Fellowship of Fear (8 page)

He twisted the pistol barrel with all his strength. Marco’s wrist seemed to turn a full, boneless circle, but still he held on and clawed at Gideon’s face with his other hand. Gideon hit him in the face with the broom handle. Marco made a dreadful mewing noise but held on and kept clawing. He had gotten his fingers inside Gideon’s lower lip and was twisting hard. Gideon felt something give, and hot blood gushed onto his chin. Tears jumped to his eyes with the sudden pain.

"Drop it!" he shouted thickly through the ripping fingers. His cheek flapped hideously. He clubbed Marco again and then again.

The boy’s fingers held rigidly onto the gun, although his face was suddenly smeared with blood and weirdly awry. Gideon kept smashing with the broom handle. He was wild-nearly hysterical—with pain and horror.

"Drop it, damn you!" he screamed. "Drop it, drop it, please, God, drop it!" Then he heard himself shrieking wordlessly to drown out the rising scream from Marco’s mangled, bloody face.

Finally, Marco sagged and Gideon wrenched the gun out of his hand just as the two others got to them. Gideon brushed off a grasping hand and swung the semiconscious Marco around, getting his arms through the boy’s armpits so that he supported the limp, moaning form between himself and them. He pressed the end of the gun barrel under Marco’s heart and glared crazily at the two men. He tried to speak but couldn’t. Marco’s damp, greasy hair was against his nose; he could smell sweat and cheap hair oil.

In all his life, Gideon had never been so wildly out of control. He couldn’t stop gasping, or maybe it was sobbing, and he was full of an awesome rage. To be hunted down by maniacs with guns; to be standing there in the dark, covered with blood and slime, his lip torn off for all he knew; to be pressing a gun into a boy’s abdomen; to be forced to club that juvenile face into a gory…

One of the men addressed him in a lazy, arrogant drawl. "Oliver, if I were you—"

Gideon shouted at him to shut up, only what burst from him was not words but an inarticulate, savage bellow that seemed to come from some beast—some literal, material beast inside him.

So ferocious was it that both men jumped back. Even Gideon was shocked by its violence; stupidly, he patted Marco reassuringly.

While the two men stared at him with pistols leveled at his chest—at Marco’s head, to be more exact—Gideon tried to review his situation. He knew he was hurt and weakened and that his thinking was fuzzy. He wasn’t sure how much of the slop on him was blood, nor how much of the blood was his own. He couldn’t free a hand to explore his mouth, but he was sure it was terribly lacerated. He thought his face was cut in other places, too. Most important, there had been a sharp pain in his ankle when he had swung Marco around and propped him up. He had done something serious to it, and he knew he couldn’t run on it or even drag himself and Marco away on the threat of killing the boy if they followed. Moreover, he wasn’t sure that Marco’s life would carry any weight with them anyway; they were older than the boy—harder, a different breed. And when it came down to it, he knew he couldn’t fire into that helpless, battered body. The other two, he thought, would know he was bluffing.

The older of the two men, the one who had spoken before, appeared to know what he was thinking.

"Oliver," he drawled again, "this really won’t do any good, you know. I’d rather not endanger our poor friend there, but if it can’t be helped, I assure you I’ve no qualms about it, none whatever." His speech was English public school, self-assured and superior, with strong Italian overtones.

Gideon didn’t answer, but kept the gun pressed to Marco’s belly. He had less reluctance about shooting the two others, but he knew he could never get them both. He doubted he could hit even one. He didn’t even know whether you had to push back the hammer or simply pull the trigger. From the way they held their weapons, it was clear that the other two were on intimate terms with them.

Marco stirred and tried to plant himself more firmly on his feet. His hands came up to Gideon’s forearms and then explored his own face. He groaned; Gideon shuddered, but tightened his hold and braced himself against the boy’s body.

"Oliver," the older man said once more, "do let’s be reasonable. We’d simply like to talk to you, you see. I’m not really sure how we’ve arrived at this ridiculous juncture, and I’d be a great deal happier if we weren’t pointing these things at one another, wouldn’t you?"

He smiled, and it wasn’t a bad smile. Gideon said nothing, but kept watching him. He had a lined, high-nosed face, aristocratic in the Italian way, and his smile lent warmth to his eyes. Standing in a Sicilian mud puddle in the middle of the night seemed no more plausible for him than for Gideon.

"I’ll tell you what," he went on. "Why don’t I put mine away, then?" He did so, slipping it into a shoulder holster underneath a well-cut suit jacket. Then he held up his empty palms.

"Take the light out of my eyes," Gideon said.

The man lowered his flashlight and gestured at the other one to do the same. "There," he said, "is that better? Now suppose that on the count of three, you and my friend here, who is really much more sympathetic than he looks, both lower your weapons until they’re pointing at the ground. Then you can both drop them at the same time and we’ll have our chat. Now, how does that sound?"

From the way he spoke—slowly and reassuringly, as if he were talking to a child—Gideon knew his own rapidly dimming faculties were apparent. As patently deceptive as his instructions were, Gideon longed to follow them. The pain in his face and his ankle was excruciating, his mind was growing more cloudy each second—he must have lost a lot of blood—and the world was beginning to tilt and slowly spin. He wanted terribly to sit down, but he held on and kept the gun pressed into Marco’s ribs, though he swayed on his feet.

"How tiresome," said the cool voice. "Well, old boy, you know perfectly well you’re not really going to shoot."

Gideon was having a hard time seeing. He blinked, trying to focus his vision. Suddenly the gun was no longer in his hand. The world turned entirely upside down, and he found himself sitting on the ground at last. He couldn’t imagine where Marco had gone.

The slender man was no longer smiling. He said a few quick words to the other one, who moved toward Gideon, stony-faced. Dimly, Gideon understood he was going to be shot. He sighed and waited, his mind empty.

A light, much more powerful than a flashlight, flicked on from the bridge, capturing them all in its fierce glare.

"Drop the gun! Quick!"

The older man spun and flashed his light at the voice. Gideon saw a familiar face lit up. Now who was it? Let’s see…it wasn’t anyone in his family, not Dad or Saul. Was it one of the kids he played around with?… Um, no, because it was a man, and his friends were only kids. Or maybe it was himself? He giggled. How did his face get so wet?

There was more shouting, and other noises too, but they were a long way off, booming and slow, like a record played at the wrong speed. He giggled again. What was Mom going to say about his dirty clothes?…And how did his face get so wet?

   THE nurse—large, clean, and handsome—bustled in carrying a tray and exuding a take-charge aura as welcome and natural in Sigonella Naval Hospital as it would have been in Kansas City General.

"Well, how’s my favorite patient? Were we taking a little nap? Wake up, sleepyhead. Lunchtime!"

"I can hardly wait," said Gideon, but he was glad to see her. "What color straw do I get today? Can I have yellow again? The kind that bends?"

"No straws today. Doctor says you’re on solids now. What do you think of that?" She put the bed tray down in front of him. There was a bowl of dark gray porridge, a cup of light gray pudding, and a glass of milk.

"These are solids?"

"Well, they’re not liquids. Would you believe mushies?"

"I’ll take ‘em. I’m hungry. Which feels very nice." He raised himself to a sitting position.

"We have to be careful with the spoon, now. Try to keep it away from the left side. Your cheek’s going to be a teeny bit tender yet. Oh, you have a visitor. He’ll be in after you eat."

"Who is it, Sue?"

"Name’s John Lau. Nice guy. Says he’s an old friend."

"Old friend" was stretching things a little, but only a little, under the circumstances. "Can’t you send him in now? I mean, of course, if the rules permit."

"They don’t, but I’ll make an exception, seeing as how you’re going to be such a good boy and eat up all the nice glop."

A few seconds after she left the room, the big policeman walked in with a twinkling smile that was good for Gideon’s soul.

"What’s up, Doc?"

"I don’t believe it," Gideon said. "What are you doing in Sicily? Or am I back in Germany?"

"No such luck; you’re in sunny Italy." As always, John’s babylike laugh made Gideon laugh too. Then he winced; the stitches had come out just that morning.

"Hey, I’m sorry, Doc. You want the nurse again?"

"No. It only hurts when I laugh." He held up his hand quickly. "Also when you laugh."

John smiled, which was better. "Don’t let me stop you from eating. It looks wonderful."

"I’ll tell you, it’s the closest thing to real food I’ve had since the shore patrol deposited me here Friday. Five days. Have a seat." He dug into the porridge and gingerly put the spoon in his mouth. Sue was right; it was still pretty raw in there.

John made a face. "What is that stuff?"

"I don’t know. Gruel, probably."

"Nah, gruel’s thinner." John watched in good-humored silence as Gideon worked his way through the porridge, which tasted wonderful. With hot food in him and a friendly face nearby, he was starting to feel nearly human again.

"Boy," John said happily, "you sure look like hell."

Gideon put down his spoon. He hadn’t seen himself since the bandages had come off. "I sure feel like hell. I may as well see the worst. How about handing me the mirror on the bureau there?"

John gave it to him. "You’ll be sorry."

"Holy mackerel," said Gideon, "look at that." It had taken twenty stitches to pull together the jagged tear at the junction of his upper and lower lips, and six to close a cut at the side of his left eye, probably from when he’d banged his head on the bridge support. There were another four stitches over his right eye (Marco’s flashlight?) and several nasty contusions that had left most of his face brown, black, and purple. Add to this a patchy five-day beard, and Gideon was surprised that he was feeling as well as he was, which wasn’t all that good.

John replaced the mirror. "How about the ankle?" he asked.

"Looks worse than it is," Gideon said, indicating the protuberance at the end of the bed formed by a metal framework that kept the covers off his foot. "Sprained a couple of ligaments. I’m supposed to be up tomorrow, but I’ll have to use a cane for a while."

"Well, Doc, you sure get involved in some pretty strange situations for a nice, mild-mannered professor-type."

"Amazingly enough, the same thought has been occurring to me. The Curse of the Visiting Fellow, no doubt."

"The curse of the who?"

"You don’t know? It’s an honorary curse; goes along with my position. The last fellow, two semesters ago, got killed in a car accident, and the one before that disappeared. Or maybe I have them backwards."

John took his notebook from the flap pocket of his shirt and wrote in it. "Go ahead," he said.

"That’s all. Dr. Rufus told me about it… the chancellor. He was sort of embarrassed to have me even know about it; he didn’t exactly gush with information."

John nodded. Gideon saw him print "Rufus" in the notebook. "Okay, Doc. Look, if this keeps up, you’re gonna get killed—or kill someone else, more likely. Let’s try to find out what the hell is going on. Now, I’ve seen the police reports and the transcripts of your statements, and I still have some big questions—"

"Wait a minute, John. I’ve got some pretty big questions myself. I’d like to ask them first, if that’s okay."

"Shoot." He flipped the notebook closed and dropped it into his pocket.

"First of all, what are you doing here, really?"

John’s injured surprise was clearly genuine. "Hey, look, you’ve been assaulted with intent to kill. That’s a crime, you know, even here, and I’m a cop."

"I know, I know, but why
you?
This is over a thousand miles from Heidelberg. Aren’t there any other cops? And why is this a NATO security matter at all? Why not the local MPs?"

John tipped his chair back against the wall. "Let me put it this way: USOC is my beat. The agreement they have with the army calls for protection for the faculty wherever they send you guys. And since the only places they send you are NATO bases, it’s natural that NSD has the responsibility. Traveling is no problem for us. We just hop a MAC flight."

"Why do we need protection at all? And why can’t the local military police handle it?" Gideon asked again.

"Believe me, it’s a lot simpler than negotiating with the local security people every time you go some place, and explaining who and what you are, which isn’t always so easy. You’re not military, you’re not civil service, you’re not tech reps—and you go to some pretty weird places."

Gideon hiked himself into a sitting position so that his eyes were level with John’s. It took more effort than he expected. "Look, let me level with you, and maybe you’ll do the same with me. I’m in way over my head with this spy business I’ve gotten myself into. What I’m wondering is, are
you
really a cop, or are you a spy or an agent or whatever they call it?" John began to answer, but Gideon cut him off. "And am
I
some kind of a pawn? I don’t like being used, especially when it nearly gets me killed."

John frowned, arranging his words. He tipped his chair forward onto all four legs again. "My branch is Safety," he said slowly, with careful emphasis on each word. "Protection of life and property. We’re just like the MPs, only we get assignments that cut across their lines. As of this year, I’m assigned to USOC. Before that I was doing the same thing for USAREUR, before that at AFCENT in Holland. And before that I was an ordinary, run-of-the-mill cop in San Diego and Honolulu. I couldn’t be more ordinary and run-of-the-mill if I tried. Until you started making my life complicated, that is." It was a long speech for John. He blew out his breath as if he’d been chopping down trees.