Chase Baker and the Seventh Seal (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 9) (12 page)

The Holy Sepulcher is venerated by four different sects of Christianity and the ground it rests upon is considered as sacred as the blood of Christ. It is also visited by thousands of pilgrims day in and day out. Skull Place, on the other hand, is surrounded by a Palestinian bus garage and receives relatively few visitors.

Moshe begins to moan as we make our way beyond the city walls towards the hills and valleys of the West Bank. From our vantage point, we can begin to make out the razor-wire topped concrete walls that are now dividing the landscape like a dozen maximum security prisons positioned side by side. We drive into the heart of this new maze of roads, fences, and armed security checkpoints until we come to a dirt road lined with pine trees.

The driver turns onto the road and motors uphill past a boy riding bareback on a brown horse. Up ahead is a car that’s been burned to nothing but a distorted metal frame. The dust from the road merges with the heat, the lack of air conditioning inside the taxi, and Moshe’s pain-filled moans. It all combines to make me slightly nauseous.

Coming to the top of the hill, we spot the old, Byzantine era, castle-like church of St. Stephen on our left. Once an early Christian church, it’s now a Jewish temple, the bulk of which is surrounded by an archaeology dig. Or so Magda is quick to point out. To the right is a fenced in Palestinian community of ramshackle houses, a building cobbled together with plywood and tin paneling for a school, and more burned out cars and trucks. In a word, the place looks like a war zone.

The taxi driver pulls up to an old double-wide trailer you might find inside a trailer park in Paris, Texas. He turns to me.

“Pay me now,” he says in his accented English. “I am not comfortable here.”

I tell the driver to hold on.

We pile out, Magda and Itzhak carefully attending to the still bleeding Moshe. Leaning into the open driver’s side window, I ask the taxi driver to wait.

The paunchy balding man bites down on his bottom lip. “How long?”

“However long it takes,” I say. “You have a gun?”

“No,” he says.

I look over one shoulder, then the other. Other than a few kids playing in what amounts to a garbage heap across the dirt road, there doesn’t seem to be any imminent danger. Digging in my pocket, I pull out five hundred shekels, hand the wad to him.

“We won’t be long,” I say. “You wait for us; I’ll double that back in Jerusalem.”

He nods, but I can tell he’s not very comfortable with the idea.

Pulling my head out of the window, I follow the three to the main, side door of the trailer. But we haven’t even reached the door yet when we hear the noise of an engine revving, tires spitting gravel.

Itzy turns, despite the deadweight of Moshe pressing down on his shoulders.

“There goes our ride,” he says.

“Did you pay him?” Magda says.

“Five hundred,” I say. “Maybe I should have given him a thousand.”

Blood on the gravel. Moshe moaning. Louder this time.

“Let’s get him inside,” I insist.

Magda slips out from under Moshe’s arm, goes to the door of the trailer, knocks. Waits. After a weighted beat or two, the door opens. A man appears. He’s nothing like I would have expected out here. He’s of medium height, maybe mid-sixties, and muscular. He’s wearing nothing that resembles Arabic clothing. Instead, he wears a ratted Australian tarp hat that looks like it was purchased back when Jimmy Carter was trying to push through the Middle East Peace Accord, a khaki reporter’s vest with the pockets jammed to the gills, a black T-shirt that’s tight enough to show off wiry forearms and bulging biceps, Levi jeans, and worn cowboy boots. He doesn’t look like a Palestinian. More like Crocodile Dundee. He’s also carrying what looks like a short-barreled .45 on his right hip while, on his left, an eight-inch fighting knife housed in a leather sheath.

“Well, I’ll be goddamned,” he says, eyeing Magda. “How the hell did you find me all the way out here, beautiful?” Much like the Hasidic brothers, his voice carries a hint of an Israeli accent. But it could just as easily be interpreted as American. As in New York City.

He steps out of the trailer and down the three wood steps, takes Magda in his arms, and bear hugs her.

“James,” she says. “How I have missed you.”

She glances over her shoulder at me and the others, introduces us. We all nod to the man called James. She then gives him the short version of why we’re here. Our mission to find the seven missing codices, our exploration of the bookstore in the old city’s Palestinian Quarter, the man who tried to kill us, the army of black-clad Arabs with Mohawk haircuts. 

He nods, his clean-shaven face tight and weathered from the sun. He spots Moshe bleeding all over the dirt and desert sand that constitutes his front yard.

“That man need’s serious medical attention,” he says. “Who shot him?”

“I’ll get to that later,” she says. “Can you help him now?”

James presses his lips together, places both hands on his narrow hips.

He says, “He should go back to Jerusalem. The West side. You know that, don’t you?”

“You have to ask?” Magda says. “There’s a reason I came to you first.”

“Can we please help Moshe already?” Itzy says. He might be desperate to help his brother, but I can tell he’s feeling more than uncomfortable dressed the way he is inside this Palestinian camp.

“Let’s get inside,” James says. “Get out of the heat, if you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean, James,” I say.

We all pile inside, close the door behind us, and lock it.

A long wood table is set in the center of what could be considered the living room portion of the trailer. Two mini-M16s are resting on top of it, a half dozen magazines, and a wood box filled with 5.56mm ammo. Two 9mm semi-automatic pistols and two or three boxes of cartridges have been set beside them. I also spot a Canon Rebel camera, several maps, a pile of typed pages, and a laptop which, at present, is showing a somewhat minimized front page of the Jerusalem Post superimposed over a page of writing.

James doesn’t waste time. He begins transferring all of the table-top items to the old couch that’s set beside the table. Meanwhile, Itzy strips Moshe of his long black coat and the Uzi hidden inside it.

“Lay your man on top of the table,” he insists, shifting the guns to the couch.

Not wanting to be good for nothing, I immediately assist him with moving the stuff. But when I get to the laptop, he says, “I’ll get that, mate, if you don’t mind. I make much of my living writing news reports from this side of the West Bank,” he smirks. “Can’t afford to lose my precious word machine.”

Never come between a man and his laptop. Take it from a writer.

With the table now empty, Itzy and I lay Moshe on top of it as gently as humanly possible. But even then, he cries out in pain. The blood had slowed somewhat on the ride out here, but the shifting onto the table has made it start up again.

James barks, “Magda, there’s a pile of towels on the shelf in the bathroom and below the sink, a first aid kit. Be a love and grab them both.”

Magda doesn’t hesitate. Quickly she makes her way across the small kitchen and into a narrow corridor where she disappears into the bathroom. Above Moshe’s moans, I can make out the sound of her rummaging around inside the cabinets. When she comes back out, she’s holding towels in one hand and a big, fire engine red plastic First Aid kit in the other. The professional grade kind of first aid kit you might find inside a project trailer at construction job site or archaeology dig.

She sets both items on the table beside Moshe’s leg.

“What would you like us to do, James?” I ask.

He’s biting down on his bottom lip as if it helps him think.

“Wash your hands,” he says after a time while opening the first aid kit. “All of you.” Cocking his head over his shoulder in the direction of the kitchen sink. “There’s antiseptic soap next to the faucet.”

All three of us take turns washing our hands, drying them with one of the fresh towels. Stepping back over to the table, James hands Magda a pair of surgical scissors, asks her to cut away Moshe’s pant leg. In the meantime, he, too, washes his hands.

Magda gently cuts away the pant leg, pulls it off Moshe’s leg, revealing a round puncture wound about the size and diameter of a dime.

“My God, woman,” he groans. “You’re killing me.”

James comes back to the table, shoves his fingers under Moshe’s thigh.

“No exit wound,” he says. “Means the bullet is still inside the thigh.”

“What drugs do you have you can give to Moshe?” Itzy says. “To stop the pain.”

James rummages around inside the kit. He pulls out a vial of clear liquid and a hypodermic needle.

“Novocain,” he says. “It’s not the same as putting him under, but a local is the best we can do.”

He fills the hypo, flicks the needle with his index finger, causing some of the drug to squirt out.

“Chase,” he says, “press your hands down on both of his shoulders. Itzhak, you do the same with his legs. Magda, you find the scalpel inside the kit.” Then, taking aim with the needle maybe a half inch above the round, dark arterial blood-filled wound, he jabs the needle.

Moshe thrusts himself upwards, and it takes all my strength to hold him down. It’s the same for Itzy. He’s putting all his upper body weight into holding Moshe’s feet and lower legs down on the table.

Magda finds the scalpel, hands it to James.

“You ever done something like this before?” I ask.

He nods. But it’s not a confident nod.

“I fought Yom-Kippur War in ‘73,” he says. “Israeli side. I extracted bullets from mates in the field on two occasions.”

“So you’re pretty good at this,” I say.

He looks at me with his blue-gray eyes.

“It’s 2016,” he says, somewhat under his breath. “It’s been a while, friend.”

“Just let’s get this over with,” Itzy says, his long curls trembling with his struggle to keep Moshe from moving around.

For a long minute or two, we wait while the Novocain kicks in.

“How you feeling, Moshe?” James asks.

I look into the tall Hasidic Jew’s face. It’s still very pale. But he seems a bit more relaxed, indicating to me that some of the pain, at least, has subsided with the introduction of the nerve blocking Novocain.

“You got anything to drink around here?” he says.

“Moshe,” Itzy says, his body not so tense now that he doesn’t need to press down so hard on his brother’s legs, “you shouldn’t be thinking of alcohol at a time like this. Think of God.”

“I need a damn drink, Itz,” he says. “I’m shot. You do what works for you. I do what works for me. You’re my brother, not my Rabbi.”

James goes into the kitchen, pulls out a bottle of whiskey from one of the cabinets above the sink, pours some into a glass. He brings the glass with him to the table, slides his left hand under Moshe’s head, brings the glass to his lips.

“Down the hatch, Moshe,” he says.

Moshe opens his mouth wide, and James upends the glass. The whiskey is gone in an instant. Laying the head back down gently, James tosses the empty glass onto the couch. He then picks the scalpel back up, and aims the tip for the wound, without actually touching it with the blade.

“You feel this, Moshe?” he says.

Moshe jumps a little.

“I’m not sure,” he says, his pale brow covered in droplets of sweat. “Maybe a little.”

He shoots Magda and me a glance, then slowly sticks the blade into the wound.

“What about now?”

“Not really. When are you going to do this already?” Moshe says.

“We’ll try for her now,” James says. Then, once more looking at the three of us. “You know what to do.”

Using his free hand, James pulls a wood tongue depressor from out of the kit, holds it over Moshe’s mouth. Moshe opens and without having to ask what it’s for, bites down on the depressor.

Once again I take the shoulders and, this time, Magda holds the forearms, while Itzy takes the legs.

“On three,” James says. “One, two . . .”

James buries the blade, twists.

Moshe lurches upwards like every nerve ending in his body is connected to a live electric current. His screams can be heard all the way to Jordan and Syria. They are that intense, that loud. James twists once more, sticks his index finger and thumb into the wound, comes back out with a led slug that, although damaged, is entirely intact.

Moshe’s body relaxes while he passes out.

“Itzy,” James says, wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead with his forearm, “please retrieve that glass I tossed onto the couch.”

Itzy grabs the glass, hands it to him. James tosses the spent bullet into it. The metal against glass makes a pleasant clinking noise considering the pain Moshe was forced to endure in order to extract it. 

“He’s lucky,” James says. “It didn’t shatter any bone or sever the femoral artery. I’d bet the rent, that bullet was a ricochet.”

“Can’t thank you enough, James,” I say.

“I’ll second that,” Magda says.

“He’s going to have to get some rest,” James says. “I’ll sew him up while he’s out. Meanwhile, Magda, maybe you can mix us up a little lunch?”

Her brown eyes go wide.

“And why is it that the woman is always expected to make lunch?” she says. “I am a doctor of Biblical history, you know.”

“I know you are,” James says. “But I also know you were handed down the gift of the culinary arts from your Jewish mother.”

“Snagged,” she says. “So what do you have for ingredients in that kitchen of yours?”

“You’ll find some eggs and fresh vegetables in the refrigerator. And Gold Star beer.”

“I love Gold Star,” Itzy says.

“I thought Hasidic Jews didn’t partake?” I say.

“I’m a New Yorker first,” Itzy says, heading straight to the fridge. “I prefer Pabst Blue Ribbon. But when in Rome . . . Now, for the love of Moses, who’s having a beer with me?”