Field of Blood

by Wilson, Eric

  Using tiny pairs of legs to hook into the epidermal surface, she injected a dose of anesthetizing toxin—similar to that in a Collector’s saliva—and began her withdrawal. Erota knew a female tick was capable of absorbing one to two hundred times her own body mass in fresh blood, and she fed with glutinous abandon.

  Drink till you’re full, till you can take no more in, till you’ve reached the point of bursting, and then drink, drink, drink some more.

  This was how tick-borne encephalitis found its way into the body. She’d read about it. TBE, a growing threat across Europe, incubated for days and then manifested itself in headaches, dripping sinuses, fever, and/or aching joints. Eventually, long-term neurological complications could arise.

  Drink till you’re bloated . . .

  Warm and thick. Intoxicating.

  Erota had supped from numerous sources over the years, and so she never took for granted a free-flowing stream such as this. It was a blessed reprieve from the contaminated veins in Ukraine or the chemical sludge that crept through the drug-addicted. She could still remember the acrid morsel of HIV virus that had filled her mouth during their first attack outside the Akeldama.

  A mercy killing. She and the others had put the man out of his misery.

  And already, thousands of Romanian orphans were rumored to have a rare strain of the same virus. All mysteriously infected in 1989. The reported epidemic was cause for the Akeldama Cluster’s celebration.

  Drink, drink, drink . . .

  Erota tucked deeper into the pores of this Israeli woman. She dis-covered robust flavor. It was apparent that Dalia had taken care of basic nutritional needs and avoided artery-clogging cholesterol. Regardless, Erota knew she would leave here in an hour or two dissatisfied. Stretched to her limit, a vampire with flushed skin and distended belly, she would find her-self longing for more.

  She was insatiable, inconsolable.

  Where was the cup that could quench her once and for all?

  She’d found sickness, in subtle traces, working its way through the bodies of all she dined upon. Even from the healthiest of victims, sustenance was temporary, wetting the tongue, the throat, then hanging her out to dry.

  The thorn’s content in the chapel?

  It had slaked her thirst for an entire day at best.

  More fleeting still were regular meat and drink. She was no longer Separated from the physical rapture of flavors upon her tongue; yet each swallow funneled through a digestive tract that broke down and dissolved things in minutes. Food simply disintegrated within this undead vessel.

  Thus, as a revenant, Erota had no need to excrete waste—for which she was grateful, considering her acute sense of smell—but her shell ran on eternal empty.

  Only blood, that vital fluid, could be absorbed and put to use.

  Whiffs of Nazarene Blood were the most torturous, hinting at some-thing dense and rich, something fortifying for Those Who Resist. While for her and the other Collectors, that substance was anathema. Would she ever forget the crumbling remains of crooked-smiled Salome? Or Shelamzion’s wails of grief ?

  These thoughts only added up to a migraine.

  Well, it was no use ruminating on such matters. They were not open for discussion in the Houses of Eros or Ariston, and disgruntled members learned to keep their mouths shut. Except for when they were feeding.

  The tick kept burrowing. Erota kept drinking, swelling.

  She also injected a poison of her own. Soon, a thorny tangle would take root in Dalia’s body, exploiting her flaws and filtering blood for the nourishment, albeit temporary, of the Akeldama Cluster.

  Benyamin had twenty-five minutes till his off-hours appointment at Café Focsani, near Reconcilierii Park. During communism’s heyday, men in high places and low had learned to take advantage of under-the-table opportunities, and such transactions continued to be business as usual.

  Turn a blind eye. Shake hands. Pass along a wad of Romanian lei.

  Why not? So long as no one was hurt.

  He thought of Dalia and Dov. If he could skim off enough money from this exchange, he would take them to Sinaia for winter holidays. How remarkable it would be to ski the Bucegi mountains together or to stroll through Peles Castle’s grandeur. Dalia would also want to see the town’s famed monastery, and of course he would oblige her.

  Farewell to his demons. He was making a fresh start.

  Before departing city hall, Benyamin sat in the locked office and field-stripped his pistol. This Makarov PM was his companion, a semiautomatic with an eight-round magazine. The pistol’s weight reduced recoil and provided greater accuracy.

  Best to be prepared, he figured. Be cautious.

  The truth was, people were hurt during such transactions. Why should he trust anyone willing to violate the established rules of democracy?

  He dismantled the gun, removed the grips, and used steaming water from a plug-in coffeemaker to clean the components. The weapon was inexpensive and easy to use, but susceptible to corrosive salts.

  It had other idiosyncrasies, as well. With a free-floating firing pin, there was the danger of an accidental discharge if dropped on its muzzle, and it was unwise to engage the safety lever while the hammer was cocked, since this action would cause the hammer to drop.

  Stories circulated of men who had shot off their toes this way. Other parts too. Though Benyamin was sure those were only rumors.

  He completed his task, loaded 9x18mm ammo, then pulled back the slide and engaged the safety. Ready to go. He holstered the Makarov, a grin splitting his face as he slipped his arms into his jacket. Already, he could taste that brisk mountain air.

  Beneath Dalia’s arm, lost in a near-microscopic world of survival, Erota was unable to judge the passing of the hours. She sensed voicelike vibrations along the ribs, a steady drone, and assumed the woman was speaking. Perhaps she’d stopped by the Arad Synagogue to utter piyyutim, penitential prayers, for her ice-cream escapade.

  Beautiful guilt. A razor in an apple.

  Didn’t the Christian Bible speak of a guilt that led to death? It was a cancer that fed on itself, one that Collectors had tasted of and learned to nurture in others. Not that it needed much upon which to thrive. It was a resilient little beast.

  Erota backed out from Dalia’s pore. Time, she decided, to find her way back to her own slumbering body on the bench in Avram Iancu Square.

  One problem: as a tick, she had no idea of her present whereabouts. Her sensory clues consisted of little more than hair follicles, pungent smells, and varying temperatures. Road signs were beyond her range of comprehension.

  Where was she now?

  At 986 Armpit Avenue, just north of Flab Circle.

  To return to the park bench, she could always hop onboard another human, but there would be no guarantee of going in the right direction. From her tiny perspective, she could look for an animal—a squirrel, or a fluttering sparrow—and hope to guide it, using visual markers from her knowledge of the city.

  But what if the squirrel was struck by a car? While it was only the loss of a permanent host that resulted in banishment, Erota would still be left floating in the ether, navigating shadows and capricious wind currents on her trek to the plaza.

  This was why she avoided using secondary hosts. Too many drawbacks.

  Since modern history’s beginning on this pathetic celestial sphere, many Collectors had cashed in on the human species’ advantages. There was nothing more efficient and flexible than a two-legger with half a brain.

  It was settled, then. She detected nearing warmth, saw an outline that looked promising. Her legs gripped the cloth of Mrs. Amit’s coat and prepared for the jump.

  The tick showed no interest.

  Now, she directed. Go. Don’t just sit here.

  The warmth faded as the outline moved on by. Maybe the gap had exceeded the tick’s ability. Then the hard-bodied creature was descending, down, down, down, until Erota found herself on a vast expanse of cloth that tossed like an ocean
wave, back and forth.

  The fringe of the woman’s dress? That had to be it.

  Another figure approached, brushing alongside in splotched shades of rust and dark brown. The heat grew intense, as measured through Erota’s sensory organs. She peered across the divide and decided this must be a cat.

  She made visual contact with a pair of yellow feline eyes—Please, let me ride along—and found unreserved acceptance.

  She was in. Good-bye, tick. Hello, tomcat.

  Yellow Eyes needed no help finding his way through the late afternoon foot traffic. He padded along, slinking beneath parked vehicles, hissing at children who crossed his path. He owned the alleyways and low brick walls. At least one other cat showed signs of hosting a Collector, and Erota figured that the local cluster must be making good use of the numerous animals prowling the streets.

  At last. There was the war monument, the square, the park bench.

  And Domna.

  “You’re a pretty thing,” Domna said, leaning down to scratch the cat’s chin, her cleavage visible in a low-cut blouse. “Sis, I hope that’s you. I’ve been fighting off these Latin lover boys for two hours now.”

  Yellow Eyes snubbed Domna’s kindness and sprang instead into the lap of Erota’s slouched body. Nothing like door-to-door service.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Arad

  “Cal Nichols?”

  “Just Nickel.”

  “Buna seara.” Benyamin switched to English. “I didn’t expect you here.”

  He perused Café Focsani’s seating area, where candles burned in bronze holders on lacquered tables, and dark chocolate and coffee aromas permeated the air. In the corner, a couple was deep in conversation, with eyes only for each other.

  “Good to see you too, man. Thanks for showing up.”

  “You still look like a kid.”

  “The secret’s in good hair products,” Nickel said. “Buy stock now.”

  “Hmmph.”

  “Don’t be a stranger. Here, take a seat. I won’t bite.”

  Bite? The word triggered latent fears, heightened by a flare of pain in Benyamin’s ankle. He transferred his distrust onto this foreigner with the flaxen hair and the face of eternal youth. He lowered himself into a seat, wary, yet comforted by the pistol nuzzled beneath his left arm.

  After ordering, the two men faced each other over iced espresso drinks.

  “Why did you come here?” Benyamin asked.

  “Same reason as you. To work a deal.”

  “On the phone, you had me fooled. You sounded Romanian.”

  “Hey, in my line of work, you use whatever’ll get someone’s attention. You have any idea how hard it is to nab a minute of someone’s time nowadays? Shoot, I’d speak Pygmy to an Eskimo if that’s what it took.”

  “Everyone’s busy trying to survive,” Benyamin said.

  “Survive?” Nickel snorted. “If people only knew how easy they had it. Hundred years ago, we didn’t even know what a car was. Electric stoves? Forget it. A shower every stinkin’ day? Not a chance.”

  “You Americans and your preoccupation with bathing.”

  “All part of our puritanical background. Cleanliness is next to godliness.”

  “Now you sound like my wife.”

  “It was a joke, Mr. Amit. A touch of irony.”

  “Ironing?”

  “Always a good idea,” Nickel gibed. “If you’re dressing for success.”

  Benyamin furrowed his brow and took a long draw from his glass. What was the purpose of this rendezvous? What was Cal Nichols up to?

  He noted a JanSport daypack tucked beneath the American’s chair. The man had to be in his late twenties by now, yet he hadn’t aged a day since their meeting on the shores at Ein Bokek. He was wearing Converse tennis shoes, Bugle Boy jeans, and a T-shirt that read: All who wander are not lost . . . J. R. R. Tolkien.

  “I would like to know how you found me.”

  Nickel stabbed at his own chest with a thumb. “Intel broker, remember? I can track down just about anyone or anything.”

  “Tell me, does this have to do with our findings at the Dead Sea?”

  “Wow. You’re good.”

  “I want no part of it,” Benyamin said. “Those are images I’d rather forget.”

  “Me too.”

  “Then why’re you here, Nickel?”

  “Forgetting is not always an option.” The kid fetched a leather pouch from his pack, slid it across the table. “Go ahead, and take a look.”

  Benyamin loosened the drawstring. Removed a jeweled armband.

  Hammered from gold, the thick, open-ended hoop had a dull gleam. Precious gems studded the exterior, capturing beams from the overhead track lighting and refracting them in prismatic shapes across the table’s dark surface. Benyamin was no appraiser, but the vibrant colors and clarity indicated these were rubies and diamonds worth more than he could earn in a lifetime.

  “It’s stunning,” he said.

  “It doesn’t belong here.”

  “I agree.” Benyamin handed the pouch back, tossing a glance over his shoulder. The café was still virtually empty. “It should be locked in a safe.”

  “It should be back in Jerusalem. But where do you think I found it, huh? Any guesses? Right here-o in your own backyard-o.”

  “I’m not sure I understand. I live in an apartment.”

  “Ha! That’s good. You’re a funny guy.”

  Benyamin stared straight ahead.

  “No.” Nickel backpedaled. “What I meant is that the armband was used to buy an old vineyard near Lipova, maybe twenty miles . . . uh, let’s see, thirty kilometers from here.” He opened a folder of recon photos. “You ever been to the ruins of Soimos? You can see the property from up there. The purchaser’s name was Mr. Flavius Totorcea, but I’d betcha that’s a cover. I mean, how does a Romanian winemaker end up with an artifact like this?”

  “Maybe he’s into antiques. He could be a collector.”

  “A Collector.” Nickel barked out a wry laugh. “Yeah, you got that right.”

  Benyamin scratched his heel against a table leg and wondered if the bar served anything stronger than this coffee concoction.

  “I’m in places all around the world, my eyes peeled for certain things—well, one thing in particular.” Nickel waved his hand, as though to wipe that statement from the air. “I’ve held Templar relics, Egyptian treasure, and trinkets of the tsars. But this baby here, it’s unique. Experts took a look and dated it to the first century AD, even isolated clay and lime particles matching the soil’s properties there.”

  “Where? What soil?”

  “The Field of Blood. In the Valley of Hinnom. The very place that Norwegian kid bulldozed into before getting torn apart. His work buddy—you remember Thiago, the Brazilian?—he turned up the day after you and I talked. Even worse shape than the kid. Missing an eye. Throat ripped out. His body wasn’t far from the tombs, buried under a coupla inches of dirt.”

  “Please tell me you apprehended the culprit.”

  “Culprits. With an s. There were eighteen individual bite patterns.”

  “Eighteen?”

  “Pretty sick, huh?”

  “There should be a separate chamber of hell for such people.”

  “Prisons of darkness,” Nickel mumbled.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s a passage from the book of Jude.”

  “Not familiar with it. Tell me this: have the killers been locked away?”

  The shake of the intel broker’s head was nearly imperceptible.

  “What?” Benyamin narrowed his eyes. “It’s over seven years already.”

  “Longer than that,” Nickel said. “We’ve been at this for ages.”

  “We?”

  The American seemed to recede behind his words. His green-eyed gaze slid away, as though fleeing mistakes he would rather forget.

  Chattanooga

  Gina decided to keep her pregnancy a secret
for now. She wasn’t sure what Jed’s reaction would be, and her mother could wait for the news. Much less complicated this way.

  With that settled, Gina worked through her list of morning errands. She picked up stamps at the post office, took a lunch to Jed—who, big surprise, had forgotten his bag on the kitchen counter—and stopped for an everything bagel and coffee.

  No caffeine, of course. She was going to do this right.

  No more liquor or beer, either, which was easy since she’d never been much of a drinker. But she would miss the occasional puffs on her coworkers’ Camels.

  With her chores completed, she walked onto the Walnut Street Bridge and propped one black boot against the lower railing. Beyond the next bridge, the Southern Belle riverboat was docking for another sightseeing cruise.

  Gina tucked her skirt between her stockinged legs to keep it from catching the breeze and leaned out over the water. The Tennessee River flowed with a life of its own, curlicues and temporary ripples adding nuance to its personality. It wasn’t particularly clean or clear, coursing as it did between miles of mud banks and clay, but it moved with an unhurried, unshakable purpose.

  She stood straight and hugged her stomach, worried for the first time about the metal rail pressing into her middle. Her child was in there.

  Did one more life really matter, though? Would it make a difference?

  She gazed down in her search of an answer, mesmerized by the water’s elusive swirls. Eddies were here and gone in seconds, mostly unnoticed, yet each adding to the dance, reflecting the river’s essence. Each beautiful in its own way. Yes, each one mattered.

  Gina’s thoughts turned to Cal the Provocateur. Although it seemed illogical—maybe the hormones kicking in already—she found herself worrying about him. Cal was older than her, yet there was something boyish about him. He’d folded to her mother’s wishes with childlike subservience, even wielding the knife upon her command.

  After all these years, she still found herself going back to the moment in the Borsa safe house. Would he ever track her down as promised? What had compelled him to lead their escape from Cuvin?