by Wilson, Eric
Was he out there, still looking for her?
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
Arad
The night was growing older. Benyamin drank from his iced coffee, then asked Cal Nichols across from him, “What’re you implying, when you say you’ve been at this for ages?”
Nickel blinked. “It’s a long story.” The very thought seemed to tug at his countenance, to etch lines into the corners of his eyes and mouth.
And then something began to change.
Although Benyamin Amit took a rational approach to life, that didn’t mean he had never faced incidents that eluded explanation. While some people carried their questions on the tips of their tongues, he preferred to shelve his until further notice. The most persistent ones he’d always dipped in alcohol, numbing them till they stopped kicking.
Now, sitting in an Eastern European cafe on a typical midweek evening, he was confronted with another of those inexplicable events.
Before his eyes, Cal Nichols began to transmogrify.
Nickel shrank back in his seat, ribs and chest collapsing between the jaws of an invisible vise. Arms curled and drew together. Wrinkles turned his smooth brow into the sun-cracked reaches of a drought-ridden land, and the gold flecks in his eyes melted and pooled into drops of quicksilver sorrow.
Except there were no tears. Only rivulets of shadow streaking his face, slices of anguish carving his cheeks.
Was this a nightmare? A premonition?
The former patrolman could come up with no logical explanation for what he was witnessing. The younger man had aged fifty years in a matter of seconds, and a loaded Makarov pistol was no protection against such alchemy.
Nickel’s earlier words: I won’t bite . . .
Benyamin figured he should wake Nickel from this ordeal. He over-rode his fears and reached a consoling hand across the table, but as he did so, the man in the Tolkien T-shirt threw back his mop of wheat-colored hair, opened his mouth wide—so large and round that his teeth looked like the crenellated ramparts of a castle turret . . .
And screamed.
The tone was earsplitting, heart wrenching, pregnant with the groans of a dying planet and the horrors that washed across her shores.
It was raw, even primal, bellowing out an anguish that couldn’t possibly come from one source, but perhaps from a thousand, tens of thousands—an entire generation’s—indignant rage.
It was, Benyamin realized, the sound of a shofar. A ram’s horn.
Despite his disinterest in religious matters, he’d heard the horn blown on numerous occasions in his homeland, for feasts and festivals. In times past, it’d also been used as a call to battle. That strident sound cut through everyday activities, awakening listeners from slumber, alerting them to coming judgment. Even now it gave him chills, and clawed at his old wound.
The shofar, as an ancient instrument, had symbolic ties to the ram that Abraham had seen caught in the thicket, just as he was going to plunge a knife into his son Isaac’s heart. The ram was God’s provision. A substitute. A sacrifice.
Benyamin peered around, expecting horrified or angry stares from the few people in the café, but no one seemed impressed by the Almighty’s sleight of hand or the American’s scream. There was no one looking this way. Everything was as it should be: the sound of steaming milk, the clink of glasses, and friendly chatter.
Café Focsani was a picture of tranquility.
Nickel, looking fresh and young, waved a hand. “You okay there, Mr. Amit?”
“Yes.” Two short blinks. “I was . . . I was just thinking, I guess.”
“And I haven’t even got to the punch line yet.”
“Punch line?”
“The part that really packs a wallop.” Nickel’s left fist smacked into his palm. “Usually, at the end of a joke.”
“I’m not amused.”
Benyamin finished his drink and pushed back from the table. He could feel his bewilderment turning to anger, and he questioned his own perceptions of what he had just witnessed. Was it a momentary case of insanity? Maybe it was drowsiness from the late night out at the Cetatea chapel. Perhaps the alcohol still in his system.
His religious grandfather would have reminded him of God’s unfathomable ways and of the strange methods sometimes employed to get the attention of stubborn men.
Of course, his grandfather had died in the gas chambers.
Strange methods, indeed.
“Nickel, you misled me,” Benyamin accused. “On the phone, you spoke of an opportunity that could be of great benefit to my family. That’s why I came. Not for this mischief, these games, whatever it is you’re playing at.”
“It’s no game. Your wife and son are in grave danger.”
“Excuse me?”
“By working together,” Nickel said, “we can minimize the threat to them. What could be more valuable than that?”
“Blackmail? Is that what you’re up to?”
“I wouldn’t stoop so low. Listen, I’m not claiming to be a saint. Sure, I’ve got my own reasons for being here—not gonna lie to you—but I also wanna help you.”
“Explain yourself.” Benyamin slipped a hand beneath his jacket, fingers brushing over the holster. “Or I’ll walk out that door and never look back.”
“I believe there are nineteen killers, still on the loose.”
“Nineteen?”
“Just listen.”
Benyamin folded his arms.
Cal Nichols said, “Back at the Field of Blood, archaeologists checked out the tombs and reported a buncha ossuaries—stone boxes for the dead, reflecting burial practices from the Second Temple Period. We’re talking old. Right around the time of Christ. All sortsa stuff in those caves. Pottery, jewelry—”
“Yes, yes. And that gold armband, Nickel. I understand.”
“But of all the burial boxes, nineteen were empty. No bones, nothing.”
“Grave robbers, I’m sure.”
“Nah. That’s just it, man. The archaeologists found no signs of plundering, not jack-diddly. I mean, yeah, there were some cremated bones tossed in by later generations, but basically these tombs had sat untouched for two thousand years.”
“Tell me, what is your point?” Benyamin saw that the man and woman in the corner were still entranced by caffeine and candlelight.
“I think that the grave site was broken open, and that the two men who were there paid the price. I think we’re talking about supernatural killers.”
“The dead? The missing nineteen?”
“Undead. Just to be technical. One life is all you get, right?”
“What’re you suggesting? Zombies from an American horror film? Vampires?”
“You tell me. You saw the bites on that Norwegian kid.”
“You are speaking in crazy terms, Mr. Nichols. And, as you mentioned, there were only eighteen bite patterns on the Brazilian.”
Even as Benyamin said it, he realized how far the conversation had veered from typical coffee chatter. It was all relative, wasn’t it? You began talking of grisly deaths and empty graves—suddenly, numbers lost significance. Eighteen, nineteen. What did it matter?
“Yeah,” Nickel confessed. “That part’s got me scratching my head.”
“Perhaps one of these . . . these undead went hungry.”
“After thousands of years? I doubt it.”
“Listen.” Benyamin shook his head clear of this foolishness. “I don’t want to know any more of this. I have my own life here, a good job, my family, and—”
“Your family. You cannot forget them.”
“I’m not forgetting, Nickel. I’m trying to avoid whatever nonsense you are playing at. I want nothing to do with this. Why do you even waste your own time?”
“I wanna catch Lars Marka’s killers, plain and simple. I’m all about bringing them to justice. And you can help me. You’ve seen the damage they’re capable of, and you’ve had training from the Israeli Police.”
“As a volunte
er, mind you. In the Mash’az.”
“Still, I gotta give it to you. You Israelis really know what you’re doing.”
“How else could we survive?”
“There. That’s what I’m talking about. You’re a junkyard scrapper, the sorta dog that grabs a person by the heel and won’t leg go.”
By the heel?
Benyamin tried to ignore the flare of heat along his scarred foot. There was no plausible reason Cal Nichols should know a thing about his private wound, and it was inappropriate for the American to be dragging him into this mess. Benyamin was starting fresh. He didn’t need more worries.
But what if there was truth to this, that his family was in danger?
“You have one minute, Nickel. Give me your punch line.”
“I believe the culprits are here, in Romania.”
“You’re serious.”
“I wouldn’t joke about it. My guess is that Flavius Totorcea—if that’s even his real name—is the head of a clan that’s been doing damage for years.”
“Killers turned winegrowers?” Benyamin smirked. “A clever cover.”
“An obvious mockery, more like. The whole thing smacks of sacrilege.”
“How so?”
“In the Gospels, God is pictured as a vineyard owner. When the time comes for Him to gather those whose names are written in the Book of Life, they will feast and drink of the New Wine. In fact, Yeshua compared Himself to a vine that bears fruit, and when He was crushed for mankind’s iniquity, He became that New Wine.”
“You know I don’t subscribe to such stories. After all, I am a Jew.”
Nickel raised an eyebrow.
“A nonpracticing Jew,” Benyamin qualified. “But born to a Jewish mother, so there it is, in my bloodline. A good woman too—may she rest in peace.”
“Sorry to hear it. I’m out of contact with my mother.”
“Life is this way. So, Nickel, now I understand the perceived sacrilege. How can you be sure, though, that these are the killers you seek? Perhaps you’ve watched too many of the old movies, Nosferatu and Dracula. Don’t let these legends cloud your mind. They’re rubbish. Harmless thrills and nothing more.”
“Eighteen,” Nickel said flatly. “Eighteen individual bite patterns.”
Benyamin suppressed a shiver. “Okay. But why would they come here?”
“Why’d you come here, Mr. Amit? Maybe you followed after them. Drawn along without realizing it, and putting your wife and son in the line of fire.”
“You are a madman. Who are you to make such accusations?”
“I’m nobody. I’m—”
“And why, exactly, would they come after us?”
“Because you came after them. Now, hold on a sec. I’m not saying it was intentional. Somewhere along the line, though, you got infected, and they feed upon that. They lap that stuff up. You’re like the gate to your family, Mr. Amit. You’ve lowered the drawbridge and let the enemy in. You think they don’t understand what that means?”
These indictments were ludicrous. Benyamin screwed his eyes shut, as his pulse throbbed in his temples.
“They’re not your average killers,” Nickel said.
Benyamin’s mind flashed back: skin covered with sores . . . yellow-green . . .
“They want to suck the life from you,” Nickel went on. “Bit by bit.”
A necklace of round, puckered wounds . . .
“Even from kids. Babies.” The American winced and lowered his head. When he looked up again, his face was chiseled from stone. “You know these HIV-infected orphans they’ve found? Thousands of them, all over Romania? No one’s been able to explain why they all stem back to ’89, but recent phylogenetic analysis shows that the virus had a unique nucleotide sequence and—”
“Please. This is too fast.”
“Basically, it proves there was an unusual relation to a Brazilian strain of the virus, found in patients from Rio de Janeiro.”
“Thiago. Was he from Rio?”
“Now you’re tracking with me.”
“So your theory is that Totorcea and his clan attacked Thiago in Jerusalem, became contaminated, then passed along the virus when they arrived in Romania?”
“By feeding from abandoned children,” Nickel said. “That’s right.”
“Who are these people?”
“Already told you, I don’t believe they’re human. Or not entirely.”
Benyamin huffed. “On that, we can agree. Animals show more respect.”
“You’re kidding, right? It’s a harsh world out there. Flat-out cruel, all around. Up and down the food chain, you see the signs of a conflict raging.”
“Is that so, Nickel? Are you going to lecture me on the Holocaust next?”
“Wow. Okay, I shoulda known better. My apologies.”
“Just tell me, is there a way to halt the deviance of these . . . beasts?”
“Always.” Nickel’s eyes flashed. “I’ve got just the tools for the job.”
“Your MTPs?”
“You got a good memory, man.” Nickel fixed Benyamin in his stare. “Here’s the deal. I know the methods of these undead, so I can direct you in making a stand. The catch is, I cannot intervene. For the sake of my other interests, so to speak.”
“Oh? So I’m to do all the—what do you Americans call it?—the dirty work.”
“Yes. While I supply weapons, tools, and intel.”
“Metal tent pegs? I prefer,” said Benyamin, “to leave my life as it is. I’ll keep my eyes open, of course, but I think I’m smart enough to recognize if I’m being—”
“You’re already working with one of them. Name Helene ring any bells?”
Benyamin swallowed. “Excuse me?”
He didn’t want to hear this, didn’t want to face the niggling suspicion—yet there it was. A simple nameplate: Helene Totorcea. He gulped at the air, reflecting upon those late-night exchanges at the Cetatea, his little deals with the devil. What had been Helene’s motives? She was no killer. She couldn’t be. He’d looked into her mellow eyes and seen nothing to give him pause.
“If there’s any truth to this,” he told Nickel, “you should take it to the authorities. The Israelis will know what to do. Present them with solid evidence.”
“Evidence. Yeah well, that’s hard to nail down.”
“The police can help. Tell them what you know, and they can take over.”
“I’m telling you, Mr. Amit. You used to be a patrolman with one of the finest forces in the world. And now that you’re involved at Arad’s city hall, you could come in handy accessing private records.” Nickel folded his arms and leaned them on the table. “As for me, I’m not backing off. This is my life, or what’s left of it. It’s what I do.”
“So far, it would seem you’ve failed.”
“True.” The American’s eyes darkened. “Very true. But I can’t go back and change what I’ve done. All I can do is try to change what’s ahead.”
“Let it go. That’s my suggestion. Let someone else step in.”
“Why not you?” Nickel shot back. “Every little contribution helps. And, what? You think if you just ignore that itch of yours that it’ll disappear? Wrong-o.”
The shape of Nickel’s mouth around the last syllable made Benyamin think again of the shofar’s blast. A call to arms. He looked off over the man’s shoulder, afraid that if they locked eyes, he may reveal something of his own affliction. Even now, a needle seemed to be poking from his scar, threatening to puncture his skin.
“What itch? I’m fine,” Benyamin said. “I’m making a fresh start.”
“Sure. Except you won’t get very far on your own. Think of your wife. And your son—he’s turning into quite the little man, isn’t he?”
“What do you know of my family?”
“I know they’re important. The way I see it, you can sit back by your-self and act like everything’s A-OK, or you can join me as part of Those Who Resist. The two of us? I’m telling you, we’d make a potent
team.”
Benyamin shoved away from the table, slapped down a bill to cover his drink. “I said it earlier, Nickel. I’m not interested in playing such games.”
He strode from the café into the darkness, his holstered gun thudding against his chest. Statues commemorating martyrs and revolutionaries stood in silent evaluation and marked his escape from Reconcilierii Park.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
Two nights later, Dalia stood at the front gate and clutched Dov’s hand in hers. She wore slightly elevated heels and a cornflower-blue dress. Light perfume wafted about the hair she had brushed out, each stroke a massage for a scalp accustomed to austere stylings.
“You look nice, Mama,” her son said in their native Hebrew.
“Todah,” she thanked him. “And you are a fine-looking boy.”
He pulled his hand away. “I’m twelve.”
“Don’t take offense, Dov. In a few months you’ll celebrate your bar mitzvah, and then you will be a man. A ‘son of the law,’ indeed.”
She saw him straighten his shoulders, her little soldier boy. He wanted so much to spend time with his father, even went so far as to put on boots and hike through the house with tent and backpack strapped over his shoulders. She hoped this evening’s dinner date wouldn’t be another in a string of broken promises from her husband. Benyamin and his drinking. He’d strayed from the path early in the marriage—never violent, but rarely present. A poor example for their young son.
A sharp prickling ignited under her arm. She scratched at it.
Had she been bitten by something? That spot had been irritating her for the past day or two.
“There he is,” Dov said. “He came.”
Sure enough, Benyamin was pulling up in the family Peugot. Dalia checked her watch, saw he was only six minutes late, and rewarded him with a curt nod.
The evening began amiably. In the car, her husband gave her a wink and told her how much he liked the perfume.
She thanked him.
“And you’re turning into quite the man,” he said to Dov. “You and I, we need to go camping soon.”
“Really?”
“Just like old times. I’ve been told there’s some places in the foothills, north of Lipova. We could make a weekend trip of it. How would you like that?”
