Outside Eden (31 page)

Hagit stood. ‘I know. Adi telephoned.’

The soldiers were double-checking the bungalow, making sure it was safe. Hagit waited until they finished. Watched them go outside and station themselves on the porch.

‘Tell me the truth,’ Hagit eyed her. ‘You killed him?’

‘No.’ Harper began trembling again. ‘But I didn’t save him.’

‘Adi said he burned. What happened?’

‘I saw him pour the fuel. We fought. And he lit his lighter . . .’ She heard the whoosh, the scream.

‘Go. Wash it all away.’ Hagit hobbled over, guided her to the shower. Turned on the water. Helped her undress. Let out a gasp when she saw the bruises on Harper’s legs and arms. ‘My God. You’re purple.’

Harper stood under the shower, letting hot water stream over her, cleaning her stinging wounds, trying to scrub away memories. She shampooed her hair, rinsed, shampooed again. Yearned for Hank, thought maybe he’d be near his phone now. Got out of the shower and grabbed a towel, borrowed Hagit’s phone to call him.

His voice mail answered. This time, she wasn’t surprised. She stood at Chloe’s crib, body aching, figuring out how to get to Jerusalem.

She still smelled accelerant. Impossible. None of it had actually been on her skin. And yet, the odor remained. She went to the mirror, looked at herself. Damn. Raw scratches and scrapes all over her face. She peeled off wet gauze, saw a raw red patch of deep abrasions on her cheek. Same on her forearms from sliding on gravel.

Hagit came into the bedroom, her forehead still bandaged, her eye still black. Losing prizefighters looked better than they did.

‘Here. Let me help.’ Hagit taped on fresh gauze. ‘Go. Lie down. You’re going to hurt in the morning.’

But Harper had no intention of resting. Wrapped in a towel, she went to the porch, nodded to the soldiers, retrieved her duffle bag.

‘What are you doing?’ Hagit scowled.

Harper opened the bag, pulled out a pair of jeans, a fresh T-shirt. ‘Getting dressed,’ Harper said. ‘We’re going to Jerusalem.’

‘Now? Not tonight . . .’

‘Yes, now, tonight.’ She stepped into her jeans.

‘But Travis is dead. The army is guarding us. It’s safe to stay and sleep . . .’

‘I haven’t been able to reach Hank. Or Trent. Something’s wrong—’

‘Why do you assume something’s wrong?’

‘It’s been two days—’

‘You’ve been through a lot, so you’re thinking the worst. They’re busy, that’s all. Wait until morning.’

Harper eased her T-shirt over her head. ‘No. I feel it. I have to go.’

Hagit sighed, looked away.

‘What?’ Harper eyed her. Stepped closer. ‘You know something.’

Hagit looked away.

‘You do. You know something. Tell me . . .’

‘What I know is: you should rest.’

Harper grabbed Hagit’s arm. ‘What’s happened? Tell me. Is Hank all right?’ She was strangling the skin above Hagit’s elbow.

Hagit looked at her evenly, devoid of emotion. ‘Okay. I’ll tell you. You’ll find out soon anyway.’ She paused. Took a breath. ‘There has been an incident.’

An incident?

‘What does that mean?’ Harper tightened her grip.

‘With the symposium. It’s almost resolved. It will be over any time now.’

Harper listened, her head becoming light, bloodless. The room began to twirl.

She heard Hagit’s voice from a great distance, as if it was calling from far across the checkpoint, drowned out by explosions and rifle fire. She strained to make sense of Hagit’s words, to ignore the intrusion of Travis and his lighter, disregard the whoosh, the spine-jangling scream.

When Hagit finished, Harper understood only that she had to get to Jerusalem, that the ride had been arranged. She waded through detached limbs, past a boy with no face, around the bombed-out buildings, hurrying but moving slowly as if through gelatin. As soon as she was dressed, she got Chloe, carried her outside without waking her, still hearing distant rifle fire, smelling smoke and fumes.

Hagit was ahead of her, on the phone, speaking Hebrew. The soldiers were waiting in the jeep; they’d already loaded the bags.

The soldiers blocked Harper’s door. Lynne went around behind the bungalow, looking for a way in. Thinking about creating a diversion – maybe breaking a window in the rear of Harper’s cottage. Or maybe next door at Travis’s. Then, when the soldiers went to investigate, she’d storm into Harper’s place, cut her throat, sacrifice the lamb, and run back out into the night. Not a bad plan.

She crawled around, looking for rocks heavy enough to break panes of glass, small enough to lift and throw. Wasn’t sure what that meant, had no experience breaking windows. But Travis’s spirit urged her on. She lifted a baseball-sized rock, decided it wasn’t solid enough. Crawled some more. A stray cat wandered over, nuzzled her, let out a long bellowing meow. Lynne froze, listening for the soldiers. But they didn’t respond. Of course not. They wouldn’t react to a stupid cat. She was too jittery. Needed to calm herself. To remember Travis’s promise.

They would be together forever, as soulmates.

She lifted another rock. Perfect. It would take both hands to throw it, but if she put her body weight into it and stood close enough, it would shatter the glass. She was sure. Lynne stood silently, carrying the rock. And heard the bungalow door slam. A woman, chattering in Hebrew.

She hurried around the side of the bungalow, keeping close to the wall. A car engine started up. Harper climbed in to the soldiers’ jeep, carrying her baby, sitting next to Hagit.

Lynne stood paralyzed, astounded, her vision blurred by tears of fury. She heard Harper ask, ‘They’ll take us straight to Jerusalem? To the King Saul?’

She couldn’t hear Hagit’s answer. As the jeep pulled away, she stepped back and hurled the rock at a window. It made a bang, but didn’t even crack the glass.

Lynne roared, ran at the pane, pounded it with her fists, remembering Travis in flames, burning like a martyr or a saint. Like Joan of Arc. And here she was, not even able to break a window. Failing again, letting him down. Slowly, she sunk to her knees. Maybe she should use the knife on her own body, joining Travis in the hereafter.

She lay back on the ground. Looked up at the stars. Realized Travis and the Lord were watching her. Felt ashamed. She dried her eyes, wiped her nose. Thought back to Harper climbing onto the jeep and hopped to her feet, finally understanding.

None of what had happened had been an accident or failure. It had all been part of God’s will. In fact, God Himself was guiding her through Travis, as his disciple, showing her how to follow His coded instructions. Comprehending the importance of her new role, she stood tall, confident. She was God’s warrior, prepared for battle. She hurried, aware of her time constraints; the ninth of Av had already begun. But the Lord and his prophet Travis had told her what to do, and Harper had told her where to do it.

For most of the ride, Harper was too angry to talk. She held onto Chloe, staring out the window, not seeing the night. All she saw was Hank. Hank, dressed in a white polo shirt, cargo pants and flip flops, a gunshot wound oozing on his shoulder. Or his arms bound behind him, eyes swollen shut, mouth bloody from beatings.

Or lying on a carpet, staring at the wall, dead.

No. Not dead. No, not not not not. Her chest burned and she tried to erase that image, reject the possibility, but the more she fought it, the more it persisted. Hank’s body kept popping to mind, lifeless, the spark gone from his eyes. His hands limp. Harper’s throat thickened. Her mouth went dry. Oh God. He couldn’t be dead. But there he was again, lying on a carpet. Had he been shot? Stabbed? It didn’t matter; dead was dead. A host of dead bodies paraded through her mind. The Iraqi boy with no face; Evan, a fraternity boy from Cornell. Zina, her classmate. Graham, her student. Her entire checkpoint patrol – bodies flashed by in a medley, and somehow, though they’d died in different ways, they all looked the same, shared the same final indifference. But Hank? No. Hank couldn’t be one of them, couldn’t be dead. She’d have known. She’d have felt it. Her heart would have stopped; she’d have gone cold.

Hagit was talking to her, but Harper wasn’t paying attention. Had no use for a person who’d kept the truth from her, who’d conspired with others and lied, preventing her from being with her husband. She clung to Chloe, saw Hank in the darkness, on the side of the road. Tied to a chair, his eyes beaten closed. Or a gunshot wound in his shoulder.

Or lying on a carpet . . . No.

She had to stop. Had to focus. Had to figure out what she’d do when they got to Jerusalem. They’d want her to stay away. But there was no way. She would have to leave the baby with Hagit. Hagit the secret-keeper, Hagit the liar, Hagit the betrayer. She had no choice. She would wander off, casually. Find a way into the hotel. A way around the military. Maybe she’d have to ambush a soldier, steal a weapon, a uniform. Make the soldier tell her exactly where the hostages were being held. What floor, what rooms. And then knock the soldier out. Yes, so he wouldn’t interfere. And then she’d penetrate the perimeter, get inside the hotel. Proceed to the location where Hank and the others were being held. And go in . . .

Hagit kept pushing on her arm. Yammering. ‘You can’t ignore me forever. What I have to say is important.’

Hank was sitting beside Trent. In a row of hostages, all tied together. Scientists from all over the world. And the captors didn’t expect her – she imagined them young, wiry, shiny-eyed. Lethal. Surprised when she opened fire.

‘Okay, so ignore me. But I’ll tell you anyway. When we get there, you are to go where they tell you and stay there. The call I got just confirmed the exchange for the morning. Once the prisoners are released and the kidnappers allowed to leave, your husband and the others will be freed.’

Harper kept shooting. The three who’d been standing against the wall were down; two others had pivoted and opened fire on the hostages. One shot at her. She felt the hits in her thigh, her torso, but kept firing, aiming, even as her body sank. She hit a man shooting the hostages; his head exploded.

‘As far as we know, the hostages are unharmed. There were cameras and microphones in the conference room, but the kidnappers disabled them. But remember, they have no reason to hurt anyone. In fact, they let one go because he’s diabetic. Harper, are you listening?’

She shot the other man, but not before he’d hit some of the scientists. Harper was caught up in screams of pain, smells of rifle fire. She was on the floor, now, aiming at the hostage-taker who’d shot her. Realizing, as she fired, it was a woman. Young, beautiful, her eyes ablaze. Harper saw Pastor Travis burning in them, consumed in their fire as the eyes closed in death.

‘Be that way. Pretend to ignore me. This attitude is exactly why we thought it best not to tell you. We know who you are. We know your background, your past. You are headstrong and stubborn. We knew you would have gotten involved and interfered with a peaceful settlement. It was not just for your own safety, but for the safety of the symposium members that we kept you away.’

Harper heard Hagit vaguely, like a dog barking down the block. She saw herself lying on a carpet, quickly losing blood. Hank was sitting on a chair across the room, wearing a white polo shirt and cargo pants. His hands were bound behind him, his mouth bloody and eyes swollen shut.

Dr Ben Haim wasn’t religious, had no interest in attending shul for the holiday, wasn’t planning to fast. In fact, he was munching a handful of sugared almonds as he left his bungalow on his way to his car, about to drive home to Herzliya. He hadn’t seen his wife or kids in three weeks because he hadn’t wanted to leave the dig. Didn’t want to now, either, but, with the holiday, he might as well. Fieldwork would be stopped for the day. And, with all the craziness – those volunteers from America killing people and waiting for the end of the world, and the kibbutz being overrun with soldiers and police – he didn’t know when it would start again. He might as well go home. He could catch up on paperwork there.

That was, if Sima would let him.

Sima. He thought about her as he loaded the car. He wasn’t eager to see her. She would be angry, was always angry. The apartment would be a mess, an expression of her anger. And she would be decked out in some expensive new outfit, something she’d bought to punish him for being away. At least he would have a chance to see the children. Little Aviva and Moshe. He smiled, thinking of them, and climbed into the driver’s seat, started the car. And yelped when he looked in the rear-view mirror.

‘Keep driving.’

Ben Haim opened his mouth, couldn’t find his voice. Didn’t have words.

The woman held up a knife. Was she going to kill him?

‘Don’t be afraid.’

He stared at the mirror, at the tear-smeared face of the woman in the back seat. She looked familiar – long blonde hair, but in the dim light, it was hard to see her face.

‘Drive.’

His hands were unsteady, clinging to the steering wheel. He backed up slowly, considering his options. Should he open the door and run for it? Lean on the horn? Drive to an army jeep? Crash into a tree?

‘If you help me, I won’t hurt you.’ She wiped tears with the back of a hand, positioning the knife behind his ear. ‘But if you don’t, I’ll cut your neck open. If you try to run or call for help, you’ll die. If I were you, I wouldn’t even think of it.’

‘What do you want?’ His voice was feeble.

‘A ride to the dig.’

To the dig? ‘But nobody’s there. It’s closed for the holiday . . .’

The knife pricked the back of his ear. ‘Don’t talk, Dr Ben Haim. Just drive.’

Ben Haim touched his ear, felt for blood. Pulled out of his parking area onto the main road of the kibbutz. He looked into the rear-view mirror again, recognized the woman. She was one of the volunteers, part of that crazy sect.

‘When we get to the security gate, I’ll be under your laundry bag. But the knife will be at your spine.’

Ben Haim felt it puncturing his seatback when he stopped at the gate. The guard recognized him, chatted, looked into the windows, finally said, ‘Shalom,’ and opened the gate.