"Gaetano," I said, sticking my hand out to shake his. I wanted to get some sense of the man before we roared off into the dark with him.
"Bill-lee," he said back, grinning as he shook my hand in a grip that could crush walnuts. " Ci diverticemo."
"He says this will be fun," Don Calo translated. "He never liked Laspada."
"A man of good taste. Thank you, Don Calo, for everything." I offered my hand but he ignored it, instead giving me a pair of kisses, just like the ones he'd traded with Sciafani. I was honored, since he hadn't even killed anyone in my immediate family.
The lupara boys cheered and Gaetano shouted my name. I mumbled my thanks again and tried to look as heroic as the situation called for. I climbed into the back of the truck with the others as the ancient engine rumbled into life, and after one of the mafiusu opened a crate of Sten guns and handed them around, off we went. Through the open canvas back I saw Don Calo waving, like a friendly relation after you've paid a visit and stayed a day too long.
It was after dark when we stopped. The drivers killed their engines at the same moment. A profound silence draped itself around us, broken too soon by the sound of men walking on gravel, the crunching of stones beneath booted feet ominously mixed with metallic echoes of bolts snapping back and driving home the first bullet into the chamber. Gaetano signaled us to stay quiet and stay put. One finger to the lips, then down to the ground, then two fingers to the eyes. No sounds, wait here, let your eyes grow accustomed to the dark.
I watched details emerge from the pitch-black night, hills and trees taking shape and showing detail beneath the cloud-darkened sky. A half moon glowed behind a break in the clouds, a sliver of silver light cascading over us. Breezes gusted and swayed the trees, leaves rustling and branches creaking, the perfect cover for approaching Cammarata; sounds and shadows we could get lost in as we descended on the village like ghosts with steel in our hands.
Gaetano nodded. We left the road and scrambled up a rocky hill, each man staying close to the one in front of him so we'd know who was who when the time came for it to matter. Sciafani stayed with the vehicles that had been pulled off the road in a grove of orange trees. I could tell he had no desire to kill again, to take part in this. The journey of revenge had broken him, uncovering his strength and his weakness, leaving him stranded in that second grave. For the rest of his life, the death of the sacristan would haunt him, a mortal sin he could never absolve himself of.
As I gripped the hard, cold metal of the Sten gun, the leather strap biting into my shoulder, I saw Villard, eyes wide open, mouth formed to ask a question I never heard. Why hadn't his death broken me? Was I too far gone for guilt and atonement? I envied Sciafani in a way. He'd gone as far as he dared, and now he knew he'd never go a step farther. And here I was, creeping through the night with an intent to leave men bleeding or dead. Out there, ahead of Gaetano, someone didn't yet know he had seen the sun for the last time. He might be an evil man, cruel to his wife and children. Or maybe he loved them and kissed his children on the forehead before he went out with his shotgun. Either way, they would never see him again.
I wondered if Dad had ever thought about Basher like that. I'd bet dollars to doughnuts Uncle Dan hadn't, and that Dad had never told him about digging two graves. But he'd told me, and right now I wished he hadn't.
A hand went up in front of me, and I froze. We were near the top of a ridge, the outline of shrubs about chest-high. Gaetano moved back, signaling Nick and me to move up, low, with him. We crawled through the undergrowth until the glow of lights appeared below us. Cammarata wasn't much of a surprise. Church tower on a hill, big wall around it, houses tumbling down the slope. The ridge we were on faced the church, and the houses were below us on the opposite hill. The main road cut through the valley beyond the church. No vehicles or people were moving.
"Guarda," Gaetano said in a whisper, pointing to a house at the end of a side road.
I tried to see what he was pointing at. Soft light, probably from candles, spilled from small, square windows in the gray stone house. Next to the door, the glow of a cigarette burned bright, showing a guard seated on a bench, shotgun across his legs. Opposite him in the street I could barely make out a dark mass that seemed to absorb the little light seeping out of the windows.
"What is that?" I asked Nick.
"Le donne," Gaetano said with a grin.
"Women?" Nick said, squinting his eyes and crawling closer.
The clouds broke and a half moon lit the scene below, reflecting off the light gray stonework. I could make out a dozen women standing in a semicircle in front of the guard, who ground out his cigarette with his toe. Their long black dresses, black shawls, and black head scarves drew the night around them as they stood unmoving, silent, rooted to the road, watching the house where their men were imprisoned. The only contrast was a wisp of white hair poking out from under a scarf or two. The guard lit another cigarette. He seemed nervous, one hand on the shotgun, the other tapping ashes. I didn't blame him.
Gaetano whispered for Carlo, the youngest of his lupara boys. Carlo crawled forward and after rapid-fire orders, gave Gaetano his shotgun and took off his vest and cap. Gaetano gave him a small Beretta and a bottle half full of grappa. Carlo scurried off as Nick and Gaetano spoke, the rest of the gang leaning in to listen. I looked at Harry and shrugged. It was a good Sicilian shrug. I was getting the hang of this.
"OK,"Nick said. "Here's the deaclass="underline" Carlo will come staggering down the street in five minutes, pretending to be drunk. If he can get close enough to use his knife, he'll take out the guard with it. If not, with the Beretta. Then I go in the front door with Carlo and Gaetano; the rest of you go around the back. Billy and Harry, you two stay outside to cover the front in case they have reinforcements. Gaetano doesn't want you inside since you won't understand him if he gives an order."
"Good plan," I said. "Can Carlo pull it off?"
"Carlo's good with his knife, don't let that baby face fool you. He already is a man of honor."
It wasn't the time to debate the definition of honor, so I nodded and followed Gaetano and Nick down a gully that gave us cover as we moved up to the rear of the house across the street from our target. We hunkered down behind it and waited. Two minutes passed like twenty. Finally I could make out Carlo, singing off-key and calling for Carmela. Taking advantage of the diversion, we ran to a wall that bordered the road and contained a small garden on the side of the house. Peering over the top, I could see the guard looking down the road toward Carlo. The women didn't move.
"Dov'e Carmela?" Carlo implored the women to help him find Carmela, going from one to the other, taking their hands and kissing one or two on the cheek. They ignored him and he turned to the guard, offering his bottle.
"Sai Carmela?" he asked the guard, who didn't accept the drink.
The guard rose and pointed his shotgun at Carlo, motioning him to move on. Carlo cringed, offering abject apologies, holding one hand palm out. The guard nodded and went back to his seat. He never made it. Carlo tossed the bottle to one of the women and had his knife out as soon as the guard turned his back. Before he took a full step Carlo had one hand under his chin as the other cut across his neck. Blood sprayed against stone, and Carlo let go of the guard's chin so he could catch the shotgun before it clattered to the ground.
As he kneeled over the body, looking like a feral child, Carlo's eyes darted up and down the street and back to the door of the house. Gaetano and Nick vaulted over the wall and ran to the door. Carlo blew a kiss to the woman holding the bottle and joined them at the door, shotgun at the ready. Gaetano put his hand on the latch, wrapping his fingers around it. As he looked to the other two men, the line of women silently parted, smartly leaving empty space between them in case gunfire erupted when the door opened.