Outside Eden (3 page)

The moment that Hank stepped into the suite, Chloe stopped running. Her entire demeanor changed. Suddenly, she was sweet, coy. Angelic. ‘Daddy.’ She sucked three of her fingers, eyeing him.

Hank, of course, was smitten. He reached for her and swung her high into the air, kissing her tummy, squeezing her. Returning her to the bedroom and handing Chloe to Harper with a peck on the cheek. ‘Needs diaper,’ he commented, as if Harper hadn’t noticed.

Harper marveled at the way Chloe took possession of Hank, curling her little body into his arms, claiming him with her confidence. Staring at him with rapt adoration as he unbuttoned his shirt and took off his shoes. Harper grabbed the opportunity to fasten Chloe’s diaper and slip on her pajamas.

‘Trent’s here.’ Hank headed for the sitting room, stopped and looked back. ‘Hoppa. You okay?’

‘Just tired.’

‘Good.’ He picked up Chloe and stepped out the door.

Good? Never mind. He must not have been listening; must be tired, too. In the sitting room, ice clinked. Snippets of conversation floated around. They were talking about the symposium. Harper tried to listen. Chloe vied for attention, squealing and interrupting, but Trent talked over her, complaining about tensions – or was it factions? He was saying that politics shouldn’t play a part in their discussions. Hank’s opinions were harder to discern; his speech was still affected by an old brain injury, and he spoke in short phrases, his words sometimes out of order. He seemed to agree with Trent, but Harper couldn’t hear because Chloe was jabbering, then Trent said something about depletion.

Their work was fascinating. Hank and Trent were among thirty-four scientists participating in a multinational symposium on the region’s water issues – specifically, on the deterioration of the Dead Sea and the potential consequences of its drying up. As geologists, they’d joined eminent hydrologists, ecologists, other-ologists and delegates from the US, Jordan, Egypt, France, Israel, Russia, Great Britain and she wasn’t sure where else. Their task was to combine efforts and propose workable solutions for the future of the area’s water.

While Hank and Trent talked, Harper went to drain the tub. She picked up Chloe’s clothes, folded the towel. Went back to the bedroom. The men were still talking, but Chloe was oddly quiet.

‘Then what are people supposed to drink?’ Trent’s ice cubes jangled. ‘Forget the agricultural and industrial issues – we’re talking about sixty percent of Israel’s water and seventy-five percent of Jordan’s. And the Palestinians—’

‘Know that,’ or maybe, ‘No that,’ Hank interrupted, annoyed. ‘But conse. Quences are. Of salt water, Trent. De. Salination. Might con. Tami. Nate.’

‘Obviously. But damn it, something has to give. The sea is disappearing a meter a year because its source, the Jordan River, is being grossly overused. It’s depleting to the point of crisis. And you heard what Dr Habib said. His country is willing go to war over water—’

‘Must fix, Trent. But not. Ruin. Ground water. And environ—’

‘Expedience is key, Hank. Something must be done soon if not sooner. It’s not just Israel and Jordan. It’s Syria, Lebanon – the whole region is at risk.’

At risk? Over water? Harper stiffened. She’d known that water was precious in the area, but she’d had no idea how urgent the situation was. She tossed Chloe’s clothes into the laundry bag, peeled off her soaking T-shirt, pulled on a fresh one.

‘. . . Water has to come from somewhere. No one is saying that desalination is ideal; we all know the risks – environmental damage from foreign algae and minerals and so on. But, short term, I don’t think there’s an alternative—’

‘Yes, are choices—’

Harper went into the sitting room, eager to hear more. But as soon as she came in, the conversation stopped. Hank and Trent turned to her, silent. Wearing twin silly smiles.

Why had they suddenly stopped talking? Ever since the accident that had caused Hank’s aphasia, he’d welcomed her to join conversations. In fact, he often relied on Harper to help him articulate his thoughts. But now, he regarded her stiffly, as if she were intruding. And Trent was uncharacteristically mute. Normally, he wouldn’t shut up, especially when he was drinking Scotch. So what was going on?

‘Hi, Harper.’ Trent finally stood, offered a hug.

Harper returned it, noticing that Chloe was sleeping soundly in Hank’s arms.

She took a seat beside Hank on the sofa. ‘So. How were the sessions today?’

Trent said, ‘Stimulating,’ as Hank said, ‘Disappoint. Ing.’

Harper looked from one to the other. ‘Really?’

‘It’s staggering to have so many experts together.’ Trent looked at his drink. ‘Everyone’s a chief – no Indians.’

‘Us, too.’ Or two? ‘Chiefs.’

Beyond that, Hank and Trent seemed unwilling to discuss the meetings, even superficially.

‘It’s complicated.’ Trent sat on an easy chair. ‘Very delicate.’

‘Cultures,’ Hank said. ‘Countries.’

And then they were silent. Trent drank Scotch. Hank took Harper’s hand. Trent cleared his throat.

Nobody spoke.

Harper tried another topic, asked about Trent’s wife. ‘Have you talked to Vicki?’

Trent answered. ‘Yes. She’s fine.’

More silence.

‘The babysitter seems nice,’ Harper finally said.

‘Great.’ Hank nodded too much, smiled too broadly. ‘Good. To hear.’

Trent downed his drink. Hank crossed and uncrossed his arms.

‘Okay. I’m out.’ Harper stood, lifted Chloe out of Hank’s arms.

‘She’s okay. With me. Sit—’

‘I’ll put her in the crib and leave you guys alone . . .’

‘Have a good night.’ Trent hurried her along.

‘Hoppa.’ Hank stopped her. ‘We. Can’t tell you.’

She frowned. ‘Can’t tell me what?’

‘We were cautioned against discussing our work with others. Even our spouses.’ Trent got up, poured himself more Scotch. ‘Only the final report is to be revealed.’

Hank finally met her eyes, looked sorry. Or worried?

Harper told them that she understood, that it was no problem, and she carried Chloe into the bedroom, hearing their conversation resume behind her.

‘So do you think Habib was just posturing? Making empty threats? Or was he serious about war?’

Harper stood beside the crib. Oh God, was that why the symposium had been sworn to secrecy? Because war was imminent? She heard the buzz of flies, bursts of rifle fire. No. Quickly, gently, she laid the baby down, covering her even as men screamed and a white flash carried her into the air. Harper felt herself fly . . .

No. She bit down on her lip, causing piercing pain that grounded her in the present. The flashback faded, but she remained shaken. She’d seen war, still bore the scars. Didn’t want to see another. And, more importantly, she didn’t want her child to. Ever. She gazed at Chloe, touched her curls, her cheek. Promised to do anything in her power to keep her safe.

Trent’s voice rose. ‘Maybe Habib’s just a bully. Threatening war gives him clout . . .’

‘True . . .’

Harper grabbed the remote, turned on the television, drowning out the voices from the next room. She didn’t want – couldn’t bear – to hear any more.

Leaning back against the pillows, Harper winced as she bent her war-damaged left leg. All the walking she and Hagit had done had strained it, plus her shoulders ached from carrying Chloe. But what a day it had been. Wandering the Old City of Jerusalem, seeing the ancient structures. History was alive here; the entire country was layered, civilization built on top of civilization. The archeologist in Harper couldn’t wait to explore, but the rest of her was spent. Thank God Chloe was finally asleep. Harper gazed through the slats of the crib, marveling at the child’s ability to sleep so soundly, untroubled, trusting that she’d be safe and taken care of.

If only Harper could be worthy of that trust. She gazed at Chloe, chest tightening, eyes filling. For the last fourteen months, every nerve of her body had been on constant alert, every muscle on duty around the clock. Even in sleep, she remained vigilant, listening. On guard. Ready to respond to any cry, any need. She doubted she’d ever truly rest again.

The television show was in Hebrew. Some kind of drama. Harper picked up the remote, found a rerun of CSI in English. She looked at the screen, then back at Chloe. Watching the rise and fall of the baby’s chest, she slowly became lulled by its rhythm, closed her eyes and drifted.

Dozing, she was only vaguely aware that the program ended and the news came on. A female anchor spoke with a British accent, and Harper dimly noted the flow of her voice, but not her words. Maybe it was the mention of an American citizen that roused her. Or maybe the reference to the shuk. But Harper was awake enough to hear that a murder had occurred, and that the body had been found in the shuk’s Muslim section. And she opened her eyes in time to see a photo of the victim.

Harper blinked, focusing. And sat up straight. No question: it was the man she and Hagit had seen earlier – the one who’d wanted his money back.

Harper stared at the screen, remembering him, how he’d insisted on getting a refund. How he’d accused the vendor of cheating him, even as the vendor’s friends had surrounded him – and how Hagit had stopped her from stepping in.

Now the guy was dead? Oh God. The vendor and his friends – had they killed him?

Harper hopped out of bed, not sure what to do. But surely she had to do something, talk to someone, to the police. First, she’d tell Hank.

She opened the door to the living room, expecting to see Trent and Hank still talking. But Hank was in there alone, sipping Scotch, staring intensely at the wall.

Hagit had brought a stroller, borrowed from her neighbor. ‘She’s too big for the sling. You’ll hurt your back.’

And that was that. No discussion. In a heartbeat, Chloe graduated from riding around on Harper to being wheeled around in her own vehicle.

Harper hadn’t argued. She hadn’t slept much, disturbed by Hank’s ominous, brooding silence. She’d tossed in the darkness, wrestling images of the shuk, of murder, of dried-up rivers, of war. No sooner had she dozed off than Chloe had awakened and begun yammering to herself in long, incomprehensible sentences dotted with actual words like Daddy, Mama, No, Car, Okay, Go. For a while, Harper had lain with her eyes closed, half-awake, listening. Hearing the baby talking, Hank’s shower running. Somebody knocking at the door. Wait, what? Oh God. Harper had jumped out of bed and hurried to let Hagit in. And hadn’t stopped moving since.

‘I think that’s them.’ Hagit nodded toward two men walking across the hotel lobby. They were casually dressed for detectives: short-sleeved shirts, khaki pants. But they walked with authority, seemed military. Probably had been; in Israel, everybody served.

Hagit stood, walked over to them, spoke to them in Hebrew, brought them over to Harper and Chloe.

The shorter, thicker one held out his hand, shook Harper’s. His skin was dry, the contact quick. ‘I am Marake’ah Ari Alon; this is Marake’ah Mishneh Barach Stein.’

Harper blinked. ‘Harper Jennings. Nice to meet you, Marak – sorry, can you repeat that?’

Hagit shook her head. ‘Why do you use Hebrew?’ she scolded the men. ‘He’s Inspector Alon. This is – what is it? Deputy inspector? Or sub-inspector? Anyway, his name’s Stein.’

‘Inspector is fine. And sub-inspector.’ Alon’s eyes twinkled, but only for a moment. Like his handshake, the twinkle was short-lived. ‘So, shall we go somewhere private?’ He led them to the front desk; the clerk escorted them to a small conference room.

Alon sat at the head of the table, eyes piercing Hagit, then Harper.

Chloe wiggled, trying to climb out of the stroller. Harper lifted her to her lap, where she kept squirming and complaining.

‘So. Last night, you called police to talk about the murder in the shuk. What do you want to tell us?’

Chloe slid off Harper’s lap and scampered under the table. Harper didn’t try to stop her, but she was distracted, bending over to make sure Chloe was all right, reaching out to prevent her from bumping her head.

‘She’s okay,’ Hagit scolded. ‘I’ll watch her. Talk to the police.’

Harper felt her face heat up; the babysitter had just chastised her. But she let it go and concentrated on describing the argument they’d witnessed. She told the inspectors about the three men who had closed in on the victim. About her feeling that the man was in trouble, that she should intervene. She raised an eyebrow at Hagit, who quickly looked under the table to check on Chloe.

‘And you?’ Alon turned to Hagit. ‘Do you have something to add?’

Hagit shook her head. ‘Only when he left, they followed him. The three men.’

Alon and Stein exchanged glances. ‘You saw this? How long did they follow him?’

Hagit shrugged. ‘I didn’t see.’

‘Did they go east? West? North?’

Again, Hagit shrugged. ‘All I saw was that they walked right behind him. They were laughing. I thought they wanted to scare him.’

Alon took some photos out of an envelope. ‘Were any of these the men you saw?’ He handed them to Harper, who checked under the table before looking at them. Chloe was standing now, chattering softly, gripping Sub-Inspector Stein’s calf. Harper didn’t scold her; he seemed unbothered.

There were about ten photos. Among them were four that she recognized: the vendor and the three men who’d taunted the American. She showed these to Alon, who shuffled the pictures and gave them to Hagit. Hagit picked out the same faces.

Sub-Inspector Stein leaned back, sighing. ‘Maybe you already know about the shuk, Mrs Jennings. But I’ll tell you anyway. The shuk is divided into sections. Jewish, Muslim and Armenian Christian. Each section has its own businesses. And its own sense of pride. These men you identified are all Muslim shopkeepers. All of them were seen bothering an American Christian who was later found murdered in the Muslim section. Let me tell you: this event can raise tensions. And, by the way, the Muslim shopkeepers don’t like to be bothered by Israeli police.’

‘Of course that doesn’t stop us from bothering them when we need to.’ Alon leaned forward, elbows on the table. ‘We’ve already questioned the operator of the shop, Ahmed Kareem. Let me ask: are you sure that the dispute you heard was about a refund only? Nothing else?’