Simantov

by Asaf Ashery

  “How was work?” he asked politely, evoking in her feelings of shame and guilt.

  “Fine.”

  “You caught all the bad guys?”

  “Not really.”

  “Some at least?”

  “Not today.”

  “We had a crazy day. Massive pileup on the Ayalon freeway. I was assigned to trauma, don’t ask.”

  She didn’t ask, only wondered when she would tell him what was on her mind.

  “Are you OK?”

  “So-so. Not great.”

  He let it go at that. When he broke off the embrace, Mazzy felt as if a spotlight had been swung away from her. She watched him step toward their bedroom, shedding clothes along the way.

  “I need a quick shower.”

  She smiled at his back but was fed up with these polite nightly routines. As he closed the bedroom door behind him, guilt and a sort of loneliness engulfed her.

  Placing the Glock in the safe, she hoped that both work and Yariv were now locked away in her other world.

  But there he was, his face burned into her retina, giving her no release. As she looked in on the sleeping child, she could still feel him tickling her earlobes, holding her ankles, strumming on her tendons, smelling of cigarettes, soap and sex. She moved to her own bedroom, perhaps not quite ready for what had to come next.

  Gaby was naked under the ceiling fan, vigorously toweling himself, but sparks and flashes of Yariv flickered all around, as if through a spitefully constructed prism. Now dry, Gaby gathered his discarded clothes and tossed them into the laundry basket, his shoes went neatly under the bed. There was something comforting, homey, predictable and yet annoying in all this.

  Mazzy clicked the door shut and walked toward him, unbuttoning the top of her uniform shirt and pulling it over her head. She knew the lacy bra she had worn for Yariv would have the same effect on her husband. She could see it in the way his eyes widened.

  “Are you just going to sit there?” she asked, stepping out of her skirt.

  Before he could collect his thoughts, Mazzy took the initiative. Wordlessly, she pushed him back onto the bed. He submitted with outstretched arms as she shrugged out of the bra, letting her breasts graze over his chest, belly and down to his thighs.

  Mazzy knew exactly what she was doing but she had no idea why.

  The desire to touch, to bond, to escape, clouded her mind. Gaby played with her panties before pulling them down, the way they both knew she enjoyed. She held his head, pulling him close so as not to have him see her face. Her face, she thought, would betray her. Her hand told her he was ready so she mounted him. The ugly thought that she was still damp and sticky from Yariv, was pushed to the farthest recesses of her mind as Gaby thrust into her, closed his eyes and surrendered to the moment.

  Every motion awakened sensations that had lain dormant during their marital drought. Mazzy’s body rocked and swayed, and when she heard Gaby begin to moan, she rocked faster, arching her back and lifting her misty eyes toward the ceiling.

  Finally, she collapsed on top of him, panting against his heaving chest.

  “Hey, what was that? I pick up the kid from daycare a couple of times and make a salad, and suddenly I collect my reward? I can’t even…”

  He couldn’t contain a burst of lusty laughter. Mazzy joined him, greatly relieved, and they laughed until Gaby ran out of breath and gently wriggled out from under his wife.

  She hushed him so as to not wake Noga, and got under the sheets.

  “The sink is empty, the laundry drying, the plants watered, and all without you having to tell me. The babysitter helped with some chores. I paid her extra, don’t worry.”

  “I’m sorry I was nasty before.”

  “It’s all right. Just tell me what I did to deserve this.”

  “You didn’t do anything.”

  “I really want to know.”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Can we do it again?”

  She smiled.

  “I missed you.”

  “Me too.”

  “All this madness with your detective work and my internship…”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it so selfish of me to wish you’d caught the guy because I miss my wife?”

  “It’s excusable, but don’t mention it to others.”

  “Now is not a good time to talk, right?”

  She didn’t answer. She was enjoying every second away from the office, finally not thinking about Yariv. Not turning over the details of the case. Not worrying about missing women. In the here and now she was content to be with her husband, to dive headlong into the heated pool of her marriage. Mazzy had always preferred pools to the open sea. Perhaps it was the salt water that stung your eyes, perhaps the bottomless depth.

  “Turn off the light.”

  “You want to go to sleep?”

  “Dying to.”

  “Like this?”

  Mazzy did not like to snuggle, especially in the summer. She needed space and air, the absence of sweat. But her husband was a spooner.

  “Okay, but just this once. Don’t get used to it.”

  Gaby turned off the reading lamp and darkness pervaded the room. Serenity, peaceful breathing, finally silence. Until the phone rang and wrenched her from her slumber, sending her into the predawn mist and the start of another day.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Mazzy recognized the scene from afar: emergency crews and fire trucks with flashing lights that flickered through the morning fog. As she made her way among early risers and inquisitive neighbors, two ambulances came from opposite directions. Two Search and Rescue volunteers were dragging a sealed black bag to a police car.

  Whatever awaited her there was serious enough to put her own problems on hold.

  As she entered the cordoned-off area, someone with the white epaulettes of a police cadet and carrying a red StickLight demanded identification. She smiled and patted his shoulder gently. When she gave him her name, he apologized.

  “They’re waiting for you there,” he gestured toward the greenhouse. Mazzy spotted the white tent that Doron and his team had set up, and her partner’s silhouette inside. When she opened the zipper, she realized that Crime Lab had set up so many spotlights, the greenhouse was flooded with artificial daylight. Daylight and unbearable heat.

  Beads of perspiration glistened on Yariv’s forehead and dark circles stained his armpits. Mazzy jumped right in.

  “What’s going on?”

  Before Yariv could answer, his phone rang.

  “Constant visual contact? He was there all the time? Not even for five minutes? Okay, stay with him. Give me a buzz if he so much as takes out the garbage.”

  He pocketed the phone, and swung his attention to Mazzy.

  “That was the officer tailing Almadon, we might not like the look of him but he wasn’t anywhere near here.”

  Mazzy felt her shoulders drop.

  “Libby,” Yariv called out, “fill the inspector in.”

  Libby hurried to Mazzy with a pad full of notes written in a rounded curly hand. Mazzy hated frills of any kind. But she reminded herself that Libby was new to this, and still had to learn not to take things personally. Not just because scenes like this one would become routine, but because all the men around expected her to stumble, so she mustn’t provide them with ammunition.

  “The owner of the house, Professor Abigail Odem, is missing. We assume she was the target.”

  “Professor of what?”

  “Jewish studies. The last phone call she made was to her research assistant. She told her that the messenger had delivered the material. The delivery service confirmed that their guy had been here at noon. He was the last person to see her. Well, of those who survived. Yesterday morning, she called in sick. We woke up her secretary, who told us the professor hadn’t missed a day of work in years…”

  “Hang on a sec. What do you mean ‘of those who survived?’”

  “Professor Odem’s hou
se was well guarded. The messenger told us he saw a whole team of female security personnel. Some were quite good looking, in his opinion. The yard was full of wires, cables, cameras, and footprints of the guards. No one survived to tell the tale. There were bodies strewn all over, but no sign of the professor. It’s as if something came from the sky and whisked her away.”

  Mazzy nodded to indicate that she had enough information for now, and moved deeper into the greenhouse, where Yariv was leaning over Doron as he scraped something from the concrete floor and put it in a test tube.

  “Anything?”

  “He found some dry blood, not much though.”

  One drop was not indicative of an escape route, or that the attackers or abductee had been injured, but it was something. Considering the mess surrounding the scene, it might have been significant.

  She came close to Yariv, and he let her into his space. This was encouraging.

  “We’ll give Doron’s team another hour here, then pack up. There’s a pile of stuff and it’ll take us all day to decide what’s relevant and what’s not.”

  “Anyone else investigating the case?”

  “There’s a homicide team looking into who killed the guards. They were here, they saw, they photographed and then rushed to the morgue and the hospitals. There were eight bodies here when I arrived, and several ambulances with their sirens on. We’ll be lucky if any of those women survive.”

  “Were they all women?”

  “I saw only women’s bodies taken out. Their uniforms were from some small security company. The same as the Seder night case. They must have an exclusive clientele.”

  “Why does a professor of Jewish studies need so much security?”

  “These are dangerous times in academia.”

  “I’ll hit you, you know.”

  “At least I’ll get something from you.”

  “So this is how it’s going to be now? First you ignore me, then you whine that I’m ignoring you.”

  “I don’t know, Mazzy. It’s weird, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I tossed and turned all night trying to decide if I should quit the investigation, give you more space. But this time I’m not going to give up so easily.”

  “Cut it out, Biton.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You’re the best detective I know, and we’re going to continue as is.”

  “You don’t know many detectives, then.”

  “That’s my yardstick. Not too high; about your height.”

  “Hey, I’m trying, aren’t I?”

  He grinned and she grinned back. It was weird, as he had said, and a little embarrassing. Suddenly it was Yariv again. Nothing good could come of it.

  “Let’s return to the precinct and check what they have. You might as well call your people. Maybe Izzy or your mom had some vibes.”

  “Let them sleep. I can send Izzy and Rachel here later today to see if they can find a trace of energy. The professor’s scent won’t disappear. They’re not sniffer dogs, you know.”

  “Can they really do that?”

  “You’re so gullible. I told you it doesn’t work by ‘vibes.’”

  Yariv wasn’t amused and was losing patience.

  “I’m packing up here with Doron. Meet me at the precinct.”

  Mazzy felt like a little girl, playing with trifles, instead of dealing with the really important business. Sure he had provoked her, but she agreed to play along. Just like with Gaby.

  THE FIFTH GATE

  INSIGHT

  THE THIRTY-FIFTH DAY

  FIVE WEEKS OF THE COUNTING OF THE OMER

  “The anger of the Lord shall not return, until he has executed, and until he has performed the thoughts of his heart; at the end of days ye shall see her, insight.”

  JEREMIAH 23:20

  Libby sat in the open jeep, hidden by a thicket.

  She knew the location of the watchtowers, and she was monitoring their occupants. One of the guardswomen spotted her and trained her binoculars on her. Libby watched how the youthful guard used the radio to communicate with the ranch, her hand ready to pull the rope and activate the alarm bell. But as soon as someone responded to her message, her face registered relief, her hand let go of the rope, and she even waved at Libby before resuming her watch.

  Libby directed her binoculars at the ranch, over the basalt wall that surrounded the compound, the wall that rose with every new class of cadets; upon graduation, each girl would pick a stone from a nearby field and put it on top of the pile, connecting herself to the stones and to the place. After hundreds of years and countless thousands of girls, the wall had reached a considerable height. Libby was reminded of her own graduation ceremony, at which they struggled with pulleys, ropes, and climbing gear. She remembered her classmates’ jubilant cries and smiled to herself.

  There was something strikingly artistic about the cadets’ maneuvers taking place in the compound; row upon row of white-clad girls dancing like cascading waves, gracefully brandishing their daggers and whips above their heads. Then the wooden door of the balcony opened, and the dignified figure of Doula Ashtribu came out to honor her cadets.

  The intervening years had not left their mark on the Doula’s face. Libby did a quick calculation; at the time, she had been fourteen, which made Chief Doula in her forties now. Libby wondered if her youthful looks came from the austere, rigorous, natural life of the ranch that had preserved the woman and stopped the clock, age-wise.

  Doula Anat Ashtribu was a human manifestation of Mother Earth: suntanned and warm, soft on the inside, rough on the outside, always ready to impart her knowledge, yet insisting that you learn from your own mistakes. Her lessons focused on the essence of being Lilith’s Daughters, on their appearance and behavior; the importance of presenting oneself as other women while projecting normal, acceptable femininity to ensure a smooth and unencumbered existence. Classes in the Seven Curses of Eve taught them about menstrual pain, which would never plague them, and how to deal with the absence of the hymen and, of course, detailed preparation for childbirth that included proper behavior during pregnancy and parturition.

  Libby decided that she had observed long enough, and it was now time to enter the green, pastoral, serene ranch, so full of the grace and youthfulness that was planted in the basalt landscape of the Golan Heights like a lily among thorns.

  An instructor greeted her, pleasantly scrutinizing, with a hint of derision, Libby’s police issue belt with handcuffs and radio. The instructor’s own RAD belt was burnished and ready for action.

  Libby entered a wooden structure. Unlike the old days, Doula Ashtribu’s door was wide open. Without a door to knock on, she just waited; there was a threshold to cross, like the cattle grids she had rattled over on the way.

  “Are you waiting for an official invitation?”

  Libby walked in, determined not to let the Doula’s rank intimidate her. Over the years she had learned how to deal with authority, and she could put this knowledge to use in dealing with the Doula.

  “Takes some getting used to,” she said.

  “My door is always open to graduates. I told you before.”

  “Right.”

  “I thought you’d find your own way. I didn’t think you’d pick this path.”

  “The Order decides.”

  “That’s true. Many tend to forget this. The Order is bigger than either of us.”

  “Is this why you wouldn’t agree to security?”

  “I am not so vain as to think the Immortals would bother with me.”

  “But Rachel Simantov said…”

  “Rachel Simantov does not belong to The Order.”

  Libby was about to tell her that Rachel could still be right and that the information she supplied was accurate, but Ashtribu scrutinized her former student, trying to detect doubt, change, and the real reason for her presence there.

  “You think I’m old fashioned?” asked the Doula.

  “No, Doula Ashtr
ibu.”

  “Anat. Graduates can address me by my name.”

  Libby repeated the name Anat in her head, but somehow found it inappropriate.

  “After four members of The Order have disappeared, perhaps it’s time…”

  “To take precautions?”

  “Exactly.”

  The Doula didn’t answer; her soothing, maternal smile didn’t change. Libby thought it was incongruous to the tenor of the conversation. Tiny furrows appeared on Libby’s brow; the Doula really did not value herself. How Zen-like, she thought. The older woman keeps silent. Silence was the weapon she wielded to teach her charges.

  “Why Hagar Abizu? Why Professor Odem? What are they looking for?”

  The Doula’s face registered astonishment. She didn’t delve into details. It was hard to focus on details when they concerned a friend, a daughter of an ex-cadet, a woman you admired. The Doula preferred to stick to generalities, to the tried and true precepts she was familiar with. She had no answer to the disappearance of the women, and she was not about to discuss her own feelings with this eager and spirited graduate.

  “The police are working on a timeline, a pattern, a modus operandi: what connects a fourteen year-old girl in a night club with a stage actress? A lawyer with a professor of Jewish Studies? What’s behind the names? The professions?” said Libby.

  “Don’t you find these things insignificant?”

  “Why, if it brings us closer to finding them?”

  “Because we know where they are; we know where we are. The question is where do we go from here? What is the next stage?” said Doula Ashtribu.

  “And what do you think it is?”

  “Whatever was shall be. We need to restore the equilibrium, return to the status quo, to Kedem. The past is the future.”

  Libby remembered the lessons dealing with the Day of Equilibrium. The Final Aspiration – the return to the days before the apple was plucked from the tree. Days preceeding the Proposition. The return to Kedem, to time immemorial. She had never put any stock in this fantasy; she thought it would never happen.

  But now something had happened. And refusing to believe that someone might harm The Order or oppose it, had already cost them four victims. She herself had succumbed to the general torpor that afflicted The Order as it wallowed in its past glory and yearned for a future of salvation and redemption.