“I keep this here,” she said, balancing the flashlight on a clump of stones. He said nothing. For almost a minute, neither said a word. Finally, she nodded. “Maybe I’ve been lucky no one takes it.” It was only then that he realized they were alone. No midnight jaunts, no explosions, no fevered walks to distract. Alone. He could see she had sensed it, too.
He remained by the wall; when he didn’t answer, she turned and pulled the hair from her face. “You’ve decided to go.”
“What?” The question caught him off guard.
“To go. Back to the States.”
He looked at her for several moments before answering. “I haven’t decided anything.”
“Time to become a priest.”
Again he said nothing.
“You don’t have to explain,” she added, now more tender. “I’d go, too, if I could.”
“Really?” His tone was dismissive. “No, you wouldn’t. None of you would.”
“And because of that, you think you should stay? Because we have no choice.” She shook her head. “It’s not a good answer.”
“I’ve stayed because I came here for a reason.”
“The reason you’ve stayed has nothing to do with why you came here.” No anger, no reprimand. She watched as his gaze drifted from hers. “We both know that. Otherwise, you would have left a long time ago with all the other well-meaning boys who’d seen enough after two weeks. No, you stayed because you thought you were stronger than they were, that your … faith could somehow withstand more. The final test before ‘taking the plunge.’ Isn’t that what your father called it?”
He looked over at her.
“Well, my faith lost the battle with this place a long time ago.” She held his gaze. “And now, I think, you’re wondering if yours has, too. Better go before it’s too late.”
Again, the room fell silent. He wanted to answer but couldn’t. No way to defend against the truth.
After nearly a minute, he spoke: “So what do I do? Accept it?”
“No.” She paused. “I don’t know.”
Pearse leaned his head against the wall. “That’s not very helpful.”
She kept her eyes on him. “You could find something else.” She waited, then turned and crouched by the pile, readjusting the light on top, her back to him. “Maybe you already have.” Her head tilted to one side, her hair cascading to her shoulder, neck bare, half shadow, half light.
“You know I have,” he said.
She brought a few stray rocks to the top of the pile, never catching his gaze. “And that’s the problem, isn’t it?”
He remained by the wall. “What do you want me to say?”
She waited, then turned to him. “Does that matter?”
“Yes. Of course that matters.”
“Why? We both know it won’t make any difference in what you do.” She waited. “Or in what I do. I can’t leave here, Ian. You know that.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“Yes, you are. It’s either ‘Come to the States and save me from being a priest’ or ‘I’m on the next plane without you.’”
“That’s not fair. It’s not about saving me from anything.”
“Then what is it? If that’s what you so desperately want, then what is this all about?” Again she waited. “Something’s happened here—we both know that—and I’m sorry that everything else isn’t fitting neatly into place. I’m sorry it’s put a kink in your plans. I’m sorry we don’t have the luxury to slip out of here and figure it out. I’m sorry about all of those things. But there’s nothing I can do about them. I’m here, where I have to be, and you can either stay here with me or you can go. And that’s your choice. I don’t have one.”
Pearse stared at her, more and more aware of the growing tightness in his chest as she turned back to the pile. Slowly, he pushed himself from the wall and moved toward her, all the while his eyes on her shoulders as they gently rose and fell with each breath. He sensed a slight lift in her back as he neared, a hesitation; kneeling down behind her, he eased his arms around her waist. He had never touched her like this before, never been so close as to savor the faint hint of summer rain on her cheek. They stayed motionless, neither seeming to breathe, until, slowly, his lips brushed against her neck. He tasted the residue from the explosion, his chest pressed to her, bodies arching into each other. He began to caress her shoulders, arms, her hands as eager as his own as she twisted to him, their mouths lost in a kiss.
He pulled back. He could feel her breath on his lips, see her eyes peering up at him, uncertain.
“I … can’t stay in Bosnia,” he whispered. “I can’t stand back and watch all of this happen.”
She stared up at him. “I know.”
“No, you don’t. I’m doing the one thing I promised myself I’d never do. I’m going numb. I can’t let that happen. Priest or no priest, I can’t lose that…. And I can’t lose that with you.” He waited. “Do you understand that?”
It took her a moment to answer. “No.” Another moment. “Maybe.” She waited, then leaned into him, as if to kiss him.
“Then why did you bring me here tonight?”
“Because I know you’ll go.” Their mouths were no more than an inch apart. “And this is what I want.” She waited, then slowly drew him into her, a kiss, gentle at first, her hands sliding along his chest, his shoulders. She could feel him struggling to let her in, his need as great as hers, but still he held back. Softly, she slipped her fingers beneath his shirt, the touch of skin on skin enough to cloud his senses, his arms suddenly tight around her. She pulled him closer, his lips now finding her cheek, neck, hands to her thighs as he began to stand, lifting her with him, their bodies knocking against the stones, flashlight tumbling to the ground, light extinguished. Neither seemed to notice as he pulled her legs around his waist, her back up against the wall, hands free to peel away her shirt, his tongue gliding to her shoulders, her breasts. He brought her to the floor, hands untangling clothes, the sudden touch of straw beneath them.
Their bodies stripped bare—his eyes clear enough to find hers in the darkness—he guided himself inside of her. The heat between them rose up through their chests, the taste of exploration on their lips, as he lifted her legs higher, her hands swelling around his thighs, drawing him in. For a moment, they remained absolutely still, the sensation almost too much. Then slowly, they began to move with one another, fingers kneading flesh, lips lost to cheeks, chests, the ache ever more urgent. Time seemed to vanish, waves of sound driving through them, until, in an instant of perfect tension, an anguish spread across her face, eyes ever locked on his, her legs and arms no less insistent with each thrust. Every muscle within him began to tighten, claw for some unknown sanctuary, lose himself within her, as they both cried out, the climax exquisite, bodies shaking, until they released, gasping, breath once again able to subside.
A thin rivulet of sweat slid down his back, arched at his thigh, and dropped to the ground. She began to caress him, ease her fingers through the moistness of his skin. He lifted his head, a sudden burst of cold air on his chest. He stared at her, somehow even lovelier than before. And they kissed.
Burying his brow in her, they drifted off.
Two hours later, he awoke, shrouded in darkness. A sound from somewhere behind him had jarred his eyes open, a scraping of stone against stone, his conscious mind trying to reorient itself. He blinked several times, slowly aware of Petra’s body cradled next to him. He leaned in to kiss her but was stopped short by the repeated sound of scraping. Twisting his head round, he only now became aware of the thin beam of light emanating from the far wall. Slight as it was, it forced a momentary squint.
Petra, still lost in sleep, rolled over and tucked herself into his chest.
The light was coming from below—another set of steps leading down to the onetime mosque. No one comes here anymore, not even the refugees. Again the scraping, a thud, as if the stone had fallen into place. Pearse quietly disentangled himse
lf from Petra and quickly found his pants and shirt. He put them on as the light grew stronger, bobbing, as if finding its way up the stairs. The sound of footsteps crept closer, the glare beginning to fill the far wall. Pearse remained in darkness, the shirt loose on his shoulders as light suddenly broke through, a large figure behind it. Clinging to the wall, he watched as the man headed for the stairs up to the church. He was nearly there when Petra again rolled over, the straw crinkling under her.
Light immediately flashed across the room, Pearse quick to leap from his place, his hands clearly visible in front of him, just in case the man had something more than a flashlight in his other hand. He had been caught in moments like this before; best to play the confused relief worker, hope that his size was enough of a deterrent, that the man was a Catholic, no need for alarm, no need to be seen as anything more than a harmless inconvenience.
Pearse kept his hands out as he talked, moving farther and farther from Petra.
“Zdravo, zdravo,” he said, continuing in Croatian. “I’m with the Catholic relief mission…. I was separated from my group in Slitna…. I’m just sleeping here for the night. I have papers.”
“Stop.” The light was now aimed directly at his eyes. Pearse blinked rapidly, careful not to make any sudden movements. “Your identification. Slowly.”
Pearse reached into his pocket and pulled out his travel cards. They were slightly mangled but still had all the pretty stamps necessary to convince an interested party. The light fell from his eyes, several seconds before he could focus properly.
“These expired over a month ago.”
The accent was not what he had expected, far too refined for one of the local black marketeers. And far too observant.
Pearse continued to pay the naif. “Yes … I’ve got the others coming, waiting for me in Zagreb.” A lie, but he knew the mention of bureaucracy was the most likely way to deter further probing.
“I see.”
The two stared at each other. Not only had the accent and eye for detail struck Pearse as odd; the way the man was dressed seemed even more out of place. He wore a well-tailored shirt—safari khaki—recently pressed, pants the same. His hair was cut short, tiny blond spikes in strict military fashion. On his belt hung a holster, fine leather that showed no signs of aging. And in his left hand, he carried a small satchel, also leather, also in mint condition. Most startling, though, were the boots. Pearse had seen similar ones sell for five hundred dollars in the States—hardly the type to be found anywhere within a six-hundred-mile radius of Slitna.
“You’d do well to replace them as soon as possible,” the man said, now speaking English, the accent no less disquieting. Pearse thought he saw a glint of self-satisfaction in the eyes, as if the man was quite pleased with himself for displaying such facility. “There are people in this part of the world who would shoot you for such a lapse.”
“Right. Of course.” Pearse knew he had to placate, avoid confrontation. “My mistake.” Again, the two stared at each other, neither moving, until the man slowly nodded. Even then, Pearse’s eyes remained locked on the pair of steely grays less than eight inches from him. Trying to diffuse the moment, Pearse slowly began to inch his way farther out into the room.
The man stepped forward to block his path. For just an instant, the humor seemed to slip from his face, then return with added vigor. “Aren’t you going to finish out the night here?” An awkward silence, the smile back on his lips. “Or have I changed those plans?” Before Pearse could answer, the man’s expression shifted again. No more of the goading, no more of the playful back-and-forth. This time, a cold vacancy Pearse had never seen before.
The man’s head suddenly snapped to the side as a shot rang out, his entire frame collapsing to the ground. The flashlight followed, bouncing along the floor and casting wild shadows before it rolled to a stop. Pearse stood stock-still.
“He had a knife.” Petra’s voice tore through him as light once again filled the space; slowly, he turned. She was standing, naked, gun in one hand, flashlight in the other. He stared at her, unable to focus. “He was going to kill you.”
Pearse watched as Petra slowly placed the gun on the ground. She looked dazed, only now aware of her own nakedness.
Bending down, she began to gather her clothes. Her voice distant, she repeated, “He had a knife.” She put on her shirt. “He would have killed you.” Still disoriented, she slid her legs into the pants.
Pearse could do little more than nod. He had sensed it, but never been so close, never seen the instant of death. After nearly a minute, she moved to the corpse. Before she could kneel down, Pearse pulled her in close. She clutched at him as well, both of them shaking. “I’ve never shot someone like that,” she whispered. “Waited, watched.” They continued to hold each other until she suddenly pulled away. It was clear she wanted to say something. When he tried to ask, she shook her head once. She then knelt down and turned the body over, the eyes staring blankly up at her.
After several seconds, she said, “He’s no refugee.” She continued to pat down his pockets. Finding nothing, she moved on to the satchel. Pearse knelt at her side as she undid the leather straps.
“Thank you.”
She stopped, her eyes still on the satchel. After a moment, she flipped open the front and reached inside.
“His whole face just changed,” said Pearse. “I’d never seen that.”
“He probably wanted you to know he was going to kill you,” her voice far more animated than only moments before. “Some people find pleasure in that.” She pulled a hard plastic box from inside the satchel and placed it on the ground. While she played with the clasp, he stared at the body.
The man had an athletic build, powerful arms and hands, his grip still tight around the hasp of the knife. Gazing at the small blade, Pearse realized how close he had come to the same fate. Not that the last three months hadn’t forced him to confront his own mortality, but those occasions had been unspecified, bullets strafing in wild assault. The man lying in front of him was far more personal. A single knife meant for him.
The question suddenly dawned on him. “Why did he think he had to kill me?”
Petra was struggling with the box, using her own knife as a wedge. With a final dig, the top snapped open, a strange odor wafting from inside. “It’s Bosnia. It doesn’t take much thought.”
The rationale didn’t ring true. “No, you saw him. He made a choice.”
Petra was too preoccupied with the contents of the box to consider an answer. Inside were three rectangular piles of parchment, each one held together by a leather string sewn into the far left edge of the stack. Held together by a primitive form of binding, the bundles lay cracked and yellowed, though virtually intact. Odd symbols filled the pages, neat rows of a language neither of them had ever seen before. Petra pulled back the first leaf of the center pile, the parchment gritty to the touch, unwilling to be moved more than an inch or two. Even so, she was able to make out similar rows below, more of the incomprehensible text.
“He was obviously protecting something,” she said, trying her luck with the second and third piles. There, too, the parchment refused to budge more than a few inches. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”
Putting his own questions aside, Pearse stared hard at the three little stacks. Scanning them, he noticed a tiny mark at the top right-hand corner of each page: a triangle, one half of it darkened, the other half empty. As far as he could see, there was one on every page. He was about to point it out to Petra, when the sound of a voice crackled through the room. An amplified voice.
“Come va?”
The radio was strapped to the dead man’s waist, silent again, waiting for an answer. When none came, a second wave of Italian erupted.
Petra shut the box, picked it up, and headed for the stairs. Pearse was right behind her, no need to be told that they had outstayed their welcome. Reaching the top, she turned off the flashlight and sped across the pewless church; they stopp
ed at the doors, listening for anything beyond. Hearing nothing, they slipped out and crouched low, making their way across the wide expanse of field, intent on any sound, any movement around them. At the road, they found a Jeep. Empty. All was still, the eerie quiet of a 4:00 A.M. sky.
The hours they had spent with each other slipped quickly from their minds, survival once again the only thought.
“Parchment, old paper … yes,” said Mendravic, his bandaged leg up on a chair, a set of headphones to his ears. Petra and Pearse sat at a table in the new communications center, the plastic box between them. Mendravic nodded as he spoke into the microphone. “Yes, at Saint Hieronymus…. I would say three, four in the morning…. The reason is unimportant. Just tell me if you’ve— … Fine, fine. Do videnja.” He turned to the two at the table and shrugged. “He has no idea what they are, either. He has a contact in Zagreb. He’ll call back in an hour.”
They had kept most of the details from Mendravic, including the appearance of the man: the two of them had been to the church; they had found the box. End of story. Not that Mendravic was anxious for specifics. He had far more pressing matters to deal with this morning. The body count was relatively small: six children, five women. Still, they needed proper burial. A priest had to be found. A few minutes for the strange stacks of parchment were all he could afford.
Pearse stepped outside. The day was already hot, cloudless, no hint of the autumn weather they had been promised for the last two weeks. It would be oppressive by noon. Petra waited in the doorway, her eyes fixed on him.
The Book of Q Page 3
