an area that had seen bitter fighting during World War I as well. The Panzers quickly overwhelmed the thinly-held American line.

  Sgt. Pat Pagano’s platoon was among the 101st Airborne Division troops rushed into Bastogne to shore up the forces that had been overrun and were retreating in disarray. He found himself facing bitterly cold weather. Fog and minimal visibility prevented any help from the air. Then the snow began to fall, making conditions even more unbearable.

  Pat learned the Nazis had rapidly encircled Bastogne, and on December 22, a team of German officers appeared under a flag of truce to demand the division’s surrender by its commander, Brig. Gen. Anthony McAuliffe. After the general gave his famous “Nuts!” reply, the enemy became even more determined. Pat’s platoon held a perimeter area on the outskirts of the town. When the artillery that had pounded them all day suddenly let up, he knew something was about to happen. Something bad. The terrain was hilly and covered with trees, their branches bowed under the weight of the snow. Located on a small promontory, he had as good a view as possible of the area, though he could see only a limited distance in the snow. His platoon spread out to one side.

  The enemy struck suddenly, overrunning and capturing the first squad. The second squad, in the center, their weakest link, was pushed back and headed for cover, though the Germans did not pursue. An errant shot, which may have been friendly fire, struck the platoon commander. He suffered a serious head wound. Pat ordered two members of his third squad to evacuate the officer. Staring into the snow, Pat saw the Germans approaching from two directions. One group moved stealthily along a rock wall, where they were silhouetted against the snow.

  Pat was angry. His anger was directed at the people responsible for all this carnage and destruction in the first place, Adolph Hitler and his generals back in Berlin. But the enemy soldiers who carried out their orders were equally culpable. The small town of Bastogne was a shambles. He had seen far too many bright-eyed young men literally torn apart by exploding artillery shells.

  This was decision time, and he knew what had to be done. From the numbers involved and the tactics used, the assault did not appear a determined one, designed to make a breakthrough. More likely this was a probing action, he thought, probing in search of a weak spot. And if one were reported, the troops would come pouring in like water through a crack in a dam. The lieutenant had called for backup, but Pat knew reinforcements would take time to arrive, and should the enemy penetrate any deeper, the whole division could be in peril.

  He felt the anger smoldering inside, but an even stronger emotion was determination. A determination that he would be the victor, not the victim. The old dictum was “know thyself,” and he was certain he was the best marksman in his outfit. Turning to the soldiers behind him, he whispered, “Stay down.” He aimed his carbine and squeezed off a quick volley that dropped five Germans along the rock wall. Then he ordered his men to provide him with covering fire.

  The adrenaline was flowing. A man on a mission now, his mission had become intensely personal. He was responsible for his men, for his unit. He had to take whatever action he could to blunt the threat.

  Leaning forward in a crouch, he dashed across the snow-covered ground to the wall and dived behind it, his move at least partially masked by the staccato blast of friendly fire. Hidden by the wall, he saw the second group of Germans advancing beyond a line of trees. Resting his weapon on a chink in the wall, he trained his sights on the column moving forward. He downed five more men before the rest turned to flee.

  Just as the first soldiers of a reserve platoon arrived with orders to hold the line, Pat dashed out ahead, calling on his men to follow. They quickly caught up with the retreating enemy soldiers, who had the captured squad in tow. Motioning his men to spread out, Pat fired his carbine and yelled “Halt!” in German. They wound up freeing the men and captured ten Germans. The final count: ten enemy killed, ten captured, one American squad freed.

  Two days later, on Christmas Eve, the skies cleared and the beleaguered troops cheered as American transport planes began dropping supplies. The day after Christmas, General Patton’s Third Army broke through the German lines and set the town of Bastogne free. The 101st Airborne’s heroic stand had raised spirits back home as well as along the Allied front. For his part in the battle, Pat Pagano was presented the Medal of Honor by President Truman in a White House ceremony the following July.

  Recalling that wintry day as he lay in the darkness of the motel room in Natchez, two thoughts stuck in his troubled mind. One had bugged him occasionally over the years. He never doubted that he had done the right thing on the battlefield, but the memory of killing all those soldiers was disconcerting. It lurked in the back of his mind, concealed there as a disturbing reminder of what he had once done, what he had once been. Might some day, some situation trigger a return of that deadly Pat Pagano?

  The other thought dealt with his current problem. He could not help but compare his situation now to what he had faced back then. The conclusion was obvious. His present plight was every bit as critical as that day in 1944. There were two major differences, however, both of them negative. This time the weapons and the element of surprise lay in the hands of the enemy. If only he had brought along his gun instead of that pepper spray pen, which was next to useless against such firepower.

  15

  A light sleeper, Bryce went on instant alert at the shrill sound of the telephone. He looked over at the table, then across to Troy, now a shapeless lump that might have been a chunk of marble in the bed for all the movement the ringing noise had produced. Could it be the New York mobster, he wondered? Why would he call? To bait a trap?

  The phone rang again. Troy still had not budged as Bryce lifted the receiver. “Hello.”

  “Troy...Bryce?”

  He recognized Fred’s deep voice and relaxed. “This is Bryce. What time is it?”

  “Did I wake you up? It’s about seven o’clock. I didn’t know about you, but I know Troy sleeps like a log. He carries a little old travel alarm with him, but it’s not loud enough to rouse a hibernating bear. Thought I’d better check and be sure you boys were awake.”

  “I am now. Glad you called, though. Looks like Troy might sleep till noon. See you at breakfast.”

  Troy had finally stirred. He turned over and squinted up through narrow slits as Bryce hung up the phone.

  “You talking to somebody?”

  “Your friend Fred Scott. It was a wake-up call. Time to rise and shine, Troy.” He recalled the way his dad used to come in to awaken him and his brother in a sing-song voice. “Let’s go, boys. Time to rise and shine. Three will get you five the sun’ll shine all day.” He was forever quoting odds on everything. Bryce wondered what kind of odds he might give on the chances of his son surviving this trip.

  Troy lumbered out of bed just as his alarm began to beep on the bedside table. He reached over to silence the clock, then stood beside the bed for a moment, stretching tentatively and rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll get my shower,” he said. He had begun to stir in earnest. “You can go ahead and shave if you want to.”

  Bryce shaved and dressed and switched on the TV. Using the remote, he tuned in the Weather Channel and saw a large map of the U.S. Snow and rain and clouds dotted the map, along with a few glowing balls of sun. Things looked basically normal. Snow in the Rockies, cold around the Great Lakes, rain in the East (it had moved out of Mississippi during the night) and warm temperatures in the South. Hurricane Nora in the Caribbean was picking up speed in the open sea and headed for Mexico’s Yucatan peninsula. He had never been in a hurricane, but he had often thought it would be interesting to experience one. Some other time, though. And not in Mexico. He had been there, and though he found the country intriguing, Montezuma’s Revenge was more than enough to deal with all by itself.

  When Troy came out of the shower, he glanced at the TV. “Did you see a local forecast?”

  “Sunny. High of seventy-five.”

 
“You bring any walking shorts?”

  “Yeah. I think I put in a pair.”

  Troy had a devilish grin. “Why don’t we wear ’em and give the ladies a thrill?”

  “You’re something else,” Bryce said. “I don’t know that these old legs would thrill anybody.”

  “Believe me, it doesn’t take much for most of these old gals.”

  Bryce changed from jeans into light blue shorts. Then they packed their bags, except for toothbrushes, and strolled across to the motel office. The sun was a pale red ball in the hazy sky. Warming rays radiating outward indicated the slight chill in the air would not be around for long. They met a few early risers straggling away from the breakfast area as they entered.

  “Better get you one of those muffins before they’re all gone,” Polly said, her chubby face all smiles. She clung to a fat muffin wrapped in a napkin.

  “I believe all that woman thinks about is food,” Troy said.

  The welcome aroma of fresh-brewed coffee greeted them, along with the pungently sweetish odor of cinnamon. A long table held muffins and donuts, an array of fresh fruit, a large coffee urn and pitchers of milk. As he followed Troy toward the display of food, Bryce glanced around the room. He spotted Fred and Betty Lou seated at a round table in one corner. Two other couples had joined them, including the Jack Spratt-in-reverse pair, Horace and Clara Holly. The small lobby would accommodate only a limited number of people, with barely enough seating room for two tables.

  Holding a cup of steaming coffee and a paper plate bearing a large cinnamon-flavored muffin, Bryce strolled over to the corner table.

  “Well, I see you got him up,” said Fred, nodding toward Troy. Then he eyed their shorts. “You boys must be expecting summery weather.”

  Troy shrugged. “The TV said seventy-five.”

  Fred looked back at Bryce. “Ready for a little sight-seeing this morning?”