Sins of the Flesh (10 page)

Daniel Bishop stepped foot onto English soil, his heart thrumming wildly about in his chest. This, the first leg of his journey, was over, and he was still alive, but he was far from his final objective and had no way of knowing how much longer it would take to reach that final objective. Someone had said they were in Plymouth, but the Brits were a secretive lot, and when he'd questioned the man who seemed to be his guide, he'd just shook his head and said, “Later,” then called him a bloody fool for leaving the safety of America to come on a wild goose chase. In the end Daniel had followed the man blindly through the driving rain to the metal airplane hangar where he was now sitting, waiting for someone in authority to tell him what his next move would be.

Daniel closed his eyes and did his best to focus on a map of England and France. Plymouth, he thought, was at the southern tip of England on the English Channel and directly across from Cherbourg, and directly southwest of Cherbourg was Brest, a true deep-water harbor that was mined by the Germans.

Angry sounds of dissension bounced off the tin walls of the hangar. Obviously the men weren't happy with his presence and didn't want the responsibility of crossing him over to French soil. And he didn't blame them. What the hell was he doing here? Patience, he told himself. An hour later he was still telling himself to be patient when the discussion became more heated. The group's words carried clearly to him.

“The old man gave the order himself, so we can't ignore it. Bear in mind, all of you, it's an order and not a request. When the prime minister says jump, lads, we jump. The best thing as I see it,” announced the speaker with the loud voice, “is to draw lots. Short stick takes him over.”

Daniel listened for what he was sure would be more muttered curses, but the little group grew strangely silent. His stomach heaved when a short, stocky man with a thick growth of beard approached him. “We'll go now.”

“Now! But it's storming outside,” Daniel protested.

“Exactly. Put this slicker on, follow me, and try not to open your mouth again until I dump you into the hands of the French Resistance.”

Daniel did as instructed. “How are we going to cross the Channel if it's mined?”

The bearded man turned to him. “We aren't crossing the Channel because it's too dangerous. I have a wife and three children to think of, so we're going out to the ocean and head due south. Those important friends of yours that know the prime minister said you wanted to go to Marseilles, so I'm going to drop you off at Bayonne; if we're lucky, someone will meet you at Saint-Jean-de-Luz and take you the rest of the way. It won't do to ask me any more questions because that's all I know.”

It was a garbage scow, Daniel was sure of it. Minutes later his suspicion was confirmed when the howling wind drove the stench of rotting garbage past his nose. He could see the wisdom of using the storm as a cover; if they were stopped the scow's captain could say he was blown off course. But the chances of that would be dim, he thought. Even Germans liked their comfort.

The scow, sturdy as it was, was no match for the storm they were sailing into. Rain sluiced downward, streaming over Daniel and the captain as waves strained upward to meet the onslaught from above. It seemed to Daniel that he was immersed in water from head to toe. Desperately he fought for toeholds that didn't exist, used his hands that were now raw and bleeding from hanging on to the rope the captain tossed him.

Twenty minutes into the trip found Daniel violently ill, the contents of his stomach spewing onto the slippery deck. He tried to think of pleasant things, safe things, to keep his sanity as the scow pitched forward, then sideways, always ending with what seemed like tons of water pouring over him. What time was it in Washington or California? His brain refused to function when he tried to calculate. No sane person would go through what he was going through, regardless of who owed who what. There was every possibility that he wouldn't even find Mickey.

Reuben…What was Reuben doing now? Most likely on his way to Washington to find out where he was. Of his two friends Rocky and Jerry, Rocky would be the one to give in to Reuben and tell all he knew. Reuben would gnash his teeth, stomp his feet, curse, bellow, and then calm down. Then it would all flood back to him, and the reason behind this trip would be clear.

Daniel found himself wondering if he would die trying to help Mickey. Probably not, since he still had a good many things to do in his life. God always seemed to listen to him when he begged for something. He hoped He was listening now.

Night crawled into day and then into night again with no letup from the storm. Daniel craved dry land and sleep, both of which were impossible. “Tie the rope around your waist, it will free your hands,” the captain called. It seemed a simple order until Daniel tried to knot the rope with his raw, bleeding hands. Finally he gave up and resumed holding the rope as he'd been doing.

“You Yanks are a prissy lot, and the prime minister thinks you're going to be our salvation. Bull turds!” the captain bellowed.

“We'll save your asses because you Brits don't have the sense to do it yourself,” Daniel shouted. “Go ahead, tell me to shut up, see if I listen.”

“Feisty, aren't we. Who's saving your ass now, Yank?” the captain bellowed a second time. “I haven't met a Yank yet who didn't cry in his beer.”

“I don't drink beer, and I don't know any American who cries in his beer. We're on your side, you asshole!”

“What are you, some kind of crusader?” the captain said, giving the wheel a vicious tug.

Daniel gasped and sputtered and almost lost his hold on the ropes when a ten-foot-high wave slapped him full in the face. “I'm a lawyer,” he groaned.

“A blimey solicitor getting fat off other people's misery,” the captain snarled. Daniel refused to be baited or to dignify the man's remarks with one of his own. He was a damn good lawyer, and no one was going to take that away from him.

“Won't be long now,” the captain called cheerily.

Stuff it, Daniel thought nastily.

“It won't be long now” turned into four hours more of the same torture. Daniel decided he wanted to die and be buried at sea. He'd have voiced the thought aloud but didn't want to give the captain the satisfaction of knowing how miserable he was.

“Hang on, mister, I'm heading into the cove. We're going to be doing a full turn, so hang on.”

Full turn, half turn, three-quarter turn, what the hell difference did it make? Daniel realized the difference the moment the scow turned and he found himself free of his ropes, sliding down past the captain, his body ricocheting from one garbage bin to the other…finally slamming into the last bin, which upended, burying him beneath its contents.

“Hold on, Yank, I'll have you out in a minute, we're in calm water now.” Free of the rotten garbage, Daniel wished for a return of the heavy rain that seemed to have faded. “If I were you, I'd give myself a good dunking or the Germans will smell you a mile away. Come on, Yank,” the captain said, holding out his hand. “Look, all those things I was saying back there was just to get your dander up. Not too many men could have held up the way you did. I wanted to make you mad. I'll drink with you any day, Yank, and good luck with whatever the hell it is you're here for. There's a copse of trees over there, you wait it out and someone will find you. Don't wander.”

“You're not staying?” Daniel groaned.

“My country awaits,” the captain said gallantly. “Good luck.”

Daniel crawled to the copse and flung himself down. He wanted to sleep, needed to sleep, but he knew he couldn't. It was as if he were a straw doll with no nerves, joints, or spine. His head rolled crazily about on his neck, and for the first time in his life he felt totally out of control. He had no strength to marshal to the surface, no inner untapped reserve. Over and over he asked himself what the hell he was doing here. The answer was always the same: He was here to repay a long-overdue debt. An emotional debt, to be sure, but a debt nonetheless.

The fine rain misting downward felt cool and refreshing on his face and body. Unfortunately it would also cover the sound of footsteps as it splattered on the leaves of the trees overhead. And he was too tired, too worn out, to strain his ears for alien sounds in this quiet, temporary shelter. If the storm worked its way inland, he was in deep trouble, he thought.

Daniel struggled to lift his arm so he could see the time, then remembered he'd been stripped of everything back in the metal hangar—his billfold, watch, and passport were all in a canvas bag awaiting his return, along with the labels that had been severed from his clothes. He knew he was inappropriately dressed for his trek to Marseilles. His shoes were the softest calf with thin leather soles, his shirt and trousers cotton seersucker. To his mind they screamed America.

Within minutes he was dozing, his eyelids full of weights he couldn't dislodge. He had no idea how long he had slept when a sound reached his ears, a sound other than the dripping rain. Instantly he was alert, his eyes closed, his ears straining to pick up the sound again. Concentrating deeply, he began to count backward from a hundred and was on eighty-six when he opened his eyes to see four men, their bayonets fixed and pointing at him. In the gray drizzle of the copse he was unable to discern their features. Weakly he raised his right arm, the palm of his hand facing the men as though to say, Hold it, I'm an American. Then he quickly withdrew his hand. Jesus, what if they were Germans?

The tallest of the four stepped forward, the bayonet pointed at Daniel's throat. “You have something to say?” he said in French.

Hell, yes, he had a lot to say in both French and English, but he knew what the man meant. “I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house down,” he responded shakily.

Daniel's relief was overwhelming when the man reached down to pull him to his feet. For the barest second he thought his knees would buckle, but they didn't. His mobility had returned with the short nap he'd taken.

“I want to go to—”

The tallest of the men shook his head. Obviously they knew where he wanted to go, or they wouldn't be walking so purposefully as he trailed along behind.

“Voices carry, especially in weather like this,” the man whispered to Daniel as he fell in beside him. Daniel had thought the rain would muffle voices and movement. But he nodded to show he understood.

“This is good weather to travel, the sky is dark and swollen, there's fog near the ground, and the rain lowers visibility. Normally we travel only in darkness unless we have a day like this. We have many kilometers to cover and we must do it on foot.” The man looked down at his hiking boots and then at Daniel's elegantly shod feet. Wearily he shook his head.

“How long?” Daniel whispered.

The man shrugged. “Days, nights, weeks. It depends on where the German patrols are. For the moment they are concentrating their strength to the north. They're like locusts; they are everywhere. But the heaviest concentration is in Paris. So far we've been lucky.”

Lucky, my foot, Daniel thought eight days later. Never in his life could he remember being so tired, so heart-sick, and so very hungry. The soles of his feet were raw and bleeding; the soles of his calfskin shoes were long gone, replaced by ripping the sleeves from his shirt to tie around the instep of his foot. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never do anything as foolhardy or as brave as he was doing now.

Daniel almost burst into song when the tall man said, “Five hours at the most and we'll have you at your village. It's a little past midnight now. I'd say you'll be creeping into the church at, say four-thirty. Someone will meet you and take you to the château. Can you make it, monsieur?”

“I can make it,” Daniel said grimly.

As he trudged along behind his guide, his steps lagging more and more, Daniel marveled at the French underground network. Every stop was anticipated. The inhabitants of the safe houses, as he thought of them, seemed to know when they were to arrive, yet no signals had been sent that he was aware of; no man had gone ahead of the small parade to alert those ahead of them, and he knew when he reached the village church the curé would be waiting for him.

They were on time, he calculated by the smile on his guide's face. On their stomachs, they peered over the rise to the small village nestled quietly among sturdy, leafy trees. How many times he'd bicycled into this village, how many times he'd prayed in the village church. A moment later his guide handed him the binoculars. Nothing had changed. There was the
boulangerie
with its life-size loaf of iron bread outside the door, the
pharmacie
next door with its shaded awning, the
épicier
where he'd shopped for Mickey, the
docteur
where he'd gone with Reuben at the close of their stay…. How was it possible that the village hadn't changed in all these years, Daniel wondered as he handed the binoculars back to the man on his right. By God, he was here, he'd made it!

“Adieu, monsieur,”
the tallest of the men said quietly.
“Bonne chance.”

Daniel stretched out his hand, but the men were already on their way back to wherever they'd come from.

The curé must have been watching from the bowels of the church, for the door to the sanctuary was thrust open as soon as Daniel approached. It was dark in this quiet place the priests used before Mass. And peaceful. If they walked into the church proper, there would be candlelight, he knew. How many he'd lighted for Reuben's recovery years earlier. How many prayers he and Mickey had said. So many rosaries, so many novenas. And when Reuben was finally well, he'd come back to this church one last time and had sat for hours, saying rosary after rosary in thanks. It still smelled the same. Even in this tiny closet of a room he could smell the beeswax and the faint odor of turpentine mixed with the smoky smell of the burning candles.