During the instant that Baldwin’s eyes followed its trajectory, his knife hand lifted.
A millimeter of air between blade and throat.
Daniel lunged for Baldwin’s wrist with both of his hands, pushing the knife up and away from Shoshi. Lowering his head, he drove it hard into Baldwin’s oily abdomen, pushing the monster back.
Monster was heavy, a twenty-kilo advantage. Rock-hard. Thick wrists. A head taller. Two good hands.
Daniel injected the full force of his rage into the attack. Baldwin stumbled backward, against the wall racks. The laths vibrated. A jar tilted, fell, shattered. Something wet and glossy skidded across the floor.
Earrings tinkling.
Baldwin opened his mouth, roared, charged, swinging the knife.
Daniel backed away from the death-arcs. Baldwin stabbed air several times in succession. The inertia threw him off-balance.
Big and strong, but no trained fighter.
Daniel used the moment to head-butt Baldwin again, drove his fists into the monster’s belly and groin, kicking at naked shins, reaching upward, grabbing a wrist, struggling to gain possession of the knife.
Baldwin fought free. Stab, miss. Stepped on broken glass, cried out.
Daniel stomped on the wounded foot, went for the knife with his good hand, tried to claw Baldwin’s chest with his bad one. The fingernails made contact with oily flesh, slid off ineffectually.
He looked for the gun. Too far. Kicked at Baldwin’s knee. Punishing, but not damaging. Got both hands around Baldwin’s hand, felt the smooth pearl of the knife handle.
Go for the fingers, stuffed with nerve endings.
He tried to bend back Baldwin’s index finger, but Baldwin held fast. Daniel’s leverage was poor, his hand slipped, came perilously close to the knife blade. Before he could regain his hold on the handle, Baldwin yanked upward, gear-shifting the knife, up and down, back and forth, stabbing, wrenching, controlling it, as Daniel held on and pivoted to avoid being slashed.
The pinkie of Daniel’s bad hand grazed the blade. The nail split open, then the soft flesh under it. Electric pain. A warm bath of blood.
He kept his good hand on the handle, gouging at Baldwin’s fingers.
Baldwin saw the blood. Laughed, was renewed.
He lowered his teeth to Daniel’s shoulder, sank them in.
Daniel twisted away, torn, on fire. A deep wound, more blood—his shirt began soaking up scarlet dye. No problem, he had plenty to spare, wouldn’t stop until he was drained.
But escaping from Baldwin’s bite had caused him to lose his grip on the knife.
Baldwin raised the giant blade.
Daniel held out his bad hand, palm-first.
The knife came down.
Went through him.
Enough nerves left to register pain.
Old pain, memory pain.
Back on the hillside. Back in The Butcher’s Theater.
Baldwin twisted the knife, both hands on the handle, the big blade eating muscle, severing tendons, threatening to separate the metacarpal bones, split the hand clear up to the finger webs.
The monster growling. Gnashing his teeth. The eyes empty, obscene.
Intent on destroying him.
Baldwin drew himself up to his full height, bearing down on the knife. Pushing, churning, forcing Daniel down.
Tremendous pressure, crushing, relentless. Daniel felt his knees bend, buckle. He sank, skewered.
Baldwin’s grin was wider than ever. Triumphant. He pressed down, panting, sweating, the oil mixing with the sweat, running down his body in viscous streams.
Daniel looked up at him, saw the swastika brands.
The crowbar—too far away.
Baldwin laughing, shouting, churning the knife.
Daniel pushed up with all his strength; the knife blade continued devouring his hand, extended its scarlet dominion.
He bit back screams, locked onto Baldwin’s eyes, held the monster fast, refused to succumb.
Baldwin laughed, swallowed air.
“You . . . first . . . her . . . for . . . dessert.”
Daniel felt the blood leave him, the strength leeching out of his muscles, and knew he couldn’t hold out much longer.
He pushed up again, harder, made his arm a rigid, jointless length of steel. Held his own, then let go suddenly, ceasing all resistance, falling backward in a paratrooper’s roll, the impaled hand slamming to the ground, the knife pursuing it, but purposelessly, fueled by gravity, not intent.
The tension-release caught Baldwin off guard. He stumbled, held on to the knife, and went down after it, bending awkwardly at the waist to maintain his grip on the weapon.
Daniel kicked up at his knee, again.
This time hearing something snap.
Baldwin howled as if betrayed, clutched his leg, collapsed. Falling full force on top of Daniel, one hand bent under him, the other still clutching the knife.
Baldwin closed his eyes, pulled up on the blade, trying to free the Liston, go for a kill-zone.
But the knife was lodged between bones, refused to spread them. All he could do was saw it back and forth, open more blood vessels. Knowing time was on his side. The nigger-kike’s pain had to be terrible—he was puny, inferior, bred for defeat.
But the little fuck was holding on, fighting back!
Hard blows stung his Aryan nose, cheeks, chin, mouth. His lower lip burst open. He tasted his own blood, swallowed it—hero-sweet but it made him gag.
The blows kept coming like razor-rain and his own pain got worse, as if the nigger-kike was taking everything he’d absorbed and spitting it back at him.
He forced a D.T. grin, looked down, searching for signs of fadeout.
Kikefuck was smiling back at him!
The scum—this fucking untermensch scum—didn’t care about pain, didn’t care about the Liston dancing on him, eating him alive.
He marshaled all his strength, pulled up on the knife. Scumshit used his hand as a weapon, pushed back, stuck to it.
Suddenly brown fingers were imbedded in his cheek and raking downward. Shreds of flesh peeling down like tree bark.
Oh, no!
Blood—his blood—splashing in his face, his eyes, everything red.
He sobbed with frustration, said farewell to the Liston and let go of it. Used one hand to block the endless blows, tried to clamp the other around the niggerfuck’s throat.
Daniel felt big wet fingers scrambling over his larynx.
He rolled free. Punched Baldwin’s nose, mouth, chin. Aiming for the cheek-gouges. Erase that grin, forever.
Keep smiling. It scared the coward.
Baldwin regained the stranglehold.
Getting a grip on the larynx. Squeezing, crushing. Trying to rip it out of Daniel’s throat.
Daniel felt the breath leave his chest in a sad hiss. The perimeters of his visual field turned gray, then black. The blackness spread inward, blotting out the light. His head filled with hollow noises. Death rattles. His lungs filled quickly with wet sand.
He kept striking out, tearing at the monster’s face. The big fingers kept choking him.
The knife still piercing in his hand, lodged tight, hurting so intensely.
Two loci of pain.
Baldwin cursed, spat, throttled him. The blackness was almost complete. Acid flames raged in his chest, licked upward, scorching his palate, advancing toward his brain.
So hot, yet cold.
Fading . . .
The monster, stronger than he. Intent on destruction.
Her for dessert.
No!
He reached inward, beyond himself, beyond sensation, mined a last filament of strength, embraced the pain, went past it. Arching his body, blind, breathless, he bucked, groped, found one of Baldwin’s fingers. Took hold of it, bent it backward, breaking it in a single, swift movement.
A popping sound, then a distant cry. The grip around his neck loosened. A drink of air.
Two more fingers graspe
d together. Bent, broken. Another.
Baldwin’s hand flapped loose. He screamed, flailed aimlessly.
Daniel pushed him hard, threw himself upon the big oily body, dived after it as it went down.
Baldwin was bawling like a baby, eyes closed, flat on his back, clutching his hand, unprotected.
Daniel pulled the knife out of his hand. Baldwin thrashed wildly, one of his feet caught Daniel in the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him.
Daniel gagged, gasped for breath. The knife fell loose, clattering on stone.
Hearing it, Baldwin opened his eyes, sat up, reached for the weapon with his unbroken fingers.
Daniel threw himself upon Baldwin, avoided gnashing teeth, clawing fingers. Baldwin snarled, head-butted, tried to bite Daniel’s nose. Daniel pushed back reflexively, felt something soft. Familiar. Yielding.
His fingers had discovered Baldwin’s left eye. He closed them around the orb, pried, ripped it loose.
Baldwin shrieked, reached for his face, touched the empty eyehole, shrieked again, and sank his teeth into Daniel’s shoulder. Finding the wound, chewing it, enlarging it.
Daniel felt his flesh give way—he was being consumed.
Nearly blacked out from the pain, he forced thoughts of Shoshi into his mind, struggled for consciousness, plumbed Butcher’s Theater memories, and went for the other eye.
Realizing what was happening, Baldwin twisted maniacally out of reach. But Daniel was pure intent now, his hand a hungry land crab, stalking its prey, undistractable. It found what it was looking for, seized it, tore it loose.
His world immutably blackened, Baldwin whipped and pitched, weeping blood from empty sockets. But his teeth remained embedded in Daniel, crushing, gnawing, the force of the bite intensified by agony.
Daniel punched at Baldwin’s scarlet-washed face. His fists grazed bone, skin, gristle. Finally he managed to get the heel of his good hand under Baldwin’s chin and give a sudden, sharp push. Baldwin’s jaws relaxed involuntarily. Daniel pulled himself free.
Baldwin struggled to his knees, a moaning, swooning ghost. His face a bleached-white death mask, the holes below his brow yawning, black and bottomless.
He screamed and swung his arms wildly, seeking context in the void.
Daniel retrieved the knife, clutched it in his good hand. Stepped in fresh blood, slipped, and staggered backward.
Baldwin heard the sound of the fall. He got to his feet, staggering and groping for support.
And found it. Broken fingers embraced the cold metal rim of the surgical table, then advanced with a mind of their own.
A hellish smile spread across Baldwin’s face, corroding its way through pain and blindness.
His unbroken hand, huge, blood-slick, lowered itself onto Shoshi’s face, turned claw-like.
Now it was Daniel’s turn to scream. He charged forward and up, shoving his torn shoulder into Baldwin’s rock-hard torso and pushing him away from the table.
Baldwin flailed, took a drunken step backward, and embraced him, ripping his nails into Daniel’s back. Blood-pinkened teeth chattered and lowered, searching for a familiar target.
Daniel struggled to break loose, felt Baldwin’s grip tighten around him. Despite what had been done to him, strength remained in the monster. Daniel’s hand was gripped around the handle of the knife, but the blade was pressed between them, flat against their torsos. Useless and inert.
Baldwin seemed impervious to the coldness of surgical steel against bare chest. He raised his hand, buried it in Daniel’s hair, and yanked hard. Daniel felt his scalp separate from his skull.
Baldwin yanked again.
Daniel twisted the knife free, found the spot he was looking for just under Baldwin’s rib cage.
Baldwin snaked his fingers through Daniel’s hair, over Daniel’s forehead, onto Daniel’s eyes.
He scrabbled, placed thumb and forefinger around the eyeball, and cried out triumphantly just as Daniel shoved upward with the knife. The blade entered silently, completed its journey quickly, passing through diaphragm and lung, coming to rest in Baldwin’s heart.
Baldwin pulled back, convulsed, opened his mouth in surprise, and expelled a wave of blood. Clutching Daniel in one final spasm, he died in the detective’s arms.
CHAPTER
71
More whiteness, everyone in white.
They were protecting him, entertaining him. Insinuating their comfort between him and his thoughts. Standing around the bed, kind strangers. Smiling, nodding, telling him how well he was doing, everything sewed up fine. Pretending not to notice the bandages, bags of blood, bottles of glucose, tubes running in and out of him.
Gurgling when they talked. Usually he had no idea what they were saying, but he tried to look as if he were paying attention so as not to hurt their feelings.
They’d given him something to silence the pain. It worked but encased him in wet cement, turned the air liquid, made staying alert an effort, like treading water wearing sandbags.
He tried to tell them he was okay, moved his lips. The people in white nodded and smiled. Gurgled.
He treaded water a while longer, gave up, sank to the bottom.
The second day, his head cleared slightly, but he remained weak and the pain returned, stronger than ever. He was disconnected from his tubes, allowed to sip liquids, given pain pills that he concealed under his tongue and discarded when the nurse left.
Laura sat by his bedside, knowing what he did and didn’t need. When he drifted off to sleep, she read or crocheted. When he awoke, she was there, holding his good hand, wiping his forehead, tilting a water glass to his lips before he asked for it.
One time, toward evening, he woke up and found her sketching. He cleared his throat and she flipped the sketch pad around, showed him what she was working on.
Still life. Bowl of fruit and wine bottle.
He heard himself laughing. Sank back in pain, then slept and dreamed of the day they’d met—a hot, dry morning, the first September of a unified Jerusalem. Just before Rosh Hashanah, the birth of a new year that promised nothing.
He was a patrolman, still in uniform, nursing a soda at Café Max. Winding down after a rotten day in the Katamonim: the bad hand aching from tension, a bellyful of verbal abuse from pooshtakim, and the torment of wondering if he’d made the right decision. Had Gavrieli used him as a pawn?
Across the café sat a group of art students from Bezalel. Young men and women, long-haired, nonconformist types with laughing mouths and graceful hands. Their laughter grated on him. They took up three tables, drank iced coffee, gobbled cheese toast and cream pastries, and filled the tiny restaurant with cigarette smoke and gossip.
One of the girls caught his eye. Slender, long wavy blond hair, blue-eyed, exceedingly pretty. She looked too young to be studying at the institute.
She smiled at him and he realized he’d been staring. Embarrassed, he turned away and finished his soda. Calling for the check, he reached into his pocket for his wallet, fingered it clumsily, and dropped it. As he bent to pick it up, he caught another glimpse of the art students. The blond girl.
She seemed to have separated from the others. Had moved her chair so that she faced him, and was drawing in a pad. Looking right at him, smiling, and sketching.
Doing his portrait! The nerve, the intrusion!
He glared at her. She smiled, continued to sketch.
Bubbles of pent-up anger burst inside of him. He turned his back on her. Slapped down a few bills and stood to leave.
As he exited the café, he felt a hand on his elbow.
“Is something the matter?”
She was looking up at him—short girl. Had followed him out. She wore an embroidered black smock over faded jeans and sandals. Red bandanna around her neck—playing artist.
“Is something wrong?” she repeated. American-accented Hebrew. Terrific, another spoiled one, spending daddy’s money on fantasies. Wanting a fling with a uniform?
“Nothing,” h
e said in English.
The force of the word startled her and she took a step backward. Suddenly, Daniel felt boorish, at a loss for words.
“Oh,” she said, looking at his bandaged hand. “Okay. It’s just that you were staring at me, and then you got angry. I was just wondering if something was wrong.”
“Nothing,” he repeated, forcing himself to soften his tone. “I saw you drawing my portrait and was surprised, that’s all.”
The girl raised her eyebrows. Broke out laughing. Bit her finger to stop. Continued giggling.
Spoiled baby, thought Daniel, angry once more. He turned to walk away.
“No. Wait,” said the girl, tugging on his sleeve. “Here.” She opened her sketch pad, flipped it around so he could see it.
Still life. Bowl of fruit and wineglass.
“Pretty bad, huh?”
“No, no.” Idiot, Sharavi. “It’s very nice.”
“No, it’s not. It’s dreadful. It’s a cliché, kind of a joke—an art school joke.”
“No, no, you’re a very good artist. I’m sorry, I thought—”
“No harm done.” The girl closed the sketch pad and smiled at him.
Such a wonderful smile. Daniel found himself hiding his scarred hand behind his back.
Awkward silence. The girl broke it.
“Would you like your portrait done?”
“No, I don’t, I have to—”
“You have a terrific face,” said the girl. “Really. Great contours.” She raised a hand to touch his cheek, pulled it back. “Please? I could use the practice.”
“I really don’t—”
She took his arm, led him up King George. Minutes later he was sitting on green grass, under a pine tree in Independence Park, the girl squatting across from him, cross-legged and intent, sketching and shading.
She finished the portrait. Tore the paper out of the pad and handed it to him with lovely, smudged fingers.
At this point in the dream, reality receded and things got strange.
The paper grew in his hand, doubling, trebling, expanding to the size of a bed sheet. Then larger, a banner, covering the sky. Becoming the sky.
Miles of whiteness.
Four faces rendered in charcoal.
A thoughtful Daniel, looking better than life.
The Butcher's Theater Page 70
