She glanced at Vittorio, knowing as she did that he had not been told about Flavio’s father. He wouldn’t guess Papa could choose to let Quillan die. But would he notice if Papa did? She would be there for that. She looked back at her papa, the doctor. There was sadness in his eyes. Sadness that she doubted him? How could she not?
He said, “I will do all I can. Now prepare or leave us.” Papa finished his scrubbing and dosed Quillan with chloric ether. The smell wafted up from the cloth to Carina, standing at his head. She held her breath to avoid the fumes as she turned and washed her hands thoroughly in case Papa would call on her. Then she pulled a full apron over her dress and resumed her post at Quillan’s head.
Papa swabbed Quillan’s belly with carbolic acid, feeling with his fingers for the worst of the swelling. She had witnessed surgeries before, but when Papa cut Quillan she felt it as her own flesh. Tears forced their way through her closed eyelids. Signore Dio. Caro Signore.
Before the disinfectant qualities of carbolic acid, Quillan would surely have died from such a cut alone. She lost track of time, focused only on keeping Quillan’s head between her hands, repeating a dose of anesthetic when Papa indicated the need. He worked silently, cutting, suturing, and disinfecting, draining the blood and toxic fluids. Part of the intestine had been crushed, and Papa had to cut away the damaged part before sewing it back together. Then he closed up the incision, poulticed and bandaged it.
Quillan’s head shifted in her hands. Carina lifted the bottle of chloric ether and looked to her father. “More?”
He shook his head. “There’s enough in him for us to set the bones.”
Quillan’s whole body shuddered when Papa and Vittorio reseated the hip joint; he jerked when they aligned the femur of his right leg, broken in two places. Papa worked a long time over the leg, removing shards of bone from the gash and shaking his head. At last he sutured the leg, wrapped, and cast it in plaster. By the time they set and cast the ulna of Quillan’s right arm and his left collarbone, he did not respond. Pain was its own anesthetic. Last of all they swabbed and bandaged the cuts and gashes, suturing the worst of them.
At last Papa stood back. At no time had Carina suspected he did anything but his best for Quillan. He looked drained as he washed up once again. Carina met his eyes, searching his thoughts. She would know if Papa thought Quillan would die. She always knew. He tried now to shield her, but his face was grave. “I don’t know, daughter.” Then lower, “I’ve done what I can.” And his eyes pierced. “All that I can.”
She nodded, believing him. But her heart was breaking anyway. What if Papa’s skill was not enough? Was this why God had insisted she surrender Quillan? Did He know so soon He would call him away forever? Let him live, Signore. Please let him live.
Carefully Papa and Vittorio lifted Quillan to the litter. So much of him was bandaged and cast in plaster, they did not attempt to dress him. They laid him on the single bed near the wall and covered him with fresh sheets and a wool blanket.
“I’ll sit with him.” Carina pulled a chair to the bedside.
Papa spooned morphine into the side of Quillan’s mouth. “He must be still. If he shows any agitation, call me immediately.”
Carina nodded. Papa must know she would watch more closely than even he himself. Did he see her pain? His hand on her shoulder as he left told her that yes, he knew.
Flavio hunched down against the hollow of the old oak’s trunk, shaking and horrified. What had he done? What would happen to him now? He pressed his face into his hands. He could have left Quillan Shepard trapped beneath the burning wagon to die. Then no one would know his part in it.
Did anyone suspect, or was Quillan Shepard the only one who could testify against him? Giocco might guess, but he’d been paid too well to tell. And Flavio had never said what he wanted the dynamite for. But those thoughts were simply distracting him from the full horror of what he found inside himself. How could he do such violence?
He kept hearing the screams, the groans, the agony he had caused another man. It didn’t matter now that it was Quillan Shepard, the one Carina loved. He saw the man’s face contorted with pain, his moan of “Oh, God.” And it was that moan that had spurred Flavio to action.
He had gripped the wagon, just starting to burn, and with more than human strength lifted it to free the man he wanted to destroy. His malice had failed and mercy interceded. Why? For the same reason he now quaked at his own violence? Dottore DiGratia was right. His temper was dangerous. Now he knew what he could do, but knowing it, he could never do it again. It sickened him.
“Oh, God.” He repeated Quillan’s words. “Oh, God.” Had God used him to free the man who called on Him in pain? Had God turned Flavio’s own heart to help before it was too late? Was it Quillan’s begging for the helpless animals? Flavio loved animals, their warm breath and simplicity. The distress of the horses had contributed, yes, but there was more.
Whatever it was, he was fiercely thankful he had acted as he did. As horrified as he felt now, how much worse would it be if he had left the man to burn? But he could still die. Flavio remembered the wagon crashing down on him, the scream of pain, and he had felt the weight of it himself when he tried to raise it up. Quillan Shepard could die, and it would be on Flavio’s soul forever.
He shuddered. If Gesù was a myth and God a tool for priests to frighten children, why now did he feel such a trembling for his soul? He wouldn’t believe he had a soul if he didn’t feel it crying out against him now. He was like Cain, being cursed by the very ground he walked on. Everyone would know. His own soul convicted him.
“Oh, God.” The words came without thought. Flavio didn’t pray. He never prayed. “Prayer is for the weak and simple,” another of his papa’s teachings. Flavio had been frightened when his papa said that. Didn’t he know it would offend Gesù? But Papa had laughed at his fears. “Offend a fairy tale? I’ll take my chances.”
“God.” Flavio dropped his head back against the tree and closed his eyes. Year after year he had gone through the motions with the very religious Lanzas. But he had never entered in, never counted himself among the weak and simple, never earned his papa’s disdain. Even when he could no longer picture his father’s face, the things Papa had told him stayed with him. But they were wrong.
God was real, and He had acted when Quillan Shepard called, even turning the hand of his enemy to rescue him, giving him supernatural strength. Flavio moaned. He was wicked and despicable. Yet God had used him when Quillan called.
TWENTY-THREE
“I thirst,” He cried out from the cross, pained in heart and soul and bone, an aching need, heartbreaking loss, “Father, why am I alone?”