I'd killed Luc Villard in Algeria with a knife slid between his ribs. He wasn't resisting or shooting at me. But I'd deliberately pulled a knife and ended his life. For a brief time, he had been the enemy, officially. But when I'd killed him, he was technically an ally. I'd had murdered him. I'd had to murder him. It was impossible to let him go on living after what he'd done. It was my decision, and all the blood in his veins couldn't wash away the fear and shame I'd felt, not knowing for certain if I would be man enough to take Diana into my arms and love her after what had happened.
Harry had saved Diana, stopped her from ending her life, and as certain as pulling the hammer back on a revolver, the next click fell into place. Harry Dickinson. I owed him for that, but I'd repaid the debt by killing him. Here in Sicily, in the Valley of the Temples, the night before the invasion. Click. I felt Legs lay his hands on my shoulders. My head was pounding, I was dizzy, and it felt like there was a weight pressing down on my chest. I didn't know if I could stand, but Genovese had his. 45 leveled at me.
"Up," he said.
"Fuck you," I told him. I had nothing left but a curse.
Vito's mouth curled into a sneer. He was about to speak when the door flew open and Muschetto stepped into the room. " Molti tedeschi ," he spat out. " Andiamo."
"Germans?" Genovese said in disbelief, his eyes wide. Muschetto vanished outside and we heard the sound of the Fiat motor starting. I jumped up, the dizziness gone, grabbed Legs by the arms and threw him at Genovese. The two of them collapsed to the floor as Genovese's chair tipped back. I knew Kaz was following me as I ran out the rear door, but I didn't look back. I ran-past the grape arbor, around the house, trampling beans and daisies as I went, diving for cover behind a jumble of rocks.
I squeezed my eyes shut, but I could still see Harry, coming around the stone column of an ancient temple, not knowing that I'd just rolled a grenade in his direction. I'd hesitated a fraction of a second, but that was all the time it had taken for the blast. That was the last thing I remembered, except for fleeting glimpses of Roberto helping me.
I'd killed Harry.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The sun was rising at my back, lighting the far hillside, illuminating figures in tan desert uniforms and rimless helmets scurrying down the stony slopes. German paratroopers. I didn't care. The burden of memories weighed me down, and I wished I'd never recalled a thing. Remembering what Sciafani had said about my being fortunate to be able to examine my life, I spit in the dust.
"Billy," Kaz whispered, "what should we do?"
"Good question."
I eased my head around the boulder we'd hidden behind and looked at the house. The Fiat was puttering toward the road, weighed down by Muschetto and his men. Not far behind was the jeep with Legs at the wheel and Genovese hanging on, fleeing from an encounter with a gang far tougher than theirs. Dust roiled up from the vehicles, leaving a swirling marker showing the direction in which they were headed. I heard soft thumps in the distance and a short whistling sound, then a pair of small explosions near the main road, followed by another salvo. Mortar fire, hurrying the enemy convoy on their way. The Fiat, with the jeep close behind, made it to the road between rounds and faded from view.
"The truck?" Kaz asked.
"We'd never make it to the barn. Besides, the Krauts have zeroed in on the road now."
"Where do you think Banville is?" Kaz asked, squeezing himself small behind the boulders.
"Unless he got out of the barn in the confusion," I said, "he's trapped."
I tried to think it through, figure out what to do next, but everything was mixed up-Genovese and Villard, Harry saving Diana, then Harry at the temple. There were too many memories, too soon, too terrible. I wanted someplace to rest and think, to sit out again under the grape arbor in the cool night air and let the memories come again and again until I could absorb them, until they were no longer razors slicing through my mind. I rested my cheek on the warm, rough, chalky rock and wished the Germans would keep on going, simply march down the road and let us be.
I heard the muffled sound of an engine.
"Look!" Kaz shook my arm. The barn doors had swung open. The truck emerged at top speed and careened toward the road, tires spinning and gravel flying. Banville. He fishtailed, regained control, and flew by the rows of purple cauliflower, heading for the main road. As he slowed to turn, the explosions started again, the mortars leading him and concentrating their fire on the road. Banville couldn't stop in time. He hit the brakes, sending up clouds of dust, but he slid directly into the next rounds, the small truck lifting up and toppling over, the gas tank exploding as it rolled into the ditch at the side of the road. He should've stayed in the barn, he shouldn't have braked, he should have sneaked out on foot. What did it matter? In this war there were enough shoulds and should nots to get any man killed sooner or later.
A scuffling sound, shoes stumbling over stones, came from our rear. I was glad of a reason to look away from the burning wreck. It was Sciafani, peering at us from behind a prickly cactus. I pressed my finger to my lips, then waved him over to us, motioning him to stay low, my palm down to the ground. He'd been at war long enough to understand, and to know that those mortar crews were watching the terrain for any other movement, covering the advance of their pals.
"They let me go," he said. "They gave me this." He handed me a revolver.
"You don't want it?" I asked.
"No, I am done with war."
"Those Germans are not," Kaz said, keeping an eye out at the edge of the boulder.
"No, but one revolver will not do much good against them," Sciafani said sensibly.
"Why did they give it to you?" I asked, wondering at the generosity of the thugs who had held us at gunpoint.
"Muschetto said I might need it to get home. They did not seem to have any argument with me."
"No, they wouldn't, I guess. Listen, I'll help you get home, but I want you to help me too."
"Help you with what?" Sciafani asked.
"Help me find happiness."
"Ah, yes," he said, grinning. "But first we must twice pass through purgatory. Happiness is not too far off my path so, yes, I will show you the way." A burst of machine-gun fire interrupted us. We all ducked, but it wasn't aimed in our direction. Bullets struck the stone house, then played over the barn, then returned to the house. They were making sure there were no more surprises.
Shouts from the orange grove rose up as the machine gun stopped, and Germans slowly advanced from the foot of the hill toward the house. I could pick out German commands and pleading words in Italian as I watched Signor and Signora Ciccolo come into view, prodded by rifles out of their hiding place in the trees. A German officer, waving his pistol, was yelling at the old man, who was shaking his head in denial, clutching at his shirt, then extending his arm in a Fascist salute as he kept moving ahead of soldiers behind him. The officer stopped, turned on Ciccolo, and pointed to the open barn.
Oh Jesus, no, I thought. No, don't let it be true. Was the old man so greedy as to betray us to the Mafia, then betray the Mafia to the Germans, all while trying to keep the truck in the barn secret from both? Ciccolo extended his arms toward the barn and shrugged, as if to say the appearance of the truck was a total surprise to him too; how could he have known?
The officer didn't buy it. He raised his pistol and shot him twice in the chest. Ciccolo collapsed as if his legs had turned to jelly, sprawled with his knees up in the air, the rest of him laid out slackly in a way that said dead, dead, dead. His wife shrieked and fell to the ground, her hands lifting his head to her bosom, as the officer holstered his pistol and walked by her. The other soldiers ignored her, and soon she was left alone with her dead husband, his blood soaking into the ground at the edge of his peaceful orange grove. Many bad things, Vito, many bad things.