Shadowed by Grace (19 page)

Tyler stumbled toward them, shock pulling down his face.

Scott jerked away from Rachel but not before he noticed her touch her lips.

Several cars were stopped in front of them, a half-track smoldering in flames. He tried not to imagine what had happened to the men who had been in it. The fields on either side of the road were decimated, civilians bloodied and still. Moans filled the air with a mournful wail. Men writhed not ten yards from the jeep, while others lay still . . . too still.

“We have to get out of here.” Tyler pointed to the jeep. “What if they come back?”

“He’s right.”

Rachel nodded and scrambled up the hill to the road before he could stop her. He raced after her scanning the sky. What if the planes weren’t done? He collided with her, but she didn’t move. Her gaze was locked on a family they had passed only moments before the attack.

She pointed to a girl, her yellow dress soaked with blood from a shrapnel wound. “We have to help her.”

Another glance confirmed his first impression. Nothing they did would help that girl or her family. But if they didn’t move, they could all be killed.

A lone drone buzzed, and Scott froze, then raced to the jeep. “Get this thing moving, Salmon. We need shelter.”

“There’s no time.”

Tyler was right, so Scott grabbed Rachel’s arm. “Back to the ditch.”

She jerked next to him, as if in a trance. He tugged her after him. A lone Messerschmitt soared overhead, and Scott thrust Rachel’s head down as he edged toward her. He had to shield her from anything that landed near them.

Salmon hurried across the road and slid down next to Scott. The plane got so close he could see the outline of the pilot. “Why isn’t he shooting?”

“Maybe he got lost.” Salmon kept his head down, his words disappearing into the soil at his face.

Rachel shook her head and then pulled her camera out and aimed it at the sky, tracing its flight with the lens.

The plane circled back around, this time chased by an American P-38. A cheer rose from the men around them, then the convoy launched back to life. Rachel hesitated as she walked toward the child.

Tears streaked down her cheeks. Scott touched one, but she didn’t stir.

“She was alive. Just minutes ago.”

“Yes.”

“Why would God let this happen?”

That was a question he would never be able to answer.

“Time to go, princess.” Tyler patted the jeep as he climbed in and started it.

Rachel nodded but didn’t move. Scott took her hand, noting how icy her fingers were. He rubbed her hands between his, trying to ignore how delicate they were next to his longer, calloused paws. “Come on. We’ve got to stay with the convoy.”

Rachel stared at the sky, scanning for any other sign that a plane waited to swoop down on the vehicles. Her senses spun with a horrifying mix of adrenaline, the scent of burning rubber, and dread the planes would return. The image of the little girl with the jagged metal sticking from her chest assailed her. One moment the child was alive and smiling. The next impaled by a shell.

She shuddered as the groans and screams of the injured blended in a horrible cacophony with the yells of others to get the convoy moving. Leaving those killed felt like abandonment. Yet Tyler was right, they had to move.

If the planes returned or others took their place, she’d join the soldiers with nowhere to hide. How many times would she find herself in this position . . . risking her life for a series of photos that might land in a newspaper?

No, not just photos. There was much more at stake. Much more that could be destroyed by one bomb.

The German plane had passed so quickly, she’d had a moment to adjust her camera’s settings. She prayed she’d selected the best settings in the split second she had.

When Scott had pulled her into the ditch, she wanted to fight but couldn’t. Her body had frozen as he held her, then shifted to position himself between her and anything that might rain from the sky.

“Rachel.”

She snapped her attention from the sky and back to Scott. “I’m moving.”

“Tyler is moving faster.” He gestured toward the car, and when she reached him, Tyler had the car moving forward.

She hurried and slipped inside, clutching her camera strap with one hand and her bag with the other. “I’ll need to develop the photos when we arrive. See what I captured.”

It took all night to push the destroyed vehicles off the road. The next morning the convoy inched forward. Each kilometer took hours as the minesweepers did their job. She wanted to believe the Germans hadn’t had time to inflict serious damage, but all around her a different story played out.

She closed her eyes and tried to pray for those injured and the families of those killed. When the image of the girl in the yellow dress filled her mind, she snapped her eyes open to find Tyler watching her over his shoulder. The man’s attention unsettled her, maybe magnified by the fact she sensed others watching.

As long as Scott was near, she felt safe. The moment he’d leave, she’d remember she was the lone woman in a caravan of men. A certain edge kept her from wanting to spend any time alone with Tyler. Maybe she just didn’t understand men; yet with Scott she didn’t mind.

After a couple days the convoy reached a village. Many of the buildings stood like shadowed ruins in the fading daylight. She’d get up early to take dramatic images of the first light falling on them. Right now, she longed for something to eat and a place to lie down and pretend she wasn’t in the middle of an advancing army. Funny how one moment she could practically hum like a hummingbird with an enhanced ability to sense things, and the next she felt sedated.

As they traveled, her thoughts returned to Scott’s kiss. She had never felt the way she did about Scott. Somehow he reached a place deep inside her she hadn’t known existed. Her cheeks flushed with the intense memory.

Tyler stopped the jeep when a group of soldiers hailed them. After examining their orders, the lead soldier motioned Scott out. “Where you headed?”

“Following the Fifth per those orders.”

“To do what?”

“Work with headquarters on monuments recovery.”

The man snorted, his face hidden in the shadow cast from his helmet. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Check with HQ. They’ll verify the orders.”

“Love to if I knew where that was.”

“Then I guess you have to rely on the orders.”

“Those can be forged. Saw some last week. Germans and the Fascists will try anything to get behind the lines and access to officers.”

Scott stayed at ease, but his hand slipped toward his hip where his pistol rested. Tyler kept his hands visible on the steering wheel. Lot of good these two did protecting her. At this rate her own army would shoot her.

“Soldier, I’m here on orders too.” She pointed to the patch over her left jacket pocket. “See, I’m with the press. Here to take photos of our brave soldiers. Men like you.”

“Orders.” He held out his hand, and she passed them over. He pointed at Scott. “You’re with me. You two keep the others with the vehicle.”

His fellow soldiers trained their guns on the jeep, and Rachel tried to ignore the weapons pointed at her. This situation couldn’t get much worse unless the Germans decided now would be a good time for another bombing run. She looked at the buildings in the village that were disappearing in the dusk. The church’s steeple pierced the sky, but the bell hung as if its last cord would snap any moment, plummeting it to the ground. She didn’t want to be underneath when that happened.

Behind the vigilant men soldiers moved in all directions. All wore full combat dress, burdened with their weapons and gear. Based on the way they hurried, she doubted many of them would get a warm meal or a sheltered place to sleep. Instead they kept to the road, chasing the Germans north. She pulled her camera from the top of her knapsack and held it up. “May I?”

The soldiers glanced at each other, then at her. Both looked like they’d just graduated from high school, definitely younger than the man who’d hustled off with Scott.

“I guess.”

Rachel chose to believe the permission was because they didn’t think she was a spy rather than the more likely scenario that they hadn’t thought taking photos of troop movements was something a spy would do. She hoped their naïveté didn’t represent the majority of the troops.

She placed the viewfinder to her eye and slowly pivoted. Somewhere the contrast of building, soldier, and sky wouldn’t disappear in the gathering dusk.

There.

The church settled into the background, troops moving in front like burdened ants falling into rows by instinct. A mermaid set in a fountain listed to the left off center in the shot. The composition looked right because it wasn’t perfect. Instead it told a story in the way everything sat off balance. Then a little girl stumbled into the scene, hair in a long, dark braid, basket over her arm. The child couldn’t be more than seven or eight. What in the name of all that is good were her parents thinking?

Rachel snapped the photo, then watched the child’s progress. Her printed dress fell a couple inches too short above her knee. The red ribbon at the end of her braid hung limp and frayed. But the girl kept her chin raised, her pace steady. What would be important enough to send her out?

“May I step from the jeep?”

The soldiers startled at her words. The shorter one looked away as if he knew she’d caught him watching her. The other straightened. “You’re under our guard, ma’am.”

Had he just ma’amed her? He couldn’t be more than five or six years younger than her twenty-four. Certainly not enough to earn that moniker. “I need that girl’s name. The editors get crazy if we don’t try.”

“Then why not ask the soldiers?”

“Can’t. They all look alike and have moved on. The little girl stands out.” How she wished she could emphasize the blast of color from her dress in an otherwise sea of muddy greens and khaki.

“Go with her.” The tall one poked the small one in the side.

She flashed a big smile at him. “Thank you.”

After slipping from the jeep, she ignored her soldier and hurried toward the little girl. If only she had Italian language skills. Instead she’d mumble and gesture her way through. Try to make out what had happened with sign language.

“Hi.”

The girl’s steps skipped to a halt before she continued again. Rachel kept pace with her. The basket was worn, a cloth napkin over the top. The girl’s dress even more threadbare when viewed up close. “
Ciao, signorina
.”

The girl’s lips moved but her voice was silent. The soldiers’ steps slowed as they moved around them as around an island blocking a river.

Rachel puffed hair from her eyes. “Where are you going?”

“Can’t you see? She isn’t gonna talk.” The soldier’s words were spoken with a tinge of the south.

“Maybe, but I don’t like her being by herself.” Reminded her too much of the days she’d been sent on errands a child shouldn’t make alone. How she’d longed for the protection of a daddy as she trekked to the corner grocery or the drugstore. As an adult she knew the distances weren’t long or the errands too much for a nine- or ten-year-old, but as a child she’d sensed her aloneness . . . again. Just like this child.
“Mi scusi.”

The child paused, her brown eyes solemn as she met Rachel’s gaze.

“Can I help you?”

Face weary with an expression no child should carry, the girl studied her. What had the child witnessed? What had she been exposed to by the war as it ravaged her village? The emptiness made Rachel want to weep. Her trips to the grocery store were not even dim shadows of what this child had experienced.

Chapter 18

June 10

WHAT KIND OF RECEPTION
would he find at headquarters?

Would the brass welcome Scott and his role, or would he have to prove while swimming up river that he had an important job?

Shadows wrapped around Scott as he entered the church that housed headquarters. The roof sagged in places and in other spots threatened to collapse entirely. They needed to stay out of the bell tower since that bell looked less secure on its rope than his grandmother’s ring had been on Elaine’s finger.

A table had been rigged in front of an altarpiece. Why on earth had the village priest left it exposed? At least move the altarpiece to a basement’s shelter. Scott made a mental note to find the priest and move it STAT. His personal guard, sergeant by the stripes on his uniform, stopped a few feet from the table.

“Sir.”

The men hunched over the table focused on whatever rested on the surface.

“Sir, I have a man here who says he works for you. Looks like a spy to me.”

The one-star beneath the altarpiece glanced up with a sharp, discerning look. His nose arched like a hawk’s beak, and he had an intensity that indicated he didn’t miss much around him. “What’s that?”

“This man says he’s with you.” The guard stepped to the side and Scott found himself locked in the general’s stare.

“You are?”

“Lieutenant Scott Lindstrom, with the Monuments and Fine Arts. He has my orders, sir.”