Cross bones

25

MY ROOM WAS TRASHED.

The bed had been stripped, the linens tossed, the mattress flipped. The closet and armoire stood agape, with hangers, shoes, and sweaters flung in all directions.

My euphoria crumbled.

“Who’s there?”

Stupid. Of course they’d gone, and wouldn’t introduce themselves if they hadn’t.

I checked the door for signs of forced entry. The lock was intact. The wood was not gouged.

Heart bounding, I rushed into the room.

Every drawer was open. My suitcase was upended, the contents pitched and mauled.

My laptop lay untouched on the desk.

I tried to think what that meant.

Thieves? Of course not!

Why leave the computer?

A warning?

From whom? About what?

With shaky hands, I snatched up underwear, T-shirts, jeans.

Like Jake, gathering belongings from around his truck.

My mind loosened.

I knew.

The thought carved a wedge. Anger barreled in.

“You smarmy little bastards!”

I slammed drawers. Folded sweaters. Rehung pants.

Outrage hardened me, annihilating any prospect of tears.

I finished with the bedroom, moved to the bath. Arranged my toiletries. Washed my face. Brushed my hair.

I’d just changed shirts when the phone rang. Ryan was in the lobby.

“My room’s been ransacked,” I said, without preamble.

“Sonovabitch.”

“Probably Hevrat Kadisha looking for Max.”

“You’re not having a gold-star morning.”

“No.”

“I’ll buttonhole the manager.”

“I’m on my way down.”

By the time I descended, Ryan had been joined by Friedman, and they’d established two things. No visitor had inquired about me. No desk clerk had given out my room key.

Or had admitted to doing so.

I believed it. The American Colony was operated and staffed by Arabs. I doubted there was a Hevrat Kadisha sympathizer among them.

The manager, Mrs. Hanani, asked if I wished to file an official police report. Her voice conveyed a decided lack of enthusiasm.

I declined.

Clearly relieved, Mrs. Hanani promised a full in-house investigation, stepped-up security, and compensation for anything stolen or damaged.

Friedman assured her that was a splendid plan.

I made a request. Mrs. Hanani hurried to the kitchen to fill it.

When she returned I slipped the items into my backpack, offered thanks, and assured her I’d lost nothing of value.

Climbing into Friedman’s car, I wondered if later I’d regret my separate-rooms dictum. Professionalism be damned. Lying in bed, alone in the dark, I knew I’d want Ryan beside me.

It took almost an hour to get back to the Kidron. The Jerusalem police had been tipped that a suicide bomber was headed their way from Bethlehem. Extra checkpoints had been set up, and traffic was snarled.

On the way, I asked Friedman about the permit. Patting a pocket, he assured me he’d obtained the paper. I believed him.

At Silwan, I directed Friedman to the same clearing in which Jake had parked. As he and Ryan dug tools from the trunk, I checked the valley.

Not a black hat in sight.

I led the trek downhill. Ryan and Friedman followed.

At the tomb I stood a moment, considering the entrance. The small black portal stared back blankly.

I felt a hitch in my heartbeat. Ignoring it, I turned. Both my companions were perspiring and breathing hard.

“What about the jackal?” I asked.

“I’ll announce we’ve come to call.” Friedman pulled his revolver, squatted, and fired a bullet into the tomb. “If she’s in there, she’ll take off.”

We waited. No jackal appeared.

“She’s probably miles from here,” Friedman said.

“I’ll check the lower level,” Ryan said, holding out his hand.

Friedman handed him the gun.

Ryan winged a shovel and crowbar through the opening, then wriggled down into the tomb. I heard a second shot, then the scraping of boots. Silence. More scraping, then Ryan’s face appeared in the entrance.

“Jackal-free,” he said, handing Friedman his weapon.

“I’ll take first watch.” Friedman’s mouth looked tight. I wondered if he shared my aversion to close confinement.

I strode forward, shoved my pack then my feet into darkness and dropped, hoping to fool whatever neurons were monitoring personal space. They fell for it. I was in the tomb before my brain was wise to the move.

Beside me, Ryan was working a Mag-Lite. Our faces were jack-o’-lanterns, our shadows dark cutouts in the wash of white behind us.

“Point it over there.” I indicated the northern loculus.

Ryan redirected the beam. The rock had been moved. No hint of blue leaped from the gloom.

I crawled to the loculus. Ryan followed.

The small recess was empty.

“Bloody hell!”

“They got him?” Ryan asked.

I nodded.

I wasn’t surprised.

But I was crushed to see it.

Max had been taken.

“I’m sorry,” Ryan said.

Southern manners. Reflex. I started to say, “It’s all right,” caught myself. It wasn’t all right.

The skeleton was gone.

I slumped back onto my heels, feeling the oppressive weight of the tomb. The cold rock. The stale air. The velvety silence.

Had I really had a close encounter with one of Masada’s dead?

Had I lost him for good?

Was I sitting in a burial place of the holy?

Was I being watched?

By the Hevrat Kadisha?

By the souls of those peopling the catechisms of my youth?

Who had Max been?

Who had lain in this tomb?

Who lay here still?

I felt a hand on my shoulder. My brain snapped back.

“Let’s go below,” I whispered.

Crawling to the tunnel, I used the same technique that had gotten me into the tomb.

In and down.

Ryan was beside me in seconds.

Hadn’t I dumped all the fallen rocks to the right? Some now lay to the left. Was my memory faulty? Had these rocks also been moved?

Dear God, let it still be here!

Ryan crooked the Mag-Lite at the breach I’d created in my tumble. Bright white arrowed into inky black.

And fell on russet.

As before, my eyes strained to absorb. My brain struggled to sort.

Rough texture. Lumpy contour.

Peeking from one edge, barely visible, a tiny brown cylinder knobbed at one end.

A human phalanx.

I grabbed Ryan’s arm.

“It’s there!”

No time for proper archaeological protocol. We had to get the goods out before the Hevrat Kadisha got wise.

While I held the light, Ryan wedged the crowbar into a crack outlining a rock immediately above the breach. Ryan heaved, triggering a rainfall of pebbles.

The rock wobbled, dropped back into place.

Ryan heaved harder.

The rock shifted, settled again.

I watched as Ryan made a dozen thrusts, glad Friedman was covering our flank topside. I hoped we wouldn’t need him down here.

Ryan exchanged the crowbar for the shovel. Inserting the blade, he levered backward on the handle with all his strength.

The rock popped forward and dropped with a thud.

I scrambled to the enlarged opening. It was big enough.

My heart started throwing in extra beats.

Calm. Ryan’s here. Friedman’s on guard at the entrance.

Leading with my head and shoulders, I pulled myself into the loculus, and wriggled to the far end, moving gingerly and hugging the wall. Ryan lit my way.

What I’d spotted was indeed textile. Two sections remained, each rotten and discolored. The larger was toward the opening of the loculus, the foot end. The smaller was farther in, near where I assumed the head lay.

Leaning close, I could make out a coarse checkerboard weave. The pieces were small, the edges ragged, indicating much of the original had been lost.

Some bones lay below the shroud. Others ringed it. In addition to the phalanx, I recognized fragments of ulna, femur, pelvis, and skull.

How to recover what remained without tearing the shroud? I ran through options. None was ideal.

Inserting my fingertips, I lifted a corner of the larger section.

The fabric rose with a soft crinkling, the sound of dry leaves being crushed underfoot.

I tested at intervals.

Portions came up easily. Portions stuck.

I dug my digital camera from my pack. With Ryan lighting the loculus like a tiny movie set, I placed my Swiss Army knife as a scale marker, and took shots from several angles.

Photos done, I dug out the Tupperware and spatula supplied by Mrs. Hanani.

Using the spatula’s blade and my fingertips, I carefully separated cloth from underlying bone and rock. When I had liftoff, I gently wound each segment of cloth in onto itself, and sealed each roll in a separate tub.

Not optimal, but under the circumstances, the best I could do.

With the shroud removed, I had a clear view of the human remains.

The phalanx and one calcaneus were the only intact bones. The rest of the skeleton was fragmented and badly deteriorated.

With shadow puppets mimicking my actions on the walls around me, I spent the next hour gathering bones, teeth, and underlying fill.

My back and joints ached from working pretzeled into the cramped space. My feet went numb.

At one point Friedman called down from above, “Everything okay?”

“Hunky-dory,” Ryan answered.

And later, “How long?”

“Soon.”

“Should I make camp?”

“Soon,” Ryan repeated.

Late afternoon was bleeding into dusk when we finally surfaced.

Ryan climbed out first. I handed up the shovel, the crowbar, and the pack containing the remnants of the shroud and the person whom that shroud had once wrapped.

The former lay coiled in a pair of shallow containers. The latter filled two small tubs. Barely. A third tub held fill from the loculus floor.

Friedman was sitting on the ground, ankles crossed, back to the hillside. He didn’t look irked. He didn’t look bored.

He looked like Gilligan waiting for the Captain.

On seeing us, Friedman drained his bottled water, and cranked to his feet.

“Get your man?”

Good question. I’d taken a peek. The pelvic fragments were broadcasting mixed signals on gender.

I gave a thumbs-up, then brushed dirt from my hands by rubbing them together.

“Going up?” Ryan asked Friedman in an elevator voice.

Friedman nodded, took the shovel, and began climbing. We fell in behind.

Twenty yards from the top we stopped for a group breather. Friedman’s face was crimson. Sweat matted Ryan’s hairline. I was far from ready for close-ups, myself.

Minutes later, we were at Friedman’s car.

“Join us for dinner?” Ryan asked as Friedman pulled out of Silwan.

Friedman shook his head. “Gotta get home.”

To what? I wondered. A wife? A budgie? A chop defrosting in the kitchen sink?

At the hotel, Ryan and Friedman remained outside. I went straight to the desk. The clerk managed to check out my appearance while avoiding actual eye contact. I was impressed. But not enough to explain why I looked like a train wreck.

Keys in hand, I started back toward the circle drive. Ryan had left Friedman and was walking toward me through the portico. Behind him, I could see Friedman conversing with Mrs. Hanani.

The hotel manager stood stiffly, eyes down, arms wrapping her waist.

Friedman said something. Mrs. Hanani’s head jerked up and shook in negation.

While Friedman spoke again, Mrs. Hanani pulled cigarettes from a pocket and tried lighting up. The match head jigged around, finally hit its target. Mrs. Hanani drew smoke into her lungs, exhaled, again shook her head.

Friedman walked away. Mrs. Hanani took a drag and exhaled slowly, squinting through the smoke at his departing back. I couldn’t read her expression.

“What is it?” Ryan asked.

“Nothing.”

I held out his key.

Ryan’s hand closed around mine.

“What chow would you be favorin’, ma’am?”

I knew I wanted a shower. I knew I wanted clean clothes. I knew I wanted food, followed by twelve hours of sleep.

I hadn’t a clue what cuisine I favored.

“Got a plan?”

“Fink’s.”

“Fink.”

“On Histadrut. Been there since before Israel was Israel. Friedman tells me Mouli Azrieli’s an institution.”

“Mouli would be the owner.”

Ryan nodded. “Mouli’s reputed to have turned Kissinger away rather than close the doors to his regulars. But more to the point, Mouli is said to rustle up some mean beef goulash.”

Rustle up? Ryan was going into his cowboy routine.

“Thirty minutes.” I raised one muddy finger. “On one condition.”

Ryan spread his arms. What?

“Lose the lingo.”

I turned toward the stairs.

“Lock the booty in your room safe,” Ryan said to my back. “Rustlers in these parts.”

I stopped. Ryan was right. But my room had been burgled. It wasn’t safe. I’d lost one set of bones, and didn’t want to risk losing another.

I turned.

“Do you think Friedman would secure the bones at police headquarters overnight?”

“Unquestionably.”

I held out my pack. Ryan took it.

Soap and shampoo. Blush and mascara. A half hour later, in soft light, from the right angle, I looked reasonably good.

Fink’s boasted a total of six tables. And a million examples of bric-a-brac. Though the decor was dated, the goulash was excellent.

And Mouli did join us with his stack of scrapbooks. Golda Meir. Kirk Douglas. John Steinbeck. Shirley MacLaine. His celeb collection rivaled that at the American Colony.

In the taxi, Ryan asked, “What would you be thinking, lass?” He’d tradedGunsmoke for Galway.

“Mouli needs new curtains. What would you be thinkin’?”

Ryan beamed a smile as wide as Galway Bay.

“Ah, ’tis that,” I said.

“’Tis,” he said.

I needn’t have worried about fretting sleepless alone in the dark.