Outside Eden

by Merry Jones

  On the way back to the dig, Harper felt like an undercover investigator. Lynne had given her a chance to infiltrate the church, find out more about their sacrifices. She’d have to move quickly, though. She had just two days to meet with Ramsey Travis, to find out what he envisioned for the ninth of Av.

  And, somehow, before he could do any harm, to stop it.

  A section of wall about six meters long and a meter deep had been cleared. Harper sifted excavated dirt, thinking about Travis, not paying much attention to the chatter of the volunteers. Gradually, though, she realized that they were talking about Yoshi, the stabbing at the kibbutz.

  ‘I think it was personal,’ a church member commented. ‘Somebody with a grudge against him.’

  ‘Maybe he was messing around,’ the redhead said. ‘You know, doing the wrong man’s wife—’

  ‘Come on, Marlene. Why do you assume it was a jealous husband?’ This came from Peter. ‘It could have been a woman. Maybe he dumped her and she got mad.’

  Someone said she’d heard the attacker might be a terrorist. Someone else said that, no, they’d overheard a policeman say it was someone on the kibbutz.

  None of them mentioned sacrifice or Bible codes.

  Harper didn’t enter the conversation. She sifted dirt, recalled Yoshi running into the office, the gushing of his wound, the smell of blood. But then the blood wasn’t Yoshi’s any more; it was a soldier’s. A mere boy with gray eyes and a missing right arm. She pressed and pressed, climbed onto his shoulder to use her body weight, but the blood kept coming, a torrent from too many wounds that she didn’t have enough hands for and she told him to be calm, that he’d make it and yelled, ‘Medic,’ but his eyes glazed and he was gone.

  Harper blinked, looked around. Saw no blood on her clothing or her hands. No dead boy. No war. She took a deep breath. She was at the dig, not in Iraq. And she was strangling her straining tray. Collecting herself, she casually took stock of the people nearby. Lowell and Peter worked near her and Lynne. Frank, Harold, Travis and the redheaded Marlene were working with the students, digging out the wall. Dr Hadar was supervising them. No one was staring at her. Thank God. Apparently, she hadn’t acted out the flashback. She tightened her jaw, relieved, and focused on the dirt. A stubborn clod in the middle of the screen wouldn’t break down.

  Harper pressed on it gently with her glove, felt a crusty layer crumble and give way. But the clump underneath resisted. It was firm, three or four centimeters in diameter. Maybe a stone? Or a shard of Roman glass? She got a brush out of her kit, gently scraped away dust. Held the lump in her glove. Rolled it. Brushed it again, felt dirt give way in the middle. Odd. She worked her finger gently around the center, and more bits fell away. Then more, until the core was hollow.

  Hollow?

  Harper’s mouth was dry. Her breath quick. This wasn’t, couldn’t be a rock. Probably wasn’t glass, either. She should bring it to Dr Hadar. But she didn’t, not yet. She took a tiny pick from her kit. Poked the thing gently, afraid to think that it could be anything significant. Unable to consider that it wasn’t. And finally, when the dirt was off, before she shared it with anyone, she examined it from all angles, turning it, marveling at its greenish pocked texture, its underlying metallic sheen, blunt squared top, simple structure. She guessed it was Roman. Maybe a soldier’s? She pictured it on his finger as he marched through ancient Megiddo. Didn’t hear Lynne talking to her.

  ‘. . . what are you doing? What have you got?’

  And was a little annoyed when, before she was ready and without her permission, Lynne started shouting, telling everyone to come look: Harper had found a ring.

  It was a small find, but Dr Hadar reveled in it. He agreed that the ring had probably belonged to a regular soldier in the Roman army, circa AD 300. Not an uncommon relic. But, since it was nearly time to wrap up for the day, he celebrated the progress on the wall and the new find by bringing out sparkling wine and paper cups. Something was said in Hebrew, probably a blessing, and everyone toasted the ring, the wall, the volunteer team, and their work at the site.

  Harper smiled and quietly sipped her wine, but inside, she was somersaulting on top of the supply trailer. Doing the chachacha around the perimeter of the dig. She was sizzling, too hot to touch, an actual archeologist. She’d moved from books, papers, assistantships and internships and finally made her own find – her first ever. She wanted to giggle. She wanted to call Hank. She’d unearthed the ring of a Roman soldier, and she felt personally connected to him, as if she’d rescued a remnant of his life, restoring it to light and air and the world of the living.

  Harper was energized. She took a seat by herself on the bus, and during the drive back to the kibbutz, kept reliving the process of uncovering the ring. The gradual revealing of texture and shape. She wondered if it had been by itself. Maybe it hadn’t been – maybe it was just the first part of a bigger find. A trove of jewelry, maybe. Or military artifacts. Lord. Was it possible that the site would turn into a major excavation? She rested her head back, closed her eyes, spent the ride savoring her excitement. This was why she’d come. This was what she’d been hoping to experience.

  Her mood stayed with her for the entire ride. It probably would have lasted longer, but as they pulled into the parking area, she spotted Inspector Ben Baruch. He was waiting to greet the bus, wearing a dark frown.

  The killer watched Travis, waiting to catch him alone. Surely, if he heard a rational argument, he would reconsider. Would see that Peter was a dismal choice and reverse his decision.

  ‘Ramsey,’ the killer whispered. ‘Got a minute?’

  Travis looked toward the voice, tilted his head. Peered through the bushes. ‘What are you doing in there?’

  Was he serious? They needed to talk privately. The bunker entrance was perfect. ‘Come here. I need to talk where no one can hear us.’

  ‘Why?’ Travis looked around to see if anyone was watching, finally ducked through the bushes to the camouflaged doorway. ‘Look, if this is about the other night – my decision is final.’

  ‘Ramsey, please. Just hear what I have to say. I’ve been completely devoted, done everything you’ve asked. Including the first two offerings—’

  ‘I wouldn’t brag about those. They were an abomination.’

  The killer grimaced. Took a breath. ‘I explained what happened. None of that was my fault—’

  ‘Oh, cut the crap.’ Travis put a hand up for silence. Lowered his voice. ‘Tell me, was that you, last night? The stabbing? It was, wasn’t it?’

  The killer fidgeted. Damn. The conversation wasn’t going as planned. ‘I thought I could complete—’

  ‘You thought? Who told you to think? I specifically took the assignment away from you.’ Spit flew out of his mouth. ‘Do you have a clue what you’ve done? You’ve brought the Israeli police – their Internal Security ministry down on us. Inspector Ben Baruch is on my back, watching my every move, tailing me like I’m a criminal. He stopped me when I got off the bus. Wants to talk to me after lunch. Do you think I need that? Now?’

  The killer looked at the bunker door, took a deep breath. Ramsey wasn’t being fair. It had been unfortunate that the third offering had gotten away. But if he hadn’t – if the sacrifice had been completed – Ramsey would have been jubilant. The police presence would have been irrelevant. ‘At least I tried. I have the stomach and the determination. Peter’s done nothing. Come on, Ramsey. I’m asking you for one more chance.’

  The muscles of Ramsey’s jaw rippled. ‘Don’t beg.’

  ‘But why Peter? What makes you think—?’

  ‘I honored him as a reward for his loyalty and faithfulness—’

  ‘Bullshit. I’ve been loyal and faithful, too.’

  Travis took in air and faced the killer, his voice low and ominous. ‘How dare you question me? Your weakness of will and poverty of judgment have repeatedly imperiled our purpose . . .’

  What? ‘No—’

  ‘Your failures have disappoint
ed – no, they’ve repulsed me and I daresay the Lord Himself.’ His words rumbled from his chest. ‘If

  I were you, instead of groveling for yet another chance to fail and destroying whatever final modicum of dignity and hope for salvation I had left, I’d use my last days to seclude myself, fast and pray for mercy.’ His gaze froze the killer for a moment, and then he simply turned and walked away.

  ‘Ramsey, no, wait.’ The killer reeled, stricken, finally recovered enough to speak, but too late, in too small a voice.

  Mefake’ah Ben Baruch approached Pastor Travis as he exited the bus, spoke for a moment. Harper messed with her supply kit, pretending to be looking for something. When Travis walked off, Harper waited at the edge of the parking area to see if anyone else had lingered. But people had trailed off, going home to shower before lunch. Ben Baruch stood alone, watching her dawdle near a cluster of pine trees. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

  When she thought the others were gone, Harper picked up her kit and walked over to him.

  He greeted her by name, asked how she was.

  She couldn’t help it, and told him about the ring she’d found.

  He congratulated her, said something about the present day being just another layer, built on top of those who’d lived before. His eyes never left hers. They probed, not unkindly, but precisely and firmly. Never smiled, even when his mouth did.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?’ he said.

  Harper stood tall. ‘It’s the church group, sir. I’m convinced that they’re behind Yoshi’s stabbing.’

  He waited for a noisy jeep to drive by. Then he said, ‘And you think this because . . .’

  ‘Travis has them believing that the Apocalypse will begin on the ninth of Av.’

  ‘And?’ He sounded unsurprised.

  ‘And they believe that they have to make three sacrifices before then. Apparently, Travis says there’s a code in the Bible that orders them to kill three lambs, but I don’t believe they are actually killing lambs – I think they are sacrificing innocent people, starting with those two murdered men in the shuk in Jerusalem.’ She was talking too fast, made herself pause. Wondered if he believed her.

  ‘You’ve shared your concerns before, Mrs Jennings.’

  ‘And did you follow up? Because, sir, believe me, these people are planning a third sacrifice. Yoshi didn’t die. So they still need a third victim. And they need it quickly; the ninth of Av is the day after tomorrow.’

  Ben Baruch took a breath. Crossed his arms.

  ‘Mrs Jennings, I hear that you’ve been playing detective.’

  What? Who’d told him that? ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  ‘I believe you know exactly what I mean.’ He eyed her.

  Obviously, he knew something. Maybe from Hagit? Well, she had no reason to deny it – or to apologize. ‘Well, do you expect me to sit by and watch while people get killed?’

  ‘Not at all. You need to help us. First, by telling us what you know. Then by letting us do our jobs.’ He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘You mean well, but you need to keep away from the investigation.’

  ‘But what’s Travis going to do when the Apocalypse doesn’t come? What if he’s planning to hurt his followers?’

  ‘Trust me.’ His hand tightened its grip. A warning? ‘This is not the first lunatic to bring his followers to Israel. We know how to—’

  ‘But did you know that Ramsey Travis might be a murderer named Travis Ramsey? Might have killed his own father?’ Harper interrupted.

  Ben Baruch removed his hand and moved closer so that his face was right above Harper’s, looking down. His breath annoyed her cheeks. ‘What I’m telling you is for your own sake, Mrs Jennings. Stay away from it. Understand me?’

  Harper returned his gaze, didn’t blink. ‘I do.’

  He moved away. ‘Be assured, I will meet with Pastor Travis in a few minutes. Also, Peter Watts and other key members of the group are being watched. Nobody is going to have a chance to kill anyone.’

  Harper nodded, a little relieved. At least the police were aware of the danger.

  ‘But remember this: so far, there is not a shred of evidence to link any of these people to the killings in the shuk—’

  ‘What about the symbols carved into the bodies? They represent two religions. And Yoshi – his religion would have been the third . . .’

  She stopped because his eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know about any carvings?’

  She explained that she’d seen one of the bodies; that Inspector Alon in Jerusalem had told her about the other.

  Baruch raised a disapproving eyebrow. ‘As I said. We have nothing to dispute the church’s claim that their sacrifices are merely symbolic acts involving spilt wine.’

  What? ‘Then who stabbed Yoshi?’

  Ben Baruch looked over her head toward the kibbutz buildings. ‘Go have your lunch.’ His tone was abrupt. ‘Leave police work to the police.’ He started to walk away.

  Harper went after him, opened her mouth to say more, but stopped when she saw the set of his jaw. She knew that look, had seen it in the military on superior officers. It meant ‘Dismissed.’

  There was no point in saying anything else; Ben Baruch wasn’t listening.

  Police were all over the place. Some were easier to spot than others, but the killer knew they were there. Could feel their eyes. They were in the restaurant building, trying to look casual, blending into the buffet line. But they had weapons. Didn’t they realize that everyone could see their weapons? Not that regular kibbutzniks didn’t carry them – even the older kids carried rifles or pistols now that the place was on high alert.

  Police kept close to Travis, who didn’t seem to notice. Didn’t feel the glide of stealthy gazes. The brush of casual glances from all angles, at all times. They were on Frank, too, probably because of his prelate status. One was sitting with Lowell because he might bear a grudge. Another with Peter because he was the new golden boy. They knew who was who in the church leadership.

  Of which the killer had been a part until recently.

  Did they know that? Were they watching? The killer moved to the corner of the dining room. Checked to see if anyone’s gaze moved there, too. Waited to feel a tingle of suspicion.

  Felt nothing. Well, except fury. Ramsey’s words reverberated like heavy bronze gongs: ‘If I were you, I’d fast and pray for mercy.’ Really? The killer seethed, had no more reason to atone than anyone else at the table. Actually had less. Ramsey had made a mistake, a big one. Would soon understand how big. The killer picked up a plate, piled on brisket, potatoes, green beans, cucumber and tomato salad, beets, corn, hummus, pita bread – as much food as the plate could hold and then stacked some more on top, and took a seat directly across from Ramsey, chewing big fat forkfuls. Letting Ramsey see how little effect his words had had. How confident and resilient the killer could be.

  Ramsey, of course, pretended to pay no attention. He avoided eye contact; spoke to the council as if the killer were not present. As if police were not surrounding them. Ramsey chatted as if he had no cares. He ate as if he had no reason to hurry.

  But he had just thirty-six hours. That was all.

  By contrast, Peter looked terrified. His skin was sickly yellow, and he picked at his food, chewed a mouthful of brisket forty or more times before forcing it down. The others questioned him. ‘So, got plans for later, Peter?’

  ‘Made a choice yet?’

  Peter hunkered down. ‘It’s under control.’ His fork trembled in his hand.

  ‘We’re all counting on you, Watts,’ Ramsey beamed. ‘I have complete faith in you.’

  ‘I won’t let you down.’ Peter bounced his knee; his thigh accidentally brushed the killer’s.

  ‘Peter, if you need help, let me know.’ The words flew out of the killer’s mouth on their own, unintended.

  For a moment, everyone froze. Then they went back to eating as if the killer hadn’t spoken.

  Cowards. Weaklings
. The killer had completed two sacrifices and attempted a third. What had they done – any of them? Other than the assistant, none of them had contributed a single breath of effort to follow the instructions in the code. Yet they would judge someone who had? They were hypocrites, kissing up to Ramsey. The killer ate in a frenzy of rage, stuffed down wads of food, not caring what kind, barely bothering to chew. Glaring at Travis.

  Francine, a bovine churchwoman, came over with a tray. She’d never been on the council. What made her think she could join their table?

  The tray was laden with desserts. ‘I thought you’d enjoy these.’ Her grin was devilish. ‘After all, after the ninth, we won’t have to worry about our waistlines anymore, will we, Pastor?’

  ‘Gluttony is a sin, Francine,’ he frowned.

  Francine’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Then again,’ Travis grinned, ‘I guess the Lord won’t mind if we make an exception to celebrate His word.’ He reached for a strawberry tart. ‘Let Peter choose next.’

  Peter froze, staring at the tray as if it held writhing snakes.

  ‘Thank you, Francine, dear,’ Travis went on. ‘That was very thoughtful.’ He reached out and patted her plump hand.

  The killer swallowed a forkful of green beans, watching the red splotches emerging on Francine’s fat neck, the heat radiating from her bosom in reaction to Travis’s touch. And thinking that Peter, the sorry wimp, might very well lose his lunch.

  Chloe tottered along the path ahead of Harper. Ahead of them, Travis and his entourage approached his bungalow. The pastor was deep in conversation, but saw Chloe take a tumble and rushed over to help her up.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Harper told him, hurrying over, grabbing Chloe’s hand. ‘She falls every three or four steps.’

  Travis looked at Harper, didn’t smile. ‘You’re the lady who found the ring. Very exciting.’

  She nodded. ‘I’m Harper Jennings. We’re in the bungalow next door.’

  His chin and eyebrows rose. ‘Ramsey Travis. Delighted.’ He nodded goodbye. Joined his companions and led them into his bungalow.