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

Reed planted his foot on the land mine. He felt his core transcend the perimeters of his body. He could have never prepared for what lay blistering in front of him. It was pure evil and it seared his conscience.
Marcielli turned and walked away. “Oh God,” he pleaded.
Reed couldn’t look away, despite the consequences. Maybe three years, maybe four years of her life, was all she managed to steal away for herself. How selfish of her to think she deserved more. An innocent young girl, what could she possibly give to the world? The opening in her forehead gladly provided an escape for the childhood innocence she refused to surrender. What was she thinking?
Resentment began feeding on Reed’s belief that men could be benevolent. There was no benevolence in the human race when there was proof that it could be reduced to this. Reed felt unclean and ashamed. He dropped the picture on the table and leaned back. He brought his hands to his neck to massage the knots around his esophagus that were denying him air.
Tomo just sat quietly, patiently waiting his turn and sensing the morose.
There were more pictures of children joining their parents on the dark, deep soil. In the pictures, soldiers and officers were both seen. Regrettably, the smoldering contents of the case, was exactly what they were looking for. And Reed remembered his promise to the boy in his nightmare.
Marcielli resurfaced when Reed tucked the envelope back in the case. “Hey, look at this.” he said, reaching for a set of maps behind the tapes.
Marcielli unfolded the first map. It was a map of Serbia, nothing significant, just long arrows penciled in a southern direction. He guessed they were troop movements. But when he laid out the second map, he saw that it was a more detailed map of Kosovo in southern Serbia. This map had different markings on it; X’s and one large X in a shaded plot of land just west of Kosovo, Pojie. It was labeled; ‘Mass grave site, in the Field of Blackbirds.’ Someone had scribbled some notes next to it. They wrote:

“I’m sorry. We will come back for you. You won’t be forgotten. Justice, won’t forget you. – Radenko”

When explained to him, Tomo was happy to rid his home of such an ulcer. He never asked what they needed with the information. He kind of changed the topic all together.
“Won’t you boys come back and visit sometime?”
“Someday I hope that we can, Tomo.” assured Marcielli.

When Reed walked back outside into the openness of Tomo’s uncertain world; the farm that he used to challenge and wrestle with everyday, but had finally thrown in the towel, an image popped into his mind. He pictured him and Reddin working side-by-side on their farm in California. They were times he wouldn’t trade for the world and wished he could occasionally transpose himself back into those very same moments. Mr. Beckly would be off sailing the brown seas on his yellow iron boat. He and Reddin would be trying to collect as much of that brown treasure into the pours of their skin in lieu of their assigned responsibilities.
It was a lifestyle he had grown to love. He understood the pain that Tomo must have felt in loosing that final battle with his farm.
Reed waved over Otto and Angelo, “We’re not leaving you just yet, Tomo.”
After introducing the rest of the gang to Tomo, Reed took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He grabbed the rake that was propped up by the front door, right where Tomo left it. “We’ve got four hours guys. Let’s kick this farm into shape. Angelo and Marcielli, you take care of the obvious. Otto and I will be at Tomo’s service.”
Angelo chuckled, “I really misunderstood you, Reed. You’re not at all a selfish person. You are truly a good man.”
“Thank you, Angelo. The feelings are mutual. Now get to work.”

The sun had grown tired and four hours turned into five. Reed was proud of the way his team had come together. He hoped that Tomo and the country of Yugoslavia appreciated their service.

Reed extended his hand and took Tomo’s into his own. They united under a faint cloud of dust spawned from their rigorous labors. Reed motioned Marcielli to translate. “We’ve got a train to catch, Tomo. I hope to see you again. But if that doesn’t happen in this life, may we meet again in a more perfect world.”
Tomo nodded; his eyes more wide and magnificent when mirroring the evening sun.
Reed patted his back pocket and found the grimy envelope containing their money. He removed half of it and placed it back in his pocket. He planted the other half in Tomo’s hand.
“It’s $10,000.00 in US currency. Take it to a bank you trust, and hire some help around here. It’s a beautiful farm.”
Once again, the tropic seas tossed and spilled over. Tomo couldn’t even manage a thank you.

Otto and Angelo led the way back to the van. Reed and Marcielli followed. Their bodies ached as if they were back in basic training. Reed turned to see that the old blind man had made his way over to Billy. Tomo patted the goat’s brow as they were both folded into the silhouetting influences of the sun. Even though Tomo couldn’t see him, Reed waved and silently thanked the old man for protecting the Holy Grail, the Proof of Genocide.


Chapter – 42 Long Way to Hungary


The train rattled noisily over the decaying tracks. Otto opened the curtain just enough to see a few cabins down. He reached under his jacket to caress the grip of his 22 caliber, handgun. He pulled it out and twisted the slack from the silencer. Then he put it back. He heard the shrill barking voice of the ticket inspector.
“Tickets please! I need to see your tickets.”
The man was short and pudgy. He had a classic look to him. On his head was the circular, hard top hat with a short brim and ribbon going all the way around it. He wore a blue jacket with gold studded buttons and gray slacks. He wasn’t going to be a problem. Otto had his ticket ready.
It was the young, hefty Serb breathing over his shoulder that was the problem. He was looking for something, someone. He poked his head into every cabin. He wore the same uniform Lazar and Radenko had worn. Only his was pressed and in nicer condition. He couldn’t have been older than nineteen or twenty, but he was already hungry for his first bust, the way a new author is to break his first book.
Otto sat down and prepared himself. He tucked two fingers in his collar to loosen his tie a little. He was uncomfortable in a business suit. The briefcase, taught between his legs on the floorboard.
The inspector popped in the doorway. “Good day, Sir. Ticket please.” He spoke Serbian.
Otto nodded, “Guten Tag.” he said in German and held up his ticket.
The man looked him over. Otto expected that. He wasn’t going to act like he was local; he would never pass.
The man asked a simple question understood in most languages, “Business?”
“Ja,” Otto replied, smiling, all the while waiting for the soldier to pop in behind the inspector.
Avoiding awkward conversation, Otto directed his sight out the window while his ticket suffered undue scrutiny. He saw distant smoke stacks waiting to pollute the horizon at dawn’s early light. His view of the deep sunken moon broke intermittently with bursts of shadowy evergreens. Then, he heard the clicking sound of his ticket being punched and the man was gone.
By now, the ‘Be on the lookout’ warning had surely been broadcast throughout the country. And in a land where seventeen year olds were forced to spend eighteen months in the military, the search didn’t lack man power. It’s why Reed had split them up again. But Otto, once again, carried the case.
Otto waited for the soldier to fill the doorway, bearing his authority. But he heard him grueling the next cabin with questions. An uncomfortable period of time passed. He looked around his door; could see the pudgy ticket inspector was already two doors down.
Unexpectedly, the soldier laughed out loud, but that was all. He heard him in the hall now. When he stopped at Otto’s cabin, he only looked in briefly, almost like Otto’s stature had bothered the young boy. Even the eye contact was brief. The soldier began to move on, but then, like a bird vacillates in the roadway, deciding which direction to fly, to avoid getting hit, he came back.
He puffed out his chest and charged himself with the necessary amount of command presence to engage in conversation with Otto.
“Where are you going?” he asked in Serbian.
“Ich bin Deutch.” replied Otto.
“You speak English?” The boy asked in poor English of his own.
“Ja, a little.”
“Where you go?”
“To Vukovar.” answered Otto. He knew that if he admitted to leaving the country it would hint at an escape.
“What you go to Vukovar?”
“A building contract,” Otto knew that Vukovar had literally been destroyed by the fighting. Construction seemed to be the only legitimate business there.
“Let me see your ticket.” The boy examined it, not appearing to know what he was looking for. He passed the ticket back to Otto.
He pointed to Radenko’s briefcase between Otto’s legs. “Why a businessman like yourself can’t afford a nice briefcase? It’s all banged up.”
“I left it on a few job sites. I was lucky to get it back.”
“Do you mind if I take a look inside?” Perhaps Otto’s intimidating demeanor caused the young boy to ask permission. Otherwise he would have just taken the liberty.
Otto hoped it wouldn’t go this far.
He seared the young boy with his eyes. “Yes, I