'Perhaps,' said Sciafani. 'Or perhaps that person was there, and is now gone.'
'Either way, it's all we've got. I need to finish this mission, if only to find out what happened, and why Harry died. I owe him that much.'
'Remember, Billy,' Kaz said, with a nervous glance at Sciafani, 'the mission is still important. We must have the cooperation of Don Calo and the Sicilian Mafia, especially as we advance into the mountains.'
'Yeah, just make sure those American mobsters don't get in the way. When you get back, check around and find out who the hell in AMGOT hired those two goons. And be careful. JAG runs Civil Affairs and Civil Affairs runs AMGOT.'
'Do you think there is a link between the charges against you and these mobsters?'
'I don't know what to think, but don't take any chances. And look into a Lieutenant Andrews in the Signals Company that's set up near Capo Soprano. I think he's on Vito's payroll too, just like Rocko was. And see if the name Charlotte comes up. Whoever she is, she's heavily involved.'
Kaz nodded his agreement, then spoke to Sciafani.
'Dottore, we are depending upon you to lead Billy where he needs to go. You must not abandon him. If you leave or betray him, I will find you, in Palermo or in your village. Now, or after the war. And I will kill you, do you understand?'
'Certainly. A man would be honored to have such a friend avenge him. To say this does you credit. I will guide your friend, and not because of your threat. I am not a Fascist, and I do not care to watch the tedeschi shoot any more old men.' Sciafani appeared proud to have been threatened with death.
Kaz extended his hand, and Sciafani shook it. Then I did, and held on to Kaz for an extra heartbeat, grasping him by the arm. 'Stay safe,' I said.
'Good advice,' he said. 'I will follow you with the cavalry, like in your Western movies. I have already gone through purgatory, so perhaps it will be easy for me to find where happiness hides.'
He let go of my hand, locked eyes with me for a moment, and left us at a slow trot through the trees until he disappeared in the leafy green.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
We walked, cautiously at first, keeping to the bushes and small trees that divided the cultivated fields, blending in with shadows and staying low where the ground rose and fell. Periodically we stopped to listen, swiveling our heads to catch the sounds of booted feet hurrying after us, but all we heard was the chattering and warbling of sparrows and starlings as they flitted among the plants and trees. We walked for hours, avoiding the few workers we saw in the fields and crossing dirt roads only after checking to see that no one was in sight. We walked east, by the sun. As it rose in the blue sky so did the heat. We crossed a stream, and drank from it, lying flat and letting the cool, clear water soak our chests as we gulped it down. We talked, at first in whispers. Then we grew bolder and spoke up, our own voices giving us strength, proving to ourselves that we were not afraid. But by the time the sun was directly above us, we were reduced to grunts and fingers pointing the direction to take, a single word serving where a conversation had earlier. We walked.
The ground changed from rich soil to crumbling, gritty reddish dirt mixed with stone. Dust coated our legs and floated up to choke us. We were higher up now, where there were no streams to drink from, less growth to hide in, and no low-lying gullies to walk along. We followed a trail that left us outlined against the hill that rose in front of us. I turned and saw the landscape below, green folds of cultivated fields and the yellows and browns of weeds and wild growth wilting in the arid heat. Anyone below could as easily see us. But Sciafani had chosen his route well; there was not a single person in sight, as well as no water or shelter from the sun. At that moment, I would have surrendered to a German or Italian patrol for the promise of water. I had to remind myself I could get a bullet just as easily, and that even if I didn't, I'd still be facing murder charges.
I tried to think about other things as I followed Sciafani up the trail. My breath came in big gulps that never seemed to get enough oxygen to my lungs. I kept my eyes on the ground in front of me and thought about home. About birds, actually, and all the things my mom had taught me about them. She had a feeder set up outside her kitchen window, and when I was small it was my job to put out the bird food and pieces of old bread she'd saved. Starlings, like the ones in the field below, were always pecking around the ground and sitting in the tree in our small backyard. She didn't like starlings much, since there were so many of them and they drove away the other birds. She loved cardinals, who always traveled in pairs, the bright red male and the gray female with her flecks of red. I liked them too, the mom and dad cardinals, as they flew in together and nibbled at seeds, then swooped off in unison, an invisible command driving them both. I always wondered how they knew when to fly away, and where they went.
I wished I had some of that stale bread I used to crumble up in my small fingers and scatter on the flat feeder Dad had built. Maybe at this moment, early morning in Boston, Mom was opening the window and tossing out seed and bread crumbs, maybe watching the cardinals flutter in for a landing and remembering how we used to watch them. Funny, I'd been away from home for more than a year, and that was the first time I'd thought about those birds. It was nice but sad too. I decided the jury was still out on the value of remembering things. Everything that had come back to me was either a mixed bag or very bad news.
I realized we weren't climbing anymore. We'd come around the crest of a hill and the trail continued on flat below it. Sciafani sat on a rock by the side of the trail, and I joined him, thankful for a rest. Below us, rows of olive trees curved downward to a sluggish stream that drifted through the valley.
'Ravanusa,' Sciafani said, pointing to the next hill. 'A small town. We should go around it.'
'Germans?' I asked.
'Or Fascists,' he said. 'It is all the same. We must find water.'
I watched Sciafani rub his eyes with the palms of his hands. He had an odd habit of shifting the conversation in midstream, as if he didn't want to think about any one thing for too long. He raised one hand to shield his eyes and gazed at the horizon to the west.
'It will be dark soon. We need shelter too,' he said.
'Do you know anyone in Ravanusa?'
'Yes, but no one I could trust.'
'No family, you mean,' I said.
'Exactly, my friend. You are beginning to understand Sicily perhaps.'
'It's not so different really. That's how I got my job back home. All the men in my family are policemen. My father is a detective, and so was I.'
'And what are you now?'
I opened my mouth to answer, but there were no words. I remembered that I was Uncle Ike's special investigator, but that sounded hollow, nothing but a title. Who was I now? A killer, an assassin, a deserter, a coward, maybe all those things.
'Let's go,' I said. 'We need water.'
Sciafani led the way into the olive grove.
Who am I? I knew my name, knew my rank, but didn't seem to know myself.
Remember who you are.
I heard my father's voice, saw him leaning over the table at Kirby's, his tie loose the way it always was at the end of the day. I was still in my patrolman's blues, a rookie, still walking the beat in my neighborhood so folks could keep an eye out for me. They had.
It was all because of Al. Alphonse DeAngelo, a guy I went to school with. He was Sicilian, and I'd known him since the fourth grade when we'd had a fistfight at recess and ended up in the principal's office, each of us telling the other he was lucky Miss Bayley had broken up the fight before it really got started. We both had hot tempers. We were sent home with notes for our parents. Al ripped his up in the street and tossed it over his shoulder. I brought mine home, and Dad got out the strap. I should have known right then and there Al was going to go in one direction and me in the other. But before our paths diverged, we became pals, the original beef between us forgotten as we ran through the streets and parks, fished in the bay, played hooky, and caused all sorts of minor mischief. That summer after fourth grade, we'd play mumblety-peg with our jackknives, flipping them into the
