Going After Cacciato Read Free Page A

still flying.
    “A chicken!” Stink squealed. He pointed up the mountain. “Look it! See him?”
    “Mother of Children.”
    “Look it!”
    “A squawking chicken, you see that? A chicken!”
    The thunder came again, and Lieutenant Corson clutched himself and rocked.
    “Just tell me,” he moaned. “Just tell me, what’s he saying?”
    Paul Berlin could not hear. But he saw the wide wings, and the big smile, and the movement of the boy’s lips.
    “Tell me.”
    So Paul Berlin, watching Cacciato fly, repeated it: “Good-bye.”
       In the night the rain became fog. They camped near the top of the second mountain, and the fog and thunder lasted through the night. The lieutenant vomited. Then afterward he radioed back that he was in pursuit of the enemy.
    From far off, a radio-voice asked if gunships were needed.
    “Negative on gunships,” said the old lieutenant.
    “Negative?” The radio-voice sounded disappointed. “Tell you what, how about some nice arty? We got—”
    “Negative,” the lieutenant said. “Negative on artillery.”
    “We got a real bargain going on arty this week—two for the price of one, no strings and a warranty to boot. First-class ordnance, real sweet stuff. See, we got this terrific batch of 155 in, a real shit-load of it, so we got to go heavy on volume. Keeps the prices down.”
    “Negative.”
    “Well, jeez.” The radio-voice paused. “Okay, Papa Two-Niner. Tell you what, I like the sound of your voice. A swell voice, really lovely. So here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna give you a dozen nice ilium, how’s that? Can you beat it? Find a place in town that beats it and we give you a dozen more, no charge. Real boomers with genuine sparkles mixed in. A closeout sale, one time only.”
    “Negative. Negative, negative, negative.”
    “You’re missing out on some fine shit, Two-Niner.”
    “Negative, you monster.”
    “No offense—”
    “Negative.”
    “As you will, then.” The radio-voice buzzed. “Happy hunting.”
    “Mercy,” the lieutenant said into a blaze of static.
       The night fog was worse than the rain, colder and more saddening. They lay under a sagging lean-to that seemed to catch the fog and hold it like a net. Oscar and Harold Murphy and Stink and Eddie Lazzutti slept anyway, curled around one another like lovers. They could sleep and sleep.
    “I hope he keeps moving,” Paul Berlin whispered to Doc Peret. “That’s all I hope, I just hope he’s moving. He does that, we’ll never get him.”
    “Sure thing.”
    “That’s all I hope.”
    “Then they chase him with choppers. Planes or something.”
    “Not if he gets himself lost,” Paul Berlin said. His eyes were closed. “Not if he hides.”
    “Yeah.” A long silence. “What time is it?”
    “Two?”
    “What time you got, sir?”
    “Very lousy late,” said the lieutenant from the bushes.
    “Come on, what—”
    “Four o’clock. Zero-four-hundred. Which is to say a.m.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Charmed.” There was a soft warm glow where the old man squatted. After a time he grunted and stood up, buttoned his trousers, and crawled back under the lean-to. He lit a cigarette and sighed.
    “Feel better, sir?”
    “Smashing. Can’t you see how wonderful I feel?”
    “I just hope Cacciato keeps moving,” Paul Berlin whispered. “That’s all. I hope he uses his head and keeps moving.”
    “It won’t get him anywhere.”
    “Get him to Paris, maybe.”
    “Maybe,” Doc sighed, turning onto his side, “and where is he then?”
    “In Paris.”
    “Nope. I dig adventure, too, but you can’t get to Paris from here. Just can’t.”
    “No?”
    “No way. None of the roads lead to Paris.”
    The lieutenant finished his cigarette and lay back. His breath came hard, as if the air were too heavy or thick for him, and for a long time he twisted restlessly from side to side.
    “Maybe we better light a Sterno,” Doc said gently. “I’m pretty cold myself.”
    “No.”
    “Just for