Outside Eden (16 page)

What was the point of remembering this? Travis didn’t appreciate what they’d done. Had shamed when he should have honored them. The killer’s stomach cramped, twisting at the wrongness of it, the betrayal. The unbearable injustice.

And what had Travis been thinking? Peter Watts? He wouldn’t be able to kill. Wasn’t steely or decisive enough. But wait. Maybe there was a way to redemption – the final sacrifice had to be made swiftly – faster than swiftly. And if the killer were to complete it before Peter, Travis would see which of them was truly devoted, reliable, and strong enough to fulfill God’s command.

The killer left the office building, walked alone through darkness, mind skittering from thought to thought. Going back to the Old City was preferable but not practical. It took too much time. Plus, when they’d tried it, they’d nearly been caught early in the morning – surely, the Lord wouldn’t require that it be done in the Old City, as long as the triad was complete.

The original plan had been to offer them all in the shuk: the Arab in the Jewish section, the Christian in the Arab section, the Jew in the Christian section, connecting the triad of God’s children, the circle of faith. It had sounded simple. But the Arab had stampeded into the Christian section, messing up the design. And the Jew had refused to die in any section, had escaped entirely.

Surely, though, God would accept the final sacrifice even if it happened on an uncoded altar. An altered altar. The killer chuckled at the wordplay. And felt better, ready to go on.

Travis had been so quick to judge, to dole out wrath. But, in the end, who was Travis? Wasn’t God their only judge? And certainly God was loving, would reward their effort, forgive their mistakes. Wouldn’t He?

The killer stopped outside a cottage and gazed up at the sky. Was God watching? Now? At this very moment? Was His grace beaming down like a father’s hand through the night sky? The killer waited for a sign, felt a breeze dance by. Was that God’s gentle touch? Oh, and a star – the one just beyond that cluster – twinkling brightly. God was sending a message of light, of encouragement. The killer stood, lonely under the heavens, thanking God for love and forgiveness. Weeping openly, letting tears fall to the ground.

Forget Peter Watts. By the ninth of Av, the killer would find the final lamb that would spark the conflagration. Christians would turn against Arabs who would turn against Jews who would turn against Christians. Gog would rise up against Magog, and the Lord’s glorious flames would rage across the region and the world.

Harper called Hank, got his voicemail. Voicemail? Why wasn’t he picking up? Was he already asleep? She pictured him sleeping. Missed him, the warm smell of his skin. Best not to think about that. Better to decide what to do about doomsday.

Damn. Why hadn’t Hank picked up his phone? She needed his advice. Okay, who else could she call? Inspector Alon? Or Dr Hadar? What would she say? That Ramsey Travis had just ordered another sacrifice? That the church council was planning a murder like the two they’d already committed in the shuk? That Peter Watts was supposed to commit it? She pictured Alon’s reaction. He would remind her that an arrest had already been made for the murder of the American. And he’d ask for evidence that backed up her claims.

Okay. Evidence. Did she have any? She replayed what she’d heard at the meeting. They’d talked about the shuk, but Travis used words like ‘offerings’ and ‘lambs’. He’d never actually mentioned killing humans. So, even if she’d taped the meeting – which, of course, she hadn’t – she wouldn’t have proof.

Harper looked out the window at Travis’s cottage. Stars lit the path, the bungalows, the sculpted hills beyond. The night was quiet, undisturbed. Harper paced. Checked on Chloe. Opened a kitchen cabinet, not sure what she was looking for, and closed it. Opened the mini fridge. Stared at a bottle of apple juice. Closed it. Finally, she brushed her teeth and got into bed. Tossed and rearranged her pillows. Got up. Thought of trying Hank again. Decided not to; what could Hank do? Nothing. And what would he say? Obviously, he’d say she should pack up and haul her ass back to Jerusalem.

Maybe she should.

Again, she walked to the window. Pastor Travis stood outside his bungalow, talking with a woman. Lynne? Too dark to tell. But Travis was facing Harper’s window. Could he see her, watching him? Harper slid sideways, out of sight, and watched the two separate. Travis went inside; the woman walked away. No passionate kisses this time. Maybe she wasn’t Lynne . . .

‘So where were you?’

Harper wheeled around. Hagit pulled on a robe.

‘You’re up?’ Stupid question.

‘What are you doing? Spying on the neighbors? See anything interesting?’ Hagit joined her, peered out the window. Seeing no one out there, she eyed Harper. ‘What’s going on? Tell me.’ It was more a command than a request.

Harper thought for a moment, decided that telling Hagit wouldn’t hurt. So she did. She told her everything – that Ramsey Travis might be a killer named Travis Ramsey, that he’d already ordered two sacrifices in the shuk that she thought were the murders that had happened there. That he’d ordered a third sacrifice to take place within the next two days, and that Peter Watts had been put in charge of it. Listening to herself, she realized that she sounded kind of crazy. And that, despite her aroused suspicions and strong instincts, she might have misinterpreted everything. Might be completely wrong.

When Harper finished, Hagit didn’t comment. She sat quietly. Then, pulling off her robe, she went to her room. ‘Get the baby. She’ll go with us.’

What? ‘Go where?’

But she didn’t wait for Hagit to answer. Harper obeyed as she would a superior officer, without delay. Gently, trying not to awaken her, she lifted Chloe and carried her to the porch. She was lowering the stroller’s back and arranging Chloe under a blanket when Hagit stepped out, dressed in a T-shirt, khaki pants and sneakers. Did she plan to go hiking?

‘We’ll find Yoshi or his friend Gal. They’ll decide what to do.’

Harper carried the stroller down the porch steps, began pushing it along the path.

‘Trouble is,’ Hagit went on, ‘if your suspicions are right, we have no proof of anything. And we have no idea who they are going to target or where.’

‘The authorities can watch Peter Watts, though. They can stop him.’

Hagit grunted, a sound of semi-agreement. And of authority. Where had her attitude come from? Increasingly, Hagit had seemed . . . Harper didn’t like the word insubordinate, but that’s what it amounted to. Hagit worked for Harper, not the other way around. She was the babysitter, a fiftyish, rather short, plump woman, yet she was talking to Harper as if she outranked her. For now, though, Harper wasn’t going to call her on it. In fact, she felt relieved to have someone else take charge.

‘We’ll go to the office.’ Hagit turned. ‘They’ll call Gal.’

Fine. But then what? Would Gal confront Travis or Peter Watts? Order them to leave? Would he be able to prevent another murder?

Chloe slept soundly as they approached the office building. Inside, Schmuel was still at the front desk, staring at his computer screen. Maybe it was finally online? Hagit held the door while Harper pushed the stroller inside, then spoke to him in Hebrew. Schmuel stood, his face reddening. Was he embarrassed? Alarmed? He mumbled something and reached for a phone. Punched in a number. Handed it to Hagit, who spoke sharply when someone answered. She was still on the phone when the door flew open and Yoshi rushed in, shouting Hebrew words. Stumbling. Falling.

Bleeding.

Even before Schmuel or Hagit could react, Harper went into combat mode, assessing the wild eyes, bloody shirt. The knife clutched in Yoshi’s hand. She moved reflexively as trained, jumping to his side, taking away the knife. Ripping away his shirt, finding the deep and gaping gash beneath his arm. Pulling the blanket from Chloe’s stroller, bunching it up, pressing it against the wound. Controlling the gush. Trying to ignore the flashback to other wounds – a leg in the street, a boy with no face, buzzing flies . . . No. This was not war, not Iraq. She needed to stay in the present. Focus on this man, this wound. Harper concentrated on Yoshi’s eyes, bringing herself back to the moment, all the while pressing on his chest, telling him he’d be all right. Telling herself the same thing.

Hagit and Schmuel crowded around Yoshi, asking questions. Yoshi gave broken, urgent responses, none of which Harper understood. And then others arrived. A medical team, security officers, kibbutz officials. Harper stepped back, letting the medics take over. Gal appeared, and Adi, who knelt beside Yoshi, gripping his hand, touching his face, her chin quivering. Hagit spoke to Gal, who asked Yoshi more questions. Yoshi talked to him, wincing as his wound was cleaned, as something from a vial was injected. As a young woman stitched up the gash.

‘They’re not taking him to a hospital?’ Harper asked Hagit, who shrugged.

‘There’s no need. The kibbutz is self-sufficient. Besides, the wound isn’t so serious.’

Not serious? Harper had seen Yoshi’s ribs.

Hagit bent over the stroller, checking on Chloe.

‘Hagit. What was he saying? Did he say what happened to him?’

Hagit straightened, looking at her. ‘What do you think happened? He was stabbed.’ She turned away.

Harper grabbed her arm. ‘Hagit. Tell me what he said. Did he see who did it? Was it Peter Watts?’

Hagit lifted her chin, waiting for Harper to let go of her. Then she let out a breath. ‘The person wore a ski mask. He couldn’t see who it was.’

‘But what did he tell you?’

‘Nothing. Just that the person was medium sized. Thin and fit. Strong.’

Peter Watts was thin. But he was tall, not of medium height. And kind of saggy, not fit and strong.

Then again, Yoshi might be in shock, might not be remembering accurately.

‘Whoever it was, he picked the wrong one with Yoshi. After he was cut, Yoshi took away the attacker’s knife and went after him. Almost caught him. Yoshi is a good fighter – he was a sergeant in the army.’

Harper nodded. Saw another sergeant, a checkpoint, an explosion . . .

‘Anyway, Yoshi can’t identify him.’

Yoshi’s eyes looked glazed, probably from a painkiller.

‘All he remembers is someone flying at him out of nowhere, feeling the knife plunge into him and thinking it was the end of the world.’

The police were from the Northern district. Mefake’ah Ben Baruch, a beefy inspector with a ruddy face, brought three men with him. While the others talked to Gal, Harper rushed over and asked if he spoke English.

‘Of course.’ His eyebrows rose. ‘Why? What do you have to tell me?’

She took him aside and told him about Peter Watts. That he might be the one who stabbed Yoshi.

‘Yes, okay. And who are you?’

Oh. Right. He didn’t know her. Harper began to introduce herself, but Hagit interrupted with a rapid stream of Hebrew. Ben Baruch listened, but kept his eyes on Harper. Was Hagit talking about her? What was she saying?

Harper tapped Hagit’s arm. ‘What are you telling him?’

Hagit ignored her.

‘Hagit. Tell him about Ramsey Travis and the church.’

But Gal walked up, interrupting Hagit, apparently annoyed by Harper’s intrusion. Pointing at Yoshi and Adi. Gesturing as if to indicate the entire kibbutz. The medical staff gathered around them, and Schmuel. A man ran in wearing only underwear, his wife following with his pants. He seemed puzzled and worried until he saw Yoshi and his bandages; then, he began yelling at Gal and the police – at everyone. Security officers huddled with a bunch of able-bodied men and women near the front desk.

In all the commotion, no one was looking for Peter Watts. In fact, no one seemed to be doing anything. Harper didn’t need to understand the language to recognize concern, anger and fear. Someone needed to take control, organize the scene, calm people down. It wasn’t Ben Baruch who did it, though; it was Gal. He stood on a chair, made calming gestures and spoke in a soft, steady voice. Adi remained beside Yoshi; her voice was ragged as she interrupted, shouting something; Gal answered slowly, gently. His voice seemed to lull the group enough that, finally, Ben Baruch took over.

‘What’s going on?’ Harper asked Hagit.

She made her usual shrug. ‘Nothing. Just kibbutzniks.’

As if that made sense. ‘What about them?’ Harper held onto the stroller, rolled it back and forth, amazed that Chloe was sleeping through the noise.

‘It’s nothing. They assume it’s a terrorist.’

That was
nothing
?

‘They think it was an infiltration from the border by who knows how many or from which countries. They want all the children taken to the bunkers and everyone to take weapons. And they want the army to send support. That’s all.’

Oh.

‘But Gal told them it’s not an infiltration, at least not by a group. It’s just one person.’

Finally, everyone was quiet enough for the police to question witnesses. ‘Hagit. Why don’t they talk to Peter Watts?’ Harper urged.

Hagit put a hand up. ‘Never mind.’

What? ‘It’s important . . .’

‘They already did it.’

Really? So fast? ‘And?’

‘And he has an alibi. He was with others from the church. What’s it called, a prelate? He was there. And Mrs Watts says both men were with her in the bungalow at the time of the attack.’

Well, of course she did. What else would Lynne say? That Peter had gone out and she had no idea where? Or that he’d been trying to slaughter someone so their pastor could bring on the end of the world?

‘So they’re just leaving it at that? He says he didn’t do it, so he must not have?’ Harper looked across the crowd at Ben Baruch. Was he so easily manipulated?

‘They have no evidence that the man did anything—’

‘But Hagit. Don’t you see? They believe that they need to kill a third person. They’ve already killed a Christian and a Muslim in the shuk. But they still need to kill a Jew—’

‘So you said. Why again?’ Hagit crossed her arms, one eyebrow raised.

‘Travis called it “God’s triad”. A circle connecting all of God’s children – something like that. But now that Yoshi escaped, there’s a problem—’