The Book of Names

by Jill Gregory

  “Death and rebirth. Destruction and renewal,” Yael said as David’s stomach went queasy from the tempura and the cloying veil of vanilla. Yael leaned toward him, dropping her voice. “Exactly what the Gnoseos plan to accomplish on a worldwide scale. By killing the Lamed Vovniks,” she whispered. “Are you finally starting to believe me?”

  The rain seemed suddenly to intensify, sending hail clattering like bullets against the door.

  Lost in thought for a moment, no one heard the two sets of footsteps skulking down the back stairs of the shop.

  David sat wondering why Rabbi ben Moshe had kept this tower card locked with the High Priest’s gemstone and the other items in his safe.

  The old woman was the first to break the silence. She returned the card to David, scrutinizing his face in the dimness.

  “You have so many questions. Perhaps your answers wait in the cards.” With a hopeful smile, she held the deck out toward Yael.

  “Go ahead, dear. Shuffle them. I’ll tell you what they have to say.”

  Yael shook her head, rising abruptly from her chair in the same instant that David caught movement behind the beaded curtain. Not the cat—a hulking figure with pale hair.

  Intense danger crackled through him. “Go!” he yelled, shoving Yael toward the door. She flung it open only a split second before two figures charged into the room.

  The blond man threw the old woman against a wall. A beefy Hispanic raised his gun. It blazed fire as a bullet sang past David’s ear, but he was already outside, bounding up the steps after Yael. They dashed into utter darkness, followed by the old woman’s screams.

  The city was black, completely black—drenched and deserted and filled with thunder.

  Thank God for the darkness, David thought as he grabbed Yael’s hand and they raced blindly up the street, hampered by the drag of the deep swirling puddles.

  “This way.” As splashing footsteps gained on them, Yael veered left suddenly, pulling him with her. They ducked down the stairway of a brownstone. Crouching in water nearly to their knees, they struggled to control their rasping breath. Fear gouged through David’s stomach as they huddled in the opaque darkness like two rats in a gutter. He slipped a hand inside his pocket, reassuring himself that the gemstones were still secure.

  Just above them, at street level, heavy footsteps pounded past, splaying water off unseen shoes into David and Yael’s eyes.

  They held their breath, cold with fear, waiting. Waiting . . .

  A full minute passed before they exhaled and tentatively crept up from their hiding place. Quickly they forded the street, hugging close to the buildings on the other side, grateful for the cover of darkness as they wove their way back to the hotel.

  “How did they find us?” Yael whispered, finally daring to speak once they slipped inside the Riverside Tower.

  “Maybe there’s more of them than we know about. They could be all over the city.” Cautiously, David felt his way down the pitch black hallway until he found the indented surface of an exit door. “Good thing we’re not on the top floor,” he muttered as they trudged blindly, single file, up the stairs.

  Descending footsteps. They froze, relaxing only when they heard a woman speaking in soft, bracing tones to a whimpering child.

  Pressing themselves against the wall, they let the pair pass and then continued their climb in silence.

  David’s sodden duffel seemed a hundred pounds heavier as they crested the next landing. He felt like he was carrying the weight of the world.

  And if everything he’d learned today was true, he was.

  Dillon stared out into darkness so inky, he couldn’t tell if he was looking at the sky or the ocean. Most of his fellow travelers were asleep in the airliner’s dimly lit cabin, but he felt wide awake. And in need of a double Glenmorangie.

  The last time he’d seen Bishop Ellsworth, they’d been at a conference in Rome set to coincide with Easter week. The bishop had sought him out, taking several minutes to praise Dillon’s latest book. But Ellsworth had spent more time talking about the project he’d launched in his diocese—a Saturday morning bible breakfast for at-risk boys.

  Dillon’s eyes narrowed as he leaned back in his seat, picturing the ruby ring Ellsworth had worn that day, remembering how it glimmered in the sunlight on the piazza as he gestured enthusiastically.

  At the time, Dillon had no idea of the history behind that gem. It would be years before he discovered its importance. And it wasn’t until David brought a similar one to his attention that he realized what he had to do—starting with convincing David to go to Brooklyn.

  Everything was coming together now.

  He searched deep within himself for something he’d long ago subjugated—the anger that had consumed him as a scrappy kid in Boston, the cold rage he’d felt when his father belted him, when his mother fled the room. He needed to feel that rage again now. To use it.

  He was prepared to use every means necessary to see this battle through.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  FLAGSTAFF, ARIZONA

  THE NEXT DAY

  Hutch set the pot on the burner and ignited the gas beneath it. He still preferred to perk his coffee the old-fashioned way, and always threw in a few extra measures of grounds no matter how many cups he was brewing.

  As the TV blared bad news from the shelf in the corner, he cracked eggs into a skillet and tossed in some chopped bacon. But his mind wasn’t on the food. It was on the two guests sharing the spare bedroom at the back of the cabin.

  He’d carried Stacy in during the dead of night and told Meredith to call him immediately, no matter the time, if they needed him. He’d heard the girl call out in her sleep several times throughout the night, but Meredith’s voice had always followed, calming her. It was nearly noon, and he hadn’t heard a sound from the guest bedroom in the past two hours.

  He’d thought David would have been in touch at first light, but he hadn’t called. Hutch had been hitting redial the entire morning without reaching his friend, and now CNN was telling him why.

  “. . . the five boroughs and parts of New Jersey remain without electric power today, following the unprecedented thunderstorm that dumped more than eleven inches of rain along the East Coast last night. Lightning strikes hit the central power station, causing havoc similar to the August 2003, power grid failure. Yesterday’s storm also knocked out cellular communication, and officials tell us that even once the power is back on, it may take weeks to pump the flood water from the subway system. . . .”

  The voice droned on as Hutch dumped his eggs onto a plate. Until David bailed out of New York, there was nothing to do but sit tight, protect Stacy and Meredith, and keep Meredith from freaking the kid out even more than she already had.

  “I smell smoke.”

  Hutch wheeled at the sound of the girl’s voice. She stood in the kitchen doorway, her shoulder-length hair tousled and her eyes still red from crying. She wore the same gray sweatpants and t-shirt she’d worn in the car.

  “The wildfires are far away, honey. It’s just the smoke that travels. What can I get you for breakfast? Eggs? Or are you a cereal lover?”

  “I want to talk to David,” Stacy said tremulously.

  So do I, thought Hutch.

  “When he called yesterday asking me to go get you, he was in Brooklyn. A real bad storm hit the whole of New York yesterday.”

  Hutch nodded toward the television, where images of New Yorkers trying to negotiate flooded city streets played across the screen. “It’s blown out all their power, Stace, and even the cell towers there aren’t working. We’ll have to sit tight and wait a while for David to get in touch with us.”

  “I don’t understand what’s going on.” Her voice was small, and Hutch saw that the fear had crept back into her eyes. “There’s wildfires here, and floods in New York. So weird.”

  Stacy went to the window and stared at the smoke rising from the distant orange glow along the horizon. She turned back to Hutch with tears br
imming in her eyes.

  “Hutch—I can’t stop thinking about all the animals caught in the fire. Can any of them escape?”

  Hutch cleared his throat. “Sometimes they can.”

  “What about the other times?” She fell silent for a moment. “I don’t know why God lets that happen.”

  Looking into those hazel eyes was like looking into clear pools of pain. Raw hurt etched the girl’s innocent young face. He wished he had an answer for her.

  “I don’t know as much about God as maybe I should,” he said at last. “But I sure know a lot about cooking eggs. Scrambled, poached, or sunny side up, young lady?”

  Stacy swallowed hard and pressed the back of her hands against her damp eyes. “Scrambled, I guess.” She turned back to the window, her gaze fixed on the glow in the distance.

  “How long do you think it’ll take them to put out the fires?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  NEW YORK

  It had taken David every bit of two hours to walk through the crowded streets to Judd Wanamaker’s office. All of New York seemed to be on its sidewalks, huddled around radios, hunting for food or for a working ATM—not to mention looking for some hint of when power and normalcy would be restored.

  David hurried along in their midst, keeping a wary eye on those around him, his senses on full alert until he reached the safety of the UN—only to find the building dark and in lockdown.

  He stood outside cursing at his useless cell phone. And it didn’t help that the hotel’s phone system was down. No matter how many times he’d tried to reach Judd or Hutch, it had been impossible.

  Frustrated and angry, David could only hope Stacy was safe with Hutch. With a knot tightening around his heart, he wondered if he’d ever see her again.

  There was nothing to do but head back to the hotel. He hadn’t gone more than a few blocks though, when the lure of pastries arrayed in a bakery storefront drew him inside. The shop was packed, lit only by daylight.

  “They’re all yesterday’s,” the clerk announced when he reached the counter. “Everything’s on sale, three for the price of one. When they’re gone, so am I. Can’t bake a thing until we get some juice back.”

  David bought a half dozen muffins, several slices of biscotti, and a two-liter bottle of warming Coke, then ducked back out into the sodden streets. Though the water had receded overnight, road traffic was still eerily sparse. He glanced warily around as he continued to the hotel, still wondering how their attackers had found them last night.

  There had to be a thousand tarot readers in New York—how had the Dark Angels known they were there? It had been a spur of the moment decision.

  Unless we were followed from the restaurant. From inside Yotsuba. If the Dark Angels had spotted them dining with Judd, Wanamaker could be in danger, too.

  And there was no way to warn him—any more than there was a way to warn the remaining Lamed Vovniks of their own danger. He couldn’t even be sure that he knew all of their names—or if some were still locked in his head.

  For the first time he felt a real pull to get to Safed. His only weapons against the Gnoseos were the names in his head, in his journal. He didn’t have Yael’s knowledge or contacts, or Rabbi ben Moshe’s wisdom, he had only the reverberations of an experience that defied rational explanation. If the city of Safed was as sacred and mystical as Yael claimed, it might shake loose the voices of those souls who had begged him to remember them.

  His strides lengthened. He was glad for the chance to walk, to loosen his muscles, to clear his head. It seemed like ages, not just five days, since he’d beaten Tom at squash. He couldn’t believe how his life had turned inside-out since then.

  Now he was a fugitive, holed up in a steamy hotel room, incommunicado, and going insane. The hotel room seemed to be shrinking by the moment, yet Yael hadn’t complained once. She’d been more than willing to stay put this morning while he ventured out for his passport. Meredith would have been climbing the walls while kvetching that they were closing in on her.

  Hutch must have his hands full, he thought, scanning the stairwell before he began the climb. If he has them.

  He has to have them.

  The sound of voices from the other side of the hotel room door stopped David cold. He leaned closer, heard a male voice, and thrust the card key into the lock. He shoved open the door and found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  VILLA CASA DELLA FALCONARA, SICILY

  The prime minister’s butler stepped onto the terrace where DiStefano and his wife tarried in their silk lounging robes over their usual breakfast of small cookies and espresso.

  “Scusi, Signore e Signora.” He turned to the prime minister with a slight bow, his tone apologetic. “A young man from the village has begged to see you. He is most insistent. He claims his mother worked in the kitchens here when you were in the army and I do remember the woman. It is his belief that you are the only one who can help him.”

  DiStefano snapped his newspaper closed and set it beside his plate as his wife sipped her espresso. “You may show him in, Carlo,” he said with a shrug.

  Mario Bonfiglio burst onto the terrace, urgency etched in his swarthy face. The muscles of his laborer’s body were bunched cords of tension, reminding DiStefano of a mountain cat primed to pounce.

  “Mi displace—I am sorry, Eccellenza, I would not come to you if I were not so desperate. The police, they do nothing, know nothing. My fiancée’s family and I live in daily torture.” He swallowed thickly and continued, sweating beneath the keen gaze of the prime minister and the cool inspection of his wife.

  “Your fiancée?” The prime minister prompted.

  “Si, my Irina, my love, my heart. We were to marry last week. But she disappeared. Her father sent her on an errand to the post office and she never returned. We have searched, signore—the farms, the fields, everywhere. The police shrug and do nothing. They laugh and tell me she probably eloped with someone else. I know this is not true, my Irina and I were sworn to each other. We could not wait to get married and start a family.”

  “What is it you think I can do that the police can’t?” The prime minister regarded him quizzically.

  “You could order the police to investigate her disappearance, Eccellenza—and to notify the surrounding towns. It’s been three weeks since she vanished and we’ve lost precious time. Please, if you order them, they will help us look for her.” He stretched out his hands, beseeching the prime minister’s wife as she set down her cup.

  “Signora, you know what love is like. It is glorious and painful all at the same time. I need my love back. Something terrible has happened to her. She would never leave me.”

  Mario searched the woman’s face for sympathy, compassion. He saw only the coolness of her steely blue eyes and upswept golden hair. She set down her napkin and rose with a smile as thin as a razor blade.

  “Ah, but sometimes love is fickle, young man. And sometimes love flees. Perhaps your Irina does not wish to be found.”

  Anger flashed in Mario’s face. His eyes burned like two obsidian coals, but he restrained himself from speaking with disrespect.

  As Flora Dondi swept past him and into the house, he turned the power of his gaze to her husband. “Never,” he said in a low tone. “Never would my Irina leave me willingly.”

  “I am sorry for you.” The prime minister leaned forward and Mario was relieved beyond words to see the concern on his dignified face. “If you will write down your name and your fiancée’s and her father’s and the date she disappeared, I will demand the police investigate fully—and leave no vineyard or village unsearched.” DiStefano held out a pen and called for the butler to bring paper.

  “You did well to come here, my son,” he said, after Mario scribbled the information and gratefully pushed the paper across the tablecloth.

  DiStefano stood to offer his hand. Mario pumped his benefactor’s beefy palm with joy. Hope surged through him and he silently
thanked the Madonna for giving him the courage to come here.

  “Bless you, Signore. Bless you.” He nearly toppled a chair as he spun from the terrace and toward the butler who ushered him out.

  DiStefano plucked up the paper and glanced at the thickly written words. A moment later he pulled a silver monogrammed cigarette lighter from the pocket of his robe. He glanced for a moment at the double ouroboros engraved upon it before he ignited the flame and incinerated Mario Bonfiglio’s hopes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  David’s hand clamped the barrel of the gun as he tried to twist it aside. But the gunman had an iron grip, belying his short stature. Before he could pull the trigger, David thrust a shoulder into the man’s broad chest, knocking him off-balance. They went down together, grappling for control of the gun as the bakery bag went flying and David’s duffel slammed into his back.

  “Lo Avi!” Yael shouted in Hebrew. “No, don’t shoot, it’s David!”

  David’s fist paused in midair as her words registered. Avi. The adrenaline that had been charging through him at the sight of the gun ebbed, but his heart was still racing.

  Shit. He relaxed his hold on the weapon and heaved himself to his feet. His opponent staggered up, also scowling.

  “What the hell kind of greeting is that?” David demanded, glaring at the short, wiry-haired Israeli before him.

  “In my line of work, it’s the way we stay alive,” the man rejoined in calm, accented English.

  Yael bolted the door and picked up the bakery bag. “If you’re done trying to kill each other, can we catch David up on what you’ve told me?”

  Avi extended a hand. “You handle yourself well.” The Israeli had reddish hair, sideburns, and the darkest eyes David had ever seen. There was a toughness in his stance and Ashkenazic features, an air of confidence and strength.