Outside Eden (6 page)

‘Your visit doesn’t seem to be going as planned, Mrs Jennings. I hope you don’t have a bad opinion of our country. Actually, compared to cities in the United States, our crime rate is quite low. Homicide is not usual for us.’

‘Of course it’s not.’ Again, Hagit was scolding him. ‘What happened to security? Where were they?’

‘Hagit, please.’ Harper sank onto a step. She was hot, her left leg ached, and she was upset about the murder.

‘Please what?’

‘Stop scolding the inspector. It’s not his fault.’

‘No, Hagit is right. This was a failure of security. The second failure in two days. It shouldn’t have happened.’ Alon paused, looked from one to the other. ‘Look. I’ll be direct. I already know a good deal about you, Mrs Jennings.’

He did? ‘Sorry?’

‘I know why you are here: Your husband is participating in the Dead Sea symposium. I know that you are an archeologist, that you might join a dig in the Jaz—’

‘Wait.’ Harper sat straight. ‘How do you know all that? Why . . .?’

‘Not to worry.’ Alon smiled slightly. ‘Security only. But I also know that you have a distinguished military background. That you are a decorated Iraq war veteran. Because of all this, I have some faith that I can trust you.’

Harper said nothing. She felt invaded, exposed. What else did he know about her?

‘And me?’ Hagit asked. ‘What do you know about me?’

‘About you?’ He laughed. ‘I know enough. You’ve been cleared to work for the symposium. I know your career history.’

Her what? Harper blinked at Hagit, whose expression was unreadable.

‘What I also know is that you both had contact with the victim of yesterday’s murder, and that you both were on the scene at today’s.’

Hagit’s nostrils flared. ‘So? Are you implying that we have some connection with the killings?’ She continued rapidly in Hebrew, but Alon interrupted.

‘I said no such thing.’ Alon met her eyes. ‘All I’m saying is that you both have an interest in this situation. So, because of what I know about you, and because you might be of some assistance, I’m going to tell you something that you can tell no one. It stays among us. Okay?’ He paused, waiting for them to agree before he went on. ‘You both had a good look at the body, right?’

Harper and Hagit exchanged glances, nodding.

‘So you saw the neck was cut, like a slaughtered animal.’

More nods.

‘And you also saw the mark on the forehead?’

‘Yes. A letter C,’ Hagit said. ‘What does it mean?’

Alon leaned closer, his voice low. ‘What I’m telling you goes no further. Both bodies had a mark. Yesterday, the victim was a Christian. He had a cross carved into his forehead. This one is Muslim and has not a C, but a crescent. Only the police on the scene and the investigating officers know about these marks. The press was never told about the cross on the first victim, so we are convinced that—’

‘The same person committed both murders.’ Harper finished his thought.

Alon let out a sigh. ‘It appears so.’

‘Damn.’ Harper took hold of Chloe’s foot.

‘It’s too soon, of course, to say for sure. But still, we have to consider the possibility. We might be dealing with a religiously motivated serial killer in the shuk.’

Harper’s lunch looked delicious: falafel, deep-fried balls of chickpeas and herbs, served with yogurt, spices and fresh vegetables in pita bread. She stared at her sandwich, without appetite, unable to stop seeing the dead man lying in the alley, the stunned eyes of the children who’d found him. To stop recalling other violent deaths, other stunned eyes.

‘You’re not eating.’ Hagit frowned. ‘Why not?’

Harper didn’t answer. It wasn’t Hagit’s business whether or why she ate or didn’t. Besides, she didn’t want to discuss the killings. Not today’s or yesterday’s or those from the war or any others. And certainly she didn’t want to dwell on Inspector Alon’s casual observation that, aside from the killer, they were the only people connected to both of the murders in the shuk.

No, she didn’t want to talk about any of that. Instead, she cut tomato slices into bite-sized chunks for Chloe’s plate, adding them to pieces of falafel, pita bread and cucumber.

‘What do you say?’ Hagit put a hand on Chloe’s arm. ‘To—’

‘Dah!’ Chloe grabbed more food.

‘That’s right.
Todah
.’ She sighed, turned to Harper, lowered her voice. ‘It’s the Evil Eye. All that attention – I knew it would bring trouble.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’ Was Hagit seriously suggesting that the murders in the shuk were related to – if not the result of – Chloe getting too many compliments?

‘Kenahara.’ Hagit nodded. ‘It wouldn’t hurt you to say it . . .’

‘Fine. Kenahara. But get real, Hagit. Those men are dead. We can say anything we want; nothing can help.’

‘Well, it won’t hurt, either. Go ahead. Say it again.’ Hagit waited.

‘Kenahara, okay?’ Harper looked around the sandwich shop. People were talking, eating, drinking. At the next table, two men were arguing, each leaning forward, waving a finger at the other. Chloe stuffed food into her mouth.

‘So what’s bothering you? The murders? Or maybe the crescent and the cross?’ Hagit would not let up.

‘Neither.’ Both, actually. ‘I’m thinking about the dig.’ She hadn’t been, but she was now.

Hagit eyed her skeptically. ‘What about it?’

‘Can you be ready quickly? I’d like to go tomorrow morning.’

Hagit kept watching her. ‘Of course.’

‘Mama. Mo?’ Chloe pointed at the plate of falafel. ‘Peez.’

Harper cut some more pieces.

‘The dig won’t help, you know.’

‘What?’

‘It will go with you. You can’t hide from it.’

Harper kept cutting.

‘You can wear a
hamsa
and say “Kenahara”, but once you have its attention, it will follow you—’

‘Hagit, stop—’

‘Whether you want to believe me or not.’

‘—with your silly superstitions and magical expressions. These murders have nothing – not a single thing – to do with us or your stupid Evil Eye.’ Harper’s voice was too loud, her tone too harsh. As she put the chunks onto Chloe’s plate, she saw the baby staring at her, open-mouthed, about to cry. And, as Harper leaned over to comfort her, she realized that Chloe was not the only one staring.

The men at the next table had stopped arguing and were eyeing her. As were the couple at the table on the other side. In fact, Harper felt eyes on her from all directions. Her face heated up. She hugged Chloe, smiled and told her everything was all right. Kissed away her single, bulging tear.

Hagit waited until the baby was quiet. ‘Have a few bites of your sandwich,’ she advised. ‘If the Eye is watching, you don’t want to let it see you suffering. It feeds on suffering. If you’re upset, it will celebrate by bringing you more trouble.’

Harper blinked. ‘Bullshit.’

Hagit was undaunted. She finished her own sandwich, wiped her mouth. ‘Are you finished?’ she asked Chloe.

Chloe grinned proudly, lifted her hands for cleaning.

Hagit cleaned them and Chloe’s face, lifted her into the stroller.

‘Go. Mama.’ Chloe waited. Hagit pushed the stroller toward the exit.

Harper stood, picked up her bag and began to follow. Then she stopped, went back to the table. Gulped down a bite of her sandwich. Then another. A third. She washed them down with lemonade. It wouldn’t help, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt.

Hank filled Harper’s wine glass. They were at a restaurant, just the two of them. Seated in a corner, away from others. On a date. Alone for the first time since they’d left home.

The table was covered with half-eaten salads – baba ganouj made from eggplant; tahini from sesame seeds; hummus from chickpeas and garlic; roasted eggplant; roasted peppers; chopped cucumbers and tomatoes; yogurt with dill. Pickled vegetables; falafel. And lots of pita bread.

Hank’s attention was on the food. He dipped bread into this plate and that, spilling onto the table. Dropping bits of bread into the serving bowls. He ate steadily, without talking, as if the food were consuming him, not the other way around.

Harper watched with growing annoyance. Why was Hank so preoccupied with his appetizers? Why so silent? Was she less interesting than a pickled beet?

‘So. I’ve made arrangements,’ Harper broke the silence. He might not want to talk, but she did.

Hank cut off a piece of eggplant, lifted it onto his plate. Glanced at her, listening.

‘I’m going to join the dig.’

Hank didn’t look up. ‘Good.’

Good? ‘It sounds fantastic. The site is relatively undeveloped; it’s called Megiddo South. Probably I’ll just be doing grunt work. But still, I’ll be in at the early stages. Kind of like taking wrapping paper off a gift.’

He chewed eggplant, watching her. She couldn’t read his expression.

‘We’ll stay at a kibbutz near the dig. While I’m working, Hagit will help out at the nursery school where Chloe will be with the little kibbutz kids.’

Hank still said nothing, reached for more pita bread.

‘So?’ She sipped wine. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’

He shrugged. ‘Yes. Good. Decision.’ He dug into the cucumber and tomato salad.

That was it? Harper chewed pita, sipped more wine. What was going on with Hank? Was he angry about something? She’d expected him to ask questions, express some interest. Lend some support. But nothing. Maybe he didn’t really want her to go.

‘Look, Hank, I didn’t just unilaterally decide—’

‘No.’ Or know? ‘Think you should go. Agree.’

‘But you don’t seem enthusiastic. In fact, you seem distant.’

‘Sorry.’ He took a swig of wine.

‘Besides, with all these murders, it’s better if I take the baby away for a few days . . .’

‘Why?’

‘There have been two murders here in two days . . .’

‘Murders happen. All over. Even home.’

Yes, she was aware of that, was well experienced with murders back home. ‘But they aren’t usual here. Inspector Alon’s worried there’s a serial killer in the shuk.’

‘He is?’

Harper hesitated; she’d agreed not to talk about specifics. She lowered her voice. ‘There were similarities in the crimes. Symbols were left on both bodies.’

Hank took a sip of wine. ‘But men. Were killed. Not. Women. You’re not. Killer’s. Type.’

Hank was right. Serial killers tended to select victims who shared common profiles, including gender. ‘Even so, Alon told us to be cautious. Hagit and I are the only witnesses connected to both murders.’

‘Witnesses?’

‘Not to the actual crimes, but to events before or after.’

Hank shrugged, swallowed more wine.

‘So you’re not concerned?’

He looked at her; something sharp glinted in his eyes. ‘Just co. Incidence. Hoppa.’

Probably he was right. It was just coincidence. Still, why wasn’t Hank more concerned that she’d seen one man right before his murder, and another right after? ‘Well, anyway.’ She controlled her voice, made it unemotional. ‘It won’t hurt us to go away for a few days.’

‘I agree.’ He looked at his wine glass.

‘What’s wrong, Hank? Is it about me going?’

‘No.’ He looked up. ‘Sorry. Not you.’

She waited. Decided to give him time to explain his moodiness. Ate a piece of eggplant. A dollop of tahini on pita. Waited some more. Still, Hank said nothing. ‘If not me,’ she finally said, ‘then what? The symposium?’

He sighed. Poured more wine. Stared at it. ‘Can’t tell. You.’

‘Well, if you can’t tell me about it, please don’t bring it to our dinner table.’ She regretted it as soon as she’d said it. Hank was troubled about something, not deliberately hiding it from her.

He reached across the table, took her hand. ‘You’re right.’

‘No, I’m not. I’m sorry.’

‘Hoppa. Sorry. Don’t be.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘I see. Factions. Alli. Ances. Politics. Finance. But science? Best for en. Vironment? For people? For future? Not so much.’ Again, something steely flickered in his eyes. ‘Serious problems.’

Harper didn’t know what to say. She’d been so focused on the murders and her travel plans that she hadn’t thought about Hank or the importance of his work. He was dealing with issues of global impact. And, with his aphasia, he had limited ability to communicate with, let alone to influence other symposium members. His opinions had to be enunciated slowly, carefully written out or filtered through Trent, who didn’t always agree with him. Hank couldn’t debate, couldn’t counter ideas he found erroneous, couldn’t express opposition to factions seeking political or economic gain rather than the best interests of the land and population. Clearly, he was frustrated.

And worse, he was burdened. Worried. ‘Conflicts. Could be dire. If water. Issues aren’t solved.’

Conflicts? As in war? She’d overheard Trent say that one of the participants had already threatened that. The restaurant faded, became a sandy checkpoint. Harper tasted metal, smelled smoke, heard gunfire. Saw a white-hot explosion, felt herself fly. She pulled her hand away from Hank’s, picked up her fork and jabbed it into her hand.

‘Hoppa?’ Hank grabbed the fork.

‘Flashback. It’s okay.’ She closed her eyes, focusing on the pain in her palm. When she looked up, Hank was still watching her.

He took her punctured hand in his, examined it. Kissed it. ‘Okay now?’

Yes. Better. She’d aborted the flashback. But the echoes lingered. She felt them in the marrow of her bones; saw them in the periphery of her vision.

Harper’s hand disappeared inside Hank’s. Buried itself in his grip, felt safe there. He kept talking. Apologizing for alarming her. But going on, anyway. Telling her about the symposium – not about anything secret. But about power and greed influencing research, about trips into the field where they were to examine the river, the sea, proposed pipeline and desalination sites. About possible repercussions of their recommendations.

He was talking in phrases, broken sentences, his words sometimes out of sequence. Harper had no trouble understanding him, but was only half listening to his words. The other half was concentrating on Hank himself, on how well he was doing. A few years ago, his fall from their roof had almost killed him, left him with aphasia, threatened to destroy both his spirit and his career. But now, because of his determination and perseverance, here he was, invited with Trent to this international symposium as an eminent geologist despite his speech problems. Her vision blurred; she blinked away tears. What was wrong with her? She wasn’t sentimental. Not a weeper. Needed to get a grip.