Outside Eden

by Merry Jones

  Harper’s hands were icy. The lights and barricade went all the way around the hotel. No way she could penetrate. Unless there was an underground entrance. But the guards weren’t fools; they would have them covered, too. Damn. What could she do? There had to be a way in.

  Finally, she looked at Hagit. ‘The truth. Are they alive?’

  Hagit reached out, put her hand on Harper’s. ‘We have been assured, but we have no proof. Without the internal cameras working, we don’t know. But we’ll find out soon. The exchange is soon. Set for two a.m.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  Hagit asked the driver; he answered in Hebrew.

  ‘Almost time.’ Hagit looked out the side of the jeep at the sky. ‘The helicopter should be here.’

  Helicopter?

  ‘With the prisoners.’

  ‘I thought Israel doesn’t negotiate with terrorists.’

  Hagit sighed. ‘It isn’t just us. Jordanian, French and Egyptian delegates were taken. There is pressure to get them back alive.’

  Harper closed her eyes, trying to absorb all the information. Her chest was raw, her legs numb from sitting still with Chloe’s weight on her lap.

  ‘Look. It was hard for me not to tell you. But it was for the best.’

  The soldiers turned to Hagit, jabbering, nodding at the sky. Harper heard the distant chop of a helicopter. Oh God. Her skin prickled, alert. What if something went wrong? Where was Hank? Was he alive? Again, she saw him, his bloodstained polo shirt.

  ‘How’s the exchange supposed to happen? When will they release the prisoners?’

  Hagit looked away. ‘I don’t know the details. They know what they’re doing, though. Trust them.’

  Like hell. ‘Tell me.’

  The helicopter hovered overhead, drowning out their voices. Hagit had to shout.

  ‘The helicopter can’t land on this hotel. So it’s landing a block down. On an office building.’

  And?

  ‘This is their demand: the street is to be empty. No army, no police. The kidnappers will drive the hostages to that office building in armored cars. They will release them only when they find their demands have been met, and then they will take off in the helicopter.’

  ‘How do they know they won’t get shot down?’

  Hagit’s face told her the answer. Of course: they would take a hostage with them. Maybe several.

  And then, when they were safely away, they’d kill them.

  The helicopter stayed over the street, waiting as a pair of black limousines penetrated the blockade, drove to the front door of the hotel.

  Harper sat up, not breathing, throat clenched. The street was empty, just as the kidnappers had demanded. Soldiers, officials stood around the perimeter, armed but helpless. Harper saw people beginning to file out of the hotel. Were these the hostages? She watched for Hank. Didn’t see him. Couldn’t wait any more. Couldn’t sit. In a heartbeat, she thrust sleeping Chloe onto Hagit’s lap.

  ‘Hold her for a minute,’ she shouted over the helicopter’s engine.

  Before Hagit could respond, Harper opened the door and hopped out of the jeep, standing where she could see the front of the hotel. Their driver climbed out, joining her, his hand near his weapon.

  ‘Harper,’ Hagit yelled out the window. ‘Don’t be stupid—’

  ‘I need to watch for Hank.’

  Up ahead, across the street, men were getting into the limousines. In a moment, they’d drive off. Where were Trent and Hank? She squinted into the lights and, for the briefest moment, glimpsed Hank. He was wearing a white polo and cargo pants, and he lowered his head, climbing into the second limo.

  Harper’s knees threatened to give way. She grabbed onto the soldier’s arm, biting her lip to stifle a wail. The limo doors closed, engines started and, as Harper’s eyes filled with angry tears, the cars blurred and pulled out of the driveway, heading up the street.

  Helpless, Harper stood in the street beside the jeep, watching the second limo, aware of Hank, each heartbeat, each breath. Was he thinking of her now? Did he know she was there? The limo proceeded slowly, steadily. Coming closer. Looking larger.

  Police, soldiers, everyone stood silent, rapt as the limos approached. The helicopter moved, finally, heading for a nearby rooftop. Dimly, Harper became aware of voices. People shouting in a side street, but she paid no notice, kept her eyes on the limos, watching for Hank until, behind her, she heard a sharp metallic crash.

  Harper pivoted, saw a smashed ambulance, a broken barricade. A couple of soldiers running, weapons raised. And a car careening up the street – not a limo or security vehicle, not military. A new Corolla.

  Around her, police and soldiers remained focused on the hostages, the helicopter. But the Corolla was barreling ahead, accelerating, on a collision course with the limousines. Harper didn’t think; she just reacted, grabbing the soldier beside her, pulling out his gun. Raising it, aiming, shoving him away when he fought her for it. Aiming again while he and others finally saw the car. Seeing it change direction, steer right towards her, just heartbeats away. Steadying her stance, inhaling, Harper glimpsed the driver’s face. Saw that it wasn’t one of the kidnappers. And fired anyway.

  From then on, it was a jumble. The recoil of her gun. The firing of many others. The screech of the car veering out of control. A thick weight knocking Harper’s back, pushing her away. A crack like the sky shattering. The shaking of the earth. Harper pictured Chloe and Hank and, as the night around her erupted in flame, she thought that Travis had been right. It was the end of the world.

  Don’t cry, Lynne comforted herself. Don’t fall apart. Ben Haim didn’t matter. There would be other chances. Meantime, she had to keep going. She got up, brushed herself off. Headed for the rental cars.

  There was one for each sector. But with the rest of the church being loaded onto buses and taken away, the designated drivers wouldn’t be around. She didn’t know who besides herself was free. Had they ever found Marlene? Was Lowell still loose? What about the guys in the medical center? Were they still there? Never mind. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. All that mattered was finishing the sacrifice. She would do it, still had time.

  Her hands were dirty, two – no, three nails broken. Blood crusted around one of them. Her fingers were unsteady. She needed to pray. Please, Lord, give me strength. Guide me to fulfill Your wishes . . .

  She stopped, mid-prayer, unable to finish. Angry. What kind of God was she working for? Travis had led his people across the world, had devoted himself to obeying God’s coded word. And look what had happened. Couldn’t an all-powerful Lord cut them a single break? So far, at every attempt, they’d confronted obstacles. Been stifled. People had died. Travis . . . Travis had died. What kind of a twisted freaking cold-hearted God would permit that? She stopped, stared up at heaven and let out a bellow. A howl.

  But what was she to do? She couldn’t just walk away. Had to finish it so Travis could come back. So they could be together.

  But what about Peter? What if he came back, too? It wouldn’t happen, she decided. But if it did, Ramsey would simply explain that he and she were soul mates. That God Himself had paired them. And Peter would buzz off. Lord, guide me, she whispered. Lord, give me strength.

  Tears blurred her vision. She smeared them across her face, deciding which car to take. Were they all the same? She hadn’t paid attention, hadn’t been assigned to this phase of the plan. If she relaxed and opened her mind, Travis’s spirit would guide her to the right one. She took a breath, straightened her spine, closed her eyes. Waited for a sign. Thought of the number three, like the trinity. Like the triad of lambs. Headed for the third car from the left. Stopped. Reconsidered. She was in Israel; Hebrew was read right to left. Maybe she should take the third car from the right. Why was every single little step so complicated? What difference did it make which car she used? It didn’t. She could take any of them and it would be fine. She opened the door to the third car from the right, found the keys under
the seat, found the phone, punched in the number pasted to it, started the engine, pulled out of the parking lot.

  The whole way to Jerusalem, she sang hymns. Once there, she used her GPS to find the hotel and even then got lost. Jerusalem was a maze. Street names changed randomly. Roads wound into each other. Finally, she found the hotel . . . But something was going on there. The road was blocked. Maybe because of the holiday? She’d heard you weren’t supposed to drive in Jerusalem on holidays. She’d heard people had been spat at, that cars had been stoned. But this looked different. The street ahead was bright with huge lights. She pulled up as close as she could. A guard stepped over to her car.

  ‘It’s a detour,’ he barked. ‘Go back and around.’ His English was good. He pointed to show her the way.

  Lynne nodded, thanked him. Before she turned the car around, though, she looked up and down the road. The spotlights were aimed across the street, onto the King Saul Hotel, the very place she’d been headed. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

  What was going on?

  ‘Go,’ the guard waved her on. ‘Move away from the area.’

  She grabbed the steering wheel. ‘On my way.’ She made herself smile, pulled away a few yards to satisfy him, then stopped, looking back.

  Across the street, a pair of black limousines pulled out of the King Saul driveway, moving slowly like a funeral.

  A circle of police and army personnel watched from the perimeter. Lynne scanned their vehicles, looking for a weak link. Decided that the ambulance ahead was good enough. As was the present moment.

  With a cry of, ‘Thy will be done,’ Lynne picked up the cell phone with one hand, made a screeching U-turn with the other and floored the gas pedal. She was aware of the guard’s yelling, but sped forward, bracing for impact with the ambulance blocking her way, exulting in the collision and speeding on. As the car lurched, she pressed her foot down on the pedal, and looked at the perimeter, the crowd facing the limousines . . . Wait.

  No way. Was that her?

  She looked again. And laughed out loud.

  Her chest pounded. Holy Lord. Truly, Harper Jennings’ presence was a sign, a gift from God. ‘Thank you,’ she shouted. ‘Thank you!’ She adjusted her steering to hit Harper head on, and kept going even when Harper raised a weapon. Even as bullets shattered her window and blood spurted from her body, Lynne remained certain that she was finally succeeding and, in one stroke, avenging Travis’s death and completing the third sacrifice. That she and Travis would rise and be rewarded.

  Her foot slipped off the gas pedal, her bloodied hand off the steering wheel. Fading, she praised God and Travis and used her last burst of energy to push the ‘send’ button. For the briefest of moments, she saw heaven. It was bright pure white.

  Harper opened her eyes and, once again, knew she was in Iraq. A bomb had gone off; she’d flown into the air and landed on a burnt-out car. She knew before she tried that she’d be unable to move her legs. Or to feel them. Or to hear. She would be deaf and numb, like always. But where were the others? The rest of her patrol? They’d been standing at the checkpoint. A car had driven up, not slowing. And at the same time, a woman had been crossing the street, had turned and smiled, had reached inside her robe . . . Harper couldn’t remember the next part. Couldn’t hear. Couldn’t feel. She turned her head, looking for her patrol. Saw blazing white light. Flames. Closed her eyes.

  When she opened them again, she was moving. Being carried – on a stretcher? Passing flashing lights, ambulances, people scurrying. A burnt-out limo. She tried to speak, but couldn’t form words.

  Inside the ambulance, someone, a man in uniform was messing with her. Attaching her to a tube. But where was her patrol?

  She had to find out. Had to ask. ‘What happened?’

  The man’s lips moved. She didn’t hear what he said. He closed the ambulance doors. Feeling the rumble of movement, Harper closed her eyes.

  She didn’t open them again until late on the tenth of Av.

  When she did, Hagit was sitting beside her, crocheting. ‘So, you’re up?’ She stood. ‘Good. I’ll tell them.’

  Harper blinked. ‘Wait. Where am I?’ Her words were slurred. Her mouth was dry. Tasted metallic. She looked around, saw IV tubes, an ECG monitor. Oh God. What had happened? Where was Chloe? Hank? She lifted her head, twisted, trying to sit up.

  ‘Don’t even think about it.’ Hagit scowled. ‘Settle down. I’m going for the nurse.’

  ‘Chloe?’ Harper rasped.

  ‘Chloe’s fine.’ Hagit moved toward the door.

  ‘Where . . .?’ It took all her energy to speak.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be right back.’

  ‘Hank?’

  Hagit was almost out the door, but she stopped, turned around. Her expression had softened. ‘You don’t remember anything?’

  Harper shivered. What had happened? She closed her eyes, trying to recall. Saw bright light and smelled flames. Oh God. ‘Where’s Hank?’

  Hagit stepped back to the bed, put a hand on Harper’s shoulder. ‘The doctors will tell you everything.’

  ‘No. You tell me. Now.’

  Hagit sighed. ‘That woman from the dig. The one who tried to kill me?’

  Lynne. What about her?

  ‘She showed up here.’ Hagit told her that Lynne had driven to Jerusalem in a car fitted as a bomb. That Travis’s group had managed to make several of them and parked them at the dig.

  At the dig? Car bombs? Harper closed her eyes, saw four brand-new rented Corollas parked in a row. Damn.

  ‘But why did she come here?’ Harper felt dizzy, unfocused.

  Hagit shrugged. ‘Who knows? Maybe to make more sacrifices. Maybe to kill you.’

  ‘Me?’ Harper lifted a hand to her chest. Stared at it. It was covered with gauze.

  ‘It can’t be a coincidence that she brought the bomb to the hotel where you’d be staying. Face it. She blamed you for Travis’s death and, as long as she was setting off a bomb, she might as well get revenge.’

  Harper heard a click, saw Travis disappear in flames. How could Lynne blame her for that? ‘She’s dead?’

  ‘She is.’

  Harper closed her eyes.

  ‘Shhh.’ Hagit stroked Harper’s head. ‘It could have been much worse.’

  What? ‘Hagit. Tell me.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll tell you. Lynne Watts is dead. But her bomb didn’t blow up the hotel or any other building because of you. You stopped her.’

  ‘I did?’ Harper tried to remember.

  ‘You and the soldiers. You shot her with a gun you took from our escort.’ Hagit paused. ‘You don’t remember? Really?’

  She’d stolen a gun? When?

  ‘You shot the bomber before she could get in position, just seconds after she crossed the barricade.’

  Harper saw snapshots: lights glaring on an empty street. A limousine. She tried to remember more. Couldn’t.

  ‘But you were too close to the bomb. You have burns.’

  Harper looked at the bandages covering her arms, her right hand.

  There had been an explosion. A fire.

  She’d killed Lynne.

  ‘The explosion would have been a big tragedy if not for you and those soldiers. As it was, instead of blowing up a hotel, she made a hole in the street and destroyed a limousine.’

  A what? Harper closed her eyes, saw a limousine . . .

  Hank’s limousine.

  Harper’s throat closed. Ice sliced through her chest. She couldn’t speak. Hank – Hank had been in a limousine. Was Hagit preparing to tell her that he’d been killed? Oh God. Hank. His sparkling eyes, his broad grin . . . He couldn’t be dead. Could he?

  Hagit was still talking. ‘. . . killed four of the kidnappers, a French geologist, an Egyptian hydrologist and an Israeli driver.’

  What? Harper tried to breathe. ‘Hank?’ Her voice was faint.

  ‘Hank was in the second limousine.’

  So what did that mean? That he was alive?
/>
  Hagit sighed. ‘The explosion threw it across the street, onto its side. A chunk of the blown-up car flew onto the soldier who tackled you. He saved you. You should send him chocolates.’

  A soldier had saved her? What about Hank? Why wouldn’t Hagit just tell her? Was she deliberately stalling? Putting off telling her that Hank was dead?

  ‘Hank?’

  ‘Hank?’ Hagit seemed irritated. ‘I already told you. He was in the second car. In that car, they all lived.’

  No, she hadn’t told her. Or had she? Harper wasn’t sure, couldn’t remember. Her thoughts were jumbled. She saw a car speeding toward her. Then nothing. Just a disconnected image. She tried to absorb the news. She’d shot Lynne. And Lynne had blown up a limousine full of kidnappers and scientists.

  But Hank had survived. Where was he? And what about Trent? Was he okay?

  ‘Now, I’m going for the nurse.’ Hagit headed for the door.

  Harper lay back, wondering why Hank wasn’t with her in the hospital room. Where was Chloe? Questions swirled and mixed together until she couldn’t remember what they were. Couldn’t keep track of them. Her eyelids drifted down and, as she dozed off, she thought she heard a voice calling her name. Insisting that she’d been awake just a moment ago.

  The next day passed in a fog of heavy medication, sleep and dreamy impressions. Harper didn’t have much pain. Once, she felt Hank’s lips on her mouth. She heard him whisper that she’d be fine, that she was a hero. That Chloe missed her so she should hurry up and get well. She heard these things clearly, but when she managed to open her eyes, he wasn’t there.

  On the second day, pain woke her up. Her medications had been reduced, so she was more alert, able to stay awake. Hank was there, his back to her, talking to someone. Inspector Alon?

  She tried to hear them. Alon said something about debriefing. About coming back.

  Harper got out of bed for the first time in two days, wobbled on her way to the bathroom. Saw herself in the mirror for the first time, too, and gasped at her appearance. One side of her face was mottled and crusty, like the top of a crème brûlée. Her scrapes and scratches had been seared away. Her eyebrows were gone. So was a patch of hair over her right temple. Oh God. She looked ghastly.