Looking for J.C.

By John D. Fitzmorris

Dan McDevitt battles depression and faces a foundering career when his colleague, Red Prendergast, takes him to South America to confront officials who have cheated his company out of millions. Their mission is to get the money back, but that's the easy part. What happens next turns their lives into a nightmare.

By chance, Dan meets his friend and Jesuit priest, Tommy McGrail. Seduced by Tommy, Dan drives him into the backcountry to bring home Father J. C. McAleese, their teacher and mentor. Fleeing marauding soldiers and drug lords, the two companions travel to a secret mountain camp, where Dan discovers Tommy has deceived him. Rather than looking for J. C., they must enter the lair of the dictator Adolpho Streggemann and rescue the hostages he holds. Dan and Tommy face a violent journey that leads from Streggemann's dungeons to a lost city high in the Andes. On the pinnacle of a sacred temple, they struggle with Streggemann for their lives and the lives of the hostages.

The real test, however, is to triumph over the demons of their past and wrestle the dark angels of their souls into submission.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 18, 2008
• ISBN: 9780595915156

John D. Fitzmorris

John Fitzmorris graduated from Jesuit High School and Loyola University. He lives in New Orleans with his wife, Kay.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The Rat Line

Rome April 19, 1945

Captain Justin Prendergast, MP USA, had been questioning the Italian saboteur for the better part of an hour without success. Time he was told was of the essence and Alessandro Consalvo was not being very co-operative. I ought to just take him in the back room and …, but then I may kill the son of a bitch. Keep calm, Justin, this isn’t North Manhattan. No this was the United States Army.

Yes, the United States Army, this man’s army, where there were three ways to do something: the right way, the wrong way and the Army way. He’d do it the Army way. He had volunteered for the Army – he wanted to join the Army even though he could’ve gotten a deferment – easily gotten one. His uncle was after all the president of his draft board. But Prendergasts did not run from a battle, ever. It was something Prendergasts did. They fought. They even liked fighting. Because he was a New York City detective, he was commissioned as an MP and assigned to the Fifth Army in Italy. He wasn’t pleased at first. He wanted to fight the Germans where it really counted in France and Germany. But he had gotten a full ration of fighting Germans.

After a long grueling tour of combat around Cassino, he had caught the attention of Colonel Declan Devlin who picked him to head up one of the investigation units in the War Crimes Division in liberated Rome. What a detail! Right down his alley. Over the last three months, he had caught a few small fish, functionaries who invariably said they were only doing what they were told – yeah, sure, only following orders. Nothing really exciting, nothing with the action he wanted until this morning.

Devlin called him at 0600 and told him to get in, they had captured an Italian saboteur - the guy was nothing more than a garden variety criminal - who supposedly had good information on a very big fish – a fish Devlin and the big brass wanted badly. This pal of Mussolini supposedly had actionable intelligence about a fellow named Ulrich Steinkampf, one of the architects of the so-called Final Solution. Ulrich Steinkampf, who the hell is that, he asked the Colonel. He gave him the brush off ‘I’ll tell you, later.’

Justin, I just don’t have the time right now to brief you. Later, get the information out of this guy and get this son of a bitch Steinkampf. The Colonel did an about face and headed for the door. He had this Italian girlfriend, Sophia or Apollonia or whatever.

Consalvo was refusing to talk and being defiant about it. Keep the temper under wraps, Prendergast, don’t blow this; this could be good, we could nail a real felon. He leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head and put his feet on the edge of the desktop.

Look, Alessandro, you are not much help. The Italian shifted in his chair fretting with his handcuffs and sneering at Prendergast. Well, a dandy and fussy fellow. Let me see what I can make of that. Why is he protecting this guy? What is he afraid of? I’ll give him something to be really afraid of.

What I suppose to do, Captain, tell you something I don’t know about, he said defiantly. I know nothing of this Ulrich Steinkettle.

Steinkampf! Justin said.

What? the Italian said staring stupidly.

The man’s name is Steinkampf not Steinkettle and since you know nothing about him, not even his name … Prendergast pushed away from the desk sliding his chair back against the wall, my fine bomb planting friend, you’re out of here. You were brought here because we thought, or we were told that you knew something that may have been beneficial to us and telling us would be beneficial to you. Because you see, Alessandro, you are looking at a noose. Prendergast now stood straight and military behind the desk staring hard at the fascist.

What you talking about? The Italian’s sneer was now replaced with a dumb stare.

Only that you committed a war crime when you and those krauts you hooked up with blew up that Cabiniere station. Four Italians were killed in that bombing and an American M.P. was blinded. You swing for that where I came from, Justin said turning down the corners of his mouth.

That was those Germans not me! He was rising up from his chair but the handcuffs pulled him back down.

Oh, sure, and the court-martial will believe you over the kraut we already flipped, Justin said.

Flipped, what you mean ‘flipped.’ Alessandro’s attention had suddenly focused.

Flipped means that he’s agreed to testify and we are going to give him a little break, a life sentence instead of the gallows. Justin smiled wryly. He did not like the death penalty but it sure had salutary usages.

But it was all their idea, Alessandro pleaded.

Well, that’s not what they say. This interview is over. Justin signaled to his sergeant. Merritt, take Signore Consalvo back to wherever he came from.

Wait, wait let me think! The Italian was shaking.

Think quick, Sandro, think real quick. Justin held his hand up signaling Merritt to wait.

I am not sure of the details, Sandro blithered. Justin waved Merritt forward. Wait, it is the church of San Lorenzo in Aventino or Testaccio. They didn’t tell me where it is. He’s supposed to be holed up there until they move him to …

We know the rest. Where is this Church? Justin pulled his chair around the desk and planted it down in front of Sandro. He sat down and rolled up into Sandro’s face.

The street, the name of the street! Justin boomed at the Italian raising his voice for the first time. Remember, Sandro, you’re looking at the gallows.

A heavy hand shook the sleeper violently by the shoulder. Wake up, wake up, Steinkampf, you fool, they are coming! The scent of sour cabbage laced with garlic wafted through the gray fog of sleep. The massive fleshy face of a giant, a colossal monster of a man materialized from the haze and sour breath.

Steinkampf stirred and sat up. Until this moment, Dragovic, Steinkampf said sleepily, this journey had not been unpleasant. And anyway just how do you know? You been here all night … or have you? Steinkampf lethargically rubbed the top of his head. This place was supposed to be safe, yes, you said, Steinkampf waved his finger as he clucked at the giant. safe and out of the way; not known to the Allies."

The room was small devoid of furnishing save the bed and a small table. The only light came from a painted window. The room did not belong, Steinkampf thought; it had been added during Risorgimento probably as hiding place from the radicals for the priests.

No time for questions. I know because I know, that is my business to know. Get up now and come with me or do you wish to be caught and swing from a gibbet. Steinkampf swung his feet out of the bed and stood up swaying groggily. Here put these on, you should remember how to do that. The giant handed him a cassock and Roman collar.

You do have a sense of humor after all; splendid irony, my gigantic friend. We will be twins for a while, Steinkampf took the clothing.

Your humor escapes me, Herr Professor, Dragovic sneered.

You have papers, of course? Steinkampf said affixing the collar deftly and then flinging the cassock around his shoulders.

You have no need to ask. Here. The giant handed the newly minted priest a sheaf of identity papers.

Do you think that I should brush my teeth? If we should get stopped, I would not wish to offend the Americans with the scent of Slavic cabbage, Steinkampf said taking the packet and stuffing it into a pocket in the gown.

I find your gallows humor not at all amusing, Father Schlosse. That is your name from now on; read the papers and familiarizes yourself with your new persona. The sound of a whistle came from below. No more time for joviality, quick they are near, very near. This way. The giant popped open a hidden door that led into the bell tower.

Goddamnit! Merritt hit the brakes hard. Prendergast was jolted forward against the dashboard of the jeep.

A milk truck had pulled out from a side street and then jackknifed wedging itself between the houses blocking the street. Prendergast slammed his hand against the dashboard.

W were almost there, within striking distance, he howled.

After a half hour of threats and cajoling he had not been able to pry the name of the street out of Consalvo. He knew the bastard knew. Why was he playing for time? The information was worthless without the street address or at least the street’s name. There seemed to be no directory of Churches in Rome and churches in Rome were like taxi cabs in New York. And San Lorenzo Churches were grains of sand. Then after he had given up grilling the saboteur, one of the Italian typists piped up.

I think I know where it is, Captain, Justin eyed the pencil thin man suspiciously.

Where is it? Justin said.

Here, I will show you. The Italian produced a map and pointed out the place near the Tiber. I think that’s it.

"Let’s go, Merritt, getting the squad going. Justin grabbed the map from the table and tucked it under his arm.

Come on, fellows, follow me. We are going to get this son of a bitch. Prendergast hopped out of the jeep and squeezed through a gap between the milk truck’s cab and the bordering wall. He glanced into the cab of the truck. The driver was gone. Son of a bitch, I knew this, I predicted it, didn’t I, Merritt?

That you did, Captain! You sure did! The sergeant grinned as he followed him through the gap. He loved the Captain, particularly when his Irish was up.

The street slanted abruptly down curving on its way to find the Tiber. It was empty, eerily empty save for the centuries old wind-stirred dust. The emptiness gave Prendergast a sinking feeling. This guy has slipped the net. Somehow, the target had been warned. His gut told him the guy was gone, but he’d play out the string. Last of the ninth, no one on, two out, down five, you still got to swing the bat.

How? Who? Why? How? Did an informant sneak it out during the interrogation? Who? Had to be one of the dagos working in the billet. I’ll bet a cream doughnut to a dog turd that it was the guy who knew where the street was. Why had he waited so long? Gave him time to get the word out and still cover his ass by telling us. Why? Justin did not care. Motivation no longer matter. All that matter was that the deed had been done.

Seven buildings down the street, just as the typist said, was a crumbling, abandoned baroque church, long forgotten except by someone connected with the Church. How had the typist known of the Church? The thing was old but not a relic on anybody’s must-see tourist destination.Hawkins take Miller and go around and find the rear, it has to have a rear entrance, Prendergast said. The two PFCs ran back up the street looking for a break in the line of buildings. The rest of you follow me, you know the drill. I want this fucker alive and breathing. Draw you weapons, safeties on! He led the squad down the street at a trot. He ran up the steps of the Church through the doorway into a musty and dank foyer. A thick layer of dust covered the floor. No one had been here or walked through here in a long time. He now walked slowly through the vestibule into the interior.

The interior was semi-dark lit only by scattered beams of frothy sunlight cascading through the remnants of what were once stained glass windows. The nave and apse were bare of all ornamentation: statuary, Stations of the Cross, tabernacles all gone. Only the wreckage of the altar, titling hard a starboard remained. The place was quiet – then someone, something above moved. Showers of dust and plaster rained over them. The building groaned as if laboring to support its own weight.

Shit, move it. The squad entered the sacristy through a door to the right of the altar. In the rear was an open spiral staircase that ascended through a hole in the ceiling. That’s it. Careful, now; slow and easy lads, slow and easy! Justin led them slowly up the winding steps.

He stopped where the staircase entered the ceiling. He was not about to go charging up like George Custer. This war was almost over, he thought, another month, maybe two. He did not want to be the last one killed nor did he want anyone under his command getting killed arresting some Nazi rat bastard.

The building creaked, straining to hold itself in place. After five hundred long years, it was having trouble standing up. Get going, he said to himself, get going before it collapses on our heads. He climbed through the hole in the ceiling; more loose material rained down through the next hole in the ceiling.. As he climbed through the gap, he heard what sounded like someone walking above him. He scaled the last several steps on to a landing where the stairwell came to an end at a doorway..

You’ll find them in the top of the bell tower, in a small room. The door is the only thing in the place still on its hinges. Sandro finally loosened up as he discerned the hand writing on the wall.

The landing was dark, stifling and quiet. Justin raised his hand signaling Merritt forward. Merritt trotted up the steps and from a running start launched into the door with his right foot. The door exploded into a storm of choking dust and flying splinters.

Prendergast jumped into the room and went into a squatting position. His men advanced past him and fanned out through the room sweeping it with their weapons. As his gut told him in the street, the place was empty save for a bed against the far wall.

No one’s home! Prendergast lowered his pistol and went to the window.

Stand back. More out of frustration then anything else, he hit one of the window panes with the butt of his pistol. The frame disintegrated and two panes hurtled into the street below. Miller and Hawkins stood below staring dumbly up at him.

What you find? he hollered.

Nothing, there isn’t a rear door, nothing except the window, Hawkins shouted. Sandro wasn’t lying. The rat bastard was here. I can feel it. Where? Then he saw it. He walked to the far wall. He ran his hand along a seam in the plaster. He pulled out his pocketknife and cut down the seam of a door.

Give me your baton, Merritt. The sergeant handed him his nightstick. Prendergast jammed the baton into the crevice and pried open the door. Must be a tunnel of some kind down there.

Where next, Captain? Merritt holstered his weapon. "Follow the stairs and the tunnel.

No, we don’t anything about it. No, let me ask you a question, Where would you go to find a rat, Holly? Prendergast smiled wickedly.

The rat’s nest? The rat hole? Merritt seemed perplexed.

Yeah, the place where they hole up. The implications of what he thought and said made him angry and sick, furious and sick to his stomach. The world he had lived in all his life was disintegrating.

Private Clyde Workitt was very uncomfortable, fidgeting from side to side and rocking back and forth on his heels. He and Sergeant Gerald O’Malley had been working one of the several checkpoints on the Italian Vatican City border near the entrance to Piazza of St. Peter’s. .

When are we gonna finish this sh-eet? Workitt snarled at O’Malley.

Until relieved, that’s when, Clyde, until relieved. O’Malley handed a priest back his papers. O’Malley knew this wasn’t mere bellyaching. Workitt, Mississippi bohunk that he was, did not like the assignment because he hated the priests, monks and nuns shuttling into the Vatican in ever increasing numbers. It made his anti-Catholic blood run cold to be in the presence of the anti-Christ and guarding his palace to boot. But Gerard O’Malley, senior Altar Boy of St. Jarlath’s in Bayonne, New Jersey, was not going to cut him any slack. Workitt was going to do his job with a smile on his face, if he had anything to do with it.

I hear tell that Catlicks kidnap and murder Protestant babies and drink their blood mixed with wine from their skull caps, Workitt said

Yeah, who told you that? O‘Malley did not look at him but waved a grinning nun passed the checkpoint.

Pastor Vernon Shaw, that’s who, told us at one our youth meetings that Catlicks boiled kidnapped babies in oil until their flesh cooked away and then made drinking cups from their skulls. They drink blood and wine from their skulls. That’s how come we had to be extra careful when Catlicks came to town, Workitt smiled wickedly as if he had made a telling point.

What denomination are you and the Reverend Pastor Mr. Vernon Shaw, Clyde? O’Malley took the identity papers of a fat priest, who smiled stupidly as he jabbered away in Italian while O’Malley silently inspected his papers.

Why, Baptist, Southern Baptist, of course, hard-shell Baptist from the First Baptist Church of Tallatchoutahomma, he said proudly.

Frightening to think that there are more than one of those Tallatchoutahomma Baptist Churches, O’Malley grimaced inwardly.

Well, Clyde, you and the good pastor and the rest of the congregation at the Baptist Church in Tallatchoutahomma – where’s that, Clyde?

Mississippi, up by Holly Springs! Workitt smiled, "

Oh, Holly Springs! Never heard of it! But not to worry, you have nothing to fear for your children in Tallatchoutahomma." O’Malley looked at the fat priest and handed him his papers and waved him through.

What you mean? Clyde looked stupidly at the tall Irishman, his jar slightly agape as if he were in a perpetual state of surprise.

We found that Baptist skulls are unsuitable for drinking cups; they’re too shallow and not wide enough and they are brittle, O’Malley glared at him.

Very funny, Sergeant! Workitt glared

Get with the program, Workitt, and quit bellyaching. O’Malley was approaching the brink with Workitt.

I just can’t take these fag priests and their swishing gowns, Workitt said.

Like the fag coming? O’Malley pointed behind Workitt, who swung around and stood face to chest with the tallest man in the world. Workitt jumped back. The giant was a priest, or at least dressed like one. He was massive, seven feet, at least, and well over 350 pounds. He smelled slightly of cabbage. He towered over his companion, a man taller than Workitt. The giant’s companion, his face hooded by the broad brim hat worn by the Roman clergy, stood to the giant’s right almost hidden in the folds of the giant’s cassock. The giant smiled at Workitt through a set of tombstone teeth.

I’ll handle it, Clyde, I’ll make sure he doesn’t eat you, O’Malley said.

Workitt didn’t obey. Instead, he grabbed at the giant’s papers just as O’Malley did. The giant hesitated at a loss at whom to give them. The papers fell from his hand floating to the ground. The wind grabbed them and send them bouncing along the pavement. The other priest froze; his cold blue eyes flashed. He looked up and his eyes locked on O’Malley. The old altar boy took an instant dislike to the fellow. There was something about him that was cold, lifeless. Workitt and the giant went after the papers.

I got ‘em, asshole! Workitt barked at the giant. That does it, O’Malley thought, grabbing Workitt by the arm and pulled him away from the giant.

Hey, shit head, he whispered, that’s enough, another word out of you and you’ll be cleaning latrines for a year after the war ends. Got me! Workitt flushed and retreated to the side of their jeep.

O’Malley was a good Catholic, raised in the solid Irish Catholicism of pre-war America. He loved the church and mass and didn’t question doctrine. He most of all loved the CYO and boxing. He did not feel all that warmly about the Pope, a cold, aloof, cadaverous man sitting on that stupid throne but he respected him. He had been instructed that things weren’t good between the Americans and the Vatican right now, something to do with the colored troops and the Pope’s neutrality. He didn’t much care about all that, but he was told not to provoke any incidents, be quiet, be polite and keep the peace. Do your duty. He would do just that.

O’Malley took both sets of papers. The two priests had diplomatic papers. They were members of the staff of the Vatican’s equivalent of the State Department. He looked up from the papers to the giant who stood icily still but smiling warmly from his lofty perch. Milo Dragovic, Croatian national, 38 years old, a Franciscan, though he was not dressed for the part. Didn’t Franciscans wear different clothing? O’Malley couldn’t remember exactly what kind of habit the Franciscans wore.

The other, the one a bit shorter than O’Malley, was Father Gregor Schlosse. He looked at the guy. He was wound tighter than a nine-day clock. He was fidgeting and rocking on his heels. He tried to find his eyes under the brim of the clerical hat but they were hidden in the shadow of the brim.

German, are you? O’Malley said.

No, sergeant, the Giant answered for his companion. Father Schlosse is Austrian.

What’s a matter, you his mouth piece? Workitt had recovered and had walked back to O’Malley.

That’s it, Clyde. You and Captain Prendergast have an appointment this afternoon.

"In fact, yes, I am. Father Gregor is not very proficient in English. If it were French, Spanish, Portuguese or Italian, he could speak very well for himself. But with English, he’s not so proficient.

I understand, O’Malley smiled at the Giant. O’Malley reached into his back pocket and took out a small steno pad from his back pocket. He flipped through the pages.

Is there a problem, Sergeant? the Giant said gently.

No, O’Malley closed the book and replaced it in his pocket. You can go in. I have to check.

Yes, I understand, the giant said as he and his companion swept by O’Malley and headed for the embracing arms of the Great Colonnade. They walked slowly crossing the boundary into the last remains of the State created a thousand years before by King of the Franks, seven hundred years before the word Protestant was capitalized. A thousand years or more before this redneck asshole was born. He has no idea, no clue, O’Malley sighed inwardly.

Look at them, they’re fucking fags, gliding like two pansies. The Reverend Shaw said that the nuns were whores and the priests were all homos, Workitt spat on the pavement.

Workitt, you cock-eyed redneck, you know I’m Catholic, Merritt’s Catholic and Captain Prendergast is Catholic. How would you like to go fight the fucking Japs? I hear there is there is a nice little fight going on at Okinawa. Before he could return to the queue of clerics that had accumulated during his encounter with the Giant, Captain Prendergast had driven up and was leaning over the windshield of his jeep.

O’Malley … He looked over the sergeant’s head into the Piazza. Those two guys … he gestured toward the Colonnade. The giant …

Yes sir, just cleared the post. The two figures blurry in the shimmering heat devils disappeared under the wings of the Colonnade.

Goddamn fuck! Prendergast slapped the windshield of the jeep hard with the palm of his hand.

O’Malley cringed. He had screwed up and he would fall from the good graces of this commander he liked so much.

They weren’t on the list. O’Malley reached for the steno pad. The Captain looked at him and smiled,

Don’t worry, it isn’t your fault. They weren’t on the list until this morning. You could not have possibly known, Prendergast said wistfully. This’ll haunt me, he thought, but I’m not through. No, he swore I am not through.

CHAPTER 1

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A wicked, burning flash. Caitlin Kane blinked and fell back on her haunches dropping her analysis kit. What was that? she said. It flashed again.

A chance encounter of sunlight with mountain snow? No, too intense and the mountains are too far. She shaded her eyes and searched the crumbling ridgeline above the wheat field. Nothing moved except the long horsetails of wind-driven dust. She closed her eyes and tilted her head letting the sun invest her face. Its embrace was delicious, delightful; almost sinful as it coiled itself around her like a succubus. Delightful? She had every reason to be delighted. Her work in the village of San Jose Cupertino in the Magdalenan highlands was finally bearing fruit. Grain was growing in the once inhospitable soil. She was making a desert bloom.

I could cuddle with you forever, Brother Sun, she said, Yes, I cooo— A shadow blocked the sun, startling her. She fell hard on her butt. Jesus! she howled. What the hell … A tall man in a white smock emerged from the glare. Peter Maggio, Dr. Peter Maggio, was tall, at least 6’4" and slender. Painfully slender. His dark doe-like eyes were staring off into the distance.

I’m sorry, Caitlin. His long handsome Italian face was grim, hard.

You scared the shit out of me! She stuck her hand up to him. What’s with the look? He ignored her, looking toward the dust devils on the ridgeline. Hey, Peter, she drawled. Pick me up. He broke away from whatever had fixed his gaze, reached down and took her hand. His hand was smooth, like the hand of a physician should be, deft and supple. He pulled her a bit too fast and too hard, yanking her into him. Their lips touched, brushing ever so slightly. They lingered together close to embrace for the slightest moment and then he pushed away resisting the intimacy.

Caitlin, we have to talk! He again looked away toward the ridge, where the dust was again swirling though now there was no wind.

Sure, Peter! she said.

We have to leave. Now! His eyes avoided hers, instead fixing on the ridge.

Leave? As in go, as in go back to the capital and go home? she said.

Yes, like go immediately! he replied.

What the fuck are you talking about? Why? You must be out of your fucking mind, Dr. Maggio. Out of your fucking mind!

To leave was unthinkable. She had made a commitment. Yes, she was shanghaied, enchanted and lured from graduate school and a career in microbiology by Ciaran Miskell and J.C. McAleese.

Caitlin, your talent, your charism, is deeply needed by the Magdalenan poor, Ciaran said beguilingly. Come with me and you will not regret it. Oh, you know, J.C. McAleese, don’t you? He said he knows you and your family. He will be there with you off and on. Yes, you are Jimmy McDevitt’s niece, of course, of course. . Why don’t you give them a call?

Seduced? Yes, she had been, but she had committed. She left without telling her parents. Her talent, her charism, as Ciaran called it, was knowing the secrets of the cells of seeds that grew in any soil. Yes, she was a microbiologist, who understood the inner working of the cell and its constant mutation in the face of the ever-changing environment. The poor were, well, Miskell had neglected to tell her about who the poor were. The poor were the survivors of the lowland villages of Magdalena, the terrorized poor scattered by the expropriation of their land by the government. They had been forcibly expelled and their homes and fields in the fertile lowlands bulldozed or burned and given to the oil consortium. The consortium wasted no time in making the lowlands uninhabitable. It cut roads, damned streams and dug pits it filled with toxic wastes. Government press gangs grabbed up the able-bodied men and forced them into slave labor for the consortium. If they resisted, they were killed. The women and the children, abandoned and homeless, fled into the mountains where if it had not been for Miskell and J.C., who helped gather them into a series of villages in the uplands, they would have surely died.

Enter Caitlin, who would try to make the desert bloom. Miskell brought her to Cupertino, where she hit the ground running. He left in June to look for more help and she had not heard from him since. A month later, J.C. wandered into Cupertino with the tall Peter Maggio, from Physicians International. He took the two of them on tours and introduced them to the land and its history and culture. Life was beginning to take on a meaning, an order, a discipline. But it was Peter who turned her life upside down. He brought joy and fun into her life for the first time in a long time. And now he was shattering it.

Leave? No way! she spat and swung angrily at him. He grabbed her by the arms squeezing her tightly.

Caitlin! Shut the hell up and listen! This isn’t about wanting to leave; it’s about everyone getting the hell out of here now. He released her.

What are you talking about? She stared at him stupidly.

I’ve been trying to tell you for days now. Things are not good. You’ve been so involved you haven’t been listening. All those stragglers, the newcomers, are fleeing, he sighed looking again at the ridgeline. The Army, the fucking Magdalenan Army is on the other side of the ridge. They have come for the children.

What—how do you know? She turned and looked at the ridgeline.

That man over there in the khakis and the bush hat, he said pointing to a small man in dusty khakis standing on the steps of the clinic. He came to warn us. He saw them this morning on the road headed this way, you know what that means.

Jesus Christ, the children! What do we do? She started to walk away.

Don’t panic, don’t look like there’s any problem,’ he said taking her arm gently. I don’t want to panic anyone. That could be disastrous." He walked alongside her.

I promise, she said, I’ll be Ms. Ice.

Desiderio, the man over there, has a plan. He says there is a scouting party of three men on the ridge. The main force will not arrive until after midnight, maybe even later. We can get away, but we have to take our time. Walk as if we are on a casual stroll before dinner … like nothing’s going on. He wants to take out the children and the sick that can walk in small groups starting just after dark. He says there some kind of refuge in the mountains. She wrapped her arm around his and skipped into step with him. He smelled like a hospital, like soap and alcohol.

Can we trust him or is this a trick to make it easy for them? She looked at him. He looked so serious, so intent.

Good question. He said he is a friend of Father J.C. and he was sent by Dona Maria from the Citadel, that’s what he called the place he wants to take us. Who is Dona Maria?

I don’t really know. I heard J.C. mention her several times. He was to take us to see her when he came back. J. C. said her home was called the Citadel. This is good. She released his arm and approached the little man.

Senorita Kane, I am Desiderio, I’ve come from Dona Maria. I’ve seen you before, he said extending his hand.

Yes, I remember. She shook his hand. The man was familiar but she could not quite remember who he was or how he fit into the community.

Dona Maria was worried about your safety and sent me to lead you out. She is also looking for Padre J.C. I must find him. Have you seen him?

No, I’ve not seen him for several weeks. He went into the mountains. The little man’s face clouded over.

So, he was going to the Panteguarani. This is not good. No, not good! But we can’t do anything about that, he said shrugging his shoulders and smiling. May I show you the plan? He squatted in a bare spot in front of the steps. Using his walking stick, he sketched out the evacuation. Caitlin felt a chill down her back. Sweat cooling her back? Or was someone watching them? She looked up at the ridgeline. The dust was stirring in the haggard brush that clung to the ridge crest. A shape, an outline appeared against the horizon and then disappeared.

When the girl looked up from the furrows, the three men on the ridgeline scurried out of sight.

Drury, did she see us? Colonel Roy Cunningham said to his executive officer.

Can’t say for sure, but I don’t think so. Let me see, Captain Edward Drury said shaking his head. For being so smart, Drury thought, Cunningham can be fucking dumb.

You should never have used the binoculars, Cunningham hissed.

How else was I to see what was going on, Drury thought. He crawled back up the slope skirting the third man, a Magdalenan colonel named Barca.

Don’t get yourself compromised, Drury, Cunningham whispered angrily.

The captain looked back and smiled stupidly. Compromised? What an idiot! Drury slithered into a gap in the dry brush. He positioned himself low and wiped the lenses of the field glasses with a handkerchief. Cunningham was probably right; it was a reflection off the glasses that tipped the girl. He scanned the position—position, that wasn’t a position; that was an agriculture station and field clinic or hospital. There wasn’t an ounce of military significance to the place.

He scanned the area and found the girl standing close to the tall doctor he had seen earlier on the porch. The dago-looking fellow, Cunningham called him, was standing very close to her, almost as if they had kissed or were about to kiss. The doctor took the girl by the arm and they walked arm-in-arm toward the clinic as if they were lovers coming home from a walk. At the clinic they met a short man in khakis who was sitting on the steps of the clinic. He got up when they arrived and bowed to them. They talked for a few moments before he knelt down and began drawing on the ground with a walking cane. They knew. They had been warned.

Drury, Cunningham’s angry whisper curled into the brush, what the fuck is going on? Drury lifted himself and zeroed the glasses on the girl. She looked right at him. Maybe she saw him; maybe she didn’t. I’m jealous, Dago Doctor, yes siree! She’s gorgeous even in that terrible field outfit. She had a long, fair face crowned with the most beautiful flowing red hair. I bet she has freckles and blue eyes, eyes like blue ice. He slithered out of the brush.

Nothing, sir. They’re just standing there like two love puppies. Drury looked Cunningham straight in the eyes. Cunningham’s eyes were blue, cold icy blue. Drury could not sustain the gaze. He looked away zeroing back in on her, Shit, she was pretty; no, she was beautiful. I hope she gets away. No asshole, he told himself you have to see that she gets away or at the very worst isn’t hurt.

Come on, Colonel Barca, Cunningham whispered to the silent colonel. We can’t take the risk of being seen.

Risk, what the hell risk did a girl and a doctor and fifty or sixty kids present, Drury thought. Quit pretending, asshole, and get on with it. Raid the place, take the booty, get away and then go home. Then he’d call his father and get a transfer.

At the base of the hill, Cunningham had set up a sand table where he had mocked up the terrain around the hospital and agriculture station. He signaled his two companions to the table.

Colonel, I think that despite what Lieutenant Drury …

It’s Captain, sir, I am a Captain, Drury smiled at the colonel.

Yes, of course, excuse me. What Captain Drury says is going on down in the enemy camp, we can’t take the chance that they didn’t see us. I think that we should go in tonight when our first elements arrive, before they have a chance of escaping. How far away are your troops?

Only a few miles, the Magdalenan spoke for the first time.

Escaping! What the fuck was this guy talking about? Another raid, another fifty or sixty children carted off to who the fuck knows where? Three, four and now how many times is it? This wasn’t soldiering, this was kidnapping. He was out of here as soon as he got back to headquarters.

Colonel Barca, have your men ready at 0300 hours by the draw in the ridge. They’ll be asleep by then. Fewer children would get away. The Magdalenan colonel left.

Drury, get yourself ready, you’ll bring the reserve platoon around to the tent area; take care of the American girl. See she isn’t hurt! I don’t want spoiled merchandise, Cunningham said as he walked away.

Colonel! Drury said. Cunningham stopped slowly but did not turn around.

What, Lieutenant? he said still looking to his front.

Sir, it’s captain, I am a captain in the United States Army, a 2000 graduate of West Point, Drury stammered, struggling to find words.

Yes, captain, I know that; get on with it. I’ve …, Cunningham looked at him from the corner of his eye. No, I know what it is. Yes, I know what’s eating you. This campaign makes no sense to you. Am I right? Cunningham had not moved. He stood still, looking to the side as if his vision had been captured by some fantastic sight that turned him into a statue.

Yes, sir, now that you say it. I can’t see the military necessity for what we are doing here, Drury said staring at the ground, his heart beating a hundred miles a minute. Challenging a superior cut against his grain. It hurt physically; his whole body was sore, aching.

Well, let me tell it to you straight, Lieutenant. Now he turned fully around and walked up to Drury coming nose to nose with him. It is not yours to question. We are soldiers and we do what we are told, despite that shit you heard in the Geneva Convention class at the Point. We are still locked in a struggle with the Communists in this part of the world. This struggle against our godless, amoral foe requires us to do things that often time seem to go against our principles. Well, sometimes to save our principles we have to break them. Dismissed!

Cunningham threw back the flap of his tent. Goddamnit, he peeled off his fatigue blouse and collapsed into his captain’s chair. I knew this was coming, he said to his shadow quivering on the tent wall. Could feel it. Shit, all I needed: a man bound to duty, honor and country. Worse, a bleeding heart, fucking Justice League of America super action hero, he sighed. I don’t understand what Streggemann is up to. Personally, I think it’s stupid, maybe even immoral; but I don’t give a shit. Even the Doctor thinks some of it is bullshit. But I need the girl and this little shave-tail West Point asshole is not going to stop me, you hear? he said to the shadow. The shadow spoke back to him, Roy, remember the old dress parades in the old army, the ones where everyone decked out in their best, wore their dress uniforms dripping with decorations? Yeah, I remember. I see what you mean. A decoration, every swinging dick needs a ribbon and a medal; Drury does not have enough. If I decorated Drury that will serve several ends. Yes, a decoration or two would do the trick.

Just before dusk, Peter and two of the men built four campfires between the hospital and Caitlin’s tent. The kitchen staff set out tables like they were having a barbeque, filling the tables with platters of food. After midnight the staff would slip off in twos and threes scattering in all directions. Until then they would picnic.

While the staff feasted, Peter, Caitlin and Desiderio guided groups of ten children and patients through a dry streambed leading into the mountainside. A mile up the streambed, they came to a place where several rills met to form the streambed.

It will be impossible for the soldiers to follow the children and patients in this terrain at night, Desiderio said.

By midnight the last group of eight children and three elderly women led by a young man named Rodrigo entered the streambed. Peter, Caitlin and the newcomer watched this last group from a small butte. Rodrigo stopped by a dogleg in the stream, waved and then vanished around the bend.

I will go with this group. We will join up with the rest and go to the Citadel. They are safe, Desiderio said. You should go now. Come with me. Do not wait, they will not treat you kindly when they find out you cheated them of their prize.

We’re American citizens! Peter said.

Señor, the man laughed. I am sorry but that means nothing here; it will not protect you from these fellows. They are commanded by Americans. You should leave now!

I have to stay for the patients we are leaving behind. Peter’s face was bathed in glistening sweat. I’ve been watching the ridge all night. Someone’s been watching since midday. If they find out that everyone is gone they’ll attack and pursue the little ones. We will cover the retreat; is that the military term? Peter grinned. And if the truth be known, I can’t leave these people just yet. Some need as much care as I can give them.

You could just make them comfortable and leave, Señor Doctor and you would’ve done your duty. But I see that is not your plan. You are a very brave and holy person. Desiderio hunched his shoulders and smiled sadly.

Caitlin, you should go with Desiderio. I’m sorry but the project’s over, Peter said.

There’s more to this than the project. I’m staying, she said trying to sound definitive and defiant.

Caitlin. Peter gestured toward the dark ridgeline. You know what they are capable of.

I know, and I’m staying to make sure that you leave and don’t wait too long. Come on, we are wasting time. Let’s make these folks comfortable. The bad guys will leave them alone and when they leave we can come back. She skipped off toward the clinic.

Whatever you do, do it quickly. The attack may be sooner than later, Desiderio said, handing a piece of paper to Peter. Here are the directions to the Citadel. If you see J.C., tell him the Lady wants to see him. I will make sure our cargo gets to the refuge before the next sunset. He disappeared into the gloom of the creek bed.

Caitlin, go back to your tent and take a rest or a nap, Peter said. They had been working steadily with the patients for several hours. I have about an hour’s more to do. You have to rest or you will collapse on the trail. Look, it’s almost 2:00 a.m. He looked at his watch. I’ll finish up and I will call you at 3:00 a.m. She hesitated. Go Caitlin, I need you rested.

She lay down on her cot but sleep evaded her. She was prisoner to the images fast-forwarding across her brain: her family, the street mission, the eyes of the homeless band and Peter—foolish, dedicated Peter—and she who he did not notice, or notice her the way she wanted.

Finally, she fell asleep. She dreamed of a distorted world, a world populated with dwarves and cruel animals attacking and maiming one another. A brutal face materialized out of the mass of images and crawled over her. Its foul mouth sucked on her ear whispering. Come, beautiful, let’s fuck! Let’s do it now, you little cunt, the creature slurred, its breath afire with booze.

Go away; let me sleep! She heard herself screaming. But the face refused her command, refused to leave the dream world. The unshaven, ape-like face pressed against her cheek whispering hushed obscenities. Its lips foul with grit and blistered cuts, slobbered over her face. She knew what his words augured.

Wake up! You fool, wake up! I am awake.

She grabbed the face digging her nails into the obscene flesh around its eyes raking his cheeks. The creature howled releasing her and grabbing his eyes. She rolled away, but he straddled her, grabbing her hands and pinning her arms under his knees. A fist smashed into her face. Her world exploded in white light and searing pain. The world went black and she tasted blood. Struggling against the gravity of the darkness, she held on to the salty taste like a mountain climber clinging to a lone petard. He ripped her blouse and panties and she was naked beneath him.

God, where are you? She screamed. Worms, slithering, gross, slug-like creatures seemed to crawl over her body. In a fleeting moment she would be robbed of what she so desired. She heard a voice say. And the two shall become as one flesh. Suddenly, the welter of flesh went limp. Someone lifted her attacker and flung him away from her.

Peter, Peter, she screamed. It wasn’t Peter. A tall mustachioed American in Army fatigues, with a sad, distraught look, gently covered her with a blanket. He leaned over her.

I’m sorry … Red spray splattered across her face and she tasted salt. Her rescuer toppled on to her. His face rolled on to hers. His wide, fixed eyes pleaded with her saying, This isn’t true. We are in one another’s dreams. We will wake up, won’t we? Then his head slid off of her.

Ahaaaaaa …, she howled. She saw the dark outline of a man with a pistol standing over her. Knowing it was the hour of her death she prayed.

Hail Mary, full.…,

Sorry, Mike, but you’ll get a medal for bravery, the dark man said.

… of grace. The Lord is …,

Your father will be proud. But I warned you about these people …,

with thee …,

But you tried to save the Americans from the guerrillas and this is the gratitude that they showed you. He turned away from her dead rescuer to the rapist who was sitting up rubbing the back of his head.

Blessed art thou among …,

You have to be crazy putting your hands on the merchandise. She heard a soft snap and saw a crystal flash of light. The top of the man’s head exploded in a cloud of red mist, his brain splattering across her face. The shadow turned to Caitlin.

and blessed is the fruit …,

No need for that. Caitlin, don’t be afraid, I’m here to protect you.

CHAPTER 2

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J.C. McAleese, S. J. looked through the sighting lens of the telescope. The image in the lens—a defuse smear of light—quivered, frustrating discernment. He steadied the telescope, adjusted the lens and looked again. The fuzzy ball of light sharpened into a sharp recognizable orange-colored globe. He adjusted the lens again inflating the globe into a multi-colored, striped balloon: Jupiter in all his glory. Suspended above the giant planet, three of his moons hung like spectral attendants. He returned to the sighting lens and swung the telescope slowly leftward.

How many chances do I have of finding the comet? About equal to the chance you have of converting these Indians, he said aloud. A million to one. He sighted through the lens.

O, my God! Sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Beyond all luck, there it was! The blurry tail and the fuzzy head of the comet lying just as Gillespie predicted, just to the left of Jupiter. The lens dimmed and the comet vanished. He looked up, confronted by a tall Panteguarani. He smiled at the curious Indian and then bent over the lens.

Tu-Macha, can you move behind me, you are blocking the lens, J.C. said to his interpreter and bent back over the lens. I have to get this right! Stand behind me.

He had to keep the image steady or he could lose it in the dense star field, and if he did, it would take him hours to find it. And by then, he would lose his audience. In two weeks, it would be in full flower, sweeping away the stars that now veiled its coming. But little good that did him unless he could keep it visible now.

Let’s see what happens! He turned to his hosts. Behind him standing within the dull circlet of light emanating from a Coleman lantern hanging from a tree were the six clan chieftains of the Moon Jaguar People. Ta-Jurga, chief of the Monkey Clan, would be the first to look. The chieftain seemed ill at ease, tentative as if he doubted the whole business.

Standing beyond the