by E. Z. Rinsky
“I wonder if any of the kids who were here the other night know anything,” he says.
“Doubt it,” I say. “I’ll bet Vicks just likes having them around in case he screws up a skinning, and needs some fresh meat.”
Courtney seems to deliberately not hear this comment.
“Where will Sophnot never go?” he asks. “Where do the books belong?”
I roll my eyes.
“Ask me another couple thousand times, would you?”
“It’s likely somewhere within three or four miles of the aquarium. I doubt Rico got in a bus.”
“He certainly could have taken a cab,” I say. “I would have.”
Courtney keeps pacing.
“Court, you realize at some point this evening we have to consider making a run for it.”
He halts suddenly and looks at me.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean we’re supposed to get the books to Sampson early afternoon tomorrow. If that’s not going to happen, and we’re not going to find Oliver and get that money back, the best thing we can do is give ourselves a head start getting the hell out of Colorado.”
Courtney grimaces. He knows I’m right.
“Sampson has threatened to send the feds after us,” I say. “Maybe, maybe, if we’re already on a plane to Vietnam by tomorrow evening we’ll be able to hide for a couple years.”
Courtney’s frown stretches toward the floor.
“What about Sadie?” he says.
I bite my lip.
“Nothing would bring me more anguish than missing out on the rest of her life,” I say. “But if we don’t find those books . . .” I shake my head. “Better to be in hiding again than prison. Or dead.”
Courtney is still for a second. Can nearly hear the whirring of the calculator behind his eyes.
“Five in the morning,” I continue. “That’s when I say we give up. Drive to Denver International Airport. Can be on a plane by nine probably. We’ll call Sampson right before and tell him we’ll meet him in a few hours to buy us some time. By the time he realizes we’re not showing up we’ll be over the Atlantic.”
He shakes his head slowly.
“I don’t think I can leave,” he says.
“Don’t tell me this is because of her,” I growl.
“No. If we leave, this thing will just keep going. Nobody will know that Oliver is on the loose. He’ll just keep killing. If by tomorrow we have nothing, I’m going to the cops with everything. Pictures of Rico’s corpse. I’ll rat out Heald, they’ll go to the prison and confirm Oliver is gone—”
“You realize how dangerous that is, right?” I say. “Even on the slim chance that they believe you enough to investigate—that, best case, they find Oliver and pin everything on him—Sampson’s reputation will be ruined, and he’ll destroy you. He’ll try to say you stole the money from him, and will discredit you by bringing me into it. Will say you abetted an Interpol fugitive . . . I can’t even imagine the fallout from that.”
Courtney clenches his hands into sharp little fists.
“I know,” he says softly. “But the alternative . . . At the very least Oliver intends to kill two more people to finish binding his books. And if we know that and don’t do anything about it, we’re morally culpable.”
I rub my eyes.
“We didn’t ask to find this out,” I say. “We were just supposed to swap some cash for books.”
“We didn’t ask for it,” Courtney agrees. “But here we are.”
Mindy pulls in the blast door and walks out to join us in the hallway. There’s a wild look in her eyes.
“I need more time,” she says, “but this stuff is amazing.”
“What is it?” Courtney asks, before I can.
Mindy shakes her head in something like disbelief.
“I think . . . I mean it’s a lot of things. His writing always is. It’s less sophisticated than the writing in the books, so I’m making headway pretty fast. If I had to guess, he wrote this before the books. While he was still developing the nuances of his language—”
“But what does it say?” I blurt.
Mindy rubs her hair up out of her face, rolls her eyes like I can’t believe I have to work with this guy.
“It’s not the same content as the books. It’s some kind of story. Just one narrative.” Her voice is quivering with excitement. “He’s trying to figure the story out, but keeps reworking it. A lot of the characters and patterns repeat themselves, with slight variations—I think that’s him refining his thoughts.”
“What’s the story?”
She laughs way too hard. Kooky.
“I don’t think you understand how long it takes to decipher these things. So far I’ve spotted the prison symbol I showed you, that’s how they all start. He talks about prison, the books, dreams, money . . . Some of his favorite motifs, as we all know.”
“Can you show us?” I say.
Mindy nods, and we follow her back into the chamber.
“The pattern repeats itself over and over,” she says, taking us to one of the walls. “Here’s the prison symbol, I already showed you that.” Courtney and I nod, following her finger. “And here’s the books—” She points to a circle with lines shooting out from its circumference. Looks like a child’s sketch of a sun emitting rays.
“That doesn’t look like books,” Courtney says.
“Count the lines,” she says. “Twenty-four. With no beginning and no end. He uses this symbol sometimes in the books as a sort of hashtag equivalent, with one of the lines being longer to show that he’s alluding to something in another certain volume.”
Courtney’s eyes are wide.
“Okay,” he whispers. “What’s next?”
“Then this. The symbol which usually means dream, beside the one for money.”
I ignore the thumping in my temples and try to see what Mindy sees.
“I don’t see what you’re talking about,” I say. “Show us those two symbols again?”
She seems agitated. Wants us to leave so she can get back to studying this on her own.
“This is dream,” she says, tracing something that to me looks like a foot. “And here is money.” This one is what I’m sure is an animal’s head, with two horns protruding from either side.
“Whoa, whoa,” I say. “This is a symbolic language. How the hell does an animal face mean money?”
“It’s not all literal,” she says, an edge to her voice. Sounds like she’s regretting trying to explain anything to us. “Sometimes it does maintain the more literal meaning of cow, but sometimes it’s figurative. Money. Like cash cow.”
“And explain the dream?” Courtney says.
Mindy shakes her head.
“Honestly, I don’t have a clue what that’s supposed to be. But I’ve seen it several times before, and am pretty sure it means dream. In the books it’s often close to sleep and something that I think means imagine.” She steps back from the wall. “Give me four more hours here. I think I can get something more tangible about what he was trying to do here.”
Courtney scratches his scalp. I check out the symbols again. Like one of those 3-D Magic Eye puzzles it takes me a while of staring before I spot the white and black symbols Mindy pointed out to us just a moment before.
Prison. Dream. Money/Cow.
My stomach drops.
“Mindy . . .” I swallow. “How sure are you he wrote this before the books? At least twenty years ago?”
“Not certain, of course, but as I said, this is much simpler than the content of the books. It really looks like a precursor.”
I turn to face the two of them.
“I don’t think that symbol means either money or cow.”
Mindy raises an eyebrow.
“Perhaps you’d like to fact check my thesis as well?” she asks.
“I think the symbol represents Senator James Henry Sampson,” I say. “Oliver’s eventual money source, but also a dairy farmer.”
&
nbsp; Mindy is silent for a second. A little hiss of air from between Courtney’s teeth.
“And the dream,” I say. “It well could mean any old generic dream in other places. But what does it that picture like to you two?”
Mindy says nothing. She’s staring again at the symbols behind me.
“A foot,” Courtney says.
“A foot?” I say. “Or a heel.”
Courtney’s eyes go wide.
“Sampson’s dream . . .” he whispers.
I nod.
“What if this isn’t a fictional story? What if this was Oliver Vicks’s whiteboard? His planning. His to-do list. What he’s refining here is his plan. Mindy, does that make sense?”
She doesn’t respond for a while. Retraces the symbols with her pinky. Her hand is shaking a little.
“What was Sampson’s dream?” she says finally.
“It’s the recurring dream he had that Oliver eventually interpreted for him,” I say. “That someone was behind him, dragging him down into the water, by his heel. He never told you about that?”
She shakes her head slightly.
“No,” she says softly.
“So what do you think about Frank’s idea?” Courtney says. “Could these be his plans?”
“Can’t rule it out,” she replies distantly. “Give me more time. A few more hours at least and I’ll be able to tell you.”
Courtney turns to me.
“What do you say Frank?” he asks. “I’m not sure if we have any leads better than what’s written on these walls.”
In response I pull the Gideon Bible from the hotel out of my backpack. Didn’t make it to the part about theft last night.
“I’m not sure about that,” I say, turning to my earmarked page. “I was reading through this last night. About Joseph. It’s increasingly clear to me just how obsessed Sophnot was with this story. I’d like to speak to a pastor or something. I know I’m missing all the nuance of this story. Maybe we can find someone while you’re working on this, Mindy. We’ll come back to pick you up after.”
“Fine,” she says, not seeming to care what we’re doing, as long as she gets her solo time with the drawings. “Courtney, go with him. I need to work on this alone.”
“We can’t leave you alone here,” he says. “He could come back at any time.”
She snorts.
“Yeah, I’m just a helpless woman. What would I do without my two men here to protect me? Leave me a gun. I’ve got as much of a chance of killing him as you do.”
“She’s got a point, Courtney.”
Courtney pulls his Magnum from his ankle holster and hands it to her.
“You know how to use this?” he asks.
“Not really,” she asks. “Explain it to me. Where does the bullet come out?”
He actually starts to answer her. She rolls her eyes, snatches the gun from him and slides it into the back of her pants.
“I lived with a Republican Senator for seven years,” she says. “It would be pretty pathetic if I hadn’t learned to use a gun all that time.”
Courtney nods.
“Call if you find anything, or need anything. And we’ll be back to pick you up in four hours, right? So one this afternoon?”
“Make it two,” she says.
“Okay.”
They look like they might kiss, but then they both overthink it, and settle on a hug that’s so awkward I have to turn away. As we walk to the door he even turns and seems to consider giving her another wave good-bye. I put my hand on his hip and push him out into the velvet-padded hallway.
“You were reading the Bible last night?” Courtney asks.
“Yeah. While you were lying naked in bed with a girl, out of wedlock.”
Courtney sniffs.
“It was pretty dense,” I continue. “But I picked out enough to realize what we’re dealing with.”
We’re out the front door. The fresh air is a relief.
“What do you mean? I read the whole Bible myself, but it’s been years.”
“I mean, last night I kept thinking about how important that story must have been to Sophnot, but I didn’t realize how important until just now. We saw the superficial similarities before: prison, dreams, his nickname, but that was a whole other level.”
“What do you mean?” he says.
I savor his question. It’s great to be one step ahead of him for once.
“The cow thing. I guess you haven’t read the story in a while. Pharaoh’s dream? Seven lean cows and seven fat cows came out of the Nile. That was the dream that Joseph was pulled out of prison to interpret. The cow/dream imagery drove it home. There’s no doubt that Oliver Vicks is obsessed with this story. He sees himself as a kindred spirit of this biblical character. And now I think it’s clear he might have even been planning things based on those passages.”
Courtney sniffs.
“Interesting.”
“So I thought if we could find a pastor or—”
“No,” Courtney says. “Genesis is part of the Old Testament. It was originally written in Hebrew, as you know. If we want someone familiar with the original language, and I think we do, considering Oliver was a bit of a linguistic purist as well, we need a rabbi.”
Anybody else would be lording this correction over me. Courtney is an impartial as a spellchecker.
“Fine,” I say. “A rabbi. Anything else, hotshot?”
“I wasn’t going to say anything, because I know you’re tired,” he says, “But if we’re going to meet a Bible scholar, I feel obligated to tell you that your fly has been open since we left the hotel.”
Courtney drives while I look up the numbers of synagogues in Denver. I’m surprised at how many Google results we get. The first five numbers don’t answer, and then I call something called the Chabad of Denver—the guy answers on the first ring. I put the devil machine on speaker for Courtney.
“Chabad of Denver,” he says. He’s clearly on a cell phone, somewhere busy.
“Hi, um, my name is Ben . . . I’m in the Denver area and, this might sound like a weird request, but I had some very specific questions about the Old Testament.”
The guy chuckles. “Why is that weird? Go ahead—what’s on your mind?”
“I . . .” I pause. “Are you a rabbi?”
“I am.”
“So could you explain the story of Joseph to me? Like, in serious detail?”
“That’s my job.”
“Listen, is there any way we could meet in person? I—we—will come wherever you want. It’s just that this might get detailed. We’re happy to pay or whatever. Not sure how it works.”
Another chuckle. “Sure. How’s next Tuesday? I’m free from two to four in the afternoon.”
I grind my teeth.
“It’s actually somewhat urgent. If there was any way we could possibly meet now that would be . . .”
“Say no more. Um . . . yeah today is pretty crazy but if you want to come to my house right now I can speak.”
I raise an eyebrow at Courtney. This dude is inviting two strangers to his house?
“Perfect. Where is it?”
“32 Madcock. When can you be here?”
“Um.” I put it into Google maps.
“Twenty minutes, okay?” I say. “We’ll drive as fast as we can.”
“No need for that. See you in twenty. Looking forward.”
The brick house is modest. One story. Tiny, token yard. Minivan parked in the driveway, alongside a tricycle. Netless basketball hoop.
I ring the bell and the door opens inward almost immediately to reveal a sixty-something man who’s positively beaming. His beard is reddish, with a lot of white. He has a black velvet skullcap and side locks. Wearing a white button-down tucked into black slacks. White strings—the kind I’ve seen before on religious Jews, but don’t understand—are emerging from a few spots on his black leather belt. Source unknown.
“Rabbi Yisroel Lieberman,” he says, smiling, and shoots out a pale
white hand. “Call me Yisroel.”
“I’m Ben,” I say, “and this is my friend Lenny.”
Lenny sounds more Jewish than Leonard, right?
These names seem to please him immensely.
“Wonderful. Come on in.”
“Should we take off our shoes?” Courtney asks.
“No, no, don’t worry about it.”
We’re in a small living room that’s attached to a dining room. Something is cooking in the kitchen that smells like stew. The floor is littered with kids’ toys. Besides that, there’s a ratty green couch, and books. So many books. Every wall, from floor to ceiling, is bookcases. I take a closer look at one and realize that almost none of them are in English.
“Take a seat.” Yisroel gestures to the couch. We sit. “You want anything to drink? Tea?”
“No thanks,” I demur. I turn to Courtney, assuming he’s about to take the rabbi up on his offer. But am shocked when he declines:
“No, thank you,” he says. “Let’s get right to the business.”
“Of course.” Yisroel plops down across from us. “So . . . Yoseph?”
“Beg your pardon?” I ask.
Just then a door closes and a woman walks out of somewhere. Must be his wife. About the same age. Thick glasses, no skin visible below the neck besides her hands.
“Hi,” she says. “Can I get you something to eat or drink? Tea?”
“I already offered, Rivka,” Yisroel says.
But this time Courtney can’t resist:
“Actually, tea would be wonderful,” Courtney says.
“I’m fine.” I smile at her.
She steps into the kitchen.
“Sorry, Yoseph is the ancient Hebrew pronunciation of ‘Joseph,’” Yisroel explains. “Or really, I should say that Joseph is the English equivalent of the real way of saying it.”
“Ah.” Courtney nods. “The Y often turns into J right? Like Jehovah?”
The rabbi winces.
“Exactly. We don’t use that word, actually, but you’re right. Anyways. What about the story can I help you with? And, if you don’t mind me asking, why do you so urgently need to understand this Bible story? Thesis due tomorrow?”
I smile.
“Nothing like that. I . . .” I struggle for a moment to come up with a plausible lie. Then realize at this point, might as well just tell him the truth. “We’re detectives. Private investigators. And we’re searching for someone who seems to have taken a great interest in the story of Joseph. He even insists on being called Sophnot. You’re familiar with that name?”
