Warren Murphy - Bloodline: A Novel

Thank you for buying this

Tom Doherty Associates ebook.

To receive special offers, bonus content,

and info on new releases and other great reads,

sign up for our newsletters.

Or visit us online at

us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

For email updates on the author, click here.

The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce, or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the authors copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

To all the people who traveled the road, too.

To Dawn and Molly and Elizabeth and Margret and Tony and especially Dick Sapir, the best partner ever, and to Deidre, Megan, Brian, Ardath, and Devinbest kids (and critics) ever.

N IGHT OF THE S ICILIAN V ESPERS :

A Sicilian revolt in 1282 against Charles I, the French King of Naples and Sicily. After killing French soldiers in Palermo while they attended religious Vespers services on Easter Monday, native Sicilians massacred 2,000 French inhabitants of the town.

Desk Encyclopedia

June 6, 1918

They had been driving toward the front all day long, a thousand-truck-long caravan racing at top speed through the rain and unexpected cold of an early June day, through Paris and a dozen, two dozen, who-knew-how-many small towns and smaller villages, past the broken, spent French Army, past even more desperate peasants and villagers trying to escape the onrushing Huns, all the way toward the small village known as Chteau Thierry.

It was past dark when they finally stopped. They climbed down from their trucks, cursing and joking, standing around in the building rain, waiting for a hot meal they all knew would never come. Then, sometime after midnight, still stiff and sore, they moved up to the line.

Private Tommy FalconeU.S. Marines, Second Brigade, First American Divisionas empty of heart as he was of stomach, moved along with the others. He was frightened and wished that he were somewhere else. Anywhere else would do.

The damnedest part of it, he reflected grimly, was that, strictly speaking, he did not have to be there. He had not been drafted; he had enlisted and he now considered that the damnedest, dumbest, stupidest thing he had ever done yet in his short life.

Papa was right.

It had not been funny at the time, but now Tommy smiled ruefully as he remembered the scene in their apartment when he had told his father he was enlisting.

Never, his father had said.

Mario has enlisted.

Your brother is a priest. He has God looking out for him. Who will look out for you?

I am almost nineteen, Papa. It is time I started looking out for myself.

You are still nasamorba. A snotnose. Grow up first. Then go kill Germans.

Tommys mother had contributed her opinion by weeping constantly for seventy-two hours, but in the end, Tommy Falcone had walked into the Marine office and enlisted. What had seemed a good idea at the time, now that he was here, now seemed the act of an idiot bent on suicide.

It was so dark here in the trenches that Tommy could barely see or hear the man in front of him. It was important to be quiet, they had been told. They were going to surprise the Boche as soon as it was light. The Marines had come stripped for action: no extra clothing, no extra packs, just what they were wearingtheir rifles, their bayonets, and small combat packs.

Tommy Falcone checked his equipment and again wished he were not there.

The night dragged. When it came his turn, Tommy tried to sleep but could not. He was too tired, too excited, too scared. He wished that he had carried his rosary with him, the one Mama had given him when he had left their apartment back in New York City. But he didnt have it. He was a man now, he had told himself at the time. He had no need for God. All he needed were his fellow Marines and a little bit of luck.

He said a Hail Mary anyway. Then an Our Father. Then a Glory Be. He said them over and over, gradually drawing comfort from their almost-mesmerizing grace.

Mario would approve, he thought. Mario was also somewhere in France this night. He was a battlefield chaplain with the army, and if Tommy knew his brother at all, he would be in the thick of whatever fighting there was. Tommy thought of his brother, then the neighborhood, his friends, his parents, all the pretty young girls he had yearned to have. He said some more prayers, anything to take his mind off what was coming.

This trench is not the worst place in the world to be. If I had to, I could stay here for days. Perhaps even months. Ill bet there are places in the world where backward peoples live in trenches, spend their whole lives in them. We could do the same.

He thought idly about suggesting this to one of his superior officers, but before he could find one, the war intruded again on his life.

The sky in the east was turning gray. Tommy could hear the soft clicks as Marines down the line from him fixed their bayonets onto the ends of their rifles. Without waiting for orders, Tommy did the same. A moment later, a sergeant appeared, scurrying along the floor of the trench like some nervous water bug, telling each of them that it was almost time. Ten minutes, he said. Maybe fifteen. Just be ready to go when the whistle blows.

It wasnt so bad, Tommy thought. He had been told that this would be the worst time, the waiting, and he had gotten through it okay. He crossed himself and turned to look at the two Marines next to him. They both grinned but did not speak.

Those are nervous smiles. They are as frightened as I am.

After what seemed only a few seconds, the whistle blew and Tommy and the others scrambled up out of the trench. They marched forward in a line that stretched as far as he could see in the gray mist, half-crouched, their rifles held at port arms.

It was quiet, eerily so. A hundred yards ahead of them was a wooded area. That would be their first objective, and then beyond that there was supposed to be a wheat field and, beyond that, another woods. They were to get as far as the second woods if they could and then dig in there and hold.

The sun raced into the sky, driving away the clouds and turning the grass of the meadow they were crossing a blood red. Ahead and to the left, Tommy saw a small farm building that looked too small to be a barn and too crude to be a house. He watched it as he moved. One step. Two steps. The morning was alive with the sounds of singing birds.

Three steps.

The building erupted, shooting noisy bursts of flame across the field. Tommy went to his knees, then onto his belly. He was ready to stop, to dig in. He had done enough for one day. He thought about it, but then somebody was beating on his helmet with a stick. He looked up and saw some officer whom he had only seen once before. He was cursing at Tommy, and Tommy reluctantly got to his feet again.

He turned to grin at the officer, to show him that he was all right, but the officer was already moving away, shuffling low toward the next Marine who had taken cover prematurely.

Tommy watched the officer move and admired his confident self-control, wondering if he would ever be able to do the same. As he watched, the officer split in half just above the waist and his intestines snaked out onto the ground.