Simantov

by Asaf Ashery

“I’m sure we’re missing something.”

  Neither of them was a great believer in God, but dealing with Death and its emissary evoked the need to find logical explanations that would prevent them from repeating their mistakes.

  “Where? What have we overlooked?”

  “The horizon.”

  “You want to look forward when we’re not even clear about what happened?”

  The double meaning was not lost on her, so she redirected her feelings with a practical question about data.

  “What was he planning to do with them?”

  “What, because we don’t have the bodies?”

  “We have bodies, just not those of the women. He’s obviously not afraid to leave dead bodies behind. You’ve seen him. He’s clever. Too sophisticated. He thinks he’s invulnerable.”

  “Only because we haven’t dug them up. This is a long way from becoming a cold case.”

  “What does he plan to do with them? Why does he need four women? What’s his horizon?”

  “Horizon?”

  Yariv bowed his head, then lifted it toward an imaginary horizon, staring at the wall as if he were standing on the edge of a cliff overlooking vast expanses. Then he pressed Mazzy to his body in an avuncular gesture, enclosing her shoulders in his arms.

  “You see, Mazzy? One day this whole case will be yours. This is the only horizon I can see.”

  She knew she was expected to laugh airily and diffuse the tension, but she felt a more basic desire, one she was supposed to ignore. The close contact awakened in her eddies of longing, and she put her head on his shoulder, inhaling his smell. He turned to her with unabashed yearning. Instead of putting a stop to it, she emitted a different kind of laughter, one that conveyed nervousness and capitulation.

  He lowered his head and their lips touched, first lightly, then voraciously. Her incisor bruised his lower lip and her lunging tongue tasted blood, the acrid taste of living flesh. She wasn’t sure why she was so repelled.

  But soon the revulsion was replaced by expectation. She tried in vain to resist; Yariv was so close, his heartbeat could just as well have been hers.

  Mazzy tugged at his shirt nervously, exposing his body, panting and inviting. Too much. Too fast. Too right. Too desiring.

  Yariv almost lost his balance when his gun belt was released. As he cleared a space on the desk, she put her hand down his boxer shorts, cupping and steering, but the moment was fleeting and all that remained was his oppressive weight on top of her. He continued to thrust, as she lay fettered underneath. She had no idea how much time had elapsed, but with every stroke she felt more depleted. She tried to synchronize her movements with his, to hasten the end, until she heard a moaning sound at her neck and the air from his lips in a short, muffled spurt.

  Mazzy patted his shoulder, as she did Noga’s back after extracting a successful burp. For a long embarrassing moment, they remained coupled, until he withdrew. Mazzy gave him a critical look, unable to conceal her disappointment at the lackluster experience.

  A series of urgent raps on the door made them jump. Mazzy struggled into her clothes. Yariv followed suit. The tapping on the door intensified,

  “Mazzy, it’s Libby! I have to talk to you!”

  It was not customary to lock the doors at the precinct. The situation required a response. Mazzy motioned to Yariv to hurry. She spoke to Libby through the door.

  “What is it?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Half a minute.”

  Mazzy turned to Yariv, who was still zipping his trousers. He had the look of someone wishing he was elsewhere.

  “Get dressed and out of the office,” she said quietly. “I’ll see what she wants, and afterwards we’ll try to close the case. We’ll have to deal with the rest as we go along.”

  “I’m the one who should talk to Libby. Two days ago I asked Sima to track her down. She owes me some answers about…”

  “Yariv, let me talk to her. If you still have some questions later…”

  He didn’t argue. Her tired, impatient tone prompted him to join her in straightening the desk. He cleared his throat and said, “This time I’m not giving up.”

  “What?”

  “This time I’ll fight for you.”

  “It’s not war.”

  Mazzy breathed deeply and attempted to regain her composure. Trying to forget what had just happened with Yariv, she went off in search of Libby. But when she found her pacing near the photocopiers, Libby looked as if someone had pressed the “Fast Forward” button on the film of her life. There were dark circles around her eyes and her pupils were like two eclipsed suns. She had clearly come bearing news.

  “There was another one.”

  “What, while we had that bastard in the interview room?”

  “No, much earlier than you think. There’s one you don’t know about. Altogether five women were kidnapped. It’s the Doula from the ranch. They took her and you don’t even know about it. This is how I got the bone, the one I gave to Doron. There’s no time to go into all the details and, anyway, you wouldn’t understand. There’s no way you can understand.”

  It was strange to hear Libby talk so fast about the ranch, the Doula, and the abduction. With every additional detail, Mazzy’s heart sank deeper as she realized that Libby knew more than they did, and that she had not bothered to share her knowledge. Apart from the fact that there had been another abduction, the circumstances of the acquisition of the bone appeared less complicated than they had thought. After years of working in the field, and being Rachel’s daughter, Mazzy recognized the feeling: Libby was telling the truth.

  Lilith’s Daughter then told her about The Order and about the Athaliah, about the lost names of the Nephilim and about the opening of Heaven’s Gate, about the predicted battle of uncertain outcome, and about the fate that awaited the abducted women.

  “There’s a slim chance, but believe me, we don’t have many options. I wouldn’t have come to you otherwise. I’m not supposed to reveal anything to you, the head of The Order made that clear. But it’s important for you to know that the names are the key. Not necessarily all of them. One or two will suffice to frighten them.”

  “Well, what can I do?” Mazzy asked.

  “‘Soothsayer,’ maybe Itzkovitch, Izzy or the Russian with the cards. They’re good at their job; maybe they’ll find another way to approach it. I don’t know what your team is capable of doing, but I know that as far as the names are concerned, you have the best chance.”

  Her phone vibrated. The caller ID showed Yariv. Mazzy often thought that if women were allowed to run the world, everything would be much simpler. Much more correct. Right now they were facing an ancient adversary, and here was her own private adversary, intent on explaining his sexual dysfunctions. Mazzy ignored the call.

  “I’ll do what I can,” she said to Libby.

  “The Order will watch both of us from now on.”

  The phone buzzed again insistently. What was wrong with him? Couldn’t he control his crushed ego for a few seconds?

  Mazzy was still glaring at her phone when Rachel stormed down the corridor, pushing Libby out of her way.

  “For once in your life you’ll listen to me!”

  Her shout was still hanging in the air as an explosion tore through the hallway ceiling.

  A thick cloud of dust floated into the room. Mazzy drew her gun, instinctively crouching down to make herself a smaller target. She breathed the cleaner air near the floor, cautiously straightened up and waited for the dust to clear. Her mother was nowhere to be seen, Libby had simply vanished.

  Sima emerged from the hallway, gun at the ready. She kept close to the cinderblocks that were still standing. Mazzy motioned to her to cover the hallway, and Sima zigzagged to the left, creating shooting angles for Mazzy and herself. Rattles of automatic fire were heard through the smoke, then shouts and the sounds of running feet that were soon replaced by a whooshing that reminded Mazzy of whirring fans.

&nbs
p; Silence fell for a moment, but a cacophony of screams of terror and pain soon replaced it. It barely sounded human. Mazzy and Sima held their fire.

  An acrid smell of cordite was everywhere, but mixed with a faint aroma of fennel. Mazzy could see a clear, starry sky in places where the ceiling should have been. The night sky looked incongruously calm compared to the pandemonium in the precinct.

  Mazzy and Sima exchanged looks. Sima, whose angle of vision included the entire hallway, motioned to her comrade in arms that the coast was clear. Mazzy came out and positioned herself outside the room, aiming her gun at the center of the hallway. On the ground lay an ancient double-barreled firearm, identical to Yariv’s antique Lupara, a caliber of gun that could prove very useful in the present circumstances. As she bent down to pick it up, she noticed a blurry form with black contours hurtling toward her. The world seemed to come to a standstill.

  It was clear she had nowhere to go. She had no time to be scared, though it was clear she had good reason to be. A sudden burning sensation spread through her chest, and for a moment, all she could see was a little black sun; the next moment her back hit the wall, followed by her head. Struggling to breathe, she turned onto her side and vomited.

  She lay on the floor, eyes closed and fighting for breath. She felt as if her bones had turned to liquid, and the liquid spread pain as it coursed through her body. She opened her eyes a crack, and was surprised to see a few fluorescent ceiling lights still working. She could dimly discern a female figure surrounded by five identical men, who seemed to be sporting black wings. A welcome darkness enveloped her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Yariv played possum. The excruciating pain in his shoulder prevented him from making any sharp movements. He tried to take deep breaths and relax, but his ribs were broken and each breath caused unbearable pain. His injured shoulders refused to relay orders to his arms and hands, rendering him immobile. In his mind he tried to replay the events that had brought him to this wretched position, stuck under a smashed wooden door at police headquarters.

  First, part of the roof collapsed on the detectives’ heads and then, like birds of prey, lithe, muscular figures descended from the sky. At first Yariv suspected the aid of hang-gliders, then he saw the black wings and thought perhaps they were wearing some type of high-tech special bulletproof vest.

  They attacked from all directions. The officer standing next to him fired a burst but was knocked flat by an airborne assailant. Yariv managed to empty half a clip before something wrenched the weapon gun from his hand with a force that dislocated his shoulder. Then, with an outstretched arm, the assailant pushed Yariv against the wall, squeezing his lungs of air and dropping him to the floor like a ragdoll.

  Scared and confused, Yariv stared at the fleet figures, who rushed through the hallways wreaking havoc, pummeling anyone standing in their way. Playing dead, he was able to see three of the attackers grab Libby and haul her up through the opening in the ceiling. Judging by the mayhem in the hallway, he assumed he had been out for quite a while.

  The spicy smell of shakshuka filled his nostrils. The pain must have made him delirious. First, he saw Barak Almadon walking out of the holding cell whose door had been yanked off its hinges. Barak flashed him a victorious smile, then his shoulders sprouted two black wings, and he too disappeared through the ceiling.

  Now the other figures, too, looked like angels with black wings. A solitary, noble looking woman was facing them. Yariv continued to watch the drama unfold, wondering where his feverish imagination would lead him. The woman was pointing a gun at the five angels. Yariv was slightly amused by the rich details his brain produced, until he noticed that the firearm she was holding was identical to his lucky gun, the Lupara.

  The pain was making it difficult to focus his thoughts. “That must be why these five things surrounding the woman are cookie-cutter identical, and all look like Barak Almadon,” he reasoned

  The fact that the other assailants had soared into the sky with the captive Libby did not seem to impress the woman with the gun, who continued to aim with a steady hand. There was something disturbing in her defiance. Aiming a Lupara at a winged creature should not have inspired such equanimity, and yet neither side seemed too perturbed by it.

  At this point, Yariv was no longer sure if the woman was a figment of his imagination or some faded memory that had surfaced at this strange time. It wasn’t clear to him why, of all the women in the world, his brain had conjured up Rachel Simantov.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  In the general maelstrom, Rachel saw her daughter smash against a wall like a crash-test dummy, then collapse feebly to the ground. Rachel rushed to her side and checked her pulse. She was breathing, but her condition looked dismal. Rachel shuddered at the implications of her sneak peek into the future.

  An antique gun lay next to Mazzy’s limp hand, identical to the one Libby had let roar from both barrels just before she was hoisted in the air. The time wasn’t right to carry out Israel’s mission, but Rachel recalled his words about the benefits of killing a Naphil. Perhaps she could use this knowledge now, not when it suited Israel.

  Rachel collected the weapon and, smiling expectantly, walked straight to the center of the maelstrom. The Nephilim snarled, baring their teeth, unimpressed by the gun leveled at them. Four figures bowed to her like sumo wrestlers about to grapple.

  The black angel facing her must have been their leader. He looked like he was about to ask her to dance, as if to challenge her to rise to the occasion.

  Taking a few steps toward her adversaries, Rachel invoked the ancient verse of Lilith’s Daughters, the Possessors of the Name. “Behold I die, but God shall be with you and bring you again unto the land of your fathers, and the land shall have rest when I am gone until the gate opens.”

  “You can pull the trigger. It doesn’t matter. This verse no longer scares anyone.”

  Rachel whispered the names of the Nephilim that Israel had given her. A small spark ignited over the speaker’s head, like a flicking cigarette lighter. The Naphil approached her, pulling up his shirt to expose his chest.

  “God has revealed your secret to us – you do not possess the names!”

  Rachel used every second of this cat and mouse game to stare deep into his companions’ eyes. She went from one to the other, hoping for a stroke of luck. Again and again, she was met by her own reflection, that of a woman trying to present a firm, resolute stance before a superior foe. Then returned her gaze to the Naphil facing her and, in the whites of his eyes, saw his arrogant, self-assured image.

  “Who are you trying to con? You’re not even one of Lilith’s Daughters.”

  “I am something much worse, Armaros.”

  The Naphil’s face registered his astonishment at the pronouncement of his name. Letters flashed over his head: Aleph, Resh, Mem, Resh, Samech.

  He lunged at Rachel who, without thinking, pulled the trigger. The full force of the Lupara slammed into the Naphil’s chest.

  At once Armaros began to glitter, and sparks, like writhing snakes, enveloped his figure. Blue lightning burst in through the hole in the ceiling, wriggling and squirming around the black angel; his feet were surrounded by yellowish-red wheels of fire. The fiery ball encircled the pair, hissing and sputtering, emitting thick pillars of smoke and blue fog. A sound of a stifled blast was heard, like a rock hitting a pond of cosmic energy sending ever widening ripples and waves to the shores of the Seven Seas. The other black-winged creatures soared toward the orange sky. The wave emanating from the shot broke in all directions, engulfing everything in its wake.

  Rachel felt it pass through her. Her skin began to itch, her eyes teared up, her muscles squirmed, and an internal burning seared her being. The wave knocked down the walls of the precinct as if they were made of cardboard.

  Rachel tried to take a deep breath, but the space around her seemed drained of oxygen. She hugged the lifeless body of the black-winged angel and cried bitterly.

  CHAPTE
R THIRTY-ONE

  Mazzy woke up in a green room reeking of Lysol, pleased to discover that she was still breathing. But a second later a searing pain in her head made any attempt at rising impossible.

  She could hear Gaby’s voice making promises to God, uttering oaths and conjurations, confessing his love to her and telling her again and again that everything would be fine. Judging by the repeated appeals to the Supreme Being, she concluded that her situation was direr than she had thought and that the burning she felt was only the beginning. Slowly, she began to recall the attack on the police station, but the order of events eluded her. For a moment, the scene with Yariv scorched her memory. Gaby’s tone changed, becoming deeper and more desperate.

  “You must listen to me now so you’ll realize you’re not going anywhere. You’re not going to leave me or Noga. It’s out of the question. It’s not going to happen. Even if your C3 and C4 are broken and the MRI and CT show whatever they show, it doesn’t matter. It’s not just that I love you – I need you, and you can’t walk away when someone needs you. Noga needs you and we’re not giving up. If you think you are, you’re wrong. I’ll chase you and bring you back. I’ll get your mom and her psychos, we’ll light candles and hold hands and whatever else is needed.”

  This was too much. Mazzy opened one eye a crack and saw Gaby was almost choking. The relief on his face when he noticed her movement only fanned her guilty feelings. The tubes and electrodes connecting her to a rack of monitors did not help either. Gaby asked her to squeeze his fingers and nod if she could hear him, then pinched her arm and leg until the sensation made her flinch.

  Gaby reached for the red call button, almost breaking the cord in his repeated attempts to get the nurses’ attention. The chaos that flooded the hospital after the attack had kept the staff very busy. Now that Mazzy had opened her eyes, Gaby was able to organize his thoughts.

  He studied the monitors and the notes on the chart hanging at the end of his wife’s bed. The data was not conclusive but where Mazzy was concerned he could brook no doubt. Gaby ran along the ward aggressively seeking the attention of one of the doctors. He was going to teach them something about triage. The security guards would have to drag him away.