Outside Eden (14 page)

Like it or not, she had no choice. They had to stay.

The killer walked alone. The sun was low above the horizon, the air crisp, finally cooling. People were preparing supper or still at work, not out and about. A good time to plan, to prepare for all the possible snags. Because, clearly, snags had arisen before.

‘Stop,’ the killer said out loud. Going over the past was useless. What had happened was done. The victims had run, had ended up in the wrong territory, but that had been unforeseeable and nobody’s fault. Bottom line was that they had both been offered. A Christian and a Muslim. Now all that remained was a Jew, the trigger that would spark suspicions, stirring hostilities among those three groups in an area already simmering with tension. And, as God intended, those hostilities would ignite further violence, incite mobs, elicit a chain of escalating and expanding conflicts until, finally, the ultimate battle of fire.

Heat coursed through the killer. Frightening heat, but also arousing. Dangerous, like playing with explosives. Or explosive sex. Yes, it was like sex – driving, sweaty, breathless, powerful. Building in intensity, in anticipation. The killer stopped, thinking of the night before. The melding of souls, the rapture of skin joining skin. But no. It wasn’t the time to think of flesh. Focus had to be on the next step, no distractions – not even nerves. Nerves were nothing to dwell on. The body was connected to the spirit and the mind. So the roiling of a belly, the searing of a stomach, the racing of a pulse – these were signs that the body was preparing for action, nothing more. This time, the mission would succeed, clean and sleek. The target would be worthy. And the strike would come swiftly, unexpectedly, allowing no time for reaction. Death would come before the victim had even realized that he’d been slashed.

And then, the sacrifice would be finished. The reward would be bestowed.

The killer smiled. Stopped to pet a dog. Felt simultaneous humility and pride, eagerness and dread.

By the end of the night, preparations would be complete. The future would be sealed. Everything would change with the carving of a star.

Hagit fixed Chloe a snack of juice and chunks of apple and banana. Harper didn’t join them. She sat in the bedroom, thinking about how to foil Travis’s plan, whatever it was. Maybe she could expose him as a fraud. Maybe reveal some dark secret from his past. Or she could expose his affair with Lynne. But that seemed low; Lynne’s love life wasn’t her business. Best would be to find out what Travis was planning and prevent it. Maybe she could attend prayer meetings? Talk to him personally – pretend to be a convert? Spy on him?

In the next room, Hagit was singing the Shalom song, Chloe trying to join her.

‘What do the words mean?’ Harper called.

Hagit stopped singing. ‘It’s just a song.’ She started singing again.

Really? Hagit wasn’t going to tell her? Harper strode into the next room, interrupting. ‘Hagit. You’re teaching my child a song. I want to know what it means.’

‘She’s just a baby. What’s the difference?’

‘I asked you what it means.’ Harper used her lieutenant’s voice. Commanding and harsh.

Chloe dissolved into tears.

‘It’s all right,
tinoket
.’

‘Tinoket?’

Hagit turned to Harper, facing her. ‘It means baby. You made her cry. What’s wrong with you?’

With
her
? ‘I asked a simple question.’ Chloe was wailing. Harper picked her up, kissed her. Told her everything was okay.

Hagit glared, hands on hips. ‘She was fine. Happy and eating. Now look . . .’

‘All you had to do was answer me—’

‘Am I your servant? Must I bow to you?’

Okay. This was out of hand. Harper took a deep, assertive breath. ‘I’m Chloe’s mother, Hagit. I want to know what she’s learning.

‘If you don’t like what she’s learning, take her home. If you don’t trust me to care for her, then you stay with her all day. Do it yourself.’ Hagit spun around and headed for her closet, started pulling clothes out, spouting Hebrew.

Chloe sniffled, her eyes on Hagit.

Harper was speechless. How had the conversation gotten so heated? What kind of mother was she, making her baby cry? And now what was she supposed to do? Just let Hagit storm out? Certainly, she wasn’t going to beg her to stay; she could manage without her. Chloe could still go to the nursery: none of the other children had their own personal sitters.

But Chloe had become attached to Hagit.

And, in a way, despite the gruffness, so had she.

Hagit folded her nightgowns. Her skirts.

Harper looked out the window, saw Ramsey Travis’s bungalow.

Maybe they should all leave. Maybe she should take Chloe and follow Hagit.

She thought of the children at the nursery. And of the dig. The exhilaration at the site. The promise of discovery.

‘Hagit, wait.’ She followed her. ‘I don’t know why we’re arguing . . .’

‘Why? I’ll tell you why. Because you’re always with the comments. Always with the questions. You don’t trust me.’

‘Of course I trust you. I wouldn’t leave Chloe with you if I didn’t.’

‘Then why so many questions?’ Her hands were on her hips again.

Chloe’s chin quivered. Harper smoothed her curls, didn’t remember asking Hagit a lot of questions. Even so, what if she did? She was the mother here. And the employer – well, not really. The government had hired Hagit. But still, she outranked the babysitter, didn’t she? She should be able to ask as much as she wanted.

Hagit packed her socks.

‘Hagit. Please. Let’s have a cup of coffee and talk. Let’s not fight.’

Hagit stopped folding clothes, looked at Chloe, then at her suitcase, then back at Chloe. ‘You make the coffee,’ she said as she reached for Chloe.

Harper watched Chloe wrap her arms around Hagit’s neck and felt a pang. Then she went to the cabinet for the Nescafe.

‘Milk, no sugar.’ Hagit put Chloe back at the table so she could finish her snack and resumed singing. It was the same song as before, the same haunting melody, but this time, in English. ‘Peace, my friends, peace, my friends. Peace. Peace. Until we meet again, until we meet again. Peace. Peace.’

Chloe munched an apple chunk. And Harper stood in the kitchenette, humming along with the mournful turn, gazing out the window at the bungalow next door.

Peace had been restored long before Hank called. Harper asked him to Google Ramsey Travis. ‘I’d do it myself but I can’t get online here.’

‘Hoppa. Very busy here. No time.’ He sounded cranky and tired.

‘It’ll just take a minute to look him up. He’s from Indiana.’

‘Why?’ His tone changed, concerned now. ‘What. Happened?’

‘Nothing.’ Not yet, anyway. ‘I told you. He says the world’s about to end. I want to find out how crazy he really is.’

‘But Ben Haim. Said he’s. Not dangerous.’

‘Hank, please. Can you do this one thing? Look him up?’

With a long sigh, Hank agreed.

Harper asked about the symposium, but Hank changed the subject, asked about Chloe, about the dig, and then they said good night.

After the call, Harper plugged her cell phone in to recharge and pulled off her T-shirt. Before she could step out of her shorts, her cell phone rang.

It was Hank.

The only record Google had of Ramsey Travis was as pastor of the Word of the Lord Church in a small town south of Muncie, Indiana. Travis had been there for at least three years. There was no other information about him.

Harper sat on the bed. ‘Nothing about any articles he’d written? Or academic degrees?’

‘No.’

‘How about other churches he’s led? Or other work he’s done – you know, in business?’ She tossed her shorts into the laundry.

‘Hoppa. Told you. No.’ Hank sounded impatient. ‘But. Listen. First, I punched in. Wrong name.’

So?

‘Put first name Travis. Found guy. Travis Ramsey.’

‘And?’

‘This guy. Did. Six years. In Illinois. For man. Slaughter.’

Harper was on her feet at the window, looking out at Travis’s bungalow. ‘Hank. Do you think it’s . . .?’

‘Could be. Don’t know.’

‘Was there a photo?’

‘No. Just news story. Picture only of vic. Tim.’

‘Who did he kill?’

‘Hoppa. Calm down. Killer was a minor. Happened. Twenty-nine years ago.’

‘Who?’

‘And could. Have been. Accident.’

‘
Who?
’ Why wouldn’t he tell her?

Hank paused. ‘His father.’

His father? Good God. ‘Did the article give a motive? What else did it say?’

Another pause. ‘Not much.’

Why was he being so difficult? ‘Hank, what aren’t you telling me?’

‘Might be not same. Guy, Hoppa.’

‘I know.’

‘Don’t get crazy.’

Of course she wouldn’t, unless he kept stalling. ‘Hank. Tell me.’

‘The father.’ He took a breath. ‘Was strict.’

And?

‘And. A Pente. Costal. Minister.’

Damn. Travis Ramsey had to be Ramsey Travis. It would have been too great a coincidence – a charismatic preacher and the son of a Pentecostal minister whose names were the reverse of each other? And, if the patricidal Travis Ramsey had been a teenager twenty-nine years ago, he’d be in his forties now. Just like Ramsey Travis.

No question. It was the same guy.

Harper asked more questions. Where was the mother? How had the man died? Hank didn’t have answers, had seen just a couple of Google entries based on articles from an old newspaper in southern Illinois.

He sounded tentative. ‘Hoppa. Might be him.’

Seriously? Of course it was.

‘Come back. Don’t stay there. Don’t like this.’

Harper didn’t like it either. ‘I can’t just leave these people at his mercy, Hank. If Travis has some crazy plan—’

‘Not you have to save everyone. Need to take Chloe. And go.’

‘But what if . . .?’ Harper closed her eyes, saw an explosion, heard men scream, felt her body fly onto a burnt-out car. No. Hank was right: protecting everyone wasn’t her job; she wasn’t in the military any more. Couldn’t risk endangering her child.

‘Okay.’ She ran a hand through her hair.

‘Okay?’ Clearly, he hadn’t expected her to agree.

‘Give me a day or two—’

‘Hoppa. Why a day or two?’

‘To finish up—’

‘Why not tomorrow?’

‘Nothing will happen for a few days, not ’til the twenty-sixth.’

‘You don’t know . . .’

‘I’m positive. And if I see anything suspicious before then, we’ll high-tail it out of here. I promise.’

He was seething. She could hear it. Could almost see steam coming from the phone.

‘We’re safe. The kibbutz has security. And I’ve got my eye on Travis. Besides, I’m Army, remember? I’ve taken down dudes a lot tougher than this guy. I can take care of myself. And of Chloe. Trust me.’

When he finally spoke, Hank’s voice was flat. ‘Hope for all our. Sakes. You are right, Hoppa. Come back as soon. As you can.’

After they hung up, Harper thought of calling him back, but had nothing else to say.

Besides, whatever Travis had planned for his followers wasn’t supposed to happen until the twenty-sixth. And when it happened, it would probably affect only them; there was no reason to think the kibbutz or others at the dig would be involved.

Then again, they might. After all, the end of the world could require a fairly massive incident. Harper paced around the bungalow, decided that she felt guilty because Hank was angry, not because she’d done anything wrong. She checked on Chloe, went back to the sitting room. Finally, stood at the window, staring at Travis’s bungalow. Wondering if it contained evidence of what Travis was preparing.

The place was completely dark. Probably no one was there. Maybe the porch door was unlocked? She looked at her phone to check the time. Not late – just after ten. Pastor Travis was probably out tending his flock.

Hagit had dozed off in front of the television. Harper went back to her room and pulled her clothes back on. She wouldn’t be gone long, so she didn’t bother to leave a note before she went outside.

Harper moved quietly down the steps of her porch, along the path, toward the pastor’s bungalow. Once she got inside, she’d have to make sure that it was empty, that he and his roommate hadn’t just gone to sleep early like Hagit. If they were home and caught her there, what would she say?

Okay. She could say that she’d gotten confused – mistaken their place for her own. That would work if she acted real embarrassed and stupid. But probably, she wouldn’t have to. Probably, they weren’t home.

Barefoot, Harper crept along the dark path connecting her bungalow to Travis’s. Lord. What was wrong with her? What had happened to all her experience and training? She’d gone out completely unprepared. Didn’t have a flashlight. Or even her phone. Damn. She’d left it in her room. So there she was, creeping up blindly to a possible murderer’s porch with no phone and nothing to defend herself, not even a nail file.

Never mind. She’d only be there for a minute. Two, max. If she saw anything resembling a bomb or wires or poison or ammunition – anything remotely hinting of impending death or murder, she’d skedaddle back to her place and call the authorities.

Harper stepped on a pebble, winced. Kept going, silently, steadily. Like a shadow, she glided to the steps of the porch, climbed the first step. Paused. Continued to the second. Paused.

‘Can I help you?’

Startled, she tottered backward. Caught hold of the railing. The voice had come suddenly, from nowhere.

‘Miss?’ It was a man’s voice, wheezy. From the darkest corner of the porch.

Harper froze, didn’t answer.

He emerged from the blackness, a stout man with short legs. ‘Looking for Pastor?’

She could see him now, his outline. Let out a breath. Feigned girlishness. ‘Oh, my. I didn’t see you . . .’ She giggled, as if embarrassed.

‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. I’m just sitting, enjoying the night air.’ He laughed, wheezing. ‘Pastor’s at a council meeting. Should be back any minute.’ He paused, tilted his head. ‘I don’t think we’ve met. Harold Wade.’ He held out his hand.

Harper could barely see it in the dark but managed to shake it. ‘Harper Jennings. From next door. I was just—’