Haunted Blood

by Elik Katzav

  My heart stops beating once again when I gaze at the photos featuring Dagon’s beard.

  How can it be?

  This piece of black stone has the same properties as the knife’s handle. Nevertheless, however dark it appears, it completely swallows the light reflected from the camera’s flash. I wish to scream, That shell again! Piles of shell got stolen from this place!

  I want to find someone, rattle them, shout and explain about the destructive potential of what they had kept here, and worse still, what they’ve lost. But I can’t. I simply cannot move myself off this damn couch.

  Another look at the bracelets Dagon has on his wrists tells me they are made of the very same stone the museum had catalogued as obsidian. Only that the museum got it wrong. They are all wrong: it’s a shell!

  I gather all of the statue’s pictures and in they go into my folder.

  I do not have a clue as to how or why that’s related to my case, but who’s going to conduct an investigation? Who can I tell without being put away?

  I find the strength to walk up to the room where Doron said he’d be. I knock on his door.

  - Mind if I interrupt you?

  “What’s wrong?” Doron looks at me. “You’re looking so pale,” he quickly gets up from his chair. “Come, have a seat,” he pulls up a chair and immediately proceeds to pour me a glass of water.

  - I would like to know one tiny thing.

  I take a sip and continue.

  - The beard, the bracelets and the dagger hilt: they seem to have been made of the same black stone, to which you refer as ‘obsidian,’ right? Perhaps you might recall what they seemed like by the actual light of day? Or here, by artificial light inside?

  “Funny you should ask. Yes, the light was swallowed up. They seemed to be absorbing the light; it shimmered all over.”

  Doron then continues.

  “We never did get a chance to conduct more comprehensive tests or analyze the material the statue was made of. That’s why we just wrote it like that.”

  - You have surveillance cameras all over the place, don’t you? Any images from the robbery itself?

  Perhaps images of some nebulous figure with six wings robbing the museum?

  “Well, yes, haven’t you seen them? That’s the reason you guys asked us not to go public with any details of the actual robbery: because they defy all explanation.”

  I feel I’m choking up.

  Yet another demon. There’s no other reason for the news embargo on the case. It was another demon, so I was right, I’m not crazy! They will have to acknowledge that now.

  “You still have the clips. You’re having them tested for authenticity, but I have the copies right here,” he produces another folder with images from the security cameras and tilts his computer screen for me to watch the videos from that night.

  My hands are trembling as Doron presses the video’s play button. The video starts with two men in masks entering by the back door. One of them walks up to the jewellery and picks it up. The other, who is also wearing a cap, is holding a piece of paper, according to which he goes over to where the knife’s handle was displayed. He puts it into a shoulder bag. I stop to look more closely.

  No interaction between this person and the artifact. Nothing happens. No black cloud, no transfer of any energy. Nada.

  The next bit shows him consulting his notes again, looking around, and walking over to the statue. The following images feature him walking round Dagon, measuring it, then producing something from his bag. He pulls his mask up a bit, brings his hand closer to his face and puts his hand back into the bag. I run the clip back and attempt to zoom in on the exact frame in which he lifts his mask.

  There’s something familiar about this guy.

  Yes, despite the poor quality of this clip, it is nevertheless good enough to feature the next thing he does: he’s walking over to the statue, stretches out both arms, holds it, lifts it, and out the back door he goes.

  I pick up the relevant pictures from the folder, just to be sure I am seeing correctly.

  I look up and watch Doron. He’s smiling gleefully, his hands holding the back of his head.

  “Crazy, right?” He leans forward and taps the image I am still holding in my hand. “It’s mad. This person simply walks over to the statue, and without any further ado, no preparations whatsoever, he simply lifts an artifact weighing half a ton and out he goes, like it was a case of sodas.”

  - But that’s impossible. Where’s the demon, where’s the demon who came to pick the shell up?

  “What?! Where’s the-? What?!”

  I get a grip quickly.

  Were this person possessed by a demon, like Father Gaynes was, he would have used the shell. He would not have had to bother stealing it. Robbing the museum makes no sense. Unless, that is, he’s working for that demon and is stealing the shell on his behalf. So where does this super human strength come from?

  The door to Doron’s room swings open and in walks a balding man in his fifties. He is short and wearing a white button-up shirt that seems at least one, maybe two sizes too tight. His face is red, with very tiny lips. He looks straight at Doron, who is visibly cringing.

  “Well? Did you get the stuff I asked you to? Did you turn the papers in on time?”

  He sounds irritated.

  He’s displeased, and he hasn’t even heard Doron’s answer yet.

  “Yes, certainly. Of course I did. I submitted it all. I asked them to get us the stuff together by lunch, so I am supposed to get everything soon.”

  Doron then adds, “And this is the investigator, David. I set the appointment for you two for today at half past ten. He’s the police investigator,” Doron’s voice is trembling.

  It’s as if he’s fearful of Alon’s reaction.

  Alon is giving me an inquisitive look. I stretch my hand out to him for a shake and attempt a smile.

  - Pleased to meet you. I am David, David Maharani. I am an indeed an investigator, but not with the police. Actually, I’m a private investigator, working a case on a missing child, which is why I am here.

  Alon glares at me and at my outstretched arm and then at his assistant. His red face is getting redder still. Crimson mad.

  “You knew about it?” His voice gets even more harsh. “He’s no cop! What are you wasting my time for?! You told me the police wanted to have another talk about the case, a follow-up,” he shouts at Doron, who is literally taken aback, making a tactical move in the form of shifting back a few inches with his chair.

  I didn’t mean for this to happen, buddy. Sorry you’ve got such an idiot for a boss.

  During their game of cat and mouse, I shove the photos of the thief carrying the statue into my shoulder bag and place the rest of the pictures back into the folder.

  “What’s this?!” Alon points at the folder I’m holding. “You even gave him photos of the case?”

  He then proceeds to bellow, “Are you really sure you want to keep working here?”

  Alon continues to holler at Doron: “We’re in the middle of a robbery investigation, and you go and play nice with P.I.s, giving then classified museum documents! Does this sound at all reasonable to you?”

  He snatches the folder from my hands and yells at me, “And as for you, I have no idea who in the world you’re working for, but get the hell out of my museum! At once!”

  I shrug and lift my bag onto my shoulders.

  - I’ll see myself out. I never thought you’d be in such a bad shape that you can’t even help out a family who’s trying to find their missing child. Had I known you couldn’t care less about a boy, God knows where he might be, and your museum is the last place where he was last seen, I wouldn’t have bothered coming here.

  Alon stops in his tracks to consider, then looks at me again as I adjust my bag. He thinks for a few seconds and asks, “Do
you have a picture of this boy?”

  To which I quickly respond by producing Idan’s photo.

  He glances at it for a second and hands it back to me.

  “I don’t recognize him,” he growls at me.

  “Here,” he turns to Doron, “Take this photo and show it around the office. Maybe the rest the staff will recognize him.”

  - Thanks.

  I thank Alon quickly and leave the room, then stand in waiting for him to leave and head for his own office.

  Doron himself leaves a few seconds later and joins me. We walk over towards the gallery in silence.

  I eventually break the silence.

  - I am sorry, my friend. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble with your boss. I had to find out more details concerning my investigation. I don’t think you could have gotten me a meeting with him.

  “Oh, never mind, it isn’t you, it’s all him. One day he can be so sweet, and the next, he’s as vile as can be. I only survive because I really love my job here, and thanks to the hope I cling to that someday he’ll be promoted elsewhere, far, far away,” Doron is smiling again.

  As we reach the guides’ stand, he takes Idan’s picture and examines it.

  “Was he here on some school trip or something like that?”

  - No, I don’t think so. I figured he had something to do with the museum because he had been gathering material concerning some of the exhibits on display here.

  “Nothing to do with school work or school activity? Field trip, then?”

  - No. Actually, it had to do with the statue that got stolen and the rest of the finds in that archeological excavation. And before you ask, no, I do not believe he had anything whatsoever to do with the robbery. The strange thing is, he goes missing, and a week later, someone breaks in here and robs the place. One thing is certain: he is not one of the guys who pulled it off.

  Doron nods in agreement. “I do not remember his face, and if he is was here, then his visit must have been before the school year ended. We have had far fewer visitors in the past two months, this being the summer holiday.”

  He calls the guides to their station and they arrive one after the other. None of them remembers Idan. They never saw him visit here.

  This lead may have turned out cold as far as Idan was concerned, but it nevertheless opened up other avenues, other issues I am not sure I can handle again.

  Chapter 24

  I return to my car at the supermarket parking lot and have a look at my cell phone’s screen. Father Conroy sent me Rabbi Datan’s details again after our chat yesterday, as if he knew somehow I’d need them.

  “Call him. He’s expecting you to,” followed by a short text and the number.

  All throughout my convalescence and rehabilitation, Father Conroy tried to get me to speak with someone whom he believed would be sympathetic to what I experienced, a guy who, according to Father Conroy, “understands very well indeed” what I went through, being a rabbi who dabbled in Kabbalah, a Torah Sage.

  - I need to wrestle with my demons on my own.

  Demons; what an apt word for this terrible ordeal.

  “You do not have to go it alone. Why do you feel you have to deal with it all by yourself? There are people out there who can help you carry this burden, and even more than that, help you come to terms with the weight of what you’ve witnessed at the cave. That’s Rabbi Datan for you. He is highly versed in the occult, he could provide you with some answers.”

  Who needs answers? I need someone who can help me forget, not wallow in the memories that keep plaguing me.

  Nevertheless, here I am. And that shell again. This time I can come prepared, in case he might be able to help me after all. Even if he can’t, at least someone will be there to listen to me.

  I swear to myself and dial the number for Rabbi Daniel Datan.

  When they finally pick up, I hear guitars playing loudly in the background. They turn the volume down.

  - Who is this?

  “Blessed him who asks. You reached this number because you had to, you, righteous man.”

  Hmmm, who did I call?

  I look at the number Father Conroy gave me. No mistake. That’s the number I just dialed.

  The person on the other side of the line is waiting ever so patiently for me to get a grip.

  - I got this number from Father Conroy. I am looking for Rabbi Datan; is this the right number?

  “Yes, it is. I keep the rabbi’s phone whenever he’s giving a class. How may I help you, tsaddik?” The music seems to resume, albeit quieter.

  - I was referred to Rabbi Datan. May I please speak with him?

  “Rabbi Datan helps a great many people. His time, alas, is scarce. I am here to offer my humble hand. Come, tell me what this is regarding and I shall see what we might be able to do for you.”

  Oh, in that case, in a nutshell, I came across this demon, fought him, it ended in a tie, I blew this shell up and I am looking for this missing child who was kidnapped by a cult who worships Canaanite Gods. Do you have anything for that?

  - Father Conroy from Nazareth referred me to him. In fact, he spoke with the rabbi a few months ago on my behalf, so the rabbi’s expecting me.

  “Father, as in church? Meaning, Christians? Not another rabbi, you mean?”

  - Yes, well, they know each other. Could I please speak with Rabbi Datan?

  “I don’t think the rabbi will be able to assist you, because, you see, we are Jews, and you Christians, you have your own set of beliefs—similar, but different.”

  - No, no. I’m not a Christian. I worked for Father Conroy, I know him. It’s complicated. Nevertheless, I am a Jew. He referred me to the rabbi.

  “You’re Jewish and you worked for the Church?” He makes a dismissive sound with his tongue. “I do not think Rabbi Datan will be able to assist you after all. Are you seeking a way back to the creed of your forefathers?”

  - I am Jewish. I only wish to speak with the rabbi. That is all. They are friends, Rabbi Datan is expecting my call, could you please tell him I am on the line and wishing to speak with him?

  “Hold the line.”

  The music in the background returns to high volume as before and the minutes pass by. I am about to hang up, but then the guy picks up again.

  “Are you David Maharani?”

  - Yes, that’s me.

  “Then why didn’t you say so in the first place? Rabbi Datan will be happy to see you. Would another hour be convenient for you?”

  He gives me the details for the location of the Yeshiva [Orthodox Jewish high school] in Rishon LeZion, a large city south of Tel Aviv.

  One hour later, I park my car in a yard next to the entrance of a deserted two-story building in the southern part of Rishon LeZion, per instructions. I can hear really loud music coming from the building, as well as young folks standing round the building, smoking. My banged up Subaru blends in perfectly. These guys are yeshiva students so, much like regular high school students, all they can afford by way of transportation is cars from around the same make and year as mine.

  The gravel is crunching under my feet as I walk into this building, which looks condemned from the outside. Some of the windows are missing and others are boarded up. Most of the outside walls are covered in graffiti, some of which is verses that even I recognize from the scriptures.

  These yeshiva boys, or at least that’s what I take them for, huddle outside, reeking of hard liquor and cigarettes. They’re watching me enter the building, but return to their discussion as I vanish inside.

  The whole place reminds me of a crack house.

  All that’s missing is the passed out druggy on the floor or on the stairs. Is this really where I need to be right now? Is this the place where I can get some answers? I am pretty sure Father Conroy would have had a fit had he known Rabbi Datan, whom he counts on
to assist me, was living and working in a place like this, a drug den! The chances of getting some answers in such a place are close to none. The only thing I am certain of is that I could score something to smoke—something illegal—for sure.

  Things become clearer as I open the door and walk in through the corridor. A bunch of young folks are sitting on the floor, passing a hookah among them as they read through school books. In answer to my question of where I might find the rabbi, they point up to the stairs and the second floor, to Rabbi Datan’s study.

  I climb up to the second floor, only to discover yet more young folks reclining on the floor as they listen to another young-looking person seated on a pile of cushions, enveloped by smoke. The smell is different around here, not just the atmosphere.

  Smells like weed.

  A barefoot Rabbi Daniel Datan eyes me and beams. He rises from his nest of pillows, not without some effort. He’s wearing a white jellabiya, a kind of Arab kaftan. He smiles at me, walks over towards me, raises his arms sideways and throws them around me.

  It takes me a few seconds to return the hug. However hesitant, I do hug him back.

  He releases both arms, looks me directly in the eye, and embraces me again.

  This ceremony repeats itself three times until he lets go and leads me into the circle of his young disciples.

  He bends to the floor and gets back up, holding a doobie.

  “Oh, I nearly forgot. Welcome. Here, help yourself,” he hands me a long joint.

  I proffer a polite refusal, to which he responds with, “Oh, I am sorry, you can’t have a puff before grabbing a bite. Won’t you join me for a snack?”