by Merry Jones
‘You’d do no good by being there, Lynne,’ Pastor Travis said. ‘Peter’s delirious. And he’d want you to do what’s right for you.’
‘He’ll be okay,’ Frank joined in. ‘They said it shouldn’t be fatal.’
Lynne’s skin got grayer.
Hank was on the roof again. Harper pressed her nails deeper, breaking skin.
‘You’ll be with him when it counts.’ Marlene leaned forward, poking her head between Lynne and Travis. ‘First, you need to take care of yourself. Like on an airplane when you put on your oxygen mask before you help others.’
Lynne didn’t respond.
The driver climbed in and started the engine. Time for Harper to take a seat. She reminded herself that Hank’s accident had happened a few years ago and, except for aphasia and a slight limp, he’d recovered completely. He was in Jerusalem, not a hospital. But Harper still felt the warmth of his hand. The sticky blood on her skin . . . No. She was in Israel, on a dig. Without bloodstains. Hank was fine. Peter would be, too.
Dr Ben Haim called to the driver to stop and ran up to the van. He climbed on, announcing that he’d just now talked to the doctor at the army base. Peter would be taken to the medical center at Kibbutz Golen in a few hours. He was still in pain, in and out of consciousness, but so far, he was responding well to the anti-venom.
Harper looked at the passengers around her, wondering if one of them had planted the scorpion. Could it have been Travis? Unlikely; Travis never did anything himself. But he might have encouraged one of his followers to kill her. Was someone eyeing her now, disappointed to see her alive? She scanned the group. Problem was, she sensed a threat everywhere, from no one in particular. Finally, she settled into her seat and looked beyond the woman next to her. Tried to see out the window, to concentrate on green hills and fertile valleys. But Harper saw the scenery only sporadically; mostly, she saw Hank on the roof, fixing loose shingles. Slipping. Sliding. Falling. Again. And again.
When it was finally possible, after lunch, the killer took the pastor aside. They took a walk to the highest point of the kibbutz, stood in the breeze, looking out at green fields and hills.
The killer waited for a moment, then took a breath, recited practiced lines. ‘Things have changed now. Peter’s out of commission.’
‘I’m aware.’
‘So, let me take care of the sacrifice.’
The pastor rolled his eyes. ‘Really? This is what you wanted to talk about? I should have known. Short answer: no.’ He started to walk away.
The killer was at his heels. ‘But I’m the only one with experience—’
‘We have limited time.’ He wheeled around, put up a hand as if halting the idea. ‘Too much is at stake. We can’t afford another screw up—’
‘I won’t screw up.’ Why was Ramsey still assigning blame? Why couldn’t he understand that nobody had been at fault?
Travis looked out over the hills. ‘Fact is I’ve already assigned it.’
What? Already? ‘To who? Is it Frank? Lowell?’ Couldn’t be Harold . . .
‘You don’t need to know. The fewer who know, the better. Too many eyes are on us – largely because of your mistakes.’ He checked his watch. ‘Let’s head back. It’s time for the prayer group.’ He started back down the hill.
‘No. Ramsey, wait.’ The killer hurried after him. ‘Give me a chance to redeem myself. Please . . .’
‘I believe we’ve already discussed this matter. I see no reason to revisit my decision. You had your chance. You failed and, in failing, you jeopardized our hopes of fulfilling the code. No. If you want redemption, don’t come to me. It’s out of my hands. The only one who can help you is God.’ He turned and strode away.
The killer didn’t move. Stayed there, back straight, jaw tight, throat thick and choked. Feeling wobbly, as if the earth were trembling. As if there were nothing to hold on to. How could Ramsey leave like that? Without a hopeful word, a reassuring embrace? Supposedly he loved everyone in the church; helped them in times of need. Was leading them to salvation and eternal life.
But the killer stood alone. Unloved. Rejected.
And then the realization hit: it wasn’t the killer who was at fault. It was Ramsey Travis. Truth was, he was only human, had human frailties. He wanted so desperately to fulfill the instructions in the code – was so close to accomplishing God’s requirements that he was blind to anything else, including anyone who got hurt on the way. Though he didn’t know it, Ramsey needed the killer’s loyalty and help more than ever.
In the end, God would recognize the truth, reward devotion, forgive minor errors. In a little more than a day, Pastor Travis would see how well the killer’s efforts had pleased the Lord and would bask in the glory.
Meantime, there was a third lamb to sacrifice – quickly, before Lowell or Frank or whichever council member had been assigned made their move. This time, the killer would find one weaker than that Yoshi. Less agile. The Lord would accept a sincere offering, even if it weren’t a perfect specimen. The main thing was to complete the triad by sacrificing one of Isaac’s people.
It shouldn’t be difficult; Jews were everywhere. It was just a matter of picking the right one.
When she got back to the kibbutz, Harper didn’t stop in at the nursery to see Chloe and Hagit. She went straight to the bungalow to start packing. Her mind was made up; she wasn’t going to discuss her decision with Hank or anyone else. Wasn’t going to listen to more lame reasons for her to stay. The dig, the opportunity to participate in the excavation of Megiddo South, was simply not worth risking her life and Chloe’s safety. And, even if Peter’s bite had been an accident – which she was certain it wasn’t – she didn’t want to be there with Chloe when Travis and his church members unleashed whatever they’d planned to bring on the end of days.
She pulled her shorts, jeans and T-shirts out of the closet, stuffed them into her duffle bag. Rolled up a skirt, a sweatshirt, a sundress. Threw in her underwear, flip flops, sneakers. A nightgown. Opened the drawer with Chloe’s clothes. Blinked. Except for a few pairs of socks and a stack of diapers, it was empty. She looked in the bathroom, checked Hagit’s room. Saw no baby clothes. Where were all Chloe’s things?
The laundry bag. Harper looked. Found only her own dirty clothes.
Damn. Harper looked under the bed. Then slumped onto it, baffled. Maybe Hagit was doing the laundry?
Well, never mind. They’d just get Chloe’s clothes out of the washing machine and transport them wet, in a plastic bag. They’d dry the load in Jerusalem. Meantime, she had to go tell Hagit to get her things together. And go to the office to arrange transportation.
Harper hurried out of the bungalow along the path toward the school. They’d leave before dinner. By bedtime, they’d be in Jerusalem. She’d be with Hank, would sleep beside him. She smiled, picturing it, as she passed Ramsey Travis’s bungalow. And felt someone watching her. Lowell was sitting on Travis’s porch, alone, his face sullen.
Harper kept going, spurred on by the uneasy ripple dancing along the back of her neck.
The killer didn’t hurry. Moved at a steady, careful pace all the way down the hill. Timing was critical. But so was the choice. Maybe the lamb should be someone who’d insulted the church, who’d talked to police. Someone who’d been unfriendly, standoffish. Or who’d interfered with the last attempt to find a lamb – like that guy Gal. Except, no. Gal was too strong. Maybe that young woman Adi, who’d taken them on a tour when they first arrived. Or her friend, Yael.
The killer walked and thought. Considered the boy who worked the desk in the main office. Decided, no, he could easily sound an alarm. Thought about the staff at the restaurant, but they worked as a group. It might be hard to isolate one. The killer kicked a pebble, frustrated. The fact was that most of the people who lived at the kibbutz didn’t cross paths with the dig volunteers. How was the killer to get one alone without knowing where to look?
But defeat was not an option. There had to be a way to please
Travis and do God’s work. And then, boom: the killer knew. The face of the lamb appeared like a vision. She was older, kind of chunky and out of shape; it wouldn’t take much effort to overcome her. She’d be alone when Harper took her baby out for a walk. What was her name? Hag-something. Hagit! That was it. Yes. Hagit would be the final lamb. She was perfect.
The sounds of children playing skittered through the air, as light as butterfly wings, as ticklish as the breeze. Harper steeled herself, bracing for Hagit’s protests. Ready to fend off her resistance. She simply didn’t care what Hagit might say. She and Chloe were going to leave with or without her. The same instincts that had kept her alive in Iraq were ordering her to grab her baby and go. No argument by a babysitter was going to stop her.
Maybe they wouldn’t even get the baby’s laundry; she could buy more clothes in Jerusalem. Her biggest concern was transportation. Could she rent a car? If not, she could pay someone to drive them. Maybe Gal would do it.
Coming up the hill to the nursery, she saw Harold and a couple of other church members lingering near the fence. What were they doing there? Her spine jangled a warning. Harper checked them out, saw no weapons. She kept walking, nodded a greeting. All three nodded back, identical expressions on their faces. What was that expression? Watchfulness? Uneasiness? Alarm? Never mind. She had no time, kept moving.
The man beside Harold stepped forward, silently blocking her way. She was about to ask what he wanted when, beyond him, the gate to the nursery swung open. Three people stepped out. Frank, Travis and, in between them, wearing a grimace, Hagit.
The killer knew where to find the lamb: the nursery school. Hagit would be there with Harper’s kid. This time the plan would work. The killer would go in with a message, saying that Harper wanted Hagit to meet her. That she’d sent the killer to get her. Hagit would go willingly, would suspect nothing. Would have no chance to resist. Would be the third sacrifice.
The killer felt light, weightless, ran as if not touching the ground. Stopped along the way at the bungalow to take the knife from the satchel. Concealed it in a waistband. Hummed Amazing Grace on the way to the nursery, picturing the final sacrifice. The completion of the instructions. The adherence to the code. Travis would beam with appreciation, would open his arms, and they would stand together in glory for all time. What would it look like, feel like, to have their souls rise? To receive eternal life? To face the Rapture?
What would it be like to meet the Lord?
The nursery was just up the hill. The killer clung to the hidden knife, smiling, anticipating glory. But then the gate swung open. The killer stopped, stunned as if sucker-punched, gaping. Wailing aloud, ‘Nooo!’ as Frank and Travis emerged and led the lamb away.
Harper bulldozed forward, but Harold and the others closed in.
‘Just a second, Harper,’ Harold smiled. ‘I don’t think you’ve met Jimmy Thomson—’
One of the men snickered at her. Harper ignored him, swiveling to get around them. But Jimmy stepped sideways, stopping her, putting an outstretched hand on her arm.
Reflexively, she grabbed his wrist. Before he understood what was happening, his arm was bent and pinned tightly behind his back. Jimmy bent over, groaning.
The others froze for a moment, gaping. Regrouping. Reasoning that Harper was still outnumbered. There was no way she could twist all their arms at once. Harold moved slowly to her rear; the other man went to her left.
‘If either of you comes closer,’ Harper warned, ‘I’ll break Jimmy’s arm, and then I’ll crush at least one of your jaws.’
They paused. Looked at each other, then at Harper, sizing up the threat from this short petite sprite. Meantime, Harper glanced up the path, saw Hagit hanging back, walking reluctantly. Travis and Frank tugged at her, urging her along. Where were all the security officers? The groundskeepers? Anyone could see that the men were forcing Hagit to go with them. And why didn’t Hagit call out for help? Why didn’t she scream?
The short-lived standoff was coming to an end. Harold nodded to the other guy, and both took a wary step forward. Harper kept her word, raised her knee, snapped down, felt the cracking of bone, heard a howl as Jimmy collapsed. In the same move, she spun around, landing her fist squarely on the jaw behind her. Felt it cave on impact. Before the guy hit the ground, she drew her fist back and pivoted to face Harold, who backed away, hands raised.
‘Okay. No problem.’
Men were moaning. Harper stepped toward Harold, ready to strike. She met his eyes, said nothing.
Harold turned and ran.
Harper looked up the path for Hagit, saw her disappearing into some hedges with Travis and Frank. Oh God. Where were they going? With a surge of adrenalin, she took off after them, running to catch up. The war injury in her left leg throbbed; her knee threatened to buckle. And her wrist and knuckles stung; she hadn’t cold-cocked anyone in a long time and hadn’t positioned her hand quite right. But Harper sped, trying to catch up. It was almost the ninth of Av. And she was pretty sure that Travis had been looking for his third sacrifice.
The killer watched in disbelief. Travis? Travis had taken the third lamb. The killer’s jaw tensed, grasping the facts: Travis was going to make the sacrifice by himself. Personally.
But why? Was he so hungry for God’s approval that he would deny anyone else a chance for glory? Wasn’t it enough that Travis had decoded God’s instructions? That he had led them to Megiddo?
The killer watched the entourage climbing the hill – Travis, Frank and the offering, followed by Harper. And how about Harper? She’d just about made Harold wet his pants in fear. Snapped Jimmy’s arm like a twig; smashed Wendell’s face. Now, they rolled around moaning on the ground while other council members rushed out of the nursery school, coming to their rescue.
‘What happened?’ A council member named Stephen helped Jimmy to his feet.
Jimmy wailed. ‘My arm . . .’
Wait.
What were council members doing in the nursery school?
It had to be about Hagit. Probably they’d stayed there to make sure nobody called for help.
‘Just go ahead and do it!’ Jimmy bellowed. He tottered, seemed unable to stand.
‘Sorry, Jimmy. I’m supposed to wait. Nobody does anything unless Travis calls in an order.’
Wendell whimpered when they lifted him. Blood gurgled from his mouth.
‘But look what she did – you’ve got to . . .’
‘Jimmy, I’m not authorized to kill—’
‘An eye for an eye! An arm for an arm.’
‘—without authorization.’
What were they talking about? Did Jimmy want them to kill Harper?
‘Fine. I’ll do it myself.’ Jimmy thrust himself toward the nursery, holding his dangling and twisted arm. ‘Which one is hers?’
Hers? Oh dear. He was talking about Harper’s baby. She was in the nursery school.
‘Stop.’ Stephen pulled Jimmy’s intact arm. ‘You could ruin everything. It’s just a matter of hours, and then none of this will matter.’
The killer stayed hidden, watching Stephen calm Jimmy. Wondering which other council members were guarding the nursery. What they’d been ordered to do if Hagit refused to cooperate. Someone must have called for help; kibbutz medics arrived to deal with the injured men. The killer heard Stephen apologize for them, explaining that they’d been in a fistfight. That they’d caused each other’s wounds. Jimmy glared and fumed. Wendell spit blood.
The killer looked beyond them, watching Harper disappear up the hill behind Travis. And, making a wide path around the others, followed quickly, undetected.
If not for the breeze, Harper would have missed the spot, would have run right past. The bushes moved, though, as if to show her the narrow path where she’d last seen Hagit. It was familiar; she’d been there before. On her first day at the kibbutz. On the tour.
If not for the tour, she wouldn’t have understood where they’d gone. But she remembered the entrance concealed i
n the rocks, and she hurried through the shrubbery, easily locating the bunker door.
It was steel. Camouflaged to match the bushes and rocks. Positioned low, away from the road. And closed.
Harper put a hand on the lever that would open it. Slowly, steadily, she pushed it down and pulled on the door. The door didn’t budge. Damn. Was it locked? They’d locked it? She had no time to go for help – Travis might be killing Hagit that very moment. Might have already killed her. Harper looked around for help, saw no one. Where was all the kibbutz security? And what about Harold? He’d probably run off to gather a posse of church members. She peered over the hedges. The path was empty: so far, no one was chasing her. She tried the door again, pulled. Then shoved. The door swung forward, into the bunker.
Harper listened, heard Travis’s voice rising from below. Quietly stepped inside. The door clanged closed behind her, shutting out the sunlight. She stiffened, not breathing, waiting for Travis to respond to the sound. But Travis was still talking, hadn’t heard the door. Harper stood still, engulfed in darkness, hoping that her eyes would adjust. That she was in time to rescue Hagit. That she’d figure out a way to do so.
Carefully, she put a hand out, felt empty air. She extended a foot, tested the ground. Took a tentative step, another. Gradually, her eyes adjusted. By the time she got to the turn and the staircase leading underground, candlelight leaked from below, letting her see well enough to make out dim shapes. And by the time she descended the steps, the light was bright enough to reveal Hagit across the room, tied to a table, her forehead bleeding. And Travis standing beside her, holding a large gleaming knife above her throat.