The Book of Q Read Free

him by the arm, again the sound of bullets, wild shots, only a few penetrating the walls of the church—enough, though, to keep the two men as low to the ground as possible. In no time, they were with Petra; another half minute, and all three were bolting through the forty-yard corridor of grass and brick that separated the back of the church from the sanctuary of the woods, three boxes in hand.
    There was no need to worry about pursuit. The soldiers at Prjac were Beli Orlovi—“White Eagles”—modern-day Chetnik thugs, eager for brutality, but not much on expending energy for something as trivial aspenicillin. They would fire their guns into the night sky, happy enough to let the trees swallow up their would-be prey.
    Of course, had they found Josip alive—now that would have made for an interesting evening.

    It was five weeks later when Pearse saw Josip again. Another night’s foray—this time, two dozen eggs the prize—the chance discovery of a series of shallow graves on the outskirts of still one more nondescript town. Eight bodies, each with the identifying marks of the Beli Orlovi—mutilated faces and genitals, the latter forced into what remained of the victims’ mouths. Pearse had heard of such things, been told that it was the surest sign of self-loathing, the need to disfigure an enemy who resembled oneself all too closely, but he’d never seen it. Serb, Croat, Muslim. Ethnically indistinguishable in the streets of Sarajevo two years ago. Indistinguishable now—even when the torturer stared into the face of his victim and saw himself.
    The psychology and horror notwithstanding, Pearse recognized Josip from the bandanna—Notre Dame, 1992—that had been used to bind his hands. A gift the day Josip had taught him how to handle a Kalashnikov.
    “I’m still not sure I could use it,” Pearse had said as he’d shifted the rifle onto his shoulder, the strap pulled tightly across his chest.
    “Use it?” Josip answered. “You’ll be lucky if the damn thing doesn’t blow up in your face. Still, it’s good to have it. What do they say? ‘A man who can’t use a gun—’”
    “‘Is no man at all.’” Petra appeared at the doorway of a nearby house—little more than two rooms, an old radio somehow connecting them with the other Croatian towns in the region—the communications center for Slitna’s endless flow of refugees. She kept her hair pulled back, the ponytail struggling to keep the thick black mane out of her face. As ever, it was losing the battle. Two or three wisps across her cheeks, olive skin, the gaze of charcoal eyes.
    He would find himself staring at her strange beauty amid all this, lithe body in pants, shirt, the gun at her hip dissolving easily into the long line of her legs. But always the eyes. And perhaps a smile.
    He wasn’t a priest yet.
    “Then I guess I’m not much of one, given the way I fire this thing,” he said.
    A hint of a smile. “You’ll get better,” she said. “With practice.” She stared at the rifle, at him, then walked over. She reached up and began to tug at the matted cord across his chest, slender fingers adjusting it so the rifle would hang more easily. “Are all priests this hard to fit?” She was having fun, yanking down hard on the strap, then loosening it, shifting it across his chest.
    “When I become one, I’ll let you know.”
    “Oh, that’s right. I forgot.” She stepped back. “You never looked like much of one anyway.”
    “Really?”
    “Really.”
    For several seconds, he stood there, his own smile becoming a laugh. He reached up, pulled the strap over his head, and tossed the rifle to Josip. “Better?”
    She continued to size him up. “So you think you could survive without one?”
    “Maybe.”
    A look of mock surprise spread across her face. “You’d pray people into submission?”
    “Something like that.”
    “Uh-huh.” She unclipped her holster and let the gun drop to the ground. “So how would you make me