The Unquiet Dead Page 23

  “Like Mel said. About the girls. He tried to convince me to give Mel full custody.” He shuddered. “Thank God I said no. It would always have been no. I’d been counting the days until Drayton took Mel off my hands. I knew the girls would choose to come to me then. Hadley always wanted to, she just wouldn’t leave Cassie behind. Thank God,” he said again. “Thank God she was watching out for my baby. What the hell was Mel thinking? If she knew about Drayton, how could she have ever let him near the girls?”

  Rachel was still wondering the same thing. “I think Ms. Blessant was so focused on getting Drayton to marry her that she didn’t pay attention to anything else. What we don’t know is why. Was her spousal support insufficient?”

  Dennis gave his bark of laughter again. “Mel has expensive tastes. She runs through her monthly allotment in a couple of days. Then she spends the money that’s meant for the girls. She always wants more. I gave her money to buy the girls new laptops for school, clothes, other supplies. Mel burned through it all. Since then, I’ve given Had the money directly. It turned her mother against her, but Hadley’s tough.” He said the last sentence uncertainly, his voice trailing into silence.

  From the shock that made his face sag, she knew he was thinking about the night’s revelations. About Hadley and Riv working to shield Cassidy. About Hadley making horrific discoveries and having to contend with them on her own.

  “Ms. Blessant knew about Drayton’s will. Did you, sir?” Khattak’s face gave nothing away. It expressed no more than a mild interest in his answer.

  Dennis tried to think. “I didn’t. I would never have asked him such a personal question and Mel had no reason to tell me.” He flapped large white hands at them. “You have to believe me. I didn’t know about any of this. Drayton was worth a hell of a lot more to me alive than dead.”

  “What about the custody issue?”

  “I never thought he was serious. I thought he was trying to make things easier for Mel, trying to show everyone what a nice guy he was. He was a nice guy. He was always agreeable. The custody issue was the first sticking point, but I thought we’d both cool off and talk things through sensibly. I wasn’t worried. I was relying on Hadley to convince Cass that her home was with me. That the three of us belonged together.”

  Both parents had relied on Hadley’s common sense and toughness altogether too much, Rachel thought. But one was a man who loved his daughters, the other a woman who balked at seeing reality for what it was.

  “Where did you go after the argument with Mr. Drayton?”

  “I drove home. I was angry, I had to get out of there.” Then he realized what he’d said. “Not like that. I’d been so certain that everything was about to turn around and the news that it wasn’t came as a bit of a shock. I needed time to think out a strategy.”

  “Where was Ms. Blessant while the two of you were arguing?”

  Dennis grimaced in disgust. “Upstairs. Preparing her boudoir, as she calls it. Making herself available to Drayton.”

  “And the girls?”

  “At home. Christ! I can’t believe I let them stay over there. Anything could have happened to them.”

  “It didn’t, Mr. Blessant. It’s likely that Drayton was waiting for the marriage and your wife’s permanent move to his house. He wouldn’t have wanted to risk jeopardizing his access to the girls.”

  She had meant it be comforting. She could see from his face that it wasn’t.

  Khattak’s phone rang. He murmured something into it and waited.

  “The girls can stay with the Clares tonight, if you’d like.”

  “No.” Dennis made a visible effort to pull himself together. “They’re my daughters, I’m responsible for them. They’ll need me. Especially after tonight.”

  Khattak spoke into the phone again and shut off the call.

  “Audrey Clare is a social worker. I’d ask her advice, discreetly, on what tack to take with the girls. I’m sure you’ll find her some help to you. We can also arrange for a social worker to come to your house, if you prefer.”

  Dennis stopped his frantic hunt for his car keys. He could see that they genuinely meant to be helpful. In these few minutes with him, they’d expressed more concern for Hadley and Cassidy’s welfare than Mel had done since their divorce. The realization hit him like a sucker punch.

  “I appreciate it,” he said, quieted.

  “We’ll need to talk to your daughters at some point, sir.”

  “Fine. When they’re ready. And in my presence, is that clear?”

  Rachel liked him a little more. “Of course, sir.”

  * * *

  They watched him drive away.

  “What now, sir?” she asked. “Nice work with Mad Mel, by the way. Appalling isn’t the word I’d have used, though.”

  A hint of humor appeared on Khattak’s face. “I know. That’s why I said it. Before you could say something else.”

  “We could charge her with child endangerment.”

  “Think of what that would do to the girls,” he advised. “All we need is the threat of action. If she persists in denying Blessant custody of their daughters, we can threaten her with criminal charges. She may not have believed that Drayton was a predator, but she should at least have come forward with what she did know.”

  “That’s blackmail, sir.”

  “I doubt she’ll fight us. She has other worries to focus on now. Like how she’ll manage without Drayton’s money.”

  “What about the spousal support? Blessant said she’s bleeding him dry.”

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do about that. The law will have to run its course.”

  “Do you still want to talk to Nate?” The casualness of her inquiry earned her a sharp glance from Khattak.

  “Yes. And while I do that, you can go through the photographs.”

  She couldn’t hide her disappointment.

  “Bring them with you,” he said. “Nate knew Drayton. He might see something we wouldn’t.”

  It was a threadbare excuse, a barely masked attempt to include her, or perhaps he still needed her as a safeguard against Nate’s attempts to reconcile the past, but it didn’t matter. Rachel was happy to accept any excuse at all.

  30.

  Mina was crying the most. She said, “We are not girls anymore. Our lives are over.”

  It was only afterward that she would remember that the women had begun screaming as the soldiers took hold of their arms. They wrested her bruised hand from Mrs. Obranovic’s grasp, shoving her neighbor aside. She saw now that though they wore the uniforms of the Dutch, they were Chetniks.

  In moments, they had collected her sister Selmira and herself, along with an older girl in her twenties. The older girl was crying, terrible deep sobs where she couldn’t catch her breath. Her sister held her hand as though she would never let go, but she could feel her perspiration. Selmira was frightened.

  “Let us go,” she said. “We’re children. Let us go. Show us you are honorable.”

  She couldn’t repeat the word the Chetnik said in response. It was the bad word, the word they called the Muslim women and girls, girls like herself and Selmira.

  They were taken to another building where it was dark. Someone had thrown a filthy mattress on the floor. There were people around, but they were trying not to look. She swallowed. One of the Chetniks had left the hall to call another man. The ones who stayed behind grabbed the older girl and threw her onto the mattress.

  “Let’s start with this one,” they said.

  Selmira began to scream. She had never heard her sister scream before. It was loud, high-pitched, terrifying. She started to cry.

  The Chetniks stopped. They left the third girl on the mattress and came to grab her sister. One of them slapped Selmira across the face. She kept on screaming.

  “Should we start with you?”

  “Run!” Selmira screamed at her. “Run! Get out of here, go!”

  She had promised Nesib she would listen to whatever S
elmira told her. She ran for the door, straight into another soldier, this one in the Bosnian Serb uniform. He grabbed her by the arms and dragged her into the room with the mattress.

  “Nole,” Selmira called, sobbing with relief. “Nole, you have to help us.”

  She looked up. It was Nole, Nesib’s best friend. The one who stole food for them. The one who had come to tell her brothers to head for the woods.

  The Chetniks swore at Nole, who had recognized her and let go of her arms.

  “They’re not going anywhere,” the one who had slapped Selmira said. “They’re ours. The general said to enjoy ourselves.”

  Nole pretended to think about this. She could tell he was pretending because one of his hands pressed softly against her neck.

  “The Colonel is calling for volunteers to load the trucks. It’s chaos out there.”

  She held her breath. Maybe the Chetniks would believe him.

  “Afterward,” the Chetnik said. “They won’t miss us for ten minutes.”

  “We’ll get in trouble,” Nole said. “Leave them here. They’re not going anywhere.”

  The man who had slapped Selmira yanked her head back by pulling at her scarf.

  “You’re trying to protect your little slut. The little slut who knows you.”

  “I’m trying not to get called out by Krstić. I’ve said they’ll still be here. We have all night.”

  “Liar,” said a third man. “They’ve finished loading the trucks for the night. We’re free until the morning.”

  Nole shuffled his feet, thinking.

  The man holding Selmira ripped her blouse at the neck.

  “I’ve waited a long time for this,” he said. “You do what you want.”

  The Chetniks returned to the girl on the mattress, who had never stopped crying. Nole couldn’t stop them.

  Selmira began to unbutton her blouse. “Friends,” she said. “My sister is a baby. She’s only ten years old. You’re men, you don’t want her. Let the little one go and I won’t fight you.”

  Nole moved decisively. He shoved her away from Selmira and shouldered her to the door. No one moved to stop him. The girl on the mattress was choking, her legs in the air.

  Nole hissed in her ear. “Get back to the base and hide. Don’t stop for anyone. Hide. Be clever. I’ll get your sister.”

  This time she didn’t stop to wave. She looked at her sister surrounded by Chetniks and ran through the door for her life.

  31.

  It is inconceivable for me all of this that is happening to us. Is life so unpredictable and brutal? I remember how this time last year we were rejoicing over building a house, and now see where we are. I feel as if I’d never been alive. I try to fight it by remembering everything that was beautiful with you and the children and all those I love.

  They found Nate in a bright room that led off the kitchen at Winterglass. Its views were of gardens, not the water. In the sinking light, the trees looked like skeletons of themselves, brushed with sweeps of pink and bronze.

  Nathan called it his morning room. An embroidered English sofa with matching chairs was set before a raised bronze table. The floor was a blond wood patterned with blue diamonds, a color reflected in a set of French mirrors on either side of a modest fireplace.

  “When will you come with Ruksh?” Nate asked Khattak. “Not that Rachel isn’t welcome.”

  “Not while we’re on a case,” he answered. “Another time, perhaps.”

  As Rachel took her seat across from a floor-to-ceiling canvas that featured a frolicking spaniel, she took note of Nathan’s pleased reaction. A thaw was setting in.

  “You’re having difficulties?” Nate asked. “I can tell from your face.”

  “We’re learning difficult things,” Khattak said carefully. “We know that Drayton wasn’t the only one living under an alias. So was David Newhall.”

  “Newhall?” Nate tilted his head up to the ceiling, lost in contemplation of its whimsical cornices. “Why on earth would he need an alias?”

  “Do you remember a man named Damir Hasanović? The translator for the UN at their base in Potočari?”

  “I remember. He testified before the international tribunal.”

  “He’s been living here as your neighbor. You’ve entertained him in your home.”

  “Damir Hasanović?”

  “David Newhall.” Before Nate could object, Khattak asked, “Is it possible?”

  Nate thought about this. Twilight softened the lines at the corners of his hazel eyes. From his pocket, he took a Waterman pen that he tapped against the table.

  “It seems ridiculous to have been so blind. First Chris, now David. I thought of these men as my friends.”

  Rachel wanted to tell him she thought the friendship was sincere, but how would she know? Maybe they had each used Nate for their own ends or as a means of getting to each other.

  “Hasanović was one of Dražen Krstić’s victims. He lost his family to the Srebrenica massacre. I think he moved here to keep an eye on Drayton. He says he met him at your house and recognized him at once.”

  “It’s true. Mink asked me to invite him as a board member of the museum. That was a little over two years ago. He met Chris that night.”

  “And moved here when?”

  “A week later? Maybe two?”

  “He was stalking Drayton,” Rachel said. “Once he’d seen him, he had to make sure Drayton didn’t disappear.”

  “And he changed his name so Chris wouldn’t know.” Nate slapped a hand on the table, making them jump. “The letters. David wrote the letters?”

  “He didn’t admit it, but it’s the obvious conclusion.”

  “Are you saying David had something to do with Chris’s fall? That he planned for his death?”

  “He says not. He also told us he loves to walk along the Bluffs.”

  “And you think—what? This can’t have been coincidence?”

  Khattak looked at his friend. His enthusiasm didn’t mean that he viewed Drayton’s death as an intellectual puzzle dependent on the cleverness of a solution. Nate well understood the human cost, the toll in blood and agony—who better? His warmth and interest expressed his desire to reach out, to offer Khattak his support.

  He hadn’t been to Winterglass in two years. Nate’s openness, his close attention to Rachel, were meant to bridge that distance. Khattak couldn’t fault him. He no longer had the appetite to shoot Nate down and watch him suffer.

  He knew that Damir Hasanović would have given anything for another moment with his brothers.

  He would give anything now to know where Ahmo and Mesha lay buried.

  Perhaps he had tried, despite what he’d told them. Tried to wring a last confession from Krstić, a man who knew neither weakness nor remorse. And in that reckless moment of anger, he’d shoved the older man from the cliff, sending him to his death, just as Krstić had condemned so many others.

  “It’s not coincidence,” he said to Nate. “He moved here because he wanted to bring Krstić to justice. He notified the Department of Justice as soon as he recognized him. When his letter-writing campaign proved fruitless, he could have turned to the media. He must have feared that with the first hint of exposure, Krstić would slip away and would never have to account for his crimes. Newhall—Hasanović—would never learn where his brothers lie buried.”

  “Then you do think he killed him.”

  “I think he wrote the letters. I think he planted the lilies in Drayton’s garden. I don’t know if fate intervened and Drayton fell before he could see his plan through, or whether Drayton’s fall was his plan. We’ll check his movements, of course, but that’s bound to be inconclusive.”

  “Like everything else about this case,” Rachel said glumly.

  “Will CPS be making an announcement about Krstić?”

  “With the Department of Justice. Once we’ve given them an answer about Krstić’s death.”

  “What if there is no answer?”

  Khattak’
s fatigue was evident. “I don’t know.”

  Nate had known him long enough to know what he was really saying. “You don’t want David to have done this.”

  “I wouldn’t blame him. Who would? But no. That’s not what the people of Bosnia deserve.”

  Rachel was more prosaic. “Say you do everything by the book and a man like Krstić still walks free. How could we expect Newhall to take that quietly?”

  It wasn’t an argument for vigilantism. It was Rachel’s habit of getting inside the skin of a case, the skin of another’s pain.

  It was what Khattak most respected about her.

  “It’s not who Damir Hasanović is. I don’t want his life’s work to be reduced to Krstić’s death.”

  * * *

  As he said it, Khattak knew it came down to the same thing it had always been about. Identity. His. Theirs. The victims of genocide.

  And what had been different? Only religion.

  In Sarajevo, twenty years ago, people had refused to believe in the war at first.

  Different? What do you mean, we are different? We are the same people. We speak the same language, share the same culture. We marry each other, we celebrate Christmas. How are we different?

  The greatest general of a Sarajevo under siege had been a Bosnian Serb.

  We are one people, the Bosnians.

  Until the fascists had killed the enlightenment, burned the countryside, sundered the nation.

  Those who hadn’t believed in the war had died anyway.

  Acts committed with intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, racial, or religious group, as such: killing members of the group, causing serious bodily or mental harm to members of the group, deliberately inflicting on the group conditions of life calculated to bring about its physical destruction.

  Yes, yes, and yes.

  He had felt it then, as a student in a besieged city. He felt it now again: the hot flare of rage and futility in his stomach.

  Was this what they were? The new Jews of Europe with Bosnia a slaughterhouse whose bloody imprint had faded in memory?

  Everywhere the radical right was rising: Sweden, France, Belgium, Denmark, Holland. While a steady stream of vitriol drifted north of the U.S. border.