As if through a fog, he remembered a move and executed it: knife hand—straight and hard—backward like a pendulum into the German’s groin. Breath burst from the man’s lungs. He bent at the hips in pain, but the pressure on Brady’s neck did not ease. Brady brought his elbow up into the German’s nose. He heard a soft snap and a gurgling bellow.
The man stumbled back, and Brady could breathe again. The air rushing into his lungs felt like cool water dousing a fire raging in his chest. He rubbed his throat, turned around, rolling on the rail.
The German—his face glistening red—lunged at him. He clawed at Brady, trying to get his arms around him, his head oddly cocked back. Brady realized the man was maneuvering for a head-butt. The German would aim the top of his forehead at the delicate bones in Brady’s face. It was a powerful, even deadly blow when delivered properly, and this guy looked like he’d had enough practice to pummel an army into submission.
Brady’s thoughts turned hot and white and unintelligible, the blast-furnace confusion of rage and panic. He delivered another groin shot, this time with his knee. The German crumpled. His head slammed against the catwalk at Brady’s feet.
Brady, expecting to deliver a series of blows, stumbled over him and went down. He was staring at big, worn work boots. Before Brady realized what was happening, he took a kick to the chin. His head snapped back, but he got the gist of what it meant to street-fight: any way possible, in any position you found yourself. He began kicking with everything he had in him. He squeezed his eyes closed, trusting his feet to find their mark. Kick! Kick! The German matched his blows and added punches to Brady’s thighs and hips. Each one sent a starburst of red-hot agony up his body into his head. He could not take much more. He grabbed at the man’s flailing boots, pulled them close, hugged them tight. He got a knee under him and pushed. The two entwined men rolled, hitting the catwalk’s railing. Brady pushed harder and wiggled over the edge. They tumbled off the ramp, rolling through space.
Brady pushed and pulled and spun to position himself on top. They landed on their sides. Air exploded from both of them. Brady rolled away. As he did, the German punched him in the stomach—weakly, but with enough force to send a wave of nausea through him. He rolled farther, lifted himself onto knees and elbows, heaving for a breath. Saliva and blood poured from his mouth. He felt something hard in there and spat. A tooth hit the stone. His tongue told him it was an upper cuspid, what Zach called vampire teeth. He closed his eyes.
This guy’s going to kill me, he thought. This is it. Right here, right now.
His opponent was bigger, better fit, and had the obvious advantage of fighting experience. Brady was sloppy with both his blocks and his attacks because he had never been in a fight before. A couple of academy classes, which he had suffered through, trying to imagine how he’d put a suspect in a carotid restraint hold or land a power punch studying crime scene photos and slipping inside a killer’s mind.
Still, he had not done too badly so fa—
The boot caught him in the ribs. He tumbled over.
Stupid! he thought.
Never stay down. Never take your eyes off your opponent. Two principles of fighting that he had forgotten as soon as he’d heard them.
He brought his knees up, curling into a fetal position, protecting his organs. He saw a dark object on the floor, far away: the gun. The next kick slammed into the side of his calf. The blow’s energy disbursed across his leg, and he remembered . . .
He blocked a kick, yanked up his pant leg, unsnapped the ankle sheath, and withdrew the knife Avi had given him. Without a moment’s thought, he plunged it into the German’s leg.
A howl filled the room. The man staggered back. Brady yanked out the blade, pushed forward, and plunged it into the man’s other leg. He came down like a sheared redwood.
Brady pushed away and stood. Pain in his side flared, competing with violated nerves all over his body. For a second, he watched the German howling and groaning, holding first the wound in his right shin, then the wound in his left. Blood—black as oil in the gloom—spread and smeared under him.
Brady staggered back, collided with a wall. He slid around, only dimly aware of the rough stone surface grating against his bruised back. Hit a corner and kept moving. Under the catwalk. When he was near the pistol, he stepped away from the wall and picked it up. He walked to the German, now writhing in relative silence. He pressed the silenced barrel into the man’s cheek.
The German’s one good eye rolled up to him. He bared his teeth.
Brady pushed harder, straddled him, and sat on his chest. He leaned close.
“Where is she?” he said, breathing hard.
The German’s eye narrowed. Calculations turned and tumbled within it. Brady knew he didn’t have much time before the man would make his move. He shifted the barrel to the underside of the man’s chin, where it would be harder to dislodge in a swift move.
“The girl,” Brady said. “Came in with Scaramuzzi or Arjan Vos a couple of hours ago. Where is she?”
The man turned his head, spat out bloody saliva.
“I know nutting of a gull,” he said contemptuously.
Brady shoved the barrel up. The man’s face scrunched in pain.
“Scaramuzzi, then,” Brady said. “Take me to Scaramuzzi.”
The man laughed. He shook his head. “Nein! Nein! No one will lead you to him. Betta to die by your hand than his.”
He believed him. Whether it was fear or unreasonable loyalty, instilling either was consistent with Brady’s understanding of Scaramuzzi’s character and method of dominance over his followers.
Rapidly, he pulled back and swung the flat side of the pistol into the man’s temple.
The German had time to express surprise. Then his head jerked sideways and blood spurted from a laceration, but he did not pass out. He snapped his gaze to Brady and hissed angrily.
Brady hit him again, hard.
The German started to rock. He grabbed Brady’s shirt, tried to block the next strike, but his arm went wide.
Brady slammed the gun into his head again and again. Finally, the German slumped, unconscious. Brady held the gun high, ready to continue the pummeling. Blood poured from the head wounds, but he was alive; Brady could feel the man’s breathing under him. His own breathing was labored, from exertion and what he thought were fractured ribs. He lowered the gun, shaking his head. Knocking someone out was nothing like they showed it on TV.
He stood and lumbered to the foot of the catwalk. Slowly, feeling every flex of muscle, every bending joint, he holstered the pistol at the small of his back. He thought about retrieving the knife from the German’s leg and decided against it. He considered the labyrinth, just beyond the room’s threshold. He considered the metal door at the top of the catwalk, leading to the seminary’s basement and out to Jerusalem. He stood there a long time, feeling his wounds, both physical and emotional.
He started walking. Up the catwalk. To the exit.
HE MANAGED to navigate the few hundred yards to the Gloria Hotel without collapsing or drawing unwanted attention. His careful shuffling, slumped shoulders, tattered and dirty clothes undoubtedly gave him the appearance of a drunkard—rare in Old Jerusalem but not enough of a rarity to bring authorities or conversion-minded Samaritans. He entered the hotel through a back door and wound up the staircase to the third floor. He knocked on a door at random, and when no one answered, he kicked it open. Inside, he propped a chair under the door handle. He climbed onto the bed like a man easing into cold water and lowered his head onto a pillow. He pulled himself into a tight ball.
And he wept.
76
Hope is a merciless tormentor. It’s the sound of trickling water to parched lips. The prospect of love to the unlovable. A miracle cure to the parents of a dying child. It holds up victory over the inevitable and beckons us to crawl farther over slicing shards, all the while pulling back, remaining just out of reach. It makes agony out of mere pain by pretending a diffe
rent outcome could have been. It laughs at mankind’s embrace of it after millennia of disappointment.
Brady had to let it go.
He was not going to make it home. He would never see Zach again . . . or hold him . . . or watch him become a man.
Because he would not leave Alicia, and he had no chance of defeating Scaramuzzi’s subterranean maze to find her.
He ached everywhere: the top of his head, his gums, jaw, shoulder, ribs, hand, arm, legs . . . heart.
He craved the dulling effect of whiskey, just a swig or two. He swung his feet off the bed and sat up. The room was clean but simple. No refrigerator, no minibar. Just as well. If death was going to take him, he wanted to see its face straight on, nothing clouding the experience. The way Karen must have faced it. He’d spent God knew how many hours considering her last moments. He did not know if she saw the car coming, saw it not make the turn, realized it was going to hit her. Or if it had struck her without warning. Running, feeling her muscles working, the impact of the ground on her feet, the pulse in her chest, her neck, maybe pacing her gait to MercyMe on the Walkman—when Brady had checked, it was stopped toward the end of “I Can Only Imagine”—then . . . nothing. Blackness . . . God . . . whatever. Still, Brady believed something had come before, whether she saw the car coming or not. Maybe it was only a split second—feeling the air pushing a few inches ahead of the bumper or even the percussion of the metal itself. In that brief time, she had known her life was over. What was her final thought? he often wondered. It drove him nuts to think it was a terrified mind-scream or a pleading Noooooo! He liked to believe she’d said, Bye, Brady . . . bye, Zach . . . love you guys.
Zach.
He eyed the phone on the nightstand. He had to make the call. It was his turn to say good-bye.
He would enter the labyrinth with the intention of finding and rescuing Alicia. But he knew he stood a better chance of winning the Virginia lottery on a single ticket. No, he would not be leaving those infernal tunnels again. That was okay. Scaramuzzi had won. At least Brady was going out on his own terms, not as a coward, but doing the right thing.
He was so tired. Sore and tired and defeated. Death would be a relief. The hardest thing about it was leaving Zach. But what kind of father would he be if he left Alicia and could not face himself in the mirror? What kind of father could a self-loathing drunkard be? Zach was better off with Kurt and Kari Oakley. They were happy, healthy people. He would grow up being loved and taught strong values.
He read his watch: he was already almost two hours late calling him. He fished the new calling card out of his wallet and set it on the bed. He uncradled the handset, heard a dial tone, dialed nine. The tone stuttered, then held steady. He punched in the calling card information, followed by the Oakleys’ number.
Before the first ring finished, Zach answered.
“Hey, kiddo,” Brady said, trying to sound upbeat.
“Dad! I’ve been waiting for you.”
“I’m sorry. Something came up.”
“That’s okay. Where are you?”
He paused. He did not want Zach to think his father had lied to him right to the very end. “You won’t believe it,” he said. “I’m in Israel.”
“Where Jesus lived? Holy cow! What are you doing there?”
“You know that bad guy? We tracked him to here.”
Zach didn’t speak for a moment. “Did you arrest him?”
“Not yet.”
“Is it dangerous?”
“Yes, but I’ll take care.”
“Remember your promise?”
“And you won’t let that guy and his dogs get you. Okay?”
Brady squeezed his eyes shut.
“I do; ’course I do.” His throat felt on the verge of rupturing. “But listen . . . if something should happen . . . if—”
“We made a fort!” Zach blurted, interrupting.
“Zach, I want you to hear me, okay? There are things I want you to know.”
“I already know.” Speaking too fast, wanting his dad to shut up about something happening.
Brady searched for words that would capture his son’s attention without terrorizing him.
Before he found them, Zach said: “You love me. And Mom loved me. And I’ll be all right with Uncle Kurt and Aunt Kari. And we’ll all meet again someday . . . in heaven.”
“Son, I—”
“But I don’t want that to be where we meet again!” He was nearly yelling. Brady could hear the tears he could not see. Zach sniffed. “Mom’s already there! That’s enough! No more! Not you!”
Brady could hear Kari in the background, sounding concerned, comforting. There was a bumping sound, something muffled. He expected Kari to come on the line, asking what he’d said to Zach to make him hysterical. Instead, Zach’s whispered words floated into his ear.
“You promised.”
“Sometimes, things are just . . .”
“You promised.”
Silence.
He did; he promised. He did not want to leave Zach. And he could not leave Alicia. His chest ached with the intensity of an open wound, but it had nothing to do with his physical injuries.
“Zach?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you hold on just a minute? Okay? Hold on . . .”
He set the handset on the bed. He pressed his palm over his mouth and paced to the corner of the room.
This was too hard. Saying good-bye.
He pictured Zach, holding the phone to his ear, listening intently, his heart wedged in his throat.
He loved his son’s voice, always had. It was small and innocent. From the time he was in first grade, Zach had read to him. Every day, Brady looked forward to those twenty minutes.
And why was he thinking this? Why now?
He heard Zach reading to him, from Dr. Seuss to . . . more recently . . .
The words filled his mind as though his son were in the room, saying them then and there.
Dylan Thomas. Zach had selected the book of poetry from the school library. Brady had thought it was a little mature for a fourth grader, but Zach read it. And he had asked intelligent questions as well as making astute observations.
His favorite was: “Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
“That’s about death, right?” Zach had asked.
“That’s right. It’s about not letting death take you without a fight. Love life enough to shake your fist at death and say, ‘Oh no, you don’t!’”
“Did Mom do that?”
“Oh yeah, she loved life.” He had pulled Zach close. “Sometimes the fight is short and sometimes we lose it, but life is always worth fighting for.”
Had he said that? Yes, and even then, after Karen’s death, he had meant it.
Fight. Don’t give up.
He strode to the bed and picked up the phone.
“Zach?”
“Dad?”
“I made you a promise, and I’m going to keep it if there’s any way I possibly can. I have to do something very dangerous. There’s no way around it. Somebody’s life depends on it. But I’m going to be careful, and I’m going to fight anybody who tries to hurt me. Okay?”
“I just want you back.”
“I want to come back. I love you, son.”
“Love you too.”
“See you later.” And that was the truth. One way or another, it was. He cradled the phone.
Hope. You again? Well, welcome back.
Despair is a merciless tormentor.
It prevents your mind from finding a way out of dark places. It had told Brady his task was hopeless, and he had believed it. But he saw now that it wasn’t.
He knew precisely how he was going to conquer the labyrinth and find Alicia.
77
It was a few minutes past ten when he pushed through the Gloria’s back door into the hotel’s rear parking lot. The sun had sauntered away two hours ago, allowing a soft, black blanket to set
tle over the city. Spots of light from street lamps and porch fixtures radiated against the yellow and red rock of low buildings and the gray of cobblestone, which had been set in place thousands of years before electricity’s assault on man’s circadian rhythm. He climbed into the Peugeot, fired it up, and burned two semicircles of rubber onto the asphalt. The car bottomed out as it bounded over a curve and into an alleyway that ran behind the hotel, parallel with Latin Patriarchate Street. His head banged against the roof—just another pain. He ached all over: some areas throbbed, others shot daggers through him. He gritted his teeth and ignored his body’s pleas for relief and help.
He steered toward the seminary, remembered seeing a five-and-dime in the other direction, and veered in a wide U-turn. The Peugeot’s right wheels thumped onto a curb, then off again. A couple, walking hand in hand, backed onto a manicured lawn, though Brady had not brought the vehicle anywhere near them.
Up a block, then into the tiny lot in front of the store. Half-expecting the resistance of a dead bolt, he yanked the door open. A brass bell rattled and flew off its hook. It landed in a display of olives, tinkling in protest before lying still. A boy about Zach’s age stopped sweeping the floor to behold Brady’s entrance.
“Sorry,” Brady said. A quick glance around showed him a store packed with every conceivable touristy desire. “Aspirin!” he called out to the boy, who dropped the broom and zipped down an aisle. Brady followed and grabbed the first bottle he saw with the words “pain reliever.” He ripped off its cellophane seal, uncapped the bottle, and dumped its contents into his mouth. He crunched on the pills and began swallowing the chalky pulp. He strode to a glass-doored cooler, pulled out a can of something, and poured it into his mouth. Aspirin paste loosened from his molars and the roof of his mouth and flowed down his throat. The carbonated beverage he’d selected foamed at the back of his throat and bubbled up into his sinuses. He held it in and swallowed it back.
Grimacing, he found the boy watching him, gape-jawed.
“Duct tape?” he asked, croaking the words. He gulped from the beverage can, asked again, “Duct tape?”
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