Cross Bones (22 page)

“Sorry,” Jake said. “I should have checked before we went down.”

I agreed wholeheartedly.

Outside the tomb, the silence continued.

I shone the light on my watch. Nine-seventeen.

“What’s the law in Israel regarding human remains?” I asked, stil speaking in a loud church whisper.

“Bones can be excavated if they’re about to be destroyed by development or plunder. Once they’ve been studied, they must be handed over to the Ministry of Religious Affairs for reburial.”

As we spoke, Jake kept his eyes on the smal opening through which he’d just slithered.

“Sounds reasonable. Similar statutes protect native burials in North America.”

“These fanatics are hardly reasonable. They believe halakha, Jewish law, forbids any disturbance of the Jewish dead. Period.”

“What if a site is about to be bul dozed?”

“They don’t care.” Jake flapped a hand at the entrance. “They say build a bridge, dig a tunnel, reroute the road, encase the whole bloody tomb in cement.

”

“Are they stil out there?”

“Probably.”

“Who decides if human remains are Jewish?” My stomach was stil knotted from my encounter with the jackal. I was talking mainly to calm myself.

“The guardians of Orthodoxy, themselves. Handy, eh?”

“What if ancestry’s unclear?” I was thinking of the bones in the bag behind me.

Jake snorted. “The Ministry of Religious Affairs ponies up a thousand shekels for each reburial. How many do you suppose are declared non-Jewish?”

“But—”

“The Hevrat Kadisha say prayers over the bones and,voilà, the dead are converted to Judaism.”

I didn’t get it, but I let it go.

Ominous quiet slipped in from outside. Again I checked my watch. Nine twenty-two.

“How long do we wait?” I asked.

“Until the coast is clear,” Jake said.

Jake and I fel silent. Now and then one or the other of us would shift, seeking to gain a more comfortable position. Being six-six, Jake shifted most.

My hip hurt. My shoulder hurt. I was cold and damp. I was sitting in garbage in a crypt waiting out folks who would have put the Inquisition to shame.

And it wasn’t even 10A.M.

An eon later, I again il uminated my watch face. Twenty minutes had passed. I was about to suggest checking for cleared coasts, when a man shouted.

“Asur!”

Another took up the cry.“Asur!”

My stomach knot tightened. The men were close now, on the hil side just outside the tomb.

I looked at Jake.

“‘Forbidden,’” he translated.

“Chilul!”

“‘Desecration.’”

Something ricocheted off the outcrop above the tomb entrance.

“What the hel was that?”

“Probably a rock.”

“They’re throwing at us?” If a whisper can be shril , mine was.

I heard another something wing off the capstone.

“B’nei Belial!”

“They say we’re children of the devil,” Jake explained.

“How many are out there?” I asked.

“Several carloads.”

A fist-size stone hit the rim of the entrance.

“Asur! Asur la’asot et zeh!”It had now become a chant.“Asur! Asur!”

Jake raised his eyebrows at me. In the darkness they looked like a solid black hedge levitating skyward. I raised mine back.

“I’l have a look,” he said.

“Be careful,” I said, for lack of a better contribution.

Squat-walking to the entrance, Jake dropped one knee, placed a hand on it, and craned out.

What happened next happened fast.

The chanting fragmented into individual cries.

“Shalom alaichem,”Jake wished the men peace.

Angry voices shouted back.

“Lo!”Jake shouted. I understood enough Hebrew to know that meant no.

More yel ing.

“Reik—”

There was a sickening crack, as rock hit bone.

Jake’s spine arched, one leg shot backward, and he slumped to the ground.

“Jake!”

I scrabbled to him on al fours.

Jake’s head lay outside, his shoulders and body inside the tomb.

“Jake!”

No response.

Reaching out, I placed trembling fingers on Jake’s throat.

I felt a pulse, weak but steady.

Rising to a crouch, I leaned into the opening for a better view of Jake’s head.

Jake’s face was down, but I could see the back and side of his skul . Blood flecked his ear, and glistened red in the sunlit grass. Already flies were buzzing in for quick look-sees.

Cold fear barreled through my veins.

First a jackal, and now this! What to do? Move Jake and risk exacerbating his injury? Leave him and go for help?

Impossible without risking a skul fracture of my own.

Outside, the chanting started up again.

Give the bastards what they want?

They’d bury the skeleton. The truth about Max would be lost forever.

Another rock winged off the tomb’s exterior. Then another.

Sonovabitch!

No ancient mystery was worth the loss of a life. Jake needed medical attention.

Setting the flashlight on the tomb floor, I scrabbled backward, took hold of Jake’s boots, and pul ed.

He didn’t budge. I pul ed again. Harder.

Inch by inch, I tugged Jake into the protection of the tomb. Then I crawled around his body and turned his head sideways. Should Jake become nauseous, I didn’t want him choking on his vomit.

Then I remembered.

Jake’s cel phone! Was it on him? Could I get at it?

Working my way down, I checked Jake’s shirt pocket, his left front and rear jeans pockets, and every accessible opening on his camouflage jacket.

No phone.

Damn!

The hockey bag?

I angled toward the northern loculi. My hands looked bitter white as I crawled toward the bag. It was as though I were watching the hands of another. I saw them struggle with zippers, disappear into pouch after pouch.

My brain recognized the feel of the familiar shape.

Yanking the phone free, I flipped the cover. The smal screen flashed a neon blue welcome.

What digits to punch? 911?

I had no idea what one dialed in an emergency in Israel.

Scrol ing through Jake’s directory, I chose a local listing, and hit “send.”

The screen flashed the number and the word “Dialing.” I heard a series of beeps, then one long beep, then the screen welcomed me anew.

I tried again. Same result.

Damn! Too deep in rock for a signal!

I was about to try again, when Jake moaned. Pocketing the phone, I crawled to him.

When I arrived, Jake had rol ed to his bel y, and drawn his palms in under his chest.

“Take it easy,” I said, picking up the flashlight.

Moving gingerly, Jake maneuvered to a sit. A tendril of blood trickled from a gash in his forehead. He swiped at it, creating a dark smear across his nose and right cheek.

“What happened?” Groggy.

“You stopped a rock with your head.”

“Where are we?”

“A tomb in the Kidron.”

Jake seemed to struggle a moment, then, “The Hevrat Kadisha.”

“At least one of them has a future in major league basebal .”

“We’ve got to get out of this place.”

“If it’s the last thing we ever do.”

“Is the bag stil in the loculus?”

“Yes.”

Jake hopped to a squat, swayed, dropped his head, and braced himself straight-armed against the ground.

I reached out to steady him.

“Can you climb the hil ?”

“Minor setback.” Whole muscle bundles went taut, then Jake dropped to al fours. “Beam me up, Scottie.”

As I lit his way, Jake crawled not to the entrance, but to the northern wal , rol ed a large stone toward the loculus containing Masada Max, and wedged it into the opening.

“Let’s go,” he said, rejoining me.

“Wil they come in here?”

“Maybe. But we’d never make it past them to the truck.”

“Wil they notice the hockey bag?”

“I could move it to the lower level.”

For the first time since crawling topside, I remembered what I’d uncovered in the lower chamber. I didn’t want the Hevrat Kadisha going down there and finding it. Losing Max would be bad enough. Losing what had been wal ed in below would double the calamity.

“Let’s leave the bag in the loculus and hope they don’t spot it. If they do come in here, I don’t want them poking around downstairs. I’l explain when we’re in the truck. How do we do this?”

“We walk out.”

“Just like that?”

“When they see that I’m injured, they’l probably back off.”

“They’l also note that we’re empty-handed.”

“They’l also note that.”

“Do you suppose they saw the hockey bag?”

“I have no idea. Are you ready?”

I nodded, and switched off the flashlight. Jake stuck his head through the opening and shouted.

Surprised? Wary? Rearming? The Hevrat Kadisha fel silent.

Extending both arms, Jake flexed his legs, and torqued himself up and out.

When Jake’s boots cleared the opening, I fol owed. Halfway up I felt a hand on my waistband, then I was kneeling on the hil side.

The jolt to sunlight was blinding. My pupils went to pinpoints. My eyes slammed shut.

I opened them to one of the strangest scenes I’ve ever witnessed.

23

OUR ATTACKERS WORE BROAD-BRIMMED HATS AND LONG-COATEDblack suits. Bearded and side-curled, each looked hotter and angrier than the next.

Okay. My mental image had been spot-on. But I’d been way off on the numbers.

As Jake again wished the men peace and opened discussion, I took a quick count.

Forty-two, including a couple of kids under the age of twelve, and another half dozen who looked to be teenagers. Apparently ultra-Orthodoxy was a growth industry.

Hebrew flew around me. Based on my newly acquired vocabulary, I was able to grasp that Jake and I were being accused of having taken or done something forbidden, and that some thought we were the children of Satan. I assumed Jake was denying both charges.

Men and boys shouted, glasses and clothing coated with dust. Some bobbed, side curls bouncing like tethered Slinkys.

After several minutes of animated dialogue, Jake focused on a gray-hair who seemed to be the alpha male, probably a rabbi. As the two spoke, the others fel silent.

The rabbi bel owed, face raspberry, pointed finger wagging in the sunlight. I caught the word “ashem.” Shame.

Jake listened, replied calmly, the voice of reason.

Eventual y, the foot soldiers of Orthodoxy grew restless. Some resumed shouting. Some shook fists. A few of the younger men, probably yeshiva students, picked up stones.

I kept my eye on the latter.

After a fruitless ten minutes, Jake raised his hands in an I-give-up gesture. Turning to me he said, “This is pointless. We’re out of here.”

I joined him, and together we circled left.

The rabbi yel ed a command. The battalion split. The right flank stayed at the tomb. The left flank stuck to Jake and me.

With long strides, Jake began climbing up out of the Kidron. I fol owed, taking two steps to every one of his.

Yard after yard I scrambled, panting, sweating, hauling myself up on rocks, vines, and bushes. My hip screamed. My legs grew heavy.

Now and then I glanced downhil . A dozen black hats dogged my trail. My neck and back stayed stiff, anticipating the impact of cobble on cranium.

Fortunately, our pursuers spent their days in temples and yeshivas, not gyms. Jake and I left the val ey wel in the lead.

A half dozen cars now occupied the clearing behind Silwan. Jake’s truck was where we’d left it, but the driver’s side window was not. Tiny cubes of glass flashed sunlight from the ground. Both the truck’s doors were open, and papers, books, and clothing lay tossed about.

“Shit!” Jake sprinted the last few yards, and began grabbing his belongings and tossing them into the back.

I joined in. Within seconds we’d gathered everything, slammed ourselves in, and hit the locks.

The first black hats crested the summit as Jake turned the key, palmed the gearshift, and hit the gas. The wheels spun, and we lurched forward, two plumes of dust fol owing our wake.

I looked back.

The men were wiping brows, replacing headwear, shaking fists. They looked like a jittering troupe of black marionettes, momentarily tangled, but firm in their belief God was pul ing the strings.

Jake made a left, then a right out of the vil age. I kept my eyes on the rear window.

At the blacktop, Jake slowed and put a hand on my arm to calm me.

“Think they’l fol ow?” I asked.

Jake’s fingers closed like a vise.

I turned to him.

And felt yet another rush of fear.

Jake’s left hand was gripping the wheel hard. Too hard. His knuckles protruded like bony white knobs. His face was pasty and his breath was coming in short, shal ow gasps.

“Are you al right?”

The truck was losing speed, as though Jake couldn’t keep his mind on both accelerating and steering.

Jake turned to me. One pupil was a speck, the other a vacant black hole.

I grabbed the wheel just as Jake col apsed forward onto it, his boot dropping ful on the gas.

The truck lurched. The speedometer rose. Twenty. Twenty-two. Twenty-five.

My first reaction was panic. Natural y, that didn’t slow the pickup.

My brain kicked in.

One-arming Jake against the seat back, I grabbed the wheel.

The truck continued gathering speed.

While steering with my left hand, I struggled to shift Jake’s leg with my right. The leg was dead weight. I couldn’t lift or jostle it sideways.

The truck was on a downslope and accelerating fast. Twenty-seven. Thirty.

I tried shoving Jake’s leg. Kicking it with my heel.

My movements jerked the wheel. The truck swerved and a tire dropped onto the shoulder. I corrected. Gravel flew, and the truck hopped back up onto the pavement.

Trees were clipping by faster and faster. We hit thirty-five. I had to do something.

The Mount of Olives formed a sheer rock face on the left. Twenty yards up, I saw a recess fronted by a smal clearing overgrown with brambles.