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  “Why the delay?”

  “Long story short, Mr. Marka thought his own security guys would be able to locate Lars and keep the whole thing quiet. Save face for the ol’ man, if you know what I’m saying? Now that’s all down the tubes.”

  “The tubes?” Benyamin asked.

  “The crapper. The WC, as the English like to call it.”

  “The water closet. Yes, yes, the British terms are ones I’ve grown up with.”

  “So.” Nickel plucked the first developed photo from a clothespin. “We have a homicide victim on our hands. Seems strange, though. I mean, why dump this guy in the one sea where you know he’ll keep floating? It’s like begging for an investigation.”

  “Perhaps his killer was in a hurry, forced into a mistake.”

  “Still, wouldn’t ditching the body be priority number one? Hiding it. Burying it. You know, running it through a meat grinder or something.”

  “Hmmph,” Benyamin said. “I see why kosher is recommended.”

  “Another joke, Mr. Amit? Now who’s being cavalier?”

  “You’re a bad influence, you Americans.”

  “Man, don’t I know it. I get that a lot.”

  Nickel dug into his pack for graph paper, a syringe, glass vials, a scalpel, and a zippered bag. There were other items less familiar to the Mash’az patrolman, including a mallet and long, crude spikes that tum-bled onto the sand.

  “What’re those?” Benyamin asked.

  “MTPs.”

  “Forgive me, but perhaps in Hebrew we call them something different.”

  “Metal tent pegs. Come in handy, especially when you’re on your own.”

  “Are you a camper? My son and I go sometimes.”

  “Uh, right. Camping.” Nickel pointed at the pegs. “In a tent, of course.”

  The Israeli furrowed his brow, silenced by this strange reaction.

  Nickel bundled the spikes, returned them to his pack, then fixed his attention on a laminated checklist. While Benyamin warded off passersby, Cal Nichols completed his tasks. At last, he eased the corpse into a body bag and paused for a moment of respect.

  Sneaking glances, the patrolman felt grudging admiration. How proud he would be to see his own son proficient in such work. He flashed back to last night’s camping beneath the stars—and to the obnoxious bite on his heel.

  Benyamin reached down and touched the spot.

  That was odd.

  Instead of easing away, the poison seemed to have knotted around his tendon and flared into something malignant.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  Cuvin

  Gina pressed her face against the window’s mesh. Low clouds had dumped rain earlier in the evening, and sunflowers stood with drooped heads in the fields. She’d left a jar of homemade jam on a neighbor’s front step. Had the elderly man discovered it before the blue satin bow got drenched?

  “Gina.” A voice barked from the front gate. “Call off your dog.”

  She swiveled on her toes. Vasile again? Why not his nephew Teo instead?

  At the screen door, she found her pet keeping the prefect at bay in an aggressive, three-legged crouch. Even with Treia’s protection, she hoped her mother’s bus from Arad was not delayed.

  “Comrade, I think he likes you,” she said to Vasile.

  “He’s growling at me.”

  “Maybe he smells another animal on your clothes.”

  “Make him leave.” Vasile was on the stone walkway, his right hand latched onto the clothesline stretched between the house and an elm sap-ling. His grip made the towels and embroidered tablecloth quiver. “If he bites me, I swear that your mother’ll pay a hefty fine.”

  Gina cracked open the door, snapped her fingers. “Treia, over here.”

  The dog ended his watch and loped back to his owner. Around his left eye, a sliver of white fur looked almost like a wink: Don’t worry. I’ll ward off this evil man.

  “Keep a tighter rein on that creature,” Vasile said. “We must take pride in our village. No more of these wild beasts roaming the alleys and relieving themselves wherever they wish.”

  “But, comrade, he was in our yard.”

  “Even so, he’s a danger. He should be kept indoors.”

  “He’s never hurt anyone.”

  “What about that bandage on your neck? I suspect the mutt bit you.”

  Gina cupped her hand to the wound, shook her head. She would never divulge to him the humiliation of the antique blade as it cut away the infection. So she was vulnerable. Weak. None of that was for him to know.

  “You are impossible,” he said. “Let me talk with your mother.”

  “She’s been at university. She’ll be coming around the corner any minute.”

  “Education is a waste of a woman’s time, a modern conceit. And what sort of mother leaves her daughter alone with all the chores?”

  “I’m capable.”

  “Of course you are, Gina.” He flicked a glance in both directions. “But perhaps there’s something you need done in there that requires a man’s strength.”

  “My mother says I should shoulder my own load.”

  “You know, even adults need a bit of help now and then.” Vasile’s low chuckle matched the spookiness of his hooded eyebrows. “Tell me, are your mother’s sights set on that fellow she’s been seeing? He was here just a few days ago, was he not?”

  “She’s not seeing anyone.” Gina eased back from the screen door.

  “You wouldn’t forget him. Young, fit, with wheat-colored hair and bright eyes.”

  The Provocateur’s handsome face played through her mind.

  “Don’t you ever wish that you had a father around? A man to look after you? Let me come in. I’ll bring in an armload of firewood.”

  “No, thanks, comrade.”

  Vasile moved up the path, but Treia poked back outside and bared his teeth. This time, in a sudden rage, the man returned the snarl, then snapped his gaze to Gina. A hard, yellow fire blazed in his irises, fed by oil-black pupils.

  “Call off your dog.”

  “No.”

  “He may be a cripple, but I’ll hurt him if I must.”

  Gina’s heart thumped at her ribs, and her cheeks burned. Even stronger than her fear was her instinct to look after the defenseless and the outcasts. She said, “You should never underestimate a survivor. My mother taught me that.”

  “How pertinent. Since you’re also a survivor.”

  “You should go. She’s on her way.”

  “She’s told you tales of the Nistarim, has she not? Do you know where they hide, these thirty-six? You know, I’ve . . . Well, let’s say I’ve overheard talk from this very home.” The flames in Vasile’s stare flared through his voice. “Look in a mirror, young lady, and tell me what you see. Do you see the proof of your role in this grand scheme?”

  “Go away.”

  “Do you?”

  She spun inside, slamming the door with her elbow.

  What did this repulsive man know? What had he seen? Yes, she’d heard talk of the Nistarim from her mother. What family of Jewish heritage hadn’t? Who didn’t wonder if, in fact, there was one of the thirty-six, a lamedvovnik, within their own family line?

  But certainly this had nothing to do with the faint mark on her brow.

  Unbidden, her fingers reached to trace the lines on her skin, the ones she’d tried so hard to conceal since their appearance a few weeks ago.

  Arad, Israel

  With only one leg under his bed sheet that evening, Benyamin listened to the wind come howling through the Negev Desert. It scraped cypress branches against the house and rattled window slats. Despite the oscillating fan on the dresser, the oppressive heat still leaned into his chest.

  “You awake?” His wife touched his calf muscle with her foot.

  His back was to her. His heel still bothered him, and he pulled away.

  “I hear something,” she said.

  “Nothing but the wind, Dalia. Go
back to sleep.”

  At times, Benyamin thought of moving away from this weather. Perhaps somewhere north, someplace cooled by the breeze of a river and stands of deciduous trees.

  “There it is again,” Dalia said. “It’s outside our window.”

  “Don’t be silly. Your mind is playing tricks.”

  Then he heard something else. It was the drone of a mosquito, and it unnerved him. Caused his ankle to throb. He thrust aside the sheet and padded to the bathroom, where he locked the door and leaned against the sink.

  His mind traced outlines of the vodka hidden in the cabinet.

  A few sips, maybe.

  Just enough to blur the images from Ein Bokek.

  A sudden gust toppled a shampoo bottle from the window ledge. It struck the tiled floor, rolled in a half circle till it pointed at him, and he kicked it away.

  “Benyamin?”

  “I’ll be out when I’m done,” he said.

  Dalia Amit was a decent woman, if a bit tiresome. A clerk for the Israeli post office, she walked each day to her job in the city center. She came home, cooked, and cleaned. Brought in the laundry. She went to the synagogue on Shabbat, her head covered, silent and somber. She was a woman of routine.

  With eleven years of marriage behind them, Benyamin saw only a plod-ding, predictable future. Today’s events, however, had knocked him off that path, and he welcomed the disruption. He liked the fear that’d rushed through him when he came upon the body. He liked the disgust, the dread.

  His own needs also filled him with disgust. And he liked that too.

  One swig was all he wanted. The wife couldn’t disapprove of what she didn’t know. Plus, it might relieve the itching of his ankle bite.

  What was this venom anyway? The wound had been burning with ever-increasing heat since its infliction, and he wasn’t his usual self.

  He reached beneath the sink, found the liquor tucked behind the cleaning supplies, and glugged down what he could—washing away the itch, for now.

  “I hear it again,” Dalia called from the bedroom. “Someone’s out there.”

  Would she give him no rest?

  “Oh, very well.” He shoved the vodka back into its place. “I’ll take a look.”

  He marched through the hall to the front door. Five-year-old Dov stirred in his bed, but that didn’t stop Benyamin from bellowing out: “Better steer clear of the Amit household, you gutless thieves. My wife sees what you’re up to.”

  It was all for show. He knew there was nothing out there.

  Just as he figured: each and every person, all alone.

  Cuvin

  Only after the prefect had wandered off, after Treia had celebrated with a strut of superiority, did Gina succumb again to her curiosity. The mark hadn’t faded away, as hoped. So where had it come from? It’d appeared soon after the Provocateur’s first visit. Was it the reason he had expressed a desire to see her?

  Certain her mother must be hiding things from her, she was determined to know more.

  From the top kitchen shelf, an earthen teapot beckoned.

  More than once, unaware of her daughter’s spying eyes, Nicoleta had tucked treasures into this pot. It could very well provide insight.

  Gina ignored the soiled dishes and climbed onto a chair. Her mother would be home any moment now, so if she was going to do this she needed to hurry. She could only imagine the fury that would be unleashed if she were caught snooping.

  The very thought of the blade caused her mind to reel.

  Hurry, she told herself.

  With fingers stretched to their limits, she nabbed the narrow spout and lowered the object into her arms. She felt something shift within, but the weight was insignificant and gave no clue as to the contents.

  Maybe it was best to do this another time.

  No. Now that she’d proceeded this far, she would take a quick peek. What harm could there be in that?

  She was turning to dismount when footsteps scraped along the path outside.

  Mamica?

  Oh no.

  In her panic, Gina’s weight shifted, and the chair tilted suddenly onto two legs. Caught in space, she hovered for one agonizing second, then felt the entire thing give way. As if in slow motion, she fell.

  The only real pain in the landing was the sight and sound of pottery shards bursting against the floor. Then even that was erased. Before her, freed from concealment, the pages of a small photo album opened like flower petals.

  Her mother’s shoes stabbed into the room. “Child, what’ve you done?”

  Gina couldn’t tear her gaze from the nearest photo. Hypnotic and vivid, Jerusalem’s Dome of the Rock gleamed golden in the background. She’d studied this in school, heard her teachers rail against the dangers of Islam while praising the wisdom of socialism, but her eyes were drawn now to the photo’s foreground, where a body lay stretched flat across a boulder.

  Clods of dirt and clay clung to the man’s crimson-stained T-shirt, as though he’d been dug from the ground. He was swarthy, solidly built. Sores dotted his arms. One eye socket was a gaping hole.

  Across the image, an official-looking stamp read: HIV-positive.

  Nicoleta stomped her heel down on the album. “Fetch the broom this instant, you hear me? Clean this up.”

  “Da. Right away.”

  “And enough with your snooping. I catch you at it again, and you’ll receive a beating to be heard throughout the whole of Cuvin.”

  Gina set about removing the evidence of her wrongdoing—whiskk, whiskk—but the questions crept back in.

  Who was the dead man in the picture? And how had her mother gotten hold of this photo, all the way from Israel? Had the Provocateur slipped it to her on a more recent visit? Maybe this was evidence of the evil he said was coming.

  Enough of this.

  She told herself she was done causing trouble, done for good. Nicoleta needed for her to carry her load instead of shirking it at every turn.

  Whisk, whisk, whiskkk . . .

  She applied herself with renewed fervor, sweeping back and forth—every broken shard, every speck of dirt—working off her mischief until the only goal remaining was the mind-numbing beauty of a job well done.

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  Ruins of Kerioth-Hezron, Israel

  “How do you like this place, Barabbas?”

  “I feel a definite connection here, sir.”

  “For good reason. This was the Man from Kerioth’s hometown.” Ariston waved down the hillside, where moonlight pooled between crumbling walls. “It’s nothing but a haunt for jackals now—a haunt for us, too, of course. Miserably desolate.”

  “At least we’re hidden from sight. I like this place.”

  “Hmm. Well, you might say this region is in our blood. Further back in time, Sisera—remember that name?—he was the commander of this region’s armies. Folktales spoke of him being so large that he caught fish in his beard, which caused some to speculate that he was a giant of demonic origin.”

  “One of the ‘sons of God’? The Nephilim?”

  “A relation of ours,” Ariston confirmed. “Of course, that was before Sisera was . . . destroyed. Something as innocuous as a tent peg through the head. And attacked by a woman, of all things, while he was sleeping.”

  “He’s not the first man to have suffered such a fate.”

  “Oh? And what do you know of these things? Were you married once?”

  “No,” Barabbas said. “I had no time for such distractions.”

  “Well, look at what it did for me. I had first Shelamzion, then Helene—and now the two of them are back from the dead to plague me.”

  Both men laughed.

  Ariston turned his thoughts to the other Collectors. How were they faring, led by Eros on this evening’s foray into nearby Arad?

  A few nights prior, Ariston had spearheaded their hunt just east of here. They’d feasted on goats in a wadi. Caused lots of bleating. Ariston and Sol had even tapped the heel of a
human, an adult male, sleeping in a body-length bag of some sort beside his young son. Disguised, Ariston had gone back for seconds the following evening, finding the man at his house.

  “Lord, do you think it’s safe here at these ruins?” Barabbas said.

  “I’ve been wondering the same thing.”

  As if to underline the risks of staying in this vicinity, a shriek sliced through the evening air. Ariston glanced into the valley and realized his first wife was the source of the distraction.

  “Hail Hades.” He sighed. “We’re trying to remain covert here.”

  Shelamzion’s actions were hardly surprising, considering her habitual whininess. Accompanied by Collectors and a bearded man in black robes—who was this stranger?—she rounded Kerioth’s old winepress and stumbled beneath the weight of something in her arms.

  Or someone.

  Ariston’s ribs tightened. He took a step forward. His wife’s cloth-wrapped load was small, no larger than—

  “It can’t be,” he breathed.

  She shrieked again, and this time the sound snaked up the incline and around his chest. The Collector within told him to remain detached. His legs, however, were driven by old emotions that burbled up from his host’s marrow, and he found himself rushing down the hill to Shelamzion’s side.

  She fell, wailing, clutching her burden and rocking on her knees. He pulled back the cloth and saw the face of his youngest daughter, hazel-eyed Salome.

  She was dying. A smoldering mass.

  As the Collector watched, his perceptions filtering through the eyes of Ariston of Apamea, the child shriveled away, like a corn husk splitting over an open flame. Her skin blistered, blackened, and gave off sulfuric fumes that dried the lining in his nasal passages until it seemed his face would ignite.

  “What is happening?” he shouted.

  Eros looked nonplussed. Shelamzion’s high-pitched cries verged on hysteria.

  “Who is responsible?” Ariston said. “Who did this to her?”

  His wife squeezed the cloth bundle, and the corpse finished its rapid decomposition. Ashes spilled onto the sand. Bits of bone. Then even those disintegrated, and Salome was no more.