Indicted

by Tom Saric

  A black early ’90s BMW was in the driveway. Luka took a deep breath. Perhaps he was wrong and Jurica was just a customer looking to get his car fixed. Nothing more. Luka opened the door.

  Jurica’s eyes lit up. “Branko, you have a beautiful home.” Noticing Luka looking at his cigarette, he held it up in front of his face and crinkled his nose. “Sorry, bad habit. Do you mind?”

  Luka waved his hand and Jurica tossed it onto the grass and ground it out with his foot.

  “That’s your car?” Luka said, pointing at the BMW.

  “It is. I got it at auction.”

  “Let’s have a look. Keys?”

  Luka took five steps towards the driveway before realizing that Jurica wasn’t following him. He turned around and saw Jurica standing with his head bowed.

  “I was thinking on the way over: it’s Sunday. Easter, of all days. I’m imposing. It should be a day of rest for you.”

  “I work on most Sundays.”

  “You should be having dinner with your family.”

  “We’re having dinner this evening. It’s okay. Let’s have a look.”

  Jurica raised his hands. “I must insist. I will leave the car with you and take the bus home. When it is ready, you let me know. No rush.”

  Luka considered Jurica for a moment. The man was kind, courteous. Maybe he had misread him. “No problem.”

  “Could I ask you a question, Branko? I don’t have family here. No friends yet, either. And it’s Easter. Maybe we could just have a quick beer? If you have time?”

  “Sure,” Luka said, grinning. That must have been what he saw in Jurica’s eyes at the church: loneliness. The man was searching for a friend.

  Luka unstacked two plastic chairs on the patio, wiped the moisture off with his hand, and motioned for Jurica to sit down. He went inside and brought out two cold bottles of Kokanee and twisted the caps off. They clinked the bottles together. After the first sip, Jurica exhaled in delight.

  “Tell me, where are you from?” Jurica asked.

  “Just outside of Zadar.”

  “I’m not from too far away.” Jurica beamed and then leaned in. “I’m from Sinj.”

  Luka stopped mid-gulp and sent a mouthful of beer back down the bottle. While his passport listed Zadar as the birthplace of Branko Lovrić, Luka Pavić was born in Sinj.

  Thoughts whirled through his head. The chance this random man was from his hometown couldn’t be a convenient coincidence. Surely he was missing something. He heard Tomislav’s voice: “If you’re not careful, you’ll have agents from The Hague following you, and by the time you notice them it will be too late.”

  Then another thought ran through his mind that sent a shiver down his arms: the Bank of France card.

  “Do you have anyone back there?” Luka said. “Family?”

  “I had my father, but he was sick and died recently,” Jurica said, locking eyes with Luka. “I wish I had time to say goodbye.”

  Luka looked Jurica in the eye. He saw then that Jurica knew who he was, but why the ruse? A Hague agent would have shown his identification, notified the authorities, and had backup present, and the house would be surrounded.

  Luka looked away, watching the empty backyard and listening. The rusty swing set creaked in the breeze and a car drove up the road, but otherwise it was silent. No sirens, no footsteps belonging to undercover officers, no whispers. They were alone. Just the two of them.

  As Jurica took his next sip of beer, his jacket opened slightly. Luka’s eyes shifted towards the man’s ribs, and his heart leapt into his throat. Barely visible through Jurica’s jacket was the bulge of a gun.

  Luka considered his options. He could lunge forward, knock Jurica onto his back, and neutralize him, then pull the gun out and point it at his head. But Jurica could be anticipating that, and in that case, Luka would have a bullet in his head before he was out of his seat. He could run up the back lane, yelling for his neighbors to call the police, but he couldn’t have them investigating. No, that would blow everything up. And Natalie was sleeping inside the house.

  Luka let the beer bottle slip out of his hand and shatter on the patio stone. “Shit,” he said, and stood up, rubbing his hands together. “I’d better get a broom.”

  “And another beer for yourself.” Jurica chuckled.

  As Luka walked to the door, Jurica reached in his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and blew his nose. As he rubbed the cloth on his upper lip, Jurica’s sleeve slipped down past his wrist. Luka froze at the sight of his tattoo. On the inside of Jurica’s wrist was a tiger with a snake springing out of its mouth.

  Jurica spun around and sniffled. “Luka, perhaps I could use your washroom?” He smiled. “Beer goes right through me.”

  Luka nodded and held the door open, directing Jurica to the washroom at the end of the hall.

  He stood beside the washroom door and listened. Urine hit the toilet water.

  The puzzle pieces stopped swirling and started interlocking. This man was here for him, but he was not INTERPOL, not with The Hague. No, this man was here to kill him. He was a member of the White Tigers, the group that had ambushed him in Nisko. Jurica was an assassin.

  And he was in Luka’s house.

  Luka walked up the hallway, slowly opened the door to Natalie’s room, and poked his head inside. He listened to her breathing before carefully closing the door.

  His mind searched for a course of action, a way out. How long would it take to pack a suitcase? Ten minutes, minimum. He didn’t have ten minutes. And what about Sara? He could never write a note long enough to explain everything that needed explaining. If he called the police, he would blow his cover. He ticked through the list of options, realizing that there was only one way forward. Part of him had always known this moment would come.

  He walked quickly through the kitchen and down the basement steps two at a time. He stopped just long enough to hear the bathroom taps running, followed by the squeak of the towel rack.

  He went into his workshop, retrieved the key from the plastic dish, and unlocked the gun safe. After he punched the code on the keypad, the door swung open and he took the Winchester rifle out of the case, struggling to load the three 7.8-millimeter cartridges because of his shaking hands. He heard footsteps upstairs making their way to the back door, which squeaked open and then clicked closed.

  Luka walked up the stairs, holding the rifle in his right hand, and looked out the window. Jurica was walking around the barren vegetable garden with his hands folded behind his back, as though he was admiring it.

  Luka opened the door halfway, concealing the rifle behind it.

  “Are you coming out?” Jurica gestured towards the patio.

  Luka shook his head slowly.

  “Why not?” Jurica moved towards Luka, reaching into his jacket. Luka reacted quickly, taking two large steps outside and pointing the rifle squarely at the other man’s chest. Immediately, Jurica raised his hands with a big, beaming smile.

  “This is how you greet guests?” Jurica said, taking three steps back.

  Saying nothing, Luka took three steps forward.

  “I’ve never been good at keeping a cover,” Jurica said. “I get too excited. But I was wondering how long it would take you to figure me out. Was it the welding cover story? I’ve never held a blow torch in my life.” He pointed towards his armpit. “I was hoping you’d notice the pistol. I like to leave a few clues; it makes this all the more challenging.”

  Luka’s finger tensed on the trigger.

  “I was surprised at how you’ve become a pillar of this community,” Jurica taunted. “Tsk, tsk. If these poor people only knew they had a war criminal living amongst them.”

  “Who are you?” Luka demanded.

  “It’s not important who I am—I’m just a hired hand. What’s important is who you are. You see, although it’s been a long time, my employers didn’t forget about you.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “That’s not important e
ither.”

  “I’m the one with a gun here.” Luka readjusted his grip on the rifle.

  “You are. But I’m the one with information, aren’t I? Killing me would be”—Jurica bobbed his head back and forth—“counterproductive.”

  “What are you saying?” Luka’s heart pounded.

  “You have questions. And I might have the answers.” Jurica sidestepped him in a slow arc, his hands still in the air. He kicked the ride-along toy out of the way, sending it tumbling against the fence.

  Luka kept the rifle pointed at him, questions running through his mind. Questions that he had been asking himself for a decade. The ones that kept him awake at night.

  “What happened to that girl?”

  Jurica cocked his head back and let out a booming laugh. “That’s your first question? You are an interesting man, Luka. You disowned your brother, your own blood, without knowing anything about his decisions. Then, I heard about how you searched for that little girl for years, breaking down doors to find her.”

  “Was she killed?”

  “No.” Jurica cocked his head to the side, considering. “Well, I don’t really know.” He closed his eyes and shook his head slightly, as though disgusted by the question. “Let’s just say my colleagues and I are not in the business of killing children. Not typically. Next question.”

  Jurica sidestepped him again so that his back faced the house. Luka kept the gun pointed at him.

  “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know. Next question.”

  “Who are your employers?”

  Jurica furrowed his brow. “I’m surprised you aren’t asking more important questions.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like if your daughter is safe.”

  “She’s fine,” Luka said. “I checked on her.”

  “I know you checked on her while I used your toilet. But afterwards?”

  He had checked on her, but that had been before Jurica left the bathroom. He’d listened to Jurica’s footsteps and hadn’t heard the door to Natalie’s room open—he was almost certain of it. But the tiniest doubt crept into his mind, just enough to momentarily draw his eye to Natalie’s window.

  In that instant, in one fluid movement, Jurica reached into his jacket and withdrew his handgun. His hand tensed and Luka crouched, and the shot whistled past his head. Luka lined his rifle up with Jurica’s chest.

  “Now we both have guns,” Jurica sneered. “How’s your aim on that thing?”

  “Better than yours.”

  “I’m perfect. First shot wins?”

  The bang ripped through the silence of the lazy Sunday afternoon, sending a flock of sparrows flying out of the bushes behind the fence. Jurica’s right shoulder blew backwards, sending a spray of blood and chunks of flesh into the air. His head whipped back, and he stumbled, trying to break his fall with an outstretched left arm. He let out a groan, and as his arm gave way, he collapsed onto the ground.

  Jurica lay on his back, still holding the gun, his face etched with pain, his chest heaving. With each breath, he wheezed and rattled. He struggled to aim the gun at Luka with a shaky left hand.

  Luka stood over him, pointed the rifle downward, and fired. An oval of black appeared on Jurica’s belly and spread outward. His eyes rolled back.

  Luka kicked the pistol out of his hand. Jurica was unconscious, clinging to the last moments of life. His breathing was shallow and rapid, and he smelled of urine.

  Luka searched through Jurica’s pockets and found a bloodstained wallet stuffed with cash and a German passport. He listened to the man gasping, drowning in his own blood. Luka had seen a few men die during the war, and the horrible, guttural gurgling sound they made caused his skin to crawl.

  But what made him nauseated was the realization that with that one shot, he had destroyed his secret.

  He had to find out who had sent Jurica.

  And he had to prove his innocence.

  10

  His back damp with sweat, his hands covered in blood, Luka stepped into the house and shut the back door, then crouched down and leaned against it. He put the rifle down, squeezed his eyes closed, and took deep, stuttering breaths, concentrating on the air entering and leaving his lungs.

  He’d known. He’d known something was wrong with Jurica. The story was wrong, and he’d ignored it, a choice based on pure and utter selfishness. He could have put Natalie in the car with Sara, gone home alone, quietly packed a duffel bag, and left. His family would be safe. But no, he chose to ignore the patently clear signs so he could keep on living his lie. Lies, all those lies.

  He stood up and looked out the window, the cold glass pressing against his cheek. Jurica was motionless on his back, coat wide open and flapping in the breeze. Snowflakes started to fall, swirling around his body. The maroon stain on his white dress shirt spanned the tip of his shoulder to his belt buckle. He was almost dead. His chest lifted and his back arched. His mouth was wide open, taking in a few desperate gasps like a beached catfish.

  No neighbors had come running. It was just after one in the afternoon; people were still home preparing Easter supper. But certainly someone had heard the gunshots and would peer into the backyard between the fence boards and see Jurica lying in a puddle of blood. The police would be called. The day had come.

  Secure all doors.

  He shut the solid oak door, twisted the deadbolt, and slid the chain on. In the kitchen, he unplugged the fridge, straining as he dragged, pulled, and pushed it, the rubber legs squeaking against the linoleum, until it stood firmly against the door. He ran to the front door and turned the two deadbolts, then slid the steel security bar horizontally into the slots on either side of the frame with a clang. He grabbed the sofa’s arm and dragged it across the living room to the hallway, pushing it against the door.

  Secure windows.

  In the living room he yanked the rolling blinds down below the window frame as far as they would go. Made of thick vinyl, no shadows could be seen through them.

  He found a roll of clear packing tape in a kitchen drawer behind a stack of Natalie’s coloring books and a bucket of crayons. He pulled the recycling bin out from the cabinet under the sink and grabbed a pile of newspapers. Unfolding them, he used the tape to cover the kitchen and dining room windows, and then he taped sheets over the window in the back door before he ran out of tape. In the bedrooms, drawing the curtains would have to do.

  Down the stairs to the basement and into his workshop. He found the drill standing on the bench and snapped the battery on, then knelt, searching for where he left the perforated steel bars. Sweeping aside trays of fasteners and sending bolts, washers, and nuts spinning over the concrete floor, he found the pile of bars and gathered them under his arm. He needed to be quick; the checklist required a swift completion. No hesitation.

  He drilled the steel bars six inches apart into the concrete foundation above the three basement windows, as he had imagined he would. His hands trembled, but he refused to slow down. If only Sara had let him do this before.

  Appearance.

  Under the top tray of the toolbox, he grabbed the box of strawberry-blonde hair dye, bleach, and a bottle of peroxide. He laid them out around the bathroom sink, placing his razor and shaving foam next to them. Running the tap, he scrubbed his hands together to wash off the blood, turning the water pink.

  He looked in the mirror, noticing the blood splatters on his beard and cheek, and rubbed them off with his wet hand, growing more nervous by the second, rubbing his hands harder and harder, realizing the magnitude of what was happening. He turned to grab a towel and…

  Natalie stood in the doorway, staring at him. He’d completely forgotten she was in her bed. The checklist didn’t include her.

  The hitch.

  “Daddy, did you hurt yourself?”

  “No.” He forced a smile. “No, sweetheart, I’m fine.” She stood still, unconvinced. “Daddy just cut his finger. Do you need a Band-Aid?”

  “I thin
k I’ll be okay.”

  Car doors slammed outside. He took a few steps towards the window and pushed the curtain just enough to get his left eye past the window frame, hoping he was being subtle enough to go unnoticed. His heart squeezed. A cruiser was parked out front at an acute angle to the curb, blue and red lights spinning. Two officers walked towards the house with guns drawn.

  He turned to Natalie and smiled, forcing an assured look into his eyes, trying to convince his daughter that when she saw the cruiser’s lights, her eyes had been playing a trick on her. “You should go back to sleep, sweetie.”

  She pouted. “Can you tuck me in?”

  “Sure.”

  He led her to her room and helped her climb into bed. After pulling the quilt up to her armpits, he kissed her forehead.

  “I heard a bang.”

  “No, everything’s fine. Daddy loves you very much. But you need to sleep. I’m going to be doing some work downstairs, so don’t worry about noises, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t get out of bed, no matter what. Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Without allowing himself to think about his lies any further, Luka backed out of the room and closed the door.

  A knock at the front door, loud, the way only policemen knock. “Open up. Police!”

  Within a few minutes, backup would arrive and surround the house. Ambulances would be next, carting Jurica out on a stretcher attached to IV bags and oxygen. Shortly afterwards the power and phone lines would be cut. Then the phone would ring and the negotiator would ask Luka if he had any demands.

  “Find out who is after me!” didn’t seem deliverable.

  Luka walked to the spare bedroom, which doubled as an office, and pressed the power button on the desktop computer. He sat down in front of the monitor, holding his breath, his hands hovering above the keyboard, waiting, worrying that he wouldn’t have enough time before the house went dark and his only connection to the outside world was dead. The computer hummed, the screen flashed, the progress bar stuttered.

  When the screen flickered and the desktop loaded, Luka double-clicked on Internet Explorer and started with the most important task: getting a message to Sara. He logged onto Sara’s Hotmail account and selected “Compose Message.” He typed furiously, ignoring the typos. The tears fell, but he wiped them away and kept typing. If they’d sent an assassin to his house and church, they would come for Sara and Natalie. They would find them and—he cut that thought off. His vision became blurry and he trembled, pushing those thoughts down deep, refocusing on his task. On his checklist. He needed to get them to a safe place, where no one would find them.