Field of Blackbirds - Clayton Jeppsen & Lindsey Jeppsen (me reader txt) 📗

his father. He was disappointed he never made it to Montenegro to see him. But failure was something he wouldn’t plague himself with now. There was no time for regret, no time for sorrow, no time for hatred. It was a good time for realization, a good time for achievement and completion. It was a good time for expression, and a good time for acceptance. Radenko removed the picture from his coat pocket, the one he took that heartbreaking morning so long ago. He felt its smooth surface between his fingers, moved his thumb slowly over it. It felt like home.

“See you soon.” he whispered. “I love you.”

And finally, the moment proved to be too small for him and Nikola both, reminiscent of light and dark constantly fighting to occupy the same space. The smallest flicker of light, the unsuspecting static of electricity, could destroy total darkness. And Radenko had that much light in an eyelash. But his heart had already boarded an express train to one destination, and he wasn’t getting off.

************

Lazar blotted out the blameless landscape and the grave, unsuspecting circumstances and just concentrated on Radenko’s face. His eyes were cheerful and undefeated; the gateway to the plains and fields of prolific ideas, undiscovered treasures, and sagas never to be unfolded. Sagas about love, loyalty, patriotism and brotherly kinship, all of which Lazar promised an outlet. Small beads of rain joined together and dripped from Radenko’s brow and eyelashes.
Despite their short journey together, Lazar’s memory was vivid with every detail; from the moment Radenko plucked him from an intense battle to the light humor he kept until they were captured. Lazar lost himself in these small indulgences, but the momentous serenade was broken, all too soon by a deafening crack. It was time. The smoke that circled around the barrel had testified. Eyes, magnificent and full, were rendered shut. Lazar stood witness as Radenko’s life, his legend, his remarkable symphony of sound was ordered silent. Lazar lowered his head, as his friend’s body fell.

Radenko had once saved Lazar’s life and now Lazar failed to return the favor. The forces of emotion plowed him through; love, beaten down by hatred. A monster of frustration and agony twisted out. The demands were more than a lone soul could meet. He growled. He screamed out. And he dispatched a bloodletting of emotional anguish.

Lazar could still hear the shot ringing out. Everything else was silent and still. He threw his weight forward and broke free from the soldiers grip. Detention was no longer an issue. He hobbled over to Radenko and stood over his lifeless partner. Lazar fought back the guilt, knowing that a portion of the blame lay with him. He covenanted silently that he would live the life that had been pilfered from Radenko and allow him move forward as a stowaway in his own countenance.

A gust of wind pushed through the courtyard. Lazar noticed something flutter between Radenko’s fingers. He reached down, hesitated and then removed the picture. He raised it up to where he could see it; Mother Mary, cradling the Savior of man. He studied it. It was everything Radenko stood for. It was everything he loved. He understood and departed with contentment. The moment was surreal as Lazar looked down at the picture, and the shackles on his wrists. He seemed to be rediscovering something he had known from the very beginning. There was only one single path, one way to gain freedom from the chains that bound him. Lazar knelt next to his friend and made the symbol of the cross over his body.

It was then that Lazar noticed the watch on Radenko’s wrist, the one that Mr. Nowak had made. The ticking sound was in sync with his own. As the second hand moved, Lazar felt inspired and couldn’t help but think, even though Radenko’s body lay motionless, he was living on. Eternity, wouldn’t turn him away. His mother was welcoming him home now, cradling him in her arms.

************

“Radenko,” She called his name. It didn’t seem like it had been that long, but when he heard her voice it was like a thousand years of warmth and gentleness pouring back into his soul. Sasia was beautiful and full of life. Radenko embraced his mother for a time, and looked forward to more endless moments, just like these.


Chapter – 41 Proof of Genocide


Just south of Tuzla, Bosnia Herzegovina

“It’s got to be coming up. It’s just how Radenko explained it.” Reed kept straightening the map on his lap, thinking they might have passed it.
“There’s the creek he was talking about and we’re at the furthest tip of the mountain where it starts to bend.”
They had passed few vehicles on their way to Tuzla, just as Radenko had promised them if they took the off roads. They didn’t encounter any military convoys which was the peak of their worries. However, Radenko warned them that if they made it as far as Tuzla, it would be the Croatians they would have to look out for, not the Serbs.
“That must be Tuzla.” Marcielli pointed to a jagged horizon in the distance.
“This must be the place. Slow down.” The change in pace woke Otto and Angelo, both yawning and stretching.
Marcielli pulled off to the side of the road and came to a stop under the shade of an aged oak. Reed started out on foot. He traced the edge of the highway glancing off at the distant farmhouses drinking from the creek. Old stone mills also piggybacked on the water. Marcielli began canvassing the tall desiccated grass. With the sun directly above them, he was hoping to be the first to make a discovery.
Ahead in the roadway, Reed detected large burn marks and bits of melted rubber. There were two areas where the debris was concentrated. Radenko told Reed the first two trucks in their convoy were hit with tank mortars. Radenko and Lazar were in the second truck. A blast would throw them approximately fifteen to twenty feet, Reed thought to himself. He paced the distance out into the field, where he traversed twisted metals and charred pieces of wood.
“Take a look at this.” Marcielli closed the gap between him and Reed. He was holding up a crescent-shaped AK-47 rifle. “I’d hate to find the guy that was holding on to this.”
“Yeah,” Reed barely broke his concentration as he focused more intently into the brittle shrubs. As seconds turned into minutes, uncertainty transpired into improbability. A black suitcase would surely stand out, Reed admitted to himself. Whoever removed the bodies and the larger debris, surely found the case.
Over an hour had passed and Reed began kicking at the rubble in the field. “We were stupid to think the case would still be here. Let’s get back on the highway before we’re discovered. We’re going home.”
“What do you say we check out some of those farmhouses first?” Marcielli petitioned, still clutching the molten artifact. “Most of them look abandoned, but that one,” Marcielli pointed, “there’s smoke coming from the chimney. Maybe they rummaged through the crash site.”
Reed had seen the smoke, but was so focused on finding the case in the field, he hadn’t bothered to consider that the house may be occupied. It sounded invigorating to speak with the natives. It was also a chance to hear what they had to say about the invasion. There was only one hesitation;
“Do we know if they’re Serbs or Croatians?” asked Reed.
“I’m not sure, but we at least know they’re Bosnian. We’ll start there.”
Reed saw Marcielli’s point. Not everything had to be so complicated. The golden rule was, if you treated someone with kindness and respect, you would receive the same in return. Chances were; the residents would be relieved that it wasn’t someone trying to deprive them of their home or their decency.
“It’s a good idea, Marcielli. I’ll let you do all the talking.”
“I don’t think you have a choice, Reed.”

They parked under the rotating shade of a stone mill, about a hundred meters down stream. This would lengthen their approach and keep from startling anyone. Otto and Angelo stayed with the van. Reed decided they would leave their rifles behind. But they weren’t naïve, so their Sig 9mm’s were tucked comfortably under their jackets.
It was a long shot and there were no promises, even if these people had found the case, they may not want to share it. But the quest was their last move, their last hope. Their time was running out.
The earth seemed a little gentler and more prolific next to the water. There were more colors, more flowers, more bugs, both infantry and airborne. Tied to a fence post, there was one excited goat, sounding the bell around his neck. Also tipping their arrival, were uncaged chickens, running aimlessly around the house. But there was no motion inside, no acknowledgement.
Although the farm was managed it didn’t appear maintained. Traces of hard labor and toil were now covered up with dust, scattered leaves and animal droppings. Trash collected at the edges of the home and decorated the dry, ungroomed bushes under the dirt painted windows. Clearly the proprietor had lost the relationship it once had for the farm.
Marcielli knocked on the uneven door. Finally, a sound, not from inside but from around the home, leaves crunching and then silence.
“Who’s there?” a voice called out. An elderly voice, waking from hibernation, deep, but broken and gruff.
They stepped back from the door and laid their eyes on a man carrying a rake like a baseball bat. He wore overalls with holes in the knees. He was an old man. Everything about him was old. He was thin and gaunt with deep erosions in his skin running the length of his face and neck. His eyes were the same color as the tropic seas but they aimlessly darted around. He was