Indicted

by Tom Saric

  Muted sunlight shone directly at him. He squinted. Obscured in shadow were the outlines of two men sitting on a bench under a window. He saw the paint spatters on their arms.

  He was in a kitchen. A blackened pot sat on the stove, ribbons of steam rising. Half a loaf of French bread rested on the countertop next to a bread knife. Scuffed and grimy white and blue Turkish floor tile. On the table beside him, he noticed the pack of Marlboros. On the wall: a calendar, a cross, and a framed photograph of a smiling boy, straw-colored hair and golden eyes, holding a tamburica, a traditional Croatian guitar. Ante Čapan.

  The shuffling and clicking grew louder. Around the corner came a man with his head stooped over a cane, dragging his right leg along the floor, taking steps with his left. He nodded towards the two men by the window and then turned towards Luka. His features were darkened by shadows, but Luka felt the man’s eyes scrutinizing him. The man wobbled down onto the edge of the chair across from Luka. He adjusted himself to a contorted position, partly kneeling, partly holding himself up with the cane.

  He turned to the two men under the window. “I’ve never seen this man in my life.”

  They grunted, their suspicions confirmed. He reached for the cigarettes and put one in his mouth, twirling a Zippo lighter in his hand, the silver flashing as it caught the sunlight. His thumb clinked the lid open.

  “The question,” he said, striking the wheel down, “is who are you?”

  The flame lit up the man’s face. Shiny violet skin extended from his eye to his jawbone. A taut puffiness pressed the eyelid closed. A black scab crusted over the corner of his lips.

  The old man had already caught Luka in a lie, but instead of smugness, Luka saw something else pulsating beneath that worn, wrinkled face: fear.

  The current scenario was simple to reconstruct. As Tomislav had said, someone had been here before, looking for Ante. Pero Čapan had lied to protect his son and ended up paying for it. Now everyone in the village was taking precautions.

  And Pero Čapan was scared.

  Luka considered his options. He could lie some more. Pile lies on top of more lies. Or, he could tell his story, one that was not unlike that of Ante Čapan.

  “I’m not here to hurt you.”

  “The last time a man claimed he wouldn’t hurt me, I ended up with a gun pointed at my nose. At least he only used the butt to hammer my face. I’m not worried about that right now. We’ve made sure you can’t hurt me.”

  “You’re protecting Ante.”

  “I’m protecting myself.” He raised his voice, then took a deep, rattling drag on his cigarette. “Like I should have done earlier.”

  “You and I are similar, Pero. We’re both good at keeping secrets.”

  “I have nothing to hide.”

  “That’s what I would say too. But we’re both good liars as well, aren’t we?”

  “Who are you?”

  “I knew your son well. I need to talk to him. Not hurt him. I am Sergeant Luka Pavić.”

  The two men leaned forward. Pero Čapan plucked the cigarette out of his mouth, pinched it off, and put it on the table. Putting his full weight on the cane, he rose and shuffled over to Luka, then bent forward until their eyes met. Luka could see the extent of the damage done to the old man. Ragged scars traced down his cheek to the nape of his neck. A scarlet cut extended from his nostril to his upper lip.

  The corner of Pero Čapan’s mouth rose. “You’ve aged.”

  “We all have. It’s been over ten years since I’ve seen Ante. I need to see him, not hurt him.”

  “How do I know that? Because of you, he had to go into hiding. Now you come back, only a few weeks after someone nearly killed me because they wanted him.”

  “It’s not a coincidence. What I think is—”

  “He knows something, doesn’t he? Three dead men, eleven dead girls, and he knows who did it.” He smiled at Luka knowingly. “Yes, you were the only one with him. If it wasn’t him, then it was you. And you came looking for him, sheepishly. A coward.”

  “I did not kill anyone. He knows that. Did he say that Luka Pavić killed those people? No, he did not, I’m certain of it.”

  “All I know is that when he went into hiding, he was terrified.”

  “We’re on the same side here, Pero. I didn’t kill those people, and neither did he. But because of what we saw, someone is trying to kill us both. You’re not the only one they came for.”

  Pero Čapan hobbled back to the chair and sat down.

  “I ran to Canada after the war. I had a new name and a new identity. All of this was behind me. Then, this week, a man came to my house to kill me. And I shot him. I’m losing everything now—my wife, my child, my freedom. But I haven’t lost yet, Pero. I need to talk to Ante; we need to find out who is after us and why they want us dead. I need you to tell me where he is.”

  Pero exhaled, bringing a trembling hand to his face and wiping his forehead. “Someone tried to kill you?”

  Luka nodded. “I thought this was long past. But they found me. This won’t go away, Pero. Hiding Ante is noble, but it won’t end. Not until we find out who is after us and end this. Maybe then we’ll know who killed those people.”

  Tears rose in Pero’s open eye and slipped down his cheek. He looked up, avoiding eye contact with Luka, and sighed.

  “This is our only chance. We don’t have time.”

  A tear rolled into Pero’s open mouth, and he rubbed his lips together. He glanced at the calendar on the wall. It was open to December, the wrong month, and showed a picture of Visovac, a six-hundred-year-old monastery built on an island in the middle of a sparkling blue lake. His face tensed and he looked at Luka.

  “He’s on Visovac.”

  20

  Krka National Park, Croatia

  Lake Visovac glistened in the warm afternoon sun, a turquoise carpet rippling between the surrounding cliffs. The island seemed to float in the middle of the lake, five hundred feet off the shore. The monastery’s white walls and orange clay roof poked out from behind cypresses that rose along the island’s perimeter.

  Luka parked the Hyundai near the shore, in the shade of a pine tree. He stepped out and clipped his hip sack around his waist.

  A man with his pant legs rolled up stood by the shore moving a stack of dry salted cod onto the floor of a rowboat with an outboard motor. He stood and waved as Luka approached. It took Luka a moment to notice the man’s white clerical collar.

  “Father,” Luka said.

  The friar smiled and extended his hand.

  “Are you wanting a ride to the island?”

  “Hoping.”

  “I’m going to stay for the Mass, so you will have to wait until it is over before I can bring you back.”

  “I was planning on going to Mass anyway.” That brought a smile to the friar’s face.

  They loaded the last of the cod into the boat, and Luka sat on the wobbly bench. The friar pulled the starting cord twice and the motor sputtered to life.

  Pero Čapan said that following the indictments, Ante had lived in his basement until one day he simply disappeared. Two years later, he received a letter from Ante stating that he had decided to dedicate his life to God. Learning he joined a monastic order was a surprise, his father explained, given that prior to his disappearance, Ante had been considering proposing to his long-time girlfriend. The frequency of Ante’s letters increased, until he disclosed his location.

  The friar killed the motor and they coasted towards the dock, which was partially obscured by the branches of a weeping willow. Luka leaned forward and held the edge of the dock, guiding the boat to a stop. The friar tied the boat up, and Luka followed him up a pathway to the oratory.

  Inside, the Mass had already begun. Monks in brown robes were huddled on the first three benches, their trancelike chanting reverberating off the stone walls. The only ornate item in the room was a golden statue of Jesus hanging from the cross on the front wall. Candelabras flickered in the dim room, and
at the altar, a grey-haired monk swung a censer, filling the room with smoky incense.

  Luka slid onto a bench in the last row next to a couple, who, based on their khaki shorts and wool socks, he assumed were German tourists. As the monk at the altar read from the Bible, the German pulled a camera from his case. He took several pictures, the flash going off like a strobe light. One of the monks slipped off the front bench and whispered in the German’s ear, pointing at the camera.

  Luka pushed the commotion from his consciousness. He sat upright, looking at the monks’ backs, hoping to see through them, praying that one of them would be Čapan.

  The German was now trying to negotiate with the monk, wanting to take just one more picture to capture the magic of the ceremony so he could show his family back home.

  The monk, Luka could see, was attempting to welcome his German visitor with a kind hand on the back while maintaining order in his oratory. Tall, thin, and kindhearted, the monk had a shaved head and wore thin wire glasses. His stance was non-threatening, like all men of God: light on his feet, arms bent, palms facing upwards, understanding anything, even the pleadings of a pushy German tourist. The monk’s eyes fixed on Luka, who had been staring at him yet not initially recognizing those golden-yellow eyes.

  Čapan held Luka’s gaze. His eyes stretched wide and his lower jaw dropped. Before Luka could open his mouth to say “Ante,” Čapan turned and strode out the doors.

  Luka ran after him, plowing through the door and scanning the corridor. He hadn’t heard a door open or close, so Čapan couldn’t be far. Luka edged forward, knowing that any sound in a stone corridor like this would be amplified.

  A door clicked closed at the end of the hall. Luka ran towards it and down a set of stairs. He pushed out the doors into the courtyard. A network of pathways crisscrossed perfectly manicured grass that stretched in all directions. No sign of Čapan.

  As Luka turned around to face the monastery, he saw a brown blur in the corner of his eye. A shoulder hit his midriff, and he collapsed on the ground. Čapan stood over him and patted Luka down, then rolled him over and ran his hands down his back.

  “What are you doing?” Luka sputtered.

  “Who did you come with?” Čapan pressed his foot on Luka’s throat.

  “I’m alone.”

  Čapan stared at Luka, his jaw clenched, eyes darting. Luka looked up, his eyes wide and teary, and sputtered, “I’m alone, Ante, I’m alone.”

  Čapan sighed, his shoulders slumping, and released his foot. “How did you find me?”

  “Your father.”

  Čapan’s body tensed again and he grabbed a fistful of Luka’s shirt, then lifted him up and slammed him against the wall. The force sent Luka’s head snapping backwards against the ancient brick. “What did you do to him?”

  “Nothing, I didn’t—”

  “He would never tell anyone where I was.” He pounded Luka against the wall. “What did you do to him?”

  Another thrust, which stunned Luka. He closed his eyes to reorient. In a fluid motion, Luka grabbed both of Čapan’s wrists, extended them upwards, and pulled them to the side. He powered his knee into Čapan’s solar plexus, sending the wind whooshing out of his lungs, and dumped him on the ground.

  Čapan lay on his back, propped up on his elbows. Blood stained his teeth.

  “Ante, listen to me: I didn’t hurt your father. He told me where you were because someone came looking for me too. I’ve been living under a different name, but three days ago a man found me and tried to kill me.”

  “Who was it?”

  “He was a White Tiger. Ante, it can’t be a coincidence that someone is looking for both of us.”

  Luka offered his hand. Čapan looked up, hesitating, assessing whether Luka could be trusted. Then he grabbed Luka’s hand and stood up. “I didn’t know what to think when I saw you here. I’m sorry.”

  “I’ve been looking over my shoulder too.”

  Čapan motioned towards a path on their left. They walked along it, under the shade of palm and willow trees.

  “Where did you go?” Čapan said.

  Luka explained how after the indictments were issued he received papers for a new name and left to Canada via France.

  “I always wondered what happened to you,” Čapan said.

  “You could have called me. I didn’t leave until ’98.”

  “I thought about it. But you never know what’s really in a man’s heart. Or mind.”

  “You thought I had something to do with the indictments?”

  Čapan shrugged.

  “I thought about turning myself in. Fighting the charges. But I couldn’t risk it—too much had happened. How would I explain things to my wife and daughter? I figured it would just go away. But to suggest I had anything to do with the indictments themselves, Ante, is just plain wrong.”

  “I didn’t call because sometimes a man just needs to let things go. For years I tried to find out why they killed those people. Why God left a little girl parentless.” Čapan wiped the tears from his eyes. “But I had to give up. Sometimes there isn’t a ‘why,’ there’s only an ‘is.’ I had to leave it behind.”

  “So you came here to hide.”

  Čapan looked indignant. “I joined the monks to become closer to God. To become ‘okay’ with things as they are. To let the past rest.”

  “The past isn’t dead. We both know that. Someone is after us, and the only thing that ties us together is Nisko. They tried to kill me. They went after an old man to get to you. This isn’t the past. This is now.”

  Luka followed Čapan up to the shore in silence. They sat on a stone bench overlooking the lake. The sun was descending behind the hills, casting a fluttering lavender light on the water. Luka pulled a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lit it up. Čapan waved at Luka’s jacket.

  “You want one?” Luka laughed. “Don’t you take some sort of oath?”

  “Old habits.”

  Luka offered him the pack and Čapan took one. He held the flame out, and Čapan took a deep drag with his eyes closed, savoring the smoke.

  “The Dalmatian sky is beautiful,” Luka said.

  “The sky is the sky.”

  “It’s not the same. Here you see the stars before it’s even dark.”

  Luka looked up while Čapan kept his head down, sucking on the cigarette until it was half gone.

  “Marić,” Čapan said suddenly. “Zlatko Marić.”

  “Who?”

  “It’s the name I can’t get out of my head,” Čapan said. “He’s a blogger. He’s become somewhat famous in Croatia over the past few years. He runs a weblog where he exposes unsavory characters, particularly ones within our government. He’s one of these anti-government, anti-corruption activists. He publishes anonymous information from whistleblowers within the government.

  “After the war I did everything I could to find out what happened in Nisko. I went there every week, talked to people. Only a few families had come back. It took me a while to piece it together, but I found out the men’s names: Saša Tadić, Bojan Radović, Filip Nemet. His wife Ana Nemet, and his daughter—”

  “Natalia.”

  “You went there too.”

  “I had to try and find her.”

  “I kept going back to the village, looking for clues. Even after the military investigation, I couldn’t let it go. I tracked down Tadić’s wife in Bosnia, but she refused to talk to me. She accused me of killing him. The look in her eyes destroyed me. I decided then and there that I had to stop. What was done was done. A month later, the indictments came out, so I got new papers and joined the seminary in Zaragoza. But I still followed Croatian news, especially related to The Hague. One day this story breaks where a blogger got his hands on the entire list of citizens involved in the Croatian War of Independence and posted it online. Within hours, the government took it down.”

  “Why?”

  “When a third of your workforce is listed and eligible for veteran’s benefits,
it would bankrupt the country. So most people never saw the list or heard of it again. But I was lucky enough to see it and print it off. And you can guess what name I saw on the list.”

  “Tadić.”

  “And Nemet and Radović.”

  Luka took a deep drag on his cigarette and exhaled through his nose. Across the lake, a silver car pulled up beside an old stone home. The shimmer of the dusk sun reflecting off the windshield caught his eye. “You’re saying they’re not Serbs? That means the charge of genocide…”

  “I don’t know what I’m saying. But they were listed as Croatian soldiers in the war. So there are two possibilities: the list was inaccurate or—”

  “They’re not who The Hague thinks they were. So why didn’t you show them the list?”

  “And if it was inaccurate?”

  “Did you look into that?”

  Čapan took a big drag and started coughing. He stopped and cleared his throat, and when he spoke next his voice was hoarse. “I randomly picked names from the list and checked into them. All two hundred names that I checked were accurate.”

  “Where’s the list now?” Another glare from across the lake. Luka squinted. He turned towards the light, and the silver car. He leaned forward.

  Not silver.

  The cigarette dropped from his fingers.

  White. Pearl.

  The glare wasn’t from the windshield, but from the man next to it, holding something on his shoulder. A scope.

  Get down. Luka ducked and turned, moving towards Čapan.

  Čapan kept talking. “It’s in—”

  Pfft! Pfft!

  Čapan groaned and tumbled forward into Luka’s outstretched arms, both men collapsing onto the gravel beach. Wet warmth coated Luka’s hand. Čapan didn’t make a sound. Luka turned him over and saw an explosion of tissue along the side of his neck.

  Luka swiveled and ran inland towards the cypress trees for cover. He peered around the trunk towards the car and saw the black outline of the sniper positioned behind the bush. Three more shots thudded into the tree trunk, sending chunks of bark flying.