“Flint?” Danny said.
“Yeah,” I said. “He got away.”
“Why didn’t you shoot?”
“I did. I only had one round left, and I missed. What did he say to you?” I laid Danny down, leaning him against the fender of the car, next to Big Mike.
“He said the joker would be waiting for you, downriver.”
“That’s all?”
“Yeah. He told me that he was granting you a favor, like you asked. Since I hadn’t disappointed him.”
“You have any idea what that meant?” I pulled open his uniform, sprinkling sulfa on the wound, and applied a compress from the first-aid pack that Cosgrove had retrieved from the car.
“No. I have no idea what anything means.” Danny gritted his teeth, grimacing with pain. The bullet was still in there, nestled in a mix of shattered bone and muscle. He needed a hospital, and so did Big Mike.
“How is he?” I asked Cosgrove, who was trying to clean Big Mike’s wound with water from a canteen.
“Breathing, is all I can say.”
“Thanks for getting the drop on Flint. That was just in time.”
“Old trick I learned in Cairo. Tighten your muscles when you’re being tied up. When you relax them, you’ve got a bit of wiggle room. Unfortunate, Flint getting away like that. Jerry should have no trouble bagging him, though, out alone with a broken wrist.”
“Yeah,” I said, not certain what he’d seen.
“But your brother, he’s safe now, isn’t he? Banged up, but he’s seen the elephant and will live to tell the tale. Not every man here will be able to say the same.”
I had nothing to say, nothing left. I felt a tremendous weariness settle in my body. I slumped down next to Danny, as I heard the sound of vehicles pulling to a halt and boots stomping on the ground. Jeeps, an ambulance, even a truck full of Carabinieri. I put my arm around Danny and held him close, his blood sticky and thick. I watched Big Mike, willing him to wake up and shake off the pounding he’d taken. All this suffering, and Flint had gotten away. But I had Danny, and I prayed I’d made the right choice. And that I could live with myself.
Harding, Kaz, and Luca hovered over me, but I couldn’t speak, couldn’t answer their questions or look into their eyes. Medics pushed them away and took Danny from me. Others picked up Big Mike and put him on a stretcher. Graves Registration men wandered around with the mattress covers, searching for the dead. Finally, someone came for me.
CHAPTER FORTY
“Your sergeant has a subdural hematoma,” Doc Cassidy said. “We’re prepping him for surgery right now.”
We were back at the hospital, in a small tent that had been set aside for our banged-up group. Danny’s shoulder was encased in bandages. Cosgrove sported a bandage over his right temple, and for some reason I was on a cot, too. Harding and Kaz sat at a small table by the open flaps.
“Will he be okay?” I asked.
“If he got here fast enough,” Cassidy said. “I’ll let you know as soon as I can.”
“Can I see him?” I asked, sitting up and getting my feet on the floor.
“You stay put, doctor’s orders. You were disoriented, in shock when you came in. I want to watch you for another day.”
“How long have I been here?” I asked, not remembering the journey here or anything since lights out back at the canal.
“A couple of hours. You don’t remember?” Cassidy pushed me back down on the cot and peered into my eyes.
“No, I don’t think so. How’s Danny?”
“I’m fine, Billy,” he said from his cot, a sloppy grin on his face. “Listen to the doctor and lie down.”
“Is he?” I asked Cassidy in a whisper. “Is he really fine?”
“He’s feeling no pain right now, due to the morphine we gave him. We got the bullet out, but he’ll need another operation in Naples. That’s a million-dollar wound he’s got there.”
That was all I needed to hear. I closed my eyes.
Time passed. I must’ve slept, because I know I dreamed. Of home. Danny, Mom and Dad. Uncle Dan telling stories at the tavern. Walking the beat, playing baseball and mumblety-peg. Sunday dinners. It was all nice until I lost Danny, and I was just a little kid myself, alone in a strange city, and my hands were smeared with blood.
“Billy, what is it, what’s wrong?” It was Kaz, seated by my cot.
“Huh?”
“You cried out in your sleep.”
“Bad dream, I guess. Where’s Danny? How’s Big Mike? How long…?”
Kaz answered me, but I fell back asleep, the thought that Doc Cassidy had given me something bubbling up from the tiredness inside me.
It was light outside when I awoke again. I was alone in the tent. I must have slept through the night, I thought, then saw I was wearing pajamas. When the hell did I put these on? I struggled to get up, felt a little dizzy, then lay down for a minute.
“Boyle? Boyle, can you hear me?” It was Doc Cassidy, shaking my arm. I must’ve dozed off. I opened my eyes, and a lantern was the only light in the tent. How could it be night already?
“Yeah, I hear you. What’s going on? Where’s Danny?”
“In Naples by now. How are you feeling?”
“Thirsty. Hungry.”
“Good,” he said, helping me sit up and giving me a glass of water. “I was worried about you.”
“I must’ve been tired. How long have I been out?”
“Forty-eight hours.”
“Impossible,” I said, although I knew it wasn’t.
“I gave you a mild sedative when you came in here. You seemed agitated, in a state of shock. But it shouldn’t have knocked you out for two days.”
“Big Mike?”
“I don’t know. We relieved the pressure on his brain, and Harding got him on a hospital ship headed to Naples, where he can be treated by a specialist.”
“What kind of specialist?”
“A brain surgeon. Billy, he didn’t wake up. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t by now. Your Colonel Harding didn’t want to take any chances.”
“Danny’s doing all right, isn’t he?” Please.
“That shoulder is going to bother him whenever it rains. After a few months of physical therapy, he’ll have at least ninety percent use of it. Could have been worse.”
“Yeah. So he’s going home?”
“Definitely. He’s a lucky kid. He told me about Flint, and how he let him go. And being wounded by shrapnel. Yep, one lucky kid.”
“Can I get out of here now?”
“Can you stand?” I got my legs off the cot and stood. Wobbled a bit, but stayed vertical. I looked at Cassidy. “If you can stay upright, you can go,” he said.
“What was wrong with me?” I asked as I shuffled around, testing my legs.
“Shock, or to be more accurate, acute stress reaction. Pressure. Exhaustion. Moral dilemma. Guilt.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing at all. Just words from my psychiatric residency. Here. I saved a souvenir for you.” He pressed a small hunk of metal into my hand. “Keep your head down, Boyle.”
I waited until he left. I opened my palm and saw the misshapen but unmistakable shape of a. 30 slug from an
