“What?”

“How many boxes of the penicillin?”

There was a pause before she answered. “What are you asking? We each take one-”

“If Ian and I carry Josip, how many boxes?”

Again a pause. “Josip’s dead.”

For a moment, Mendravic said nothing; he then turned to Pearse. “Then we each take one.”

Pearse nodded, Mendravic already pulling 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 as penicillin. 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 submit?”

Pearse shot a glance over at Josip; the Croat smiled and shook his head. It was clear he was enjoying himself immensely.

“Well”-Pearse began to move toward her, picking up speed as he spoke-“there’s the direct approach.”

He was about to hoist her up onto his shoulder, when she suddenly reached out under his arm and twisted. Before he could react, she kicked his legs out from under him, her boot on one of his arms, her knee on his chest, fingers gripping his neck, her thumb held precariously over his Adam’s apple.

“Didn’t you tell me you once knocked a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound catcher unconscious?” Pearse was about to answer, but she pressed her thumb even closer. “No, no. Save your strength.” The smile reappeared. “Then again, I’m not protecting someone’s little ball, am I?” She pulled her thumb away and straddled his chest. “I’d learn to use the rifle if I were you. Much less dangerous than all of this.”

She was on her feet, making her way back to the house, before he had a chance to recover.

“Difficult to gauge this one,” said Josip as he helped Pearse up and handed him the rifle.

Pearse pulled the strap over his shoulder, all the while his eyes on Petra. “That feels about right.”

“I’m not talking about the rifle.” He winked and headed for the house.

“She doesn’t understand why I’ve stayed, does she?”

Josip stopped, turned. “I don’t know. It’s a good question, though.”

“I haven’t heard any complaints.”

“You haven’t gotten any of us killed yet.”

“Is that what worries her?”

“No.” Josip looked at the gun, shook his head; he stepped over and began to fiddle with the cord. “American boy comes to deliver food, blankets, maybe a little faith to a people he’s never heard of before.” He pulled down on Pearse’s shoulder. “Bosnians in need of help, spiritual guidance, whichever God they pray to. Simple enough for him to ease his conscience, serve his own God, and move on with the others. But he doesn’t.”

“That would have been too easy.”

“There’s nothing easy in it, at all. Difference is, you can leave whenever you want.”

“But I don’t.”

“No, you don’t.” He let go of the cord. “And for that reason, you’re as puzzling to us as we are to you. I’m a good Catholic, Ian, but if they weren’t doing this to my home, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Even if you’d seen the pictures of Omarska?”

“Thousands have seen the camps. And thousands have shrugged and said how terrible that such a thing can happen in a civilized world. They’re not people without conscience. But it’s not their home. It’s not yours. And yet you stay.”

“Is that what she thinks?”

Josip laughed and shook his head. “I have no idea what she thinks. You’ve learned to shoot a rifle. That’s good enough.”

Pearse returned the smile. “I hope I never have to use it.”

Josip’s smile disappeared. “Then what would have been the point in learning how?”

His mangled body had already done much to feed the local wildlife. Little skin remained on the torso and legs, eyes and ears gone. The incongruity of the college bandanna, slightly bloodied, its large ND lashed across his wrists, sickened Pearse as much as the butchered flesh. For the first time, he could connect a voice, a smile, an arrogant charm to the obscenity in front of him. For the first time, he wondered how far his faith could be stretched.

“He said you were crazy for staying.” Petra drew up to his side, her ponytail managing a bit better today. “But I think he admired it.” The two had grown close in the last month, or at least as close as they dared. He had learned how to induce the smile, revel in the fleeting moments when she’d brush the strands from her face, talk of a past she no longer cared to recall with any accuracy.