by Merry Jones
Harper became immersed in the work. Her hands almost shook as she brushed off the wall. She imagined the people who’d used this building – what had it been? Clearly, it had been a place worthy of solid construction, surviving as a structure for almost two millennia.
Dr Ben Haim and Dr Hadar were involved in the process, supervising the volunteers, conferring with students, consulting computer programs. Harper didn’t notice the heat or the time; didn’t think about anything but the dig until, abruptly, the work day ended, and she was on the bus with the others, heading back to the kibbutz.
Even then, her thoughts remained fixed on the discovery and the promise of the site. But when she saw Ramsey Travis lean across the aisle to whisper into Lynne’s ear, images of antiquities were replaced by those of the night before: Lynne clutching the pastor, kissing him desperately. Assuring him, ‘I’ll do it.’
Do what?
And Travis reminding her, ‘The ninth is the twenty-sixth.’
He’d meant the ninth of Av. The date on which Jews mourned destruction. And the date on which, according to Travis, God had scheduled, postponed and rescheduled a conflagration to begin the end of days, right there in Megiddo.
The ninth of Av would fall on July twenty-sixth.
Harper watched Travis sit back in his seat. He wasn’t doing anything remarkable, was just relaxing, looking out the window. Even so, there was something intangibly menacing, something too self-assured about him. Harper was absolutely sure: Travis was preparing for the End of Days to happen in just three days, on July twenty-sixth. But she had no idea what he intended to do.
Travis dozed, one arm hanging into the aisle. He didn’t look much like a man preparing for the end of the world.
Maybe she was mistaken. Like Dr Ben Haim had said, end-of-the-world cults popped up in Israel frequently. Most were harmless. Travis probably had a big feast planned, or an all-night prayer vigil. Nothing more.
The bus rumbled on. Harper studied Travis as if somehow she’d be able to see his thoughts, but all she saw was his receding ginger hairline. She sat sideways to see him better. Her mind rattled phrases, repeating them in an endless loop. ‘The ninth is the twenty-sixth.’ ‘I’ll do it.’ ‘Armageddon is Har Meggido.’ ‘Gog and Magog.’ ‘Will you delay it?’ ‘The ninth is the twenty-sixth.’
She rubbed her temples, turned to look out the window at the lush, hilly countryside and was reassured by its stillness. How ridiculous she was, reacting so seriously. She needed to get a grip, enjoy her time in Israel. The land was calm; the sun was bright. Nothing was going to happen in three days – certainly not the end of the world.
By the time she got off the bus, though, her wariness had grown. The stillness of the hills seemed not peaceful but ominous. The sunshine was too stark. She started for the nursery, but stopped. She should talk to Dr Ben Haim again. Or Dr Hadar. Should let them know about the pastor’s specific focus on the ninth of Av. Just in case. Maybe they would be at the kibbutz office. She stopped there, didn’t see them.
A young, pregnant woman whose nametag said ‘Noa’ was working at the desk. ‘They aren’t back yet.’
Harper bit her lip. Of course they weren’t back. Not after their first major find today. They’d probably stay at the site until nightfall.
‘It’s an emergency?’ Noa watched Harper. ‘I can reach them if it’s urgent.’
Was it? Harper wasn’t sure. But probably the dig leaders wouldn’t think it was. In fact, they’d be annoyed at the interruption – Dr Ben Haim had already told her to forget about the church group. And he’d be more than a little irritated if she bothered him again with another far-fetched warning about the End of Days.
The woman was watching her, waiting for a reply.
Harper took a breath. ‘No, thank you. It’s not urgent.’
July twenty-sixth was, after all, three whole days away, and she had nothing concrete to present. She stepped out of the office into the harsh, glaring light. Stopped. Went back in and wrote the same note to both dig leaders, asking each to contact her when they had a moment. She reread the message, thought it sounded too casual. Threw it out. Rewrote it, adding a congratulatory opening about the find, then saying that she had something unrelated that she needed to discuss. Fine. It even sounded somewhat professional.
On her way to the nursery, Harper squinted. Even with sunglasses, the angle, the brightness felt wrong. The sun seemed intense, almost hostile. She took a breath. Made herself slow down. What was wrong with her? There was no problem with the sun or the light; the problem was with her – her unease about Pastor Travis. She needed to stop. To pretend that she didn’t know anything about them or their codes; that she wasn’t disturbed by Travis’s calm, self-assurance, his booming voice and blindly adoring followers.
But she couldn’t. She had to know: who was Ramsey Travis? What about him drew such loyalty? Where had he come from? Was he really a scholar? With all the excitement at the dig, she’d completely forgotten to use the computers there and look him up. And now that a structure had been uncovered, the computers would be in constant use. Maybe she’d talk to Hank, ask him to do some research. Because the twenty-sixth was coming . . .
In fact, what was she thinking? Why didn’t she just take Chloe and leave? Not risk being around for Travis’s version of the Apocalypse, whatever it was.
She approached the nursery, deciding that, yes, they would leave. Nothing was worth endangering Chloe. At the gate, she heard the children singing. Not the ‘mayim’ song. This one had ‘Shalom’ in it – finally, a word she understood. It meant goodbye, hello, and peace. She walked into the cottage, nearly tripping on a cat, and stood at the door. The children were sitting in a circle, their faces earnest, their voices sweet. Harper looked at them, one by one. Among them, she spotted the little boy who’d played with Chloe in the swimming pool. Adi’s son, Ari. A little girl with pigtails who was holding Chloe’s hand. And Chloe, who was trying in vain to sing the words like the older children. Their voices flowed lighter than air, and their little bodies swayed side to side with the beat, together, as one.
No. Harper couldn’t take Chloe and run. Couldn’t take off and leave the other children unprotected.
Like it or not, she had no choice. They had to stay.
The killer walked alone. The sun was low above the horizon, the air crisp, finally cooling. People were preparing supper or still at work, not out and about. A good time to plan, to prepare for all the possible snags. Because, clearly, snags had arisen before.
‘Stop,’ the killer said out loud. Going over the past was useless. What had happened was done. The victims had run, had ended up in the wrong territory, but that had been unforeseeable and nobody’s fault. Bottom line was that they had both been offered. A Christian and a Muslim. Now all that remained was a Jew, the trigger that would spark suspicions, stirring hostilities among those three groups in an area already simmering with tension. And, as God intended, those hostilities would ignite further violence, incite mobs, elicit a chain of escalating and expanding conflicts until, finally, the ultimate battle of fire.
Heat coursed through the killer. Frightening heat, but also arousing. Dangerous, like playing with explosives. Or explosive sex. Yes, it was like sex – driving, sweaty, breathless, powerful. Building in intensity, in anticipation. The killer stopped, thinking of the night before. The melding of souls, the rapture of skin joining skin. But no. It wasn’t the time to think of flesh. Focus had to be on the next step, no distractions – not even nerves. Nerves were nothing to dwell on. The body was connected to the spirit and the mind. So the roiling of a belly, the searing of a stomach, the racing of a pulse – these were signs that the body was preparing for action, nothing more. This time, the mission would succeed, clean and sleek. The target would be worthy. And the strike would come swiftly, unexpectedly, allowing no time for reaction. Death would come before the victim had even realized that he’d been slashed.
And then, the sacrifice would be finished. The
reward would be bestowed.
The killer smiled. Stopped to pet a dog. Felt simultaneous humility and pride, eagerness and dread.
By the end of the night, preparations would be complete. The future would be sealed. Everything would change with the carving of a star.
Hagit fixed Chloe a snack of juice and chunks of apple and banana. Harper didn’t join them. She sat in the bedroom, thinking about how to foil Travis’s plan, whatever it was. Maybe she could expose him as a fraud. Maybe reveal some dark secret from his past. Or she could expose his affair with Lynne. But that seemed low; Lynne’s love life wasn’t her business. Best would be to find out what Travis was planning and prevent it. Maybe she could attend prayer meetings? Talk to him personally – pretend to be a convert? Spy on him?
In the next room, Hagit was singing the Shalom song, Chloe trying to join her.
‘What do the words mean?’ Harper called.
Hagit stopped singing. ‘It’s just a song.’ She started singing again.
Really? Hagit wasn’t going to tell her? Harper strode into the next room, interrupting. ‘Hagit. You’re teaching my child a song. I want to know what it means.’
‘She’s just a baby. What’s the difference?’
‘I asked you what it means.’ Harper used her lieutenant’s voice. Commanding and harsh.
Chloe dissolved into tears.
‘It’s all right, tinoket.’
‘Tinoket?’
Hagit turned to Harper, facing her. ‘It means baby. You made her cry. What’s wrong with you?’
With her? ‘I asked a simple question.’ Chloe was wailing. Harper picked her up, kissed her. Told her everything was okay.
Hagit glared, hands on hips. ‘She was fine. Happy and eating. Now look . . .’
‘All you had to do was answer me—’
‘Am I your servant? Must I bow to you?’
Okay. This was out of hand. Harper took a deep, assertive breath. ‘I’m Chloe’s mother, Hagit. I want to know what she’s learning.
‘If you don’t like what she’s learning, take her home. If you don’t trust me to care for her, then you stay with her all day. Do it yourself.’ Hagit spun around and headed for her closet, started pulling clothes out, spouting Hebrew.
Chloe sniffled, her eyes on Hagit.
Harper was speechless. How had the conversation gotten so heated? What kind of mother was she, making her baby cry? And now what was she supposed to do? Just let Hagit storm out? Certainly, she wasn’t going to beg her to stay; she could manage without her. Chloe could still go to the nursery: none of the other children had their own personal sitters.
But Chloe had become attached to Hagit.
And, in a way, despite the gruffness, so had she.
Hagit folded her nightgowns. Her skirts.
Harper looked out the window, saw Ramsey Travis’s bungalow.
Maybe they should all leave. Maybe she should take Chloe and follow Hagit.
She thought of the children at the nursery. And of the dig. The exhilaration at the site. The promise of discovery.
‘Hagit, wait.’ She followed her. ‘I don’t know why we’re arguing . . .’
‘Why? I’ll tell you why. Because you’re always with the comments. Always with the questions. You don’t trust me.’
‘Of course I trust you. I wouldn’t leave Chloe with you if I didn’t.’
‘Then why so many questions?’ Her hands were on her hips again.
Chloe’s chin quivered. Harper smoothed her curls, didn’t remember asking Hagit a lot of questions. Even so, what if she did? She was the mother here. And the employer – well, not really. The government had hired Hagit. But still, she outranked the babysitter, didn’t she? She should be able to ask as much as she wanted.
Hagit packed her socks.
‘Hagit. Please. Let’s have a cup of coffee and talk. Let’s not fight.’
Hagit stopped folding clothes, looked at Chloe, then at her suitcase, then back at Chloe. ‘You make the coffee,’ she said as she reached for Chloe.
Harper watched Chloe wrap her arms around Hagit’s neck and felt a pang. Then she went to the cabinet for the Nescafe.
‘Milk, no sugar.’ Hagit put Chloe back at the table so she could finish her snack and resumed singing. It was the same song as before, the same haunting melody, but this time, in English. ‘Peace, my friends, peace, my friends. Peace. Peace. Until we meet again, until we meet again. Peace. Peace.’
Chloe munched an apple chunk. And Harper stood in the kitchenette, humming along with the mournful turn, gazing out the window at the bungalow next door.
Peace had been restored long before Hank called. Harper asked him to Google Ramsey Travis. ‘I’d do it myself but I can’t get online here.’
‘Hoppa. Very busy here. No time.’ He sounded cranky and tired.
‘It’ll just take a minute to look him up. He’s from Indiana.’
‘Why?’ His tone changed, concerned now. ‘What. Happened?’
‘Nothing.’ Not yet, anyway. ‘I told you. He says the world’s about to end. I want to find out how crazy he really is.’
‘But Ben Haim. Said he’s. Not dangerous.’
‘Hank, please. Can you do this one thing? Look him up?’
With a long sigh, Hank agreed.
Harper asked about the symposium, but Hank changed the subject, asked about Chloe, about the dig, and then they said good night.
After the call, Harper plugged her cell phone in to recharge and pulled off her T-shirt. Before she could step out of her shorts, her cell phone rang.
It was Hank.
The only record Google had of Ramsey Travis was as pastor of the Word of the Lord Church in a small town south of Muncie, Indiana. Travis had been there for at least three years. There was no other information about him.
Harper sat on the bed. ‘Nothing about any articles he’d written? Or academic degrees?’
‘No.’
‘How about other churches he’s led? Or other work he’s done – you know, in business?’ She tossed her shorts into the laundry.
‘Hoppa. Told you. No.’ Hank sounded impatient. ‘But. Listen. First, I punched in. Wrong name.’
So?
‘Put first name Travis. Found guy. Travis Ramsey.’
‘And?’
‘This guy. Did. Six years. In Illinois. For man. Slaughter.’
Harper was on her feet at the window, looking out at Travis’s bungalow. ‘Hank. Do you think it’s . . .?’
‘Could be. Don’t know.’
‘Was there a photo?’
‘No. Just news story. Picture only of vic. Tim.’
‘Who did he kill?’
‘Hoppa. Calm down. Killer was a minor. Happened. Twenty-nine years ago.’
‘Who?’
‘And could. Have been. Accident.’
‘Who?’ Why wouldn’t he tell her?
Hank paused. ‘His father.’
His father? Good God. ‘Did the article give a motive? What else did it say?’
Another pause. ‘Not much.’
Why was he being so difficult? ‘Hank, what aren’t you telling me?’
‘Might be not same. Guy, Hoppa.’
‘I know.’
‘Don’t get crazy.’
Of course she wouldn’t, unless he kept stalling. ‘Hank. Tell me.’
‘The father.’ He took a breath. ‘Was strict.’
And?
‘And. A Pente. Costal. Minister.’
Damn. Travis Ramsey had to be Ramsey Travis. It would have been too great a coincidence – a charismatic preacher and the son of a Pentecostal minister whose names were the reverse of each other? And, if the patricidal Travis Ramsey had been a teenager twenty-nine years ago, he’d be in his forties now. Just like Ramsey Travis.
No question. It was the same guy.
Harper asked more questions. Where was the mother? How had the man died? Hank didn’t have answers, had seen just a couple of Google entries based on arti
cles from an old newspaper in southern Illinois.
He sounded tentative. ‘Hoppa. Might be him.’
Seriously? Of course it was.
‘Come back. Don’t stay there. Don’t like this.’
Harper didn’t like it either. ‘I can’t just leave these people at his mercy, Hank. If Travis has some crazy plan—’
‘Not you have to save everyone. Need to take Chloe. And go.’
‘But what if . . .?’ Harper closed her eyes, saw an explosion, heard men scream, felt her body fly onto a burnt-out car. No. Hank was right: protecting everyone wasn’t her job; she wasn’t in the military any more. Couldn’t risk endangering her child.
‘Okay.’ She ran a hand through her hair.
‘Okay?’ Clearly, he hadn’t expected her to agree.
‘Give me a day or two—’
‘Hoppa. Why a day or two?’
‘To finish up—’
‘Why not tomorrow?’
‘Nothing will happen for a few days, not ’til the twenty-sixth.’
‘You don’t know . . .’
‘I’m positive. And if I see anything suspicious before then, we’ll high-tail it out of here. I promise.’
He was seething. She could hear it. Could almost see steam coming from the phone.
‘We’re safe. The kibbutz has security. And I’ve got my eye on Travis. Besides, I’m Army, remember? I’ve taken down dudes a lot tougher than this guy. I can take care of myself. And of Chloe. Trust me.’
When he finally spoke, Hank’s voice was flat. ‘Hope for all our. Sakes. You are right, Hoppa. Come back as soon. As you can.’
After they hung up, Harper thought of calling him back, but had nothing else to say.
Besides, whatever Travis had planned for his followers wasn’t supposed to happen until the twenty-sixth. And when it happened, it would probably affect only them; there was no reason to think the kibbutz or others at the dig would be involved.
Then again, they might. After all, the end of the world could require a fairly massive incident. Harper paced around the bungalow, decided that she felt guilty because Hank was angry, not because she’d done anything wrong. She checked on Chloe, went back to the sitting room. Finally, stood at the window, staring at Travis’s bungalow. Wondering if it contained evidence of what Travis was preparing.
