by Andrew Grey
They watched a rerun of The Nanny until the potatoes were ready. Pavle obviously didn’t get much of the humor, but he laughed when Chris laughed and relaxed back into the cushions, sitting not nearly as rigidly as he had the day before. Chris decided to sleep on what he wanted to tell him about the safe house. Tomorrow morning was going to be soon enough to relate difficult news.
Chapter 3
CHRIS WOKE in the middle of the night to the sound of someone downstairs, moving around. He hoped to hell it was Pavle, but got up, silently slipping into his robe. A crash had him grabbing his gun from the table beside the bed, and he left his room, heading right for the stairs. He descended as quietly as he could, listening for any other sound but hearing nothing at all. He made it to the bottom of the steps and paused.
Slowly, step by step, room by room, he cleared the front of the house, making his way through the kitchen to the back sitting room, gun at the ready. He flipped on the light. Pavle squeaked, and Chris relaxed, lowering the gun and breathing a sigh of relief.
On the floor, pieces of the glass dish Chris kept on the table next to the chair glittered in the incandescent light. Pavle was curled up in the chair, legs to his chest. He shook like a branch in a tornado. Clearly Pavle expected punishment, hurt, pain. It was written in the way he hid every tender area of his body.
“It’s okay,” Chris said as gently as he could, his heart finally quieting in his ears. “Don’t move.” He hurried out, slipped his feet into an old pair of gardening shoes he kept by the back door, then grabbed the broom to sweep up the glass. Pavle was barefoot, so Chris needed to get the mess cleaned. Then, once he’d dumped the shards in the trash can, he returned to a still-cowering Pavle. “I mean it, it’s okay. It was just a dish I keep nuts and stuff in.” He touched Pavle’s arm to get his attention, keeping it light and gentle, meaning to soothe him. He hadn’t expected the surge of anger at the people who’d held Pavle that raced through him. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Pavle stayed still, probably thinking this was some sort of trap.
Chris turned on the table lamp and flipped off the brighter overhead light. Then he sat in the other chair, waiting him out. Pavle had to come to his own conclusions.
Pavle slowly unwound himself from the tiny ball he’d pulled himself into. “You no hurt? Not mad?”
“No. I won’t do that to you.” Chris didn’t move, letting Pavle slip out of the darkness that seemed to nearly overwhelm him. “What are you doing down here?”
“I no sleep. Want to see outside,” Pavle answered softly. “Never get to see outside for long times.”
“I know. And you can go outside and look outside all you want. But it’s the middle of the night and you need to try to sleep. Are you thirsty?” Chris asked.
“Juice?”
Chris nodded and stood, letting Pavle come with him to the kitchen, where he got a small glass and poured some grape juice for Pavle. He rinsed it out when Pavle was done and turned out the lights, heading back upstairs. Pavle went to his own room and Chris to his, but after a few minutes he left again, pretending to go to the bathroom, but really making sure Pavle was settled. Then he washed up quickly and got back in bed.
“ARE YOU sure?” Chris asked the following morning when he called in to the station to talk to Briggs, who was working with the Carlisle Police on the fire.
“Yes. If they’d just wanted to burn the house down, they could have been less exposed and have had a better chance simply by going into the garage or around to the other side of the house. They purposely put the accelerant outside that room and that window. It was deliberate and targeted.”
That was not the kind of news Chris was hoping for first thing in the morning. He sipped his coffee. “Okay.” He sighed. “I was hoping that….”
“I know what you were hoping, and I was too. There could be a lot of reasons why someone might do this, but my gut is telling me they were after your charge. Keep him safe.”
“Why are they so acutely interested now, at this moment?”
Briggs didn’t answer at first, and Chris waited. “I’ll call you back in a minute, dear.” Then the line went dead, and Chris wondered what the fuck was going on. He refilled his mug, glad Pavle was still sleeping. His phone rang as he was just finishing his second cup of the coffee. “Sorry. We had ears. I’m outside on break. Look, I talked to Red at Carlisle PD. He told me, officer to officer, that Pavle is a gold mine. They think he can describe, in detail, each person who has owned or handled him. Including the men who trafficked him into the Super Bowl. So it’s a real chance to nail some of these guys.”
“How do they know this?”
“They found an interpreter of sorts, apparently.” Briggs didn’t sound too enthusiastic. “Red said that they had a hard time and isn’t sure how effective they are going to be. I wish one of us spoke his language. That would be ideal, but we work with the tools we have.”
“I’ll do whatever I can to keep him safe. Let me know what you find out.” Chris ended the call as Pavle shuffled into the room, still in his pajamas and bleary-eyed. Chris poured and handed him a mug of coffee.
“Thank you.” Pavle smelled it, a smile curling his lips. “I miss this for a long time.” He sniffed and turned away. Chris wanted to comfort him—God, that was something he felt a million times a day, it seemed.
His phone rang again and Chris snatched it up. “Yes?”
“Is that how you talk to your nanna?” The gentle snap in her voice was hard to mistake.
“Sorry,” Chris groaned. “It’s been a busy morning.”
“You must be busy. I was starting to think you were dead in one of those raids, like I see on television. You don’t call or visit, and I sit here wondering.” His grandmother was a hoot. And shit on a shingle, he should have thought of her before. He really was getting too much into his own head. “I called the office and they said you were off, so I want you to come to lunch. I make ćevapi.”
“Nanna, I have someone staying with me….” He glanced at Pavle and then away once again, having a sudden lightbulb moment. “How much do you remember about the old country?”
“Like it was yesterday,” she answered. Nanna had emigrated with his grandfather, escaping communist Yugoslavia. “Why?”
“I think I will come to lunch, and I’m going to bring a friend.” She was just the break he needed. “I’ll call before we leave, okay? What do you want me to bring?”
“Yes.” She sounded delighted. “Just come. I want to see you, and this young man of yours.” His grandmother seemed to have the wrong idea, but he wasn’t worried about that. She’d get the picture soon enough. “Come at eleven, and we’ll have a spot of tea before lunch.” She hung up before Chris could argue.
He stared at the blank screen on his phone and set it down. “Pavle, would you like to visit my grandmother? She invited us for lunch,” Chris asked, unsure what sort of reception the idea was going to get.
“She know….” Pavle pointed to himself, color blazing on his cheeks. “Ummm… about what do?” He stood and leaned over the chair, butt out.
Chris got the idea. “No.” He closed his eyes, because he should absolutely not be noticing how those pajamas tightened over Pavle’s backside. “That is something for you to share… not me. People have no right to know unless you want them to.”
Pavle shook his head. “No one know. I shame.”
“No. You are not shamed. You did what you had to in order to live. You are strong.” Chris made a muscle with his arm, pointing at Pavle. “You… strong.”
Pavle turned back to him and shook his head. “I do this to me.”
“No. They did this to you. You survived.” Chris wondered how he could make Pavle understand, but realized he wasn’t going to, not easily. Pavle’s feelings and convictions had been born of years of captivity, and they weren’t going to be undone in a single conversation.
“I not tell anyone.”
“That’s up to you.” Chris patted the chair lightly, a
nd Pavle sat down. Chris slid his coffee closer and let the topic fall away. “No one is going to push you. Do you understand?” God, the distress in Pavle’s eyes burned like lava.
“I cannot. It is shame. I bring shame.” Pavle lowered his gaze. “What I did bad. I bad. I….” His shoulders bounced and Pavle’s breath heaved. He jumped to his feet and raced through the house to a corner in the living room, where he hid his face behind his hands. Chris could see him through the doorways, standing alone and scared, and there was fuck all he could do about it. Many times in his relatively short career he had experienced frustration over things he couldn’t help, but this was the very worst.
Chris pushed his mug aside and traced Pavle’s path through the house. “You are not bad. You are strong.” Maybe if he heard it often enough, instead of the messages that had been fed to him for so many months, something would penetrate.
“I shame,” Pavle mumbled, his face covered.
Chris could hold back no more. He stepped forward and touched Pavle’s shoulder. “You are good,” he whispered. “And there is no shame.” Certainly not as far as he was concerned. Pavle was a victim. “You don’t have to tell anyone.”
Pavle shook, and Chris guided him to a chair. He needed a chance to breathe and calm down, to compose himself. At least that’s what Chris hoped. Maybe he should call Marie, but he didn’t want to leave Pavle alone long enough to do that.
“I shame.”
“Did you choose to do what you did? Did you have a choice?” Chris asked quietly.
“I no choosed, but I still shame,” Pavle said softly. Of course he would be ashamed of what happened to him; that made sense to Chris. But Pavle acknowledging that he didn’t choose it was a step in the right direction.
“Do you want to go upstairs, take a shower, and get dressed?” Chris purposely phrased it that way in order to help Pavle remember what he needed to do and give him a way out of this situation. He understood Pavle was lost and trying to find his way in a world he didn’t know and couldn’t understand most of the time. “You don’t have to go with me, but Nanna is making ćevapi.”
A light went on behind Pavle’s eyes. “She know Serbia?” He sniffed and wiped his eyes.
“Nanna is Serbian. Come with me, and she will cook for us.”
Pavle thought for a few seconds and nodded. Then he left the room and slowly climbed the stairs as though each foot weighed a ton. A war had to be raging inside him—his shame versus any reminder of the home he was taken from. Chris hoped the reminder would win out.
Chris decided to make breakfast to give Pavle some time on his own. Normally he was the kind of guy who grabbed something on the way to work, but he thought Pavle would respond to food. Chris needed to make sure Pavle learned he didn’t need to worry about his next meal or that food was going to be used as a control measure.
Bacon and pancakes drew Pavle into the kitchen like nectar to a honeybee, and Chris set a plate in front of him, along with some juice.
“You not mad?”
“That you argued with me? No.” Chris brought his own plate to the table and sat down. “You are allowed to have your own opinion and feelings.” He lightly touched Pavle’s hand, surprised at how soft it was. “You can think the way you want. That’s part of how things should work. The only way you are going to make me mad is if you hurt me… or yourself.”
Pavle’s eyes grew wide and then he nodded. “Go outside?”
“I wish we could, but it’s raining.” Damn it all, he had forgotten to get more plants. “But we can stop and get some flowers on the way to Nanna’s, and once it stops, we can plant them. Is that okay? Lots of pretty flowers, and you can choose.” Chris ate his pancakes, which were nothing like his mother’s, but good nonetheless.
“Do you go work?” Pavle asked.
“On Friday, so I have one more day out of the office.” Chris wasn’t sure what he was going to do with Pavle once he had to return. He didn’t like the idea of leaving him alone all day without protection, and he couldn’t take him into the station. Maybe he’d ask Marie for some advice. Briggs might be able to help as well. He’d need to ask the sheriff’s permission to stay with Pavle. God, he hated talking to that man. There was something off about him that made it unsettling. But be that as it may, the sheriff was still his boss and he wanted to keep his job, so he had to make the guy happy.
Pavle finished his rather precise eating, and Chris made a mental list of the things he needed to get done today. Once he finished his breakfast and took care of the dishes, Chris wandered to the back of the house. He stood near the windows as the rain pelted the new leaves and puddled in the garden.
“Is pretty, but wet,” Pavle said from next to him. “I want see sun again.”
“You will,” Chris promised, “but it’s going to be rainy and cloudy for a few days.” He hated these prolonged days of overcast. Being cooped up in the house wasn’t a lot of fun, and Chris wondered what they could do. He didn’t want to take Pavle out any more than necessary.
Chris turned away from the windows and opened the closet door. This room had likely been a screened-in porch once, and maybe some sort of garden room before that. Someone enclosed it long ago, but one of the remnants of the past use of the space was the closet, which Chris used for games and things like that.
He pulled out some colored pencils and a couple of drawing tablets. “When I was a kid, I used to draw flower pictures for my mom. Maybe we could draw now if you’d like.” Chris set everything on the small table in the corner and got a couple of chairs. They could look out into the wet spring garden, and he figured maybe Pavle could dream of his sunshine. If nothing else it would pass the time for a few hours.
Chris passed a pad and the pencils to Pavle, then sat down.
“I… make picture?” Pavle asked.
Chris nodded. “Of whatever you want.” He took the green pencil and began outlining leaves and stems. Chris had been pretty good at this back in the day, and his mom had loved the pictures. He thought of getting an umbrella and picking a few flowers to bring inside so they could look at them closely.
Pavle stared at the paper and pencils, his cheeks draining of color. Chris was wondering what he’d done wrong when Pavle slowly lifted one of the tablets and picked up the black pencil. “This for me?”
“Yes. You can have it.” Chris indicated the tablet, and Pavle smiled, holding it to him the way he had the jeans. After a few seconds, he opened it, scooted his chair back, and began to draw.
Chris swallowed and excused himself, going to the kitchen where he could breathe. How in the hell could Pavle have been so mistreated and hurt that paper, something Chris had had in abundance all his life, was like a gift from heaven? How could someone treat another human being that way? Chris’s stomach did a flip-flop. He hurried to the bathroom, but thankfully he didn’t get sick, though he wanted to. Instead, he got angry. No matter what, he was going to find those people and string them up by their nuts.
He pulled out his phone and sent a message to Marie, who called him right back.
“What’s happened?” she asked breathlessly.
“Nothing new.” Chris explained about the tablet. “I needed to speak with someone, and you were the one person I thought about.” He paced the kitchen. “I want to kick them into the middle of next week.” He shook his fist at nothing, just because he was so angry. “What do I do?”
“Turn that anger into action. Keep Pavle safe so he can testify.” The rustling of papers reached through the phone. “The FBI wants to speak with Pavle next week. I’ll be there with him just to make sure they don’t try to push him too hard.” She sighed into the phone. “Just take care of him and look after him.”
“I’ll do my best. But what should I do once I have to go back to work?” Chris asked, and Marie growled.
“I hate your new boss. Just saying. Check with the department, but when we requested you, we did so with the understanding that this was your work assignment. I’ll make a
few calls to verify it, and they should be in contact. Let me know if they aren’t, and I’ll rattle some cages.”
He agreed, thanked her for her help, and ended the call. Chris felt a little better. Marie was right. He needed to channel his anger into something constructive.
Chris got a couple of glasses of water and brought them into the back room. Pavle had his head lowered, working on his drawing diligently, tongue between his teeth. Chris set down the glassed and took his seat once again before returning to his own flower picture.
Time ticked by, and Chris checked the clock on the cable box. “Nanna is expecting us in a little while. Do you want to have lunch with her?”
“Yes. I meet her,” Pavle said, closing the tablet, then patting it gently with a sigh. Chris didn’t ask to see what he’d been working on. When Pavle was ready to show him, he hoped he would.
He went to the closet and got jackets for both of them. Pavle practically swam in the one Chris lent him, but Chris wanted to make sure he was warm and dry on this chilly spring morning. Chris checked the locks in front and led them out of the back door, to the garage and the car.
The nursery was on the way to Nanna’s, so he stopped and led Pavle inside.
Pavle took one look at the rows and rows of color in bloom and gasped, clutching his hands together. “I never see so much pretty before.”
“You can pick any kind you like,” Chris said, indicating the area for Pavle to choose from.
Pavle went up and down each row, looking at the flowers, sniffing and gently touching. He was intensely gentle, almost caressing the flowers as he went. “These,” he said, pointing to the large orange and yellow marigolds. “These and these.” He picked out purple and pink petunias, and Chris got half a flat of each color and took them to the register. Pavle practically skipped along in front of him.
Once he paid for the plants and got them loaded into the trunk, they continued on to Nanna’s. She’d lived in the same house for fifty-plus years. The small Victorian home, with its white gingerbread porch, was like something out of a storybook. Chris had always thought of the place as a fairy-tale house.
