by Merry Jones
The television show was in Hebrew. Some kind of drama. Harper picked up the remote, found a rerun of CSI in English. She looked at the screen, then back at Chloe. Watching the rise and fall of the baby’s chest, she slowly became lulled by its rhythm, closed her eyes and drifted.
Dozing, she was only vaguely aware that the program ended and the news came on. A female anchor spoke with a British accent, and Harper dimly noted the flow of her voice, but not her words. Maybe it was the mention of an American citizen that roused her. Or maybe the reference to the shuk. But Harper was awake enough to hear that a murder had occurred, and that the body had been found in the shuk’s Muslim section. And she opened her eyes in time to see a photo of the victim.
Harper blinked, focusing. And sat up straight. No question: it was the man she and Hagit had seen earlier – the one who’d wanted his money back.
Harper stared at the screen, remembering him, how he’d insisted on getting a refund. How he’d accused the vendor of cheating him, even as the vendor’s friends had surrounded him – and how Hagit had stopped her from stepping in.
Now the guy was dead? Oh God. The vendor and his friends – had they killed him?
Harper hopped out of bed, not sure what to do. But surely she had to do something, talk to someone, to the police. First, she’d tell Hank.
She opened the door to the living room, expecting to see Trent and Hank still talking. But Hank was in there alone, sipping Scotch, staring intensely at the wall.
Hagit had brought a stroller, borrowed from her neighbor. ‘She’s too big for the sling. You’ll hurt your back.’
And that was that. No discussion. In a heartbeat, Chloe graduated from riding around on Harper to being wheeled around in her own vehicle.
Harper hadn’t argued. She hadn’t slept much, disturbed by Hank’s ominous, brooding silence. She’d tossed in the darkness, wrestling images of the shuk, of murder, of dried-up rivers, of war. No sooner had she dozed off than Chloe had awakened and begun yammering to herself in long, incomprehensible sentences dotted with actual words like Daddy, Mama, No, Car, Okay, Go. For a while, Harper had lain with her eyes closed, half-awake, listening. Hearing the baby talking, Hank’s shower running. Somebody knocking at the door. Wait, what? Oh God. Harper had jumped out of bed and hurried to let Hagit in. And hadn’t stopped moving since.
‘I think that’s them.’ Hagit nodded toward two men walking across the hotel lobby. They were casually dressed for detectives: short-sleeved shirts, khaki pants. But they walked with authority, seemed military. Probably had been; in Israel, everybody served.
Hagit stood, walked over to them, spoke to them in Hebrew, brought them over to Harper and Chloe.
The shorter, thicker one held out his hand, shook Harper’s. His skin was dry, the contact quick. ‘I am Marake’ah Ari Alon; this is Marake’ah Mishneh Barach Stein.’
Harper blinked. ‘Harper Jennings. Nice to meet you, Marak – sorry, can you repeat that?’
Hagit shook her head. ‘Why do you use Hebrew?’ she scolded the men. ‘He’s Inspector Alon. This is – what is it? Deputy inspector? Or sub-inspector? Anyway, his name’s Stein.’
‘Inspector is fine. And sub-inspector.’ Alon’s eyes twinkled, but only for a moment. Like his handshake, the twinkle was short-lived. ‘So, shall we go somewhere private?’ He led them to the front desk; the clerk escorted them to a small conference room.
Alon sat at the head of the table, eyes piercing Hagit, then Harper.
Chloe wiggled, trying to climb out of the stroller. Harper lifted her to her lap, where she kept squirming and complaining.
‘So. Last night, you called police to talk about the murder in the shuk. What do you want to tell us?’
Chloe slid off Harper’s lap and scampered under the table. Harper didn’t try to stop her, but she was distracted, bending over to make sure Chloe was all right, reaching out to prevent her from bumping her head.
‘She’s okay,’ Hagit scolded. ‘I’ll watch her. Talk to the police.’
Harper felt her face heat up; the babysitter had just chastised her. But she let it go and concentrated on describing the argument they’d witnessed. She told the inspectors about the three men who had closed in on the victim. About her feeling that the man was in trouble, that she should intervene. She raised an eyebrow at Hagit, who quickly looked under the table to check on Chloe.
‘And you?’ Alon turned to Hagit. ‘Do you have something to add?’
Hagit shook her head. ‘Only when he left, they followed him. The three men.’
Alon and Stein exchanged glances. ‘You saw this? How long did they follow him?’
Hagit shrugged. ‘I didn’t see.’
‘Did they go east? West? North?’
Again, Hagit shrugged. ‘All I saw was that they walked right behind him. They were laughing. I thought they wanted to scare him.’
Alon took some photos out of an envelope. ‘Were any of these the men you saw?’ He handed them to Harper, who checked under the table before looking at them. Chloe was standing now, chattering softly, gripping Sub-Inspector Stein’s calf. Harper didn’t scold her; he seemed unbothered.
There were about ten photos. Among them were four that she recognized: the vendor and the three men who’d taunted the American. She showed these to Alon, who shuffled the pictures and gave them to Hagit. Hagit picked out the same faces.
Sub-Inspector Stein leaned back, sighing. ‘Maybe you already know about the shuk, Mrs Jennings. But I’ll tell you anyway. The shuk is divided into sections. Jewish, Muslim and Armenian Christian. Each section has its own businesses. And its own sense of pride. These men you identified are all Muslim shopkeepers. All of them were seen bothering an American Christian who was later found murdered in the Muslim section. Let me tell you: this event can raise tensions. And, by the way, the Muslim shopkeepers don’t like to be bothered by Israeli police.’
‘Of course that doesn’t stop us from bothering them when we need to.’ Alon leaned forward, elbows on the table. ‘We’ve already questioned the operator of the shop, Ahmed Kareem. Let me ask: are you sure that the dispute you heard was about a refund only? Nothing else?’
Hagit and Harper looked at each other. Neither remembered anything else.
‘We didn’t hear everything, but what we heard, we told you.’ Hagit ducked her head again to look for Chloe. Seemed satisfied to see her clutching Stein’s leg.
‘Mr Kareem insists he’s shocked by the murder, but he also says he’s innocent. He says he remembers the victim – his name was Harold Clemmons. But he says he never saw him after he left his shop. The witnesses agree.’
Really? ‘Nobody else saw the men follow him?’
‘Well, the problem is, even with the crowds that were there, the only other witnesses we’ve been able to find are the three men you’ve identified. All of them work in the shuk. They run the shops beside Kareem’s. And they insist that, after he left the shop, they never saw Mr Clemmons again.’
‘But I saw. They followed him.’ Hagit crossed her arms, emphatic.
‘Even if they did, we have no evidence to show they harmed him.’ Alon showed his empty palms. ‘Certainly not enough to make an arrest.’
Chloe let go of the sub-inspector and began running wobbly laps around the conference room.
Alon smiled. ‘How old?’
‘Fourteen months.’ Harper beamed.
‘Oh, no. And she’s running already? She’s going to be a hell-raiser.’ His eyes sparkled.
A hell-raiser? Really? Harper’s back stiffened, indignant.
‘Oh, boy. You’re in for it,’ Stein added.
‘She’s trouble on two legs.’ Hagit nodded. ‘Stubborn, too.’
‘She is not stub—’ Harper began, but she stopped mid-syllable, interrupted by Hagit’s fierce glare. Harper glared back, but said nothing.
The inspectors stood, thanked them for their help, said they might be in touch again, and left.
Harper was still annoyed
about the comments. Her baby was stubborn? Trouble on two legs? Really? Pointedly ignoring Hagit, she lifted Chloe, popped her into the stroller and knelt to fasten the seatbelt.
‘You’re not trouble. You’re a good girl.’ She kissed Chloe’s cheek, noticed the gold necklace with the tiny hamsa. And recalled Hagit’s reaction to compliments.
Oh. Harper thought she understood. The detectives and Hagit hadn’t meant to insult Chloe; they’d been saying the opposite of what they’d meant. Everyone except Harper had understood: compliments were to be inverted, delivered as criticism in a deliberate attempt to avoid – or at least to confuse the Evil Eye.
What hogwash. Ridiculous.
Harper pushed the stroller into the lobby filled with strangers, trying to remember the magic word Hagit had taught her. Ken something. ‘Kenahara?’ she remembered.
Whatever. It was all foolishness.
The killer couldn’t stop sweating. Had crouched for hours, out of sight, waiting for the body to be discovered, watching the gathering crowd, the consternation. The corpse being carried away. And then, emerging from shadows, merging into the crowd, the killer had pretended to be shocked like the others standing there, gawking.
The assistant stood too close. Whispering. Whining about the location, that they’d messed it up. That the body shouldn’t have been in the Muslim section. That their mistake would have repercussions.
But the killer wasn’t worried. The death had been clean and pure. Surprise had washed over the man’s face. Then indecision for just the slightest of moments before he’d lost his will and surrendered to his fate. The knife had sailed across his neck almost of its own accord, severing flesh and spilling blood. Fulfilling its purpose.
The man hadn’t even struggled.
But the assistant kept sputtering about the section of the shuk. Harping on about the mistake. Squawking. ‘He was a Christian. He wasn’t supposed to die in the Muslim section. That wasn’t the plan.’
‘Enough!’ the killer finally snapped, looking around, making sure no one was listening. ‘We’ll balance it out.’
‘How? We can’t exactly rearrange the shuk. It was supposed to be done in the Jewish section—’
‘Don’t you think I know that?’ The killer’s eyes narrowed, nostrils flared. ‘Look. It’s done. And instead of finding fault, you’d be wise to praise our accomplishment. It’s not your place to criticize.’
The assistant met the killer’s eyes, saw their dagger-like gaze, and backed off, looking away.
The killer kept glaring, unable to relax. As if there wasn’t enough to worry about, the assistant was becoming a problem. Maybe a liability. Maybe the knife would like to sail across another neck, too? Meantime, sweat kept dripping down the killer’s forehead. Into the killer’s eyes. Even in the morning, even in the shadows, the air of the shuk was sweltering. How was it possible to think in such conditions?
But thinking was necessary. Because the assistant was right. They’d gotten lost in all the tangled passageways, and the murder had been in the wrong section. Now, they’d have to make it right, somehow restore the balance. And they’d have to do it soon. Time was passing, and the deadline approaching fast.
Harper stood beside Hank, sipping white wine. She wasn’t in the mood for a cocktail party. She hated getting dressed up, despised high heels, especially because they bothered her left leg. Beyond that, she didn’t know anyone but Hank and Trent, and they were busy chatting up their international colleagues. And she had no interest in light conversation. She wanted time to herself. Time to think about her day.
After their talk with the inspectors, Hagit had taken her sightseeing. They’d seen the Temple Mount, where King Herod the Great rebuilt the Second Temple, where the Dome of the Rock now stood. And the massive square-cut stones of the Old City, held together not by mortar, but by their sheer weight. Heaps of those huge stones, once part of the walls, lay scattered on the ground, knocked off by the Romans in AD 70. Then she’d seen a labyrinth of partially reconstructed Byzantine dwellings and mosaics, and the open-air dig site of the ancient City of David. Angular pieces of a second-century BCE construction, dubbed ‘the First Wall’ by Josephus Flavius. And a sloping, stepped structure, probably a support for a palace or fortification, dated to the tenth century BCE – the time of the Israeli kings David and Solomon. Harper had looked into a partially restored house dated from the seventh century BCE, and had seen dozens of bullae, clay seals used for documents, with personal names still impressed on them in ancient Hebrew script. She’d been absorbed by the tour, rapt, lost in time and past millennia. Picturing the enthusiastic archeologists who’d unearthed these pieces of history. The ancient Hebrews and Byzantines who’d built them and wandered the streets of white stone. The Roman soldiers who’d ravaged the massive city walls.
Hank took her arm.
‘So nice to meet you, Mrs Jennings.’
Oh dear. Apparently, she’d been introduced to someone, had no idea who he was. Hadn’t been paying attention. Hank wandered off, leaving them.
‘And you.’ She managed a smile. Sipped. It was a local wine. Light, not too sweet.
‘Your husband says you’re an archeologist.’
Really? When had he said that? ‘I just finished my degree . . .’
‘Well, you certainly will find plenty to occupy you here.’ He had a warm smile. A neatly trimmed silver beard, matching wavy hair.
‘No question. I’m already overwhelmed.’ Harper couldn’t help it. She needed to talk to someone about where she’d spent the day, what she’d seen. ‘It was a tease, though, seeing the City of David excavation.’ She realized she might be boring him, ought to stop. ‘I wanted to join the dig.’
‘Well, if you really want to work on a dig, there are many in progress, all over the country. Most are hungry for volunteers. Especially for a volunteer with your training and enthusiasm.’
Harper eyed him, sipping more wine. Who was this man? How would he know about digs? And was he serious? Could she actually join one?
‘Dr Berkson . . .’ A stout man grabbed his arm, tugged him away.
‘Excuse me.’ He nodded to Harper as he left.
Harper stood alone, heard the stout man make introductions. ‘Professor Slatoff, this is Dr Berkson of the Israel Antiquities Authority . . .’
The Antiquities Authority? Really? Harper stared. The man was in charge of registering every dig in the country. And he’d said she could work on one.
But he was probably just being polite.
Besides, she had Chloe with her – what was she thinking? She couldn’t go off on a dig. What was wrong with her?
Harper stood alone among the eminent scientists and prominent statesmen, fingering her hamsa. She looked around for Hank. Saw him standing in a group, nodding at someone’s comments, attentive and comfortable. Apparently unembarrassed by his aphasia. Not needing her to help him speak.
Trent was also occupied. She heard his laughter, turned to see him in a jovial cluster.
Harper sipped wine, replaying the name: ‘Dr Berkson of the Israel Antiquities Authority.’ She checked her watch; the cocktail hour wasn’t even half over.
If she waited, she might have time to wander over and casually ask Dr Berkson some questions, just to satisfy her professional curiosity. To find out more about the country’s ongoing digs. Harper stepped over to the bar, exchanged her empty glass for a full one, eyeing Dr Berkson from afar. Waiting for a chance to approach him.
After all, it was a cocktail party. Why not engage in light conversation?
Fadil Kasim walked the darkened pathway through the shuk, tired and hungry. Hoping Kalila would fix him a proper meal, despite the late hour. He’d stayed late at the shuk, restocking his shop. Doing inventory. Cleaning up. Postponing going home, where Kalila and her pout would be waiting. He doubted she’d have forgiven his harsh words that morning. She was not of a forgiving nature. She’d be silent, looking away when he addressed her. Keeping a distance. Making him angr
y all over again. Kalila was an expert; she knew how to aggravate him. That morning, she’d done everything possible to grate his nerves. Letting the children loose, interfering with his sunrise prayers. Speaking in that shrill tone. Her voice pierced his brain, it really did. How was he to bear it? Nagging about this. About that. Certainly, any man would react as he had – or worse. He was right to insist on peace in their home. And if she couldn’t comply . . .
Wait. What was that up ahead? Was someone lying in the street? On the ground? Fadil hurried through shadows, calling out, ‘Ahlan? Hello?’
The form didn’t answer, didn’t move, but Fadil heard a groan. He stopped for a moment, wondering about his own safety. He looked behind him into the dark passageway. No one was there to help. And if this person had been attacked, the attackers might still be there. He himself could come to harm. Maybe he should go find a guard.
Ahead, the person let out another moan, louder. What had happened? A heart attack? A robbery?
‘Akhi, hal anta bikhayr? Are you all right?’ Fadil asked.
‘Help me.’ The voice was weak.
Fadil lost his hesitation, rushed to assist. It wouldn’t do to let a sick or wounded person lie alone in the street. He reached the stranger and knelt, looking in the dim light for a wound. He leaned over, asked, ‘What happened?’
When something darted up at his face, he dodged reflexively, but didn’t identify it even when pain sliced the side of his face. His instincts kicked in, triggering his flight response. Before he could register the fact that he’d been wounded, let alone how, he was on his feet again, running through tangled alleys, racing through dark and narrow passages, bleeding, panting. Trying to evade the person chasing him. He sped past shuttered booths, up steps, around corners. Finally, he ducked into a cul-de-sac and stood silently, listening for footsteps. Hearing none, he stayed there, catching his breath, assessing his condition. Processing what had happened.