by Merry Jones
Harper glanced left and right, saw no one, steeled herself and charged, pouncing, flying at Travis with arms extended. She was almost on him when something slammed her from behind. And she went down.
The bed was cold, hard and sheetless. Not a bed? Harper opened an eye, realized she was on flat concrete. Concrete with a golden flicker. She blinked. Focused. Saw that the flicker was a candle.
A candle?
Pain wracked her skull. She tried to get up, couldn’t move her hands. What had happened? Oh God – she remembered. Flying. The explosion, the hot white blast. The thunk of landing on a burnt-out car. The confusion. But wait . . . She wasn’t on a car. She was on a concrete floor. Why couldn’t she get up? Where was she?
She tried again, couldn’t separate her hands or feet. Felt the restriction – rope? Probably rope. Yes. Her hands were tied. She lay still, wondering if anyone were watching her. Peeking out of one eye, not seeing much beyond the candle near her head. Hearing a woman scolding.
‘. . . promise, you will have the wrath of God on you. You’ll regret . . .’ She stopped abruptly, her words muffled. Hagit? And then Harper remembered: she was in the bunker. She’d followed Travis and Frank there. They’d taken Hagit. They were going to kill her.
‘And it shall be as promised in Matthew twenty-four, verse seven: “For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom.”’ Travis’s voice paused, then continued in a language she didn’t understand. Greek? Hebrew? Prayers over Hagit, his intended sacrifice.
Harper needed to stop them. She twisted her wrists until she felt some slack in the rope, and bent her wrists, working the bindings, tugging. Chafing her skin. Accidentally pulling the wrong way and tightening the binding. Starting over, loosening it again. Listening to Travis, racing against his blessings. Yanking, wriggling her hands until, finally, she eased them out of the loops of rope.
Rubbing her raw wrists, she sat up and turned her head. Too fast. The walls began spinning. And so did the elephants.
Elephants?
Yes. And giraffes. And zebras. And monkeys. All in pairs, all around her, all tottering onto the ark.
Harper closed her eyes. Reasoned that she’d been knocked out. Had a head wound. Her balance was off. She needed to steady herself. She held the wall and opened her eyes again.
A monkey stared back at her from the mural, swaying slightly.
Harper leaned against the ark, balancing. Aware that Hagit could die while she wobbled there, watching the parade of animals.
In the next room, Travis was still preaching. ‘As written in Peter chapter three, verses one to eighteen: “But the day of the Lord will come like a Thief. The heavens will disappear with a roar, the elements will be destroyed by fire, and the earth and everything in it will be laid bare.” So it is that we lay the groundwork for our Father as he directed in his code, preparing the hearth for his flames.’
Someone said, ‘Amen.’
Hagit grumbled something unintelligible. At least she was still alive.
Harper reached down, untying her feet. She didn’t try to stand. She rolled onto her stomach, looked around, and crawled on her belly to the doorway. In the next room, the walls were lined with cots, sofas and shelves of supplies and canned food. At the far end, candles encircled the table where Hagit lay bound. Travis and Frank stood at her head. Two other men at her feet. Harper leaned through the doorway, saw no one else. Just the four.
Quickly, silently, she got to her feet, testing her balance, steadying her breath. Figuring out how to proceed. But before she could decide, Travis raised his sparkling knife and paused, ready to thrust it into Hagit’s throat.
Reflexively, as if it were a grenade, Harper grabbed the candle beside her and threw it at Travis’s hand.
It missed. Sailed past his hand, grazing his head as it smacked the wall. But it served its purpose, distracting Travis and the others. Postponing the slash of the knife. While the men were momentarily confused, locating and identifying the flying object, Harper took a running start. By the time they turned to trace its source, she’d built enough momentum to leap around the table and pounce onto Pastor Travis, knocking the knife from his hand. It skittered across the floor, and Harper dove for it, but couldn’t get to it before all four men dove for her. Harper managed to poke an eye and knee a groin, but the mass of four men constrained her. She lay on the floor, helpless, four men seated in a row along her back. Crushing her. The one on her calves sent pain up her left leg, and she couldn’t breathe under the weight of the one crushing her lungs. Was it Frank? Anyway, she had no choice. Had to lie still, waiting for them to get off.
‘How’d she get loose?’ panted the one on her legs. ‘I thought you tied her—’
‘Where’s the knife?’ Travis snapped. Harper felt his weight shift, starting to get up and look.
But before he could, with a cracking thunk and a deep grunt, Frank’s body slumped onto her shoulders. Instantly, the others were on their feet, scrambling. Harper rolled out from under Frank, saw Hagit, her face bloodied and wrists still tied in front of her, raised high, her hands gripping an industrial-sized can of apple sauce. Ready to strike another head.
Before the men could corral Hagit, Harper was up, dividing their attention. One of the churchmen came at her; she lunged, thrusting her fist hard into his larynx, feeling it smash. He was still falling when the next man came for her. She positioned her head and shoulders, braced her body and rammed his gut, using his own mass against him. He staggered, reeling. Harper regained her balance and was drawing back onto her stronger leg, preparing to slam him when she heard a sharp crack. The man’s eyes rolled up as he fell, and another apple sauce can clattered to the floor.
Harper pivoted, fists ready. But no one confronted her. She counted three bodies, all limp. At least one – the larynx guy – was dead. She’d crushed his throat. Killed him. Somewhere in the distance, gunfire rumbled. Smoke billowed. A woman became a hot blast of white . . .
‘Untie my hands.’ It was an order.
And it snapped Harper back to the present. She untied Hagit’s hands, but was concerned about her wound. ‘Your head . . .’
‘I’m fine. Let’s go.’ Hagit wiped blood from her eyes, pushed Harper toward the door.
But Harper didn’t move. She looked around, trying to find Travis’s knife. Saw shelves of food and paper goods, medical supplies and candles. Bright colored walls with happy animals, marching two by two.
No knife.
‘What are you waiting for? Let’s move.’ Again, that military tone.
‘Where’s Travis?’
‘Where do you think? He ran. As soon as the first one fell, he took off.’
Hagit pulled up the hem of her skirt, wiped blood off her face. Harper saw the wound on her forehead. It was the shape of a Star of David, cut into her skin.
The killer walked up and down the path, searching. People didn’t just disappear, and yet there was no sign of Harper or the others. Where had they gone? Travis, Frank, Hagit and Harper had gone up this path and simply vanished. But that wasn’t possible. Four people simply couldn’t vanish.
The killer walked all the way up the hill, to the highest spot of the kibbutz. The lookout point. Saw no sign of any of them. In fact, the entire kibbutz looked abandoned. Almost nobody walked on the pathways; no cars pulled in or out of the gate. Maybe everyone was home, preparing for the ninth of Av? Yes, probably. Cooking big dinners for the night before their fast.
Well, good. Let them eat a big dinner. After all, it would be their last, if God accepted the final lamb.
The killer came back down the hill, stopping at the spot where Harper had disappeared. Nothing was there. No buildings. No cars. Just a huge boulder surrounded by hedges.
Wait. That boulder was abnormally large, wasn’t it? Jutting out of nowhere. The killer stopped, stared into the hedges. Saw footprints, the ground pounded flat beside the rock. Of course. It was one of the bunkers. Perfect. An isolated, soundproof location. Tra
vis had taken Hagit there.
And might have already made the sacrifice.
The killer stopped breathing. Felt a stab of fear. If the offering had been made, hope was lost. The killer would never be redeemed. Would never regain Travis’s approval or earn a position of glory. Darkness coursed through the killer, cold and dreadful with the threat of endlessness.
But someone was coming. Flip flops clopped up the path. The killer dashed into the bushes, squatted, hiding. And whirled around when a door opened in the rock.
Travis bolted out, his face hard and white as alabaster. His hands gripping a knife.
Hagit wobbled and stumbled, but held onto Harper’s arm, dragging herself out of the bunker.
‘I need your phone,’ Hagit said.
‘I didn’t bring it.’
Hagit tsked.
‘You need to stay here.’ Harper led her to a patch of grass. ‘I’ll go call for help.’
‘No time. I’m going after him—’
‘Hagit. You’re in no condition—’
‘I’ve been hurt worse and never stopped.’ She slumped onto the ground.
Harper knelt beside her. Examined the gushing cut on her forehead, a wet red clump of hair on the side of her head. An eye was swollen almost shut, and the cheek beneath was scraped and puffy. Bastards had beaten her.
‘I’ll be faster without you—’
‘Listen.’ Hagit’s fingers dug into Harper’s arm. She spoke quickly. ‘You should know. I was Mossad. Retired, but they called me back for this. To protect you during the symposium—’
‘You were Mossad?’
‘They must have found out I was watching them, so they took me. But listen, you have to get to the nursery.’
The nursery?
‘They left people there, waiting for a call. If I resisted – if I gave them any trouble . . . Harper, go. The children . . .’
Chloe?
Harper didn’t wait to hear more. She ran.
Behind her, Hagit tried to get up, held her head and teetered. ‘Wait! Find Gal. Tell him I told you. He’ll catch Travis.’
Harper burst out of the bushes, didn’t expect someone to be standing right beside them. Smacked into the guy, sent him sprawling, flip flops flying. Harper didn’t stop, but glanced back.
Lowell was on his butt, perplexed and irate. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ he sputtered. ‘Look where you’re going!’
His voice was lost among the rifle fire and screams of wounded men that chased Harper down the hill. And a white-hot explosion; a boy in the street, his face blown away. She ran past her flashbacks, ignoring them, lungs raw, leg raging, fists clenched and ready to take out anyone in her way.
Travis bolted down the hill as if chased by Satan himself.
‘Hey!’ The killer called to him.
Travis turned toward the voice, raised the knife, his eyes wild as a cornered dog’s.
‘Did you do it?’
Travis saw the killer and lowered the knife, but kept going. Didn’t answer.
The killer hurried to catch up. ‘The third lamb – did you get it done?’
Travis was panting.
‘You didn’t, did you? I can tell.’ The killer ran alongside him, mouth opened in disbelief. Travis had failed? How was it possible? ‘What happened?’
‘Shut up,’ Travis snapped.
‘Ramsey – tell me where she is. There’s still time.’
Travis didn’t answer. He quickened his pace, took a short cut through a garden.
The killer tried to keep up, grabbing the opportunity, pausing to gulp air between phrases. ‘It must be mortifying for you . . . having condemned others like me . . . for failure, only to fail yourself . . . I understand. Believe me.’
Travis headed across a driveway.
‘Where are you going?’
His eyes darted toward the bungalows, then the parking lot. ‘They’ll be looking for me.’ He stopped, deciding which way to run.
‘Ramsey. Let me help.’ The killer grabbed his shoulder. ‘Don’t you get it? There was a reason you couldn’t do the offering. You weren’t meant to—’
‘Shh. Listen.’ Ramsey raised a hand. A siren blared nearby. He took off running again, paused, doubled back toward the medical center.
The killer blocked his way. ‘You’re our leader. Our prophet. Our teacher. Your hands aren’t meant to be bloodied.’
Travis panted, met the killer’s eyes. ‘Get out of my way . . .’
‘No. Listen to me. Go to my bungalow and wait there.’
Travis looked over his shoulder, off to the sides.
‘It’s not the ninth yet, Ramsey.’ The killer spoke softly. ‘Trust me. Go wait in my bungalow. I’ll take care of it.’
Travis hesitated. Sweat trickled down his forehead. He chewed his lip. When he answered, his chin quivered. ‘Thank you.’
The killer took his hand, squeezed it. And hurried off, elated, light-hearted. With one more sacrifice, the conflagration would begin; heaven would come to earth. And, for eternity, Travis would be grateful.
Harper ran, her heart pounding Chloe’s name. God. If they touched her – if they even came close to her . . . White heat blasted, sent Harper flying. No, she commanded herself. Keep going. It isn’t real. It’s just the past. But she felt the force, the burning gusts. It’s not here, she insisted, and she sped on, spurred by Hagit’s urgent words: ‘The children.’ Lord. The children. They would be safe. Had to be safe. But Hagit. She’d been Mossad? Assigned to protect her? Why? A woman stood in the road, reached into her robe, smiled, and blew up the checkpoint. Ignore her. She’s in the past. And so is the sniper fire. Keep going. Don’t give in to the flashbacks. Breathe. Stay in the present. But wait . . . what had Lowell been doing there? Guarding the bunker? Why would he after Travis had publicly fired and humiliated him? Oh God. Was Chloe okay? Were the others? Was Adi there? Or Yael? Harper’s lungs were raw, her gut wrenched with rage. Up ahead, Hank fell from the roof, slamming his head. No. She ran, felt searing pain in her leg, focused on the pain. The moment. The path down the hill. She cut across a garden, behind a cottage. Around the fence to the nursery, up to the gate.
Children’s voices rang out. Shouts, squeals, chatter. Noise.
Harper didn’t stop; she ripped the gate open and flew across the playground, past the empty baby pool, the abandoned tricycles. Nobody was outside. Where were the church members? Inside? Slowly, deliberately, she opened the door, knees bent, ready to pounce. Hugging the wall, she crept inside and peered into the classroom.
Saw no church members. Not one. Just busy children, gathered into three groups. One working with wet clay. Another pasting torn papers onto poster board. And Chloe – Chloe was in the third group, finger-painting. Thank God. Harper dashed over to her, chin trembling. Chloe looked up and reached for her. ‘Eemah!’
Harper grabbed her, held her too long and too tight, savoring first the hug, then the squirming to get free, caring not at all that her face and clothing were smeared generously with globs of cobalt blue.
If they’d been in danger, no one in the nursery had had any idea. They’d seen some commotion outside earlier; two church members had apparently been in a fight. But nobody had bothered them. No one from the church had come inside. So when Harper barged in and began barking orders, everyone was confused.
‘Yael,’ Harper snapped. ‘Call for a medic. Send them to the bunker up the hill.’
Yael looked from Harper to Adi, hesitant. Not moving.
‘Now, Yael. Hagit’s up there, hurt.’
‘Hagit?’ Yael seemed unable to process the news.
‘What happened?’ Adi’s brows furrowed. ‘Hagit went off with that pastor—’
A little boy interrupted, crying. Speaking in Hebrew, pointing to a clay creation, somehow smashed. Yael kissed his tears and helped him fix it, not missing a beat of conversation.
‘A guy named Frank,’ Adi explained. ‘He said Hagit had to help with a project for his church. We thought it wa
s odd, but he talked to her for a minute, and then Hagit went along with them—’
Still, no one was getting help. ‘She needs a medic,’ Harper repeated. ‘Go. Call.’
The boy was in Yael’s arms still, holding his lopsided clay pot. But she took her phone from her pocket, punched in a number.
‘Oh God.’ Adi put a hand on her cheek. ‘What did they do to her?’
Harper didn’t answer. ‘Call Gal, have him come here.’ She was operating on automatic, wishing she’d brought her cell. ‘And the police.’
Children scurried around the room, happy and unsupervised, hands covered with clay or paste or paint. Adi nodded, wide-eyed, and went for her phone.
It was taking too long. With every minute, Travis had more opportunity to kill someone, more chance to escape. Harper watched the clock, unable to sit passively. Thinking. If I were Travis, where would I go? How would I trap a victim?
Obviously, his bungalow would be searched. In fact, police would go through the rooms of every church member, every dig volunteer. Kibbutz security officers would examine every building, every bunker. If he were still on the kibbutz, Travis would be found within the hour.
But what if he’d already managed to get away?
He hadn’t, she told herself. Megiddo was where he wanted to be. Where he believed God had ordered him to be. So where was he hiding?
Adi kept asking questions. What had happened to Harper’s wrists? Why was there blood on her? What had the men done to Hagit? But Harper dodged, said she’d explain when the police and Gal got there. Meantime, she couldn’t stay still. She paced, watching Chloe slap finger paint onto wet paper, unable to separate from her, yet unable to stay in the nursery while Travis was roaming free, likely to kill someone. Maybe she should just take Chloe, find a ride, and escape to Jerusalem where they’d be safe. Even before she finished the thought, she rejected it. She remembered the murders in the shuk. And Travis, holding a knife to Hagit’s throat. No, Harper couldn’t just take off and let a murderer strike.
But neither could she sit idle. ‘Yael,’ she called. ‘Where is Gal?’
She shrugged. ‘He’s coming. He’ll be here any minute.’
