The Secret of Raven Point (36 page)

As rain fell on the schoolhouse above, Juliet and the men made a camp in the darkness, drinking wine and feasting on the sweets. They rubbed olive oil into their blistered feet, bandaged their toes, mended their socks and gloves.

The dirt floor held the chill of winter, and for warmth Juliet stuffed crumpled pages from the writing tablets inside all of their clothing. They all lazed around, swollen and bloated. When any of them moved, it made a racket.

By candlelight, they read aloud to one another from Italian children’s books. They played tic-tac-toe and told stories of their former lives.
Former
lives—it was how they spoke of things back home, with no mention of ever returning there, as though it were behind them. They had disappeared, thought Juliet, absconded from danger, from the war, from illness and injury, and from the world itself. In the cellar she felt safe; it provided the same thick, cavernous comfort she’d felt as a child pulling blankets over her head.

Willard once again related the tale of how he’d come to work for the army, adding a few new details, which Juliet savored: Willard’s father, too, had been a psychiatrist, and he had a younger brother who was a concert pianist.

Brother Reardon had grown up in Pittsburgh, raised chiefly by his aunt, Beth, and had a wily boyhood of thieving and vandalism before Beth stayed up all night with him once, insisting that together they smash every car window, drain every fire hydrant, steal every purse or parcel in sight, carry off every signpost not nailed to the ground—and then the next morning she dragged him to a soup kitchen where they watched men line up for bread; then she took him to an orphanage. “We could stay and help here,” she said, “or go back to running around and breaking things. Shall we ask the children what they think?” Brother Reardon said his aunt chased the devil out of him that day and set him on the path to serving God.

When it came Juliet’s turn to speak, she found herself describing Charlesport, the waterfront and the old houses, her father and Pearl. She shared the story of her science-fair entries, trying her best to distance herself from the awkward girl she had once been. “Oh, there, there, we give Juliet the blue ribbon!” all the men said. She spoke of Tuck—not about the telegram or her quest for him, but about their childhood together, their lemonade stands and yard forts, the rescue of Cher Ami. She proudly described the day when, at fourteen, Tuck saved a woman and her baby from a sinking car.

Though living in a cold half darkness, Juliet thought she might never want to leave. She loved these men; she trusted these men. And they were forever bound, she knew, by the risks they’d all taken to save Barnaby’s life.

Though Barnaby had recovered from his semicoma, he was oddly sparing with his words. He sipped at the wine and nibbled chestnuts, nodding along as the others told stories; he listened intently but seemed reluctant to speak about himself. It was possible,
Juliet thought, that Barnaby had never been much of a talker; but she also wondered if, after what he’d been through with his squad, he’d simply grown suspicious of the world. She recalled what Munson had told her. If his own squad mates had strung him up, whom could he trust?

Barnaby sat quietly in the corner and made drawings of Juliet, Willard, and Brother Reardon. Of the marionettes that hung from the ceiling. It was unclear what he understood of the court-martial, if he knew about the death sentence. If he had any idea of the dangers that lay ahead—for all of them—if they were caught, he gave no indication.

But Willard had been counting the days, eager to get under way to Signora Gaspaldi’s. On the sixth morning, when Juliet hiked to the stream to fill their canteens, a cloudless sky hung overhead. A heron swooped over the water; white egrets stood basking in the winter sun. When she returned to the schoolhouse, Willard was upstairs, studying the large map of Italy.

“The sky is clear,” he said.

“I saw,” she said. She noticed that his pack was now leaning by the door. “You think the MPs have moved on?”

“They had almost a week to scour this area. That said, I wouldn’t be surprised if we’ve been added to their round-up list. If Brilling somehow heard that I didn’t come back from my leave, he’ll have pieced it together.”

“So how do we get to Signora Gaspaldi’s?”

“On foot. We need to stay off the roads anyway.”

“On foot,” Juliet repeated flatly, trying hard to hide her dismay. Even after days of rest, the idea of walking such a vast distance intimidated her.

“Come here and look,” said Willard. He drew a line on the map, his pen gliding across the mountains. “We break it into two days, morning and afternoon increments. We rest when we need
to. You’ll be fine. Trust me.”

“I don’t have much of a choice, I suppose.”

He shook his head and put his hand on her shoulder. “We used up all our choices a week ago,” he said.

They slowly packed their belongings and boiled the last of the eggs. Willard scoured the nearby woods for two thick branches, which he topped with scraps of the canvas map and a pair of thick socks and gave to Brother Reardon as crutches.

As they all left the schoolhouse, Willard patted the closed door as though in good-bye: they were all sad to leave it. They had at least two days of heavy walking ahead. They set out at first along the dirt road, but soon cut toward the woods so they could follow the line of the road but were hidden from vehicles.

The sun was bright and the air was clear, and they walked together like an exploring party, pausing at times to take in their surroundings, enjoying the sun’s warmth on their faces, the flutter and rustle of wind through the trees.

“We have the most beautiful mountains where I’m from,” said Barnaby, surprising them all. “The Green Mountains.”

“In Vermont?” asked Juliet.

“I’d like to get back there.”

They were all silent a moment. A peregrine falcon fluttered loose from a tree and squawked toward the mountains.

“Well, I’ve seen enough mountains this past month to last a lifetime,” said Juliet. “I miss the ocean.”

“Tuck missed the ocean, too.”

It was the first time Barnaby had voluntarily mentioned Tuck outside of the Pentothal sessions; he had listened to Juliet speak about him but said nothing, as though she were discussing
a person he had never met.

“What else did he tell you?” she asked.

“That last night was the most we talked. But it was meaningful. He told a lot of football stories. It was like he thought it was a metaphor for life. I told him that, and he said no, it
was
life. He told some stories about your father. He talked about a place he and you used to go to hide out.”

“Raven Point?”

“Maybe. Maybe Raven Point.”

Juliet heard a rumble in the distance and stopped. Willard and Brother Reardon were looking south, toward the road. A camouflaged jeep was bisecting the field; something seemed to be sticking straight up from it, and then Juliet saw it was a man perched in the back, swinging left and right, holding binoculars.

They hit the ground and shimmied out of their packs. Juliet kept her face down and listened as the jeep grew louder. The ground was cold, and she looked at Barnaby. She saw fear in his face, the same fear she’d seen all those nights he was describing for Willard what had happened at the front. And yet he managed to reach out and clasp her hand.

The sound of the engine faded, but it was a while before any of them moved.

When finally they stood and brushed themselves off, the air had cooled, and a purple light overtook the sky. They moved, without discussion, even farther from the road into the tall woods. Brother Reardon moved slowly, navigating awkwardly on his crutches over rocks and felled trees. Every few feet Barnaby plucked a stick from the ground and snapped it in two. Gloom hung over them. They trudged along, Willard in the lead, frequently pulling from his jacket the portion of the map of Italy he had cut and folded, looking at the setting sun in an attempt to reckon their direction. At the sudden dash of squirrels before her, Juliet’s heart raced. She was grateful when, before full darkness had descended, Willard called out, “Look!” from ahead, pointing to a fissure in the base
of the mountain.

“I think it’s a cave,” he said.

Carts and wheelbarrows cluttered the entrance; massive drills and hammers, powdered with dust, lay idle on the floor. It was an abandoned quarry. They removed their packs and settled between jagged walls of white marble.

Barnaby, however, remained standing, his pack piled high on his back. Slowly, he looked at each of them. “This is wrong,” he said. “I don’t need to get back to Vermont. I should surrender.”

Juliet and Willard and Reardon glanced at one another, unsure of how much they should say, how much Barnaby understood of what his surrender would mean. Did he think it meant only prison?

“Absolutely not,” said Willard, rising to remove Barnaby’s pack.

But Barnaby backed away. “Doc, you’re all limping around in the snow because of me, when you should be back at the hospital, helping the other soldiers.”

“We’re going to bring you somewhere safe,” said Willard, exhaustion in his voice. “You and Brother Reardon can stay there for a while. We should be there within a day. Then Nurse Dufresne and I will go back to helping other soldiers.”

“Prison can’t be worse than being up at the front.”

“You’re not going to prison,” Willard answered—too sharply, because Juliet could see a shadow of understanding cross Barnaby’s face.

“I see,” said Barnaby.

“Let’s all get some rest, Christopher.” Willard gently took his elbow. “Doctor’s orders.”

They made a small fire and took shelter from the cold, but a slight wind occasionally stirred the white dust from the floor, making them sneeze.

Juliet slept fitfully, wondering if the MPs would retrace their tracks the next day. The ground was cold and hard, and each time she drifted off, she awoke to the icy chill of marble against some part of her body. She thought she heard footsteps and opened her
eyes; she saw the vague outlines of two figures and sat up, thinking Barnaby and Brother Reardon were trying to leave.

Then came Willard’s voice, an anxious whisper: “Juliet, stay still.”

As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, they caught the glint and glimmer of long objects.

“
Da sind noch
drei. Es sind Amerikaner,
”
someone said.
“
Und es ist eine junge Frau.
”

A flashlight suddenly lit Willard’s face; he was standing, and on either side a rifle nestled into his temples. Sweat glazed his forehead.

“Aufstehen. Alle aufstehen,”
one of the Germans huffed.

“We all have to stand,” Willard said, his voice flat.

Juliet slowly pulled back her blanket and moved beside Willard. On the other side of the quarry, Barnaby and Brother Reardon raised their hands.

The German shined his flashlight over Willard, stopping at his Red Cross armband.

“Doktor?”

The second German walked to Barnaby and Brother Reardon, examining the first’s head bandages, the latter’s silver lapel crosses.
“Geistliche und Patienten,”
he called. He signaled for Barnaby to sit on a wheelbarrow and gestured Brother Reardon toward Juliet and Willard. The Germans now stood side by side, in military stance, assaying their prisoners.

“
Ich bin Katholisch. Ich kann keinen Geistlichen töten.
”

Willard responded angrily: “
Es ist gegen den Willen Gottes, irgendeinen von uns zu töten
.
Wir sind alle Zivilisten, und wir sind unbewaffnet. Wir sind keine Bedrohung für Sie,
” he continued, though his voice now rattled with fear.
“Wir sind nicht mehr mit der Armee. Wir sind alle Deserteure.”

“
Das sind wir auch, schätze ich,
” said the first German, laughing,
“
aber wir sind immer noch Feinde.
”

“What’s going on?” Barnaby asked.

Juliet watched the German who was speaking with Willard; he was a lanky man, almost equal to Willard in height, whose expression wavered between amusement and anger.

“
Keiner von uns ist eine Bedrohung für Sie. Der Mann hat eine Gehirnverletzung
,
” Willard insisted. “
Ich bin sein Arzt, und sie sein Krankenschwester
.”

At this, the second German looked Juliet up and down, a strange smile curling his mouth.

“What’s going on?’ Barnaby asked again. He gripped the sides of his wheelbarrow. “I said, what’s going on?”

“
Ruhe!
” The first German fired at the ceiling, releasing a blizzard of white dust.

Juliet watched as he reloaded his gun; she heard the click of the long chamber. He sneezed and wiped dust from his eyes. The other German tightened his grip on his rifle, aiming it firmly at Juliet’s chest, and then he stepped toward her and grabbed her waist, letting the rifle tilt away, pulling her into him.

She heard an explosion, a shock of metal. She fell back. She heard fabric tear, bones crack; there was a snap of joints. Her own, she thought, until she heard a body thump to the floor beside her.