Sentimental Journey Page 16

  Five kills.

  And he felt nothing.

  PART SIX

  NORTH AFRICA, 1941

  “CALL OF THE CANYON”

  Sometimes God answered your prayers. The rattling, squeaking truck was on level ground. No mountain roads. No more hairpin turns. No heart-stopping moments where Kitty imagined her own death: free-falling in a rickety, smelly old truck off a high cliff into some vast Moroccan valley, sandwiched between a man who sweated garlic and turmeric and a U.S. Army officer with a cocky tone behind most of his words.

  Once they were out of the mountains, they took a turn away from the roads leading to the coast and towns, and instead, cut across the vast, open steppe that bordered the pre-Sahara. Cassidy told her they were heading for a desolate flatland near a gorge at the edge of the Hamada du Guir, where they would meet a plane to fly them safely to Gibraltar.

  Not long afterward, the road had changed from pavement to hard dirt. Then, about two hours ago, they’d had a flat tire. The stop was more than convenient to her. Apparently the U.S. Army didn’t require its men to have bladders. But then she remembered that her brothers did the same thing. They got behind the wheel of a car, hell-bent for a destination, and they would drive on curses and fumes before they ever stopped.

  Hot, dusty air that tasted chalky and bitter blew inside the truck and whipped her hair into her damp face, where it stuck. She swiped it away and felt the sweat trickle down her underarm and ribs. She was so hot she felt like she was melting.

  For the last hour the truck jarred and bounced along with Cassidy muttering all the time as he rattled the paper maps he’d spread all over the dash. “Is this as fast as this heap’ll go?”

  “Iya. Oui. Yes, Capitaine.”

  “That flat tire cost us time. Too much time. The plane has to take off before dark.”

  Kitty faced him.

  “We’re late,” he said again.

  “We didn’t know that, Captain. We couldn’t tell from the first five hundred times you mumbled it.”

  “You know, Kincaid, we could just—” He stopped mid-word, stiffening in the seat. “What was that?”

  The truck engine hiccupped.

  No one spoke. They were all listening. The engine sounded fine, and they drove along the same hard terrain for another half an hour or so.

  “I need to stop soon.” Her voice sounded cranky and terse. It was embarrassing to have to ask him to stop.

  The truck engine stuttered again, then missed.

  Sabri downshifted, revved the gas. The engine coughed, then died into silence.

  No one spoke for a full minute.

  “Non petrol,” Sabri said, then added, “No gas.”

  Cassidy leaned over her, resting his elbow on her knee. “The gauge says it’s half full.”

  “Mashi mezian. No good.” Sabri opened the door with a loud creak. “Bezzaf petrollkans. In back.” He slammed the door.

  Cassidy swore under his breath and wrenched open his side. His boots crunched on the rocks as he went back to the rear of the truck.

  She scooted out the open door and swept his loose maps out with her. They brushed her leg, then crinkled to the ground.

  As she stood up something small and hard bounced off the top of her foot. She bent down and felt around in the dry dirt, gathering the maps and refolding them. She kept brushing over the dirt, but she couldn’t feel anything else but a bunch of dry twigs, and small stones.

  She stood and stepped back. Her heel crunched down on something. She squatted down and swept her hand over the fine dirt until her fingers hit a round metal disc. She picked it up.

  His compass? Probably. It also felt dented, but the glass was smooth and unbroken.

  She straightened and walked toward the back of the truck, rubbing the compass clean on her skirt. “Captain Cassidy?”

  “Just a minute.” His aggravated voice came from deep inside the truck. “We have to get the gas out of here.”

  She rounded the corner and stopped at the tailgate.

  “Dammit, Sabri! These are only twenty-liter cans.”

  “Iya. Oui. Regardez. Bezzaf petrolkans. There are many,” Sabri told him. “Soixante-cinq.”

  There was silence.

  She leaned inside. “That’s sixty-five.”

  “I speak five languages, Kincaid. I can count in seven.”

  “Sorry. Just trying to help.”

  “Well . . . don’t.”

  Whoa . . . Not a good time to give him his dented compass. She shoved it into her pocket with the maps and waited while they slid gas cans to the edge of the truck with a metallic scraping noise that she felt in her back teeth. Rather like someone sawing a car in half.

  Cassidy jumped down a moment later and took her arm with a blunt grip. “Okay. Look. This is going to take a while, since we get to fill it up five gallons at a time.” He shoved the canteen into her hands. “Here. Take a drink.”

  She took the canteen and drank deeply. “Thanks, my mouth was dry as dust.” She put the cap on and handed it back to him.

  “You keep it. You might want more.” He hesitated.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I figure you might as well go do your business.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Listen, you about bit my head off earlier when I tried to help you walk safely out of sight. This time I’m going to be smarter and ask you first. Do you want help?”

  “I can do it alone, if the terrain’s not rocky.”

  “It’s flat as an A cup.” He grasped her shoulders and turned her. “Straight this way.” He gave her a quick pat on the butt that barely passed for a nudge forward. “There’s a small hill with some rocks in front of it about a hundred feet from here. A beeline. You’ll have some privacy behind those rocks. The land’s flatland all the way, sweetheart. Not a divot. Not a bush. Just dirt.”

  “I’m not your sweetheart.” She started off toward the rocks.

  He laughed, then called out. “You’re not an A cup, either.”

  “NICE WORK IF YOU CAN GET IT”

  J.R. left Sabri to finish filling the gas tank and went to the truck cab. He pulled the binoculars out of his pack and jogged off toward the rise a few hundred yards ahead of them. They had run out of gas at a dip in a ridge, part of an area of rippling valleys in between foothills. From his position back at the truck, he had barely been able to make out the top of the opposite ridge. According to Sabri, the rendezvous point was on the other side of the valley. Another hour, maybe less.

  Now, standing at the crest of the rise, he could easily survey the crusty terrain below, which was covered with dry grass and desert brush. He raised the binoculars and scanned across the wide plain to the distant horizon, turning slowly so he wouldn’t miss anything.

  He’d been edgy. He couldn’t guarantee that the Jerries who’d held Kincaid would head for the coast. The flat tire made him nervous; it gave them time to double back.

  He adjusted the binoculars in sharper focus.

  The hills were about thirty klicks away. He couldn’t see much—a few more clusters of trees against the dusty color of the hillside. He scanned the area twice before he caught a glimmer of metal nestled at the base of a barren foothill to the north.

  He adjusted the binoculars and held them completely still.

  There it was: the dolphin nose of a C-47 transport. The plane was already there and waiting.

  “Damn . . . ” J.R. checked his watch, then looked off at the sun sliding down the sky. They had an hour of sunlight left, maybe a little more.

  He cupped his hands over his mouth and hollered. “The plane’s waiting. Sabri! Stop! That’s enough gas. Start the truck.” He turned toward the rocks. “Kincaid! Hurry up! Christ . . . How long does it take to squat behind a rock?”

  It was a full minute before Kitty came stumbling out from behind the rock, brushing the skirt of her dress down.

  Sabri had ditched the gas cans and was already in the truck cab. He slammed t
he door and started the engine. It sputtered to life.

  J.R. signaled for him to go toward Kitty and pick her up first; then he shouted, “Can you hear me, Kincaid?”

  “I’m blind, not deaf.”

  “Cute. Real cute. Just stay there . . . where you are. It’ll be faster if the truck comes to you.”

  Sabri jammed into gear and turned the vehicle toward Kitty.

  J.R. set off down the rise toward them.

  The truck went about fifty feet. Sabri shifted into second and drove it another ten feet, and exploded in a ball of fire.

  Jesus . . . J.R. blocked his eyes for a second, then lowered his arm and just stood there staring at what was left.

  Sabri was gone. The truck was gone. Smoke spiraled up from the black, burning ground. He glanced at Kitty.

  She was okay, just standing there with her arms over her head.

  He was so stunned it took a second for the cause of the explosion to register in his head.

  “Cassidy?” Kitty straightened slowly, then dropped her arms. “My God . . . Cassidy? Are you there?” She took a step.

  “Don’t move!”

  “What happened?” She was still walking.

  “Stop, damn it! We’re in a minefield!”

  She went still as a rock. “Was that the truck?”

  “Yes.” He looked around.

  “What about Sabri? Is he hurt? I don’t hear anything.”

  “We can’t help him.”

  “Wait. How do you know? Sabri!”

  “There’s nothing left of the truck. Nothing.”

  She made a painful sound and turned her head away for a moment.

  J.R. had no idea how much of the land was mined. He looked around, but the whole area could have been mined for all he could tell.

  “Cassidy?” Her voice was quiet.

  “What?”

  “Are we both in the minefield?”

  “I know you’re in it.”

  “So what do we do?” Her voice was higher, the way women’s voices got when they were shaken.

  “Stay calm. Stay still. I’m going to retrace my footsteps, then retrace yours. But you need to give me a minute, understand?”

  “Okay.”

  He still had his equipment belt, just about the only thing besides the binoculars that he hadn’t left in the truck. “First I need to fire a flare. A signal for the plane.”

  “Will they wait for us?”

  “If they see the green flare they will.” He pulled the flare gun, raised his arm, and pulled the trigger.

  It clicked. Nothing.

  He pulled out the cartridge and reloaded it, then fired again. Zilch . . . ”Son of a bitch!”

  “What happened?”

  “The flare’s a dud.” He had to think. Fast.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Stick this flare gun in your mouth if you ask me another goddamn question.

  “Are you still there?”

  Hell . . . he’d forgotten she was blind and couldn’t see him. “Give me a minute to think.”

  It was getting later. The sun was starting to go down; shadows were growing faint. The sky was turning rainbow colors.

  He looked down. He had to be able to see their footsteps to retrace them. “I’m coming now.” He began to walk. Step in each footstep. It seemed to take forever before he spotted a mine, then another one about five inches from a footprint. Damn. . . .

  “Talk to me, Cassidy.”

  Fifty feet more. “Why?”

  “Because I can’t take the silence.”

  “Better silence than an explosion.”

  She didn’t say a word.

  “You’re awfully quiet, Kincaid.”

  “I don’t want to interfere with your concentration.”

  “Lucky for you, I’m good at what I do. Dying isn’t part of my plan, sweetheart.”

  “I’m eternally grateful for your huge ego.”

  “Good. When this is all over, I’ll have to come up with a way for you to repay me.”

  “You never stop, do you?”

  “The Yankee in me likes the last word.” He had made it back to his starting point. Now, he had to find her footprints. He studied the ground for a minute or two, then got real lucky. The distinct shape of the soles and heels of her shoes were easier to spot; they looked like fat exclamation points. The dirt was softer here and her footprints sank deeply.

  But the mines were more difficult to spot. There was also the fact that if her foot had been only an inch or so away from a mine, his bigger boot could still trigger it.

  “Where are you?”

  “Halfway to you. This soft sandy dirt is a little trickier. You could always strip naked and give me a little more incentive.”

  “I’ll give you incentive. I swear that if you get yourself blown to smithereens, I will hunt you down in the sweet hereafter and make your eternity absolute hell.”

  “When we die, sweetheart, I doubt you and I will be in the same place.”

  “True.”

  “Unless there’s something lurid about your past you want to tell me.”

  “No.”

  “No, there’s nothing lurid in your past?” A few more yards. “Or no, you don’t want to tell me?”

  “No. I’m not telling you anything.”

  “Too bad. But if you want to hunt me down, well then, that’s fine with me. We can fan the flames of hell together.”

  “Your dream, my nightmare.”

  “Stay still.” He held up his hand, then realized she couldn’t see it so he let it drop. “I’m here, now . . . close, but don’t move. Let me check the ground around us.” There was a mine to her left, eight inches away and another a foot behind him at about three o’clock. The rest was clear.

  He closed the distance between them and put his arms around her. “I gotcha.”

  She exhaled and sagged against his shoulder.

  “You’re safe.”

  “I know.” She kept her arms around his neck.

  “Are you crying? Don’t turn into Wimpy on me, Kincaid.”

  “I feel like Wimpy,” she said into his neck. “I’m scared.”

  “Enough slobbering. I won’t let anything happen to you. But we need to move fast.”

  She dropped her hands from around his neck.

  “The sun’s setting. We have to get out of here so I can find a way to signal that plane.”

  “Okay, but couldn’t we set off the mines? Wouldn’t they see the explosions?”

  “The signal is preplanned. A green flare. I’m going to carry you out on my back. I’ve turned around. My back’s to you. I want you to lean into me and slide your arms around my neck.” When she did, he said, “Now hang on.” He grabbed the backs of her legs and pulled her onto his back. He walked a few steps. He could feel her heart beating fast and a slight quiver, as if she were shaking some. He took another step and said, “Nice, soft thighs you got there, Kincaid.”

  “I’d slap you for that, Cassidy, but my sense of self-preservation won’t let me.”

  “I guess that means I can say what I want.”

  “As if anything would stop you.”

  “I don’t see any point in asking permission.”

  “You’re too busy giving orders.”

  He laughed. “I’m in the Army. Orders are everything. A few more yards and we’re home free.”

  She held on to his neck more tightly.

  It took less time to get back to the ridge, but it was late and quickly getting darker. He set her on her feet and took her hand. “We’re okay here. No more mines. But I need you to walk a few steps down this embankment with me. Give me your other hand, and I’ll lead you down.”

  At the edge of the ridge, he stopped. “I’m going to turn around. I want you to stay close and keep your hands on my shoulders. We’ll use my body to keep you from falling.”

  “No. Wait.” She shook her head. “Tell me how far we’re going. I can count it off.”

  “Fift
een feet. But keep your hands on my shoulders as a guide. There’s scrub and rocks.” He was surprised how easy it was. She stayed right with him. Below, the valley was turning burnished gold from the setting sun.

  “The sun is setting,” she said.

  “I thought you were blind.”

  “People aren’t usually completely blind. I see shadows, silhouettes, some vague misty shades of color.”

  “I guess it’s hard to miss that sunset.”

  The sky was a brilliant bright yellow and red.

  “Stop here. I need to work on the flare gun.” He pulled the flare out again and shoved it back hard, then tried the trigger a third time. Still nothing.

  “It’s so still and quiet here. I can’t hear anything. No birds. No wind. Nothing.” She had turned her face up as if she were looking at the air around her.

  He jerked the cartridge out of the flare gun, then squatted down and broke it apart. The green powder poured out into a small pyre. He lit it, then moved back as green smoke spiraled up into the air.

  He turned and looked off toward the distant foothills. Come on, guys. Look over here.

  “Something’s burning. What are you doing?”

  “Lighting the flare powder.”

  “Oh.”

  He fanned the smoke upward and watched it.

  “Cassidy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you.”

  “For what? Doing my job?”

  “No. I couldn’t help you at all in that minefield. I just had to stand there.”

  “Yeah, well, standing still in a minefield is a damn good idea.”

  “I don’t like feeling helpless, but I would have never gotten out of that field alive. I was lucky to get across it in one piece the first time.”

  “We both were lucky.” He straightened, pulled out his binoculars, and focused in the direction of the plane.

  “Sabri wasn’t lucky,” she said in a vacant voice.

  “No. He wasn’t. I’d say he was pretty unlucky, with all that gasoline in the back. Those mines wouldn’t have blown that truck to hell like it did. The gasoline was what sent it to Timbuktu.”

  “It could have been us.”

  “But it wasn’t.” He focused the binoculars again and slowly zeroed in on the landing site. “I don’t deal with could-have-beens. One of the things you learn in the Army is to not try to understand why you make it and someone else doesn’t. It would drive you nuts. It’s just luck, Kincaid. Just luck.”