Field of Blood

by Wilson, Eric

  “Money?” he said at last, his hand outstretched. “Food?”

  “We can get you something to eat,” Gina said to the youngster.

  “Money.”

  “We don’t hand out cash, but how about a meal?” Teo said. “Come along.”

  The boy stood motionless. He looked from Teo to Gina, his wariness wrestling with his need. An icy gust rolled up from the river, combed over the foliage, and tousled his dark mop of hair.

  Gina gasped at what she saw.

  The boy’s eyes darted to her, and he tensed. Ready to escape.

  She inhaled, then let out a breath. She imagined warm calm melting down into her limbs, radiating across this patch of dead grass between them. She could not frighten this child away. Not now.

  She looked to Teo, nodded toward the path, and said, “C’mon. He wants to be left alone.”

  Teo’s brow furrowed, but he fell in step beside her on the trail.

  “Money, food. Money, food.”

  “Keep walking,” Gina whispered.

  “Food.” A tug on her coat. “Food.” A tap on her back.

  “I should be getting back to the orphanage,” Gina said. “It’s been great seeing you again, Teo.”

  Another tug. “Don’t leave me, don’t leave.”

  In an unhurried motion, Gina turned and kneeled. She looked into brown eyes locked between thick lashes. She lifted a hand, and the boy pulled back for a moment, gripping his pack in a grubby hand. She waited for him to extend his trust, then brushed back the bangs that hung in his face. Her gaze panned the letter Tav on his forehead, trying to fathom what this meant for him, for her, and for the story that threaded through the thick, yet torn, volume of her life.

  “I want to help you,” she said.

  “I’m cold.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Dov,” he said. “My mother is Dalia Amit, and she is . . .”

  “What, Dov? What is it? You can talk to me.”

  “I did a bad thing, and if they find me, I will die.”

  Gina knew in America this would be information warranting investigation, corroboration, and a report to the authorities. This was Romania, though, where remnants of communist corruption under-pinned much of the political framework.

  And he was Lettered. There was something else at work here.

  “Shhh,” she said. “It’s okay, Dov. Don’t say another word.”

  Gina had already experienced firsthand the deadly results of that symbol. This child was in imminent danger, and she wondered how he had avoided trouble this long. Her heart told her to wash her hands of the matter. What if she failed this boy? As she’d failed her own son. She could not endure another—

  No. Her own feelings were not the issue here.

  She had to protect him. Hide him. Fight for him, if necessary.

  She started with Teo, swearing him to secrecy regarding this child’s puzzling confession. She had her reasons, and he would have to trust her on this one. Teo reminded her that he had cared for her dog. Which was good enough for her.

  A new year was upon them. A new millennium, in fact.

  “Don’t you see?” Gina pleaded. “This boy needs a fresh start.”

  The headmaster at the orphanage was unmoved. “We see this sort of thing every day, Ms. Lazarescu. It’s always difficult for new muncitors to comprehend, but we cannot take in strays off the streets. Now, please hear me out. It sounds heartless, I’m sure, to your ears, but it’s for the best of those we’re already treating. Medical supplies are low as it is, and we can scarcely acquire enough Fuzeon to inject the worst of our HIV cases.”

  Gina thought of Dov Amit, seated in the corridor outside. She’d looked into his past, verified his orphaned status. She could not allow him to be abandoned.

  “You must understand,” the headmaster prattled on, “the strain that even one more ward would put upon our staff and the other kids, not to mention the financial supporters of this institution. It’s simply out of the question.”

  Gina stared straight ahead. Her tongue—working along her teeth, counting, counting. Upper left incisor? One act of kindness.

  “I appreciate your concern, of course, but this is not like the United States you have become used to, where money grows upon trees.”

  “It’s not like that there either,” she said.

  “Well, Ms. Lazarescu, I’m sure you see my point. Let me explain the history and purpose of Tomorrow’s Hope . . .”

  Gina tuned out the man’s voice, running mentally over the city archives she’d checked during her off time. She had confirmed the identities of Dov’s parents, as well as their unexplained disappearances two and a half years prior.

  Records showed that a Mr. Benyamin Amit’s Peugot was found deserted near the ruins at Soimos. His scoped rifle was entered as evidence from the site. No other sign of him was ever found. According to a detective’s notes, his wife and son had traveled in a taxicab to the same area that evening, disembarking near Totorcea Vineyards. They, too, had vanished.

  When the vineyard owners were questioned about this matter, Mrs. Helene Totorcea told the authorities she had known the Amits from her work at city hall but had no knowledge of their whereabouts. Mr. Flavius Totorcea authorized a property search, and the local constabulary found nothing to substantiate their suspicions. On the list of priorities, the case slipped to the bottom.

  Nearly thirty months later? Here was the boy, scavenging the streets, and alive.

  Gina wondered what Dov had gone through and how he had lost his left pinky toe. She and the center’s nurse had already cleaned and bandaged the near-gangrenous gash, but it hinted at unspoken horrors. It also under-scored Gina’s worries that he would be next in line for a Collector attack.

  Cal’s voice: “The Letter appears at adulthood. For boys, that’s age thirteen.”

  According to the archives’ dates, Dov had turned thirteen days after his parents’ disappearance. Had he eluded observation since the emerging of the mark? Was he aware of it? What would happen if his identity were to be discovered?

  “Sir, this has to work,” Gina said to the headmaster. She was deter-mined that Tomorrow’s Hope was Dov’s hope for today. “This boy, this young man, is fifteen now, and yet he shows all the signs of a psychologically scarred individual. Even physically, he’s small for his age. I appreciate the job I see being done here. The orphanage does a great service, and I only want to continue in that vein.”

  “Of course you do. Any good muncitor has a heart for children, but—”

  “I’ll donate my weekly stipend,” she said.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Lazarescu?”

  One act of kindness . . .

  “My money. What do I need it for, right? I have a place to sleep, eat. I’ve got the kids. Take it. Use that to cover his expenses, and we have a deal.”

  “You will give a portion of your salary to sponsor this child’s place in our center? A kind gesture, indeed. Though I wasn’t aware we were in negotiations.”

  “We’re not,” Gina said. “I throw myself—and my money—upon your mercy.”

  The headmaster chewed on the inside of his cheek, his lined face doleful and judicial. “It’s a deal,” he said at last. “I like you. You do well with the children. Don’t make me regret this.”

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-NINE

  Gina’s dread was a sliver lodged in her mind. She had to keep Dov safe.

  There were days she helped in the center’s kitchen or played volleyball in the yard with the kids and realized she’d never once felt that sting of fear. Other days, she would be jolted by the sight of a mother cooing to her baby, and it would set the sliver throbbing for hours.

  One brisk day in March, while browsing outside a bookshop near the old Water Tower, she glanced up to see a reflection facing her in the glass. It was the slender brunette she had met down in the caverns, those almond-shaped eyes now glaring at her with malevolent intent.

  What was she doing
here, all the way from America? What were the odds? Maybe she really was a Collector, as Cal had claimed.

  Gina twirled to confront the girl.

  This was not the same person. Sure, there were similarities in face structure and skin tone, but the eyes were different, and the woman’s expression went flat at the sight of Gina. Probably just a window-shopper, hoping for her to move along.

  What now? Gina asked herself. Am I’m turning schizoid again?

  As she headed home, she found herself jumping at shadows from the arched walkways that branched off of the cobbled side streets. Her imagination was on overdrive. How crazy could she be?

  Still, she vowed to keep Dov hidden from public scrutiny.

  The boy, with his reclusive ways, made this easy for her. He sat in the corner of the rec room and watched his fellow wards, rarely taking part in their activities. At the dinner table, he tore into his food and made wolfing noises that disgusted the others. He avoided going outdoors, though he often stood in the daylight at his window and flipped through photos he kept in a pouch.

  “What’ve you got there?” Gina asked one day.

  “Pictures.”

  “Of your mom and dad?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I see? If not, that’s okay. I just thought—”

  Dov handed them over. The prints were worn, yellowed and curled at the edges. Snapshots of the boy and his parents. Fishing. Camping. Floating in the waters of the Dead Sea.

  “Are you from Israel? Your name’s Hebrew, by the sound of it.”

  He snatched the photos back, slipped them into their pouch. The conversation was over, and Gina let it go at that. Aside from that initial confession of his at the Strand—given to ease his own mind, perhaps, or to elicit her protection—Dov clammed up when the questions became too numerous or too personal.

  What was it he had done? Why would anyone want to kill him?

  The letter Tav. That was all the explanation she needed.

  As had happened with the other boys, chess became an avenue to friendship and communication. Dov had an analytical mind bubbling behind that inscribed brow, and he spoke of an Israeli grandmaster who had been his father’s favorite. Others, such as Pavel and Petre, were jealous of Gina’s time, and she had to approach things delicately in this communal environment.

  A round-robin tournament one spring day brought Dov and Gina together for the final showdown.

  “You’re good, Dov. You try to explore every possibility on the board.”

  “I can beat you.”

  “I’m sure you can,” Gina said. “But it hasn’t happened yet. And for your own sake, I won’t let it, unless you can do it on your own.”

  As she spoke, her fingers caressed the carved chess figures. She ruminated on the things Cal had told her of the Nistarim, those who were humble in spirit. This boy carried the mark identifying him as a candidate, and yet he exuded a quiet arrogance.

  Or was it confidence? Maybe bravado masking insecurity?

  Gina showed him no mercy. When the game was over and the other boys had wandered off, she said, “Would you let me teach you some things, Dov?”

  He shrugged. Adjusted his rows of polished warriors.

  “I won’t waste my time, unless I know you’re going to be all ears.”

  “Yes.” He looked around the room. “Please, I want to learn.”

  “Have you ever seen the Immortal Game?”

  He glanced up through shaggy black hair, intrigue dancing in his eyes. Gina took that as her cue to proceed. She explained the balance between calculated accuracy and artistry. Some people played the game by the book, by the numbers; others, she explained, played by intuition and gut instinct.

  “You need both,” she said. “See how Anderssen controls the middle of the board, how his knight’s planted there on the fifth rank? How his pawn’s in black’s way? He built on the principles, then blew his opponent away with gutsy creativity.”

  “The queen died.”

  “A sacrifice, it’s called. Setting up the victory.”

  Dov leaned forward and replayed the bishop’s final, checkmating move. He slid the piece and slammed it down, jarring the others on Gina’s black walnut board. “You see?” he said. “This is how it happened when I did the bad thing.”

  “What do you mean, Dov?”

  “He was hurting my mother, and I . . .” The boy slammed down the bishop again for emphasis. “I ran into the hills. That’s where the other man found me two nights later. He helped me hide.”

  “Who?” Only mild interest. “Your father?”

  “No, he’s gone. The other man, the one with gold in his eyes.”

  Gina’s heart leapt. She knew a simple disguise could’ve been used to great effect, but she still had to ask. “Did he have yellowish-blond hair?”

  “I think so. He wore a hat. He taught me how to use the tent pegs if I ever see them again.”

  “Them?”

  “The ones with green fingernails and sharp teeth. He said to watch out, because someday they would come back.”

  CHAPTER

  FIFTY

  Early April 2000—En Route to Sinaia

  The sound was meant to ward off evil spirits.

  Thunk-thunk, thunk-thunk . . .

  Along village roads, folks banged out the rhythm against planks suspended from fences and trees. This ringing of hammers upon wood was a Good Friday tradition meant to remind the spirits of Christ’s crucifixion for mankind’s sins.

  Thunk-thunk . . .

  The echoing pattern faded as the charter bus packed with kids and queasy muncitors wound up another road of switchbacks and mountain tunnels. Evergreens graced the steep ledges, and dots of white indicated sheep in the emerald valleys below. These views were the things of Gina’s past, triggering thoughts and emotions long untouched.

  Thunk-thunk . . .

  “Okay, very funny.” She turned to the twins behind her. “No more kicking my seat, please.”

  “It was Pavel.”

  “It was Petre.”

  “It was both of them,” Dov said from his place across the aisle.

  The Podran twins scowled at him. Dov turned his attention back to the magnetic chess set in his lap. Gina flashed a grin to let Pavel and Petre know they were forgiven, then returned to her enjoyment of the passing scenery.

  She was thankful for this time away from the city. She had her chestnut hair pulled back in a clasp, and wore a thin spring dress that could double as an Easter outfit or the comfortable garb of a weekend visitor. On this, her first overnight excursion with the orphanage, they were headed to the tourist town of Sinaia.

  Rhymes with Shania, as in Twain. That’s what she told her friends back in the U.S.

  They’d left Tomorrow’s Hope at dawn, herded onboard by a surly driver with hunched shoulders, a drooping mustache, and a cap that looked like something a communist border guard might’ve worn years ago. He slid his belongings under the driver’s seat and grunted.

  Gina had seen the type before. The man put on such an act of annoyance that she suspected, behind his reflective sunglasses, his eyes were skipping with amusement.

  Head now pressed to the window, she let her thoughts wander.

  In February, she had written letters to both her husband and her mother. Jed’s reply was courteous but guarded, with basic details of his uncle’s place in Oregon, of the job he’d found at a local dairy, and of fishing with Uncle Vince—or Sarge, as Jed seemed to prefer. He described Sarge as overweight, down-to-earth, and decent. She got the feeling her husband was in good hands.

  As for Nikki, she had not yet responded.

  Gina wondered if her world seemed as unreal to the two of them as their worlds now seemed to her.

  During the past few months, Gina and Teodor had kept in casual contact. They’d gone out for coffee a few mornings. Teo never pushed. He was a pleasant, familiar face—and yes, she had some lingering romantic feelings—but she wasn’t sure love was her lot in life
. There was no self-pity in the thought, only acceptance of other tasks.

  She had a child to protect. This time, she had to get that right.

  Gina still railed in her mind against Cal the Provocateur. She’d seen enough evidence to believe many of the things he’d told her. She had no other explanation for the Lettered foreheads or the bomb that targeted her firstborn.

  Yet he’d failed her in the way that mattered most. He had not been there, as promised.

  Had he been guarding Dov Amit instead, during that time?

  Was it Cal’s goal to train future Nistarim and to fight the Collectors?

  Well, he’d been quick to abandon her and her own offspring as soon as she showed any signs of resistance. Forget him. If he was willing to sacrifice others’ lives because of some fairly reasonable doubts on her part, then she wanted nothing to do with him.

  Gina switched her thoughts back to Teo. Last week, her childhood beau had taken her to a display at the Cultural Palace so that she could see for herself the story of Romania’s martyrs, those who had put their lives on the line eleven years ago to challenge ruthless tyrants.

  That theme resonated with her.

  She saw it in the sacrificial moves on a chessboard, in the lines of the national anthem, and here in the local traditions leading up to Easter.

  Thunk-thunk . . .

  After the toaka, the hammering of the wood, there would be silence from the church steeples until twelve a.m. Sunday. Then bells would ring in celebration across the land. Friends and strangers would greet each other for the next week or two with “Hristos a inviat!” Christ is risen. They would crack red-dyed eggs as symbols of death and new life, and they—

  Thunkity-thunk . . .

  Gina Lazarescu sat straight in her seat. What was that? She looked around, saw that most of the bus riders were beginning to snooze in the long shadows cast by a sun slipping behind distant ridges.

  “Did you hear that?” Dov said.

  “Yeah. That was different, wasn’t it?”