from the north, and it looks like the Americans will have secured Porto Empedocle in no time. Then we'll be caught in a vise between them. Wait here. I will arrange transportation for you.'
He left us. Sciafani stood and paced, stopped, drank his glass of wine, then paced some more. The church bells rang and explosions boomed, more menacing as they crept toward us. Sciafani ran his hands through his hair as he looked out the narrow window.
'Will it ever stop?' He covered his ears but couldn't look away. More explosions ripped at the edges of the city below us, overpowering the small arms fire that rattled in the streets. Houses were burning. I thought of the old lady who'd pulled us in and hoped she was safe. Whoever you serve, men will die. Tommaso had gotten that right. I went to the window and stood by Sciafani. For a long time neither of us spoke.
'What is it, Enrico? What's eating at you?'
'Many bad things, my friend, many bad things.'
We watched the explosions. They became less frequent and then stopped. But the fires they left burned and spread, red flame and black smoke engulfing the city.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Half an hour later Tommy the C showed us out through the side door of a storage room beneath the sacristy. It led to a narrow courtyard between the cathedral and the city wall. He'd given Sciafani a small burlap sack stuffed with bread, cheese, and a bottle of wine, and the dottore wore it suspended from a strap over his shoulder, looking more and more like a hobo. A black sedan sat idling, its driver leaning against the hood, smoking a cigarette. Tommy had put on his black robe again, but the top was unbuttoned, his big pistol within easy reach. He nodded to the driver, who crushed out his cigarette. It was another Fiat-a Balilla-sort of a miniature touring car. It had running boards and a shiny grille, and would've looked pretty fancy if the driver hadn't been leaning against it with his arm draped over the roof. It looked like a half-size version of a 1930 Model A.
'Good luck with the Germans and Don Calo,' he said.
He watched us get in the backseat, the driver alone in front, and opened the heavy wooden door to return to the cathedral.
' Un momento,' Sciafani said to the driver, holding up one finger. He scampered out, called 'Signor Corso,' and followed him inside. I wondered if he'd forgotten something or had decided to apologize or wanted to say a prayer. None of these options made sense. Less than a minute passed before the door reopened. Sciafani smiled an apology to the driver and slid into the backseat with me.
'What was that about?' I asked as the driver hit the accelerator.
'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.
