The Butcher's Theatre

If it bothered Daoud's Christian conscience to be tailing a man of the cloth, his face didn't show it.

Malkovsky, the other paragon of religious virtue, was under the surveillance of Avi Cohen. Cohen was perfect for the assignment: His BMW, fancy clothes, and North Tel

Aviv face blended in well at the Wolfson complex; he could wear tennis clothes, carry a racquet, and no one would give it a second thought.

He was turning out to be an okay kid, had done a good job on Yalom and on Brickner and Gribetz-avoiding discovery by the slimy pair, making detailed tapes and doing the same for Malkovsky.

But despite the details, the tapes made for boring lis-tening The day after Daniel confronted him, the child raper spent hours traipsing around the neighborhood with four of his kids, tearing handbills off walls, throwing the scraps in paper bags, careful not even to litter.

According to Cohen, he was rough on the kids, yelling at them. ordering them around like a slavemaster, but not mistreating them sexually.

Once the handbills were taken care of, his days became predictable: Early each morning he went to shaharit minyan at the Prosnitzer rebbe's yeshiva just outside Mea She'arim, driving a little Subaru that he could barely fit into, staying within the walls of the yeshiva building until lunchtime. A couple of times Avi had seen him walking with the rebbe, looking ill at ease as the old man wagged his finger at him and berated him for some lapse of attention or observance. At noon he came home for lunch, emerged with food stains on his shirt, pacing the halls and wringing his hands.

"Nervous, antsy," Avi said into the recorder. "Like he's fighting with his impulses."

A couple more minutes of pacing, then back into the Subaru; the rest of the day spent hunched over a lectern. Returning home after dark, right after the ma'ariv minyan, no stop-offs for mischief.

Burying himself in study, or faking it, thought Daniel.

He'd asked the juvenile officers to look into possible child abuse at home. Tried to find out who was protecting Malkovsky and had met with official silence.

Time to call Laufer for the tenth time.

Men of God.

He arrived home at six-thirty, ready for a family dinner, but found that they'd all eater*-felafel and American-style hamburgers picked up at a food stand on King George.

Dayan barked a greeting and the boys jumped on him. He kissed their soft cheeks, promised to be with them in a minute. Instead of persisting, they ran off cuffing each other. Shoshi was doing her homework at the dining room table. She smiled at him, hugged and kissed him, then returned to her assignment, a page of algebra equations-she'd completed half.

"How's it going?" Daniel asked. Math was her worst subject. Usually he had to help her.

"Fine, Abba." She bit her pencil and screwed up her face. Thought a while and put down an answer. The correct one.

"Excellent, Shosh. Where's Eema?"

"Painting." Absently.

"Have fun."

"Uh huh."

The door to the studio was closed. From under it seeped the smell of turpentine. He knocked, entered, saw Laura in a blue smock, working on a new canvas under a bright artist's lamp. A cityscape of Bethlehem in umbers, ochers, and beige, softly lit by a low winter sun, a lavender wash of hillside in the background.

"Beautiful."

"Oh, hi, Daniel." She remained on her stool, leaned over for a kiss. Half a dozen snapshots of Bethlehem were tacked to the easel. Pictures he'd taken during last year's Nature Conservancy hayride.

"You ate already," he said.

"Yes." She picked up the brush, laid in a line of shadow long the steeple of the Antonio Belloni church. "I didn't now if you were coming home."

He looked at his watch. "Six thirty-six. I thought it would be early enough."

She put the brush down, wiped her hands on a rag, and turned to him. "I had no way of knowing, Daniel."

she said in a level tone of voice. "I'm sorry. There's an extra hamburger in the fridge. Do you want me to heat it up for you?"

"It's all right. I'll heat it up myself."

"Thanks. I'm right in the middle of this-want to finish a fer more buildings before quitting."

"Beautiful," he repeated.

"It's for Gene and Luanne. A going-away present."

"How are they doing?"

"Fine." Dab, blend, wipe. "They're up in Haifa, touring the northern coast. Nahariya, Acre, Rosh Hanikra."

"When are they coming back down?"

"Few days-I'm really not sure." 'Are: they having a good time?"

"Seem to be." She got off the stool. For a moment Daniel thought she was going to embrace him. But instead she stepped back from the canvas, measured perspective, re-turned to her seat, and began blocking in ocher rectan-gles.

He waited a few seconds, then left to make himself dinner. By the time he'd eaten and cleaned up, the boys had busied themselves again with the Stars Wars videotape. Eyes filled with wonderment, they declined his offer to wrestle.

Stacks of newspaper clippings covered Laufer's desk. The deputy commander began fanning them out like oversized playing cards.

"Garbage-sifting time," he said. "Read."

Daniel picked up a clipping, put it down immediately after realizing it was one he'd already seen. Ha'aretz was his paper; he liked the independence, the sober tone-and the reporting on the murders was typical: factual, concise, no thrill for ghouls.

The party-affiliated papers were another story. The government organ gave the crimes short shrift on a back page, an almost casual downplay, as if hiding the story would make it go away.

The opposition paper played a shrill counterpoint, using Daniel's name to segue into the Lippmann case, offering a blow-by-blow rehash of the scandal, making much of the fact that prior to his assassination the late, discredited warden had been a darling of the ruling party. Implying, not so subtly, that any rise in violent crime was the government's fault: Failure to raise police salaries had led to continued corruption and ineptitude; a poorly administered Health Ministry had failed to handle the issue of dangerous mental patients; the psychological frustration caused by the ruling party's economic and social policies engendered "deep-rooted alienation and concomitant hostile impulses in the general populace. Impulses that are at risk for spilling over into bloodshed."

The usual partisan nonsense. Daniel wondered if anyone took it seriously.

Haolam Hazeh and the other tabloids had done their heavy-breathing bit: lurid headlines and hints of perverted sex in high places. Gory-detail crime stories fighting for space with photos of naked women. Daniel put them down on the desk.

"Why the rehash? It's been two weeks since Juliet."

"Go on, go on, you're not through," Laufer said, drum-ming his fingers on the desk. He picked up a thick batch of clippings and shoved it at Daniel.

These excerpts were all in Arabic: Al Fajr, Al Sha'ab, other locals at the top of the pile, foreign stuff on the bottom.

Arabic, thought Daniel, was an expansive, poetic lan-guage. lending itself to hyperbole, and this morning the

Arab journalists had been in fine hyperbolic form: Fatma and Juliet restored to virginity and transformed to political martyrs victimized by a racist conspiracy-abducted, defiled, and executed by some night-stalking Zionist cabal.

The local publications called for "hardening of resolve"

and "continuation of the struggle, so that our sisters have not perished in vain," stopping just short of a call for re-venge-saying it outright could have brought down the heavy hand of security censorship.

But the foreign Arab press screamed it out: officially sactioned editorials from Amman, Damascus, Riyadh, the Gulf stlates, brimming with hate and lusting for vengeance, accompanied by crude cartoons featuring the usual anti-Jewish archetypes-stars of David dripping blood; hooknosed, slavering men wearing kipot and side curls, pressing long-bladed knives to the throats of veiled, doe-eyed beau-ties wrapped in the PLO flag. The kipot emblazoned with swastikas-the Arabs loved to co-opt the Nazi stuff, spit it back at their cousins. The Syrians went so far as to link the murders to some occult Jewish ritual of human sacrifice-a harvest ceremony that the writer had invented.

Vile stuff, thought Daniel, reminiscent of the DerSt?rmer exhibit he'd seen at the Holocaust Memorial, the Black Book Ben David had shown him. But not unusual.

"The typical madness," he told Laufer.

"Pure shit. This is what stirred it up."

He gave Daniel an article in English, a cutting from his morning's international Herald Tribune.

It was a two-column wire service piece bearing no byline and entitled "Is a New Jack the Ripper Stalking the Streets of Jerusalem?" Subtitle: "Brutal Slayings Stymie Israeli Police. Political Motives Suggested."

The anonymous journalist had given the killer a name- the Butcher-an American practice that Daniel had heard Gene decry ("Gives the bad guy the attention he craves, Danny Boy, and makes him larger than life, which scares the heck out of the civilians. Every day that goes by without a bust makes us look more and more like clods"). The actual information about the killings was sparse but suggestively spooky and followed by a review of the Gray Man case, using copious quotes from "sources who spoke on condition they would not be identified" to suggest that both serial killers were likely to remain at large because Israeli police officers were inept homicide investigators, poorly paid, and occupying "lowly status in a society where intellectual and military accomplishments are valued but domestic service is demeaned." Illustrating that with a rehash of the six-month-old story about new recruits having to apply for welfare, the wives' picket of the Knesset.

The Herald Tribune article went on to wallow in armchair sociology, pondering whether the murders were symptomatic of "a deeper malaise within Israeli society, a collective loss of innocence that marks the end of the old idealistic Zionist order." Quotes from political extremists were given equal weight with those from reasoned scholars, the end result a weird stew of statistics, speculation, and the regurgitated accusations of the Arab press. All of it delivered in a morose, contemplative tone that made it sound reasonable.

The final paragraph was saturated with pessimism that seemed almost gleeful: "Tourism has always constituted a vital part of the fragile Israeli economy and in light of current economic difficulties, Israeli officials have put forth especially strong efforts to negate their country's image as a dangerous place to live and visit. But given the recent handiwork of the

Gray Man and the Butcher, experts' predictions of increasing violence against both Arabs and Jews, and the subsequent inability of the Israeli police to cope with that violence, those efforts may be doomed to failure."

Daniel put the clipping down and said, "Who wrote this?"

"Wire service putz by the name of Wilbur. Replaced

Grabowski-the one who ignored cordons up in Bekaa and got his arm blown off. This one came over six months ago, spends most of his time at Fink's, drinking himself numb."

Daniel recalled a press conference he'd attended a few months ago. One of the faces had been new.

"Dark, puffy-looking, gray hair, bloodshot eyes?"

"That's him, a goddamned shikur-just what we need."

Laufer shoved aside papers and created a clearing in the middle of the desk top. "His last big story was a feature on the fig harvest-glorious Arab workers, bonded to the soil.

"Is he pro-PLO?"

"From what we can tell he has no political leanings one way or the other. Anti-work is what he is-gets his stuff secondhand and plays around with it in order to make it sound profound. All that shit about 'unnamed sources.'" The deputy commander sat down and glared at Daniel. "This time he stirred up the shitpile but good-puffs up a two-week-old story and gets every other hack hot to outdo him. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than feeling his ass under my boot, but we're stuck with him-free press and all that. We're the ultimate democracy, right? Out to prove to the goyim how righteous we are."

Laufer picked up the Herald Tribune piece, looked at it, and ripped it in half, then in half again. "Now that he's seen how successful he's been, he'll be exploiting this Butcher shit as long as it remains unsolved. And you can bet the others keep falling over one another to outdo him. Bastards." A

sickly smile spread across the pouchy face: "The Butcher.

Now your killer has a name."

Your killer. Like one parent blaming another for the behaviour of a delinquent child.

'I don't see how we can concern ourselves with the press," said Daniel.

"The point is," continued Laufer, "that your team has accomplished nothing tangible. You're giving them all a giant tit to suck."

Daniel said nothing.

Laufer raised his voice: "I've sent you four memos of inquiry in the last six days. None have been answered."

"There was nothing to report."

"I don't give a goddamn what there was to report! When I send a memo, I expect a response."

"I'll be more conscientious," said Daniel, "about responding to your inquiries."

The deputy commander stood, placed his knuckles on the top of the desk, and leaned on them, thick torso swaying, looking like a gorilla.

"Cut the crap," he said. "Get the patronizing tone out of your voice." A thick hand slapped the desk. "Now catch me up-what do you have?"

"As I said, nothing new."

"What route did you take to reach that glorious destination?"

Daniel gave him a review of procedures, the interrogation of the sex offenders, the surveillances and record checks, the matching wound molds that confirmed both women had been cut with the same knives. Knowing any mention of similarities between Fatma and Juliet would be a slap across the deputy commander's flabby-face, a reminder that his quick-solve press release was now a departmental joke.

But Laufer seemed almost to revel in the misery, making Daniel repeat himself, go over picayune forensic details that had no bearing upon the cases. When he finally seemed sated, Daniel took a copy of the handbill out of his attache case and handed it to Laufer.

The deputy commander glanced at the paper, crumpled it, tossed it into the wastebasket. "What of it?"

"I wasn't notified of his presence."

"That's correct."

"We're investigating two sex murders, and a sex offender moves into the community-"

"He's a child molester, Sharavi, not a murderer."

"Sometimes," said Daniel, "they go hand in hand." Laufer raised one eyebrow. "Upon what do you base that statement?"

Ignorant pencil-pusher, thought Daniel. And the man had attained his post all because of him. He fought to hold on to his temper.

'Upon American crime data, FBI reports… Several serial murderers have been found also to be child molest-ers. Sometimes they alternate between killing and molesting phases; sometimes the crimes occur in tandem. If you'd like, I can show you the sources."

Laufer chewed his lip, tormenting the rubbery flesh, Cleared his throat and tried to regain face. "You're telling me that most serial murderers are molest-ers.'

'Some."

"What percentage?"

'The sources didn't say."

"If you quote statistics, be prepared to back them up with numbers."

Daniel was silent. Laufer smiled. Now it was his turn to patronize.

'Some murderers, Sharavi, are also thieves. Some are reckless drivers. The pedophile thing may be nothing more than a random correlation-nothing to make Malkovsky a suspect."

'What," Daniel asked, "does this guy have going fof him in order to earn this kind of protekzia?" 'Protekzia has nothing to do with it," snapped Laufer. 'He's never been convicted of anything." 'He escaped before trial."

'He's a Jew, Sharavi. You saw that beard-as long as Moses.' Entitled to entry under the Law of Return." 'So was Meyer Lansky, but we sent him back to Amer-ica.'

'Malkovsky's no Lansky, believe me. Besides, we've re-ceived no extradition request from the Americans." 'Yet." said Daniel. "What happens when we do?"

Laufer r ignored him. "In the meantime, he's well super-vised. His rebbe vouches for him."

"I didn't know," said Daniel, "that we employed rebbes as probation officers."

"That's enough! A decision was made, in a specific context. A decision that you needn't concern yourself with."

"The man," said Daniel, "is seriously disturbed. He admitted to me having erotic feelings for his own daughters, denied molesting them, but I think he's lying."

"You think? You've harassed him, have you?"

"I've spoken to him."

"When and where?"

"Yesterday, at his apartment."

"What else have you done?"

"He's under surveillance."

"By whom?"

"Cohen."

"The new hire-how's he doing?"

"Fine."

"Told you he was a good kid. Anyway, call him off and reassign him."

"Tat Nitzav-"

"Call him off, Sharavi. Malkovsky is being handled. Stick to your own case and it might even get solved."

Daniel's abdomen was hot as a fry pan, his jaw so tight he had to consciously relax it in order to speak.

"If you don't approve of how I've done my job, feel free to remove me from the case."

Laufer looked at him hard, then applauded.

"Very theatrical, Sharavi. I'm impressed."

He pulled an English Oval out of his shirt pocket. Lit it, smoked, and let the ashes fall on the clippings. A stray ember rolled from the papers onto the desk top and he stubbed it out with a fingertip. Examining the gray-smudged finger, he said, "If and when you're removed, the decision won't be yours. In the meantime, stay out of administrative matters and concentrate upon the job at hand. Tell me, how many staff meetings have you had?"

"Staff meetings?"

"Getting the team together, sharing information."

"I'm in daily contact with each of them."

"How many times have all of you gotten together?"

"Twice."

"Not nearly enough. In cases such as these, communication is paramount. Collating, correlating, the tying up of loose ends. You may have missed something-another Anwar Rashmawi."

Laufer played with the cigarette ashes, allowed his words to sink in.

"Communicate,"hesaid."Verticallyandhorizontally. And expand your thinking. Open up new avenues of investigation." Daniel took a deep breath, let it out silently. "Such as?"

"Such as Arab girls are being cut up like kebab meat. Such as maybe the Arab papers aren't all wrong. Have you thought of talking to Moshe Kagan and his gang?"

'Am I to consider Rabbi Kagan a suspect?" 'Rabbi Kagan thinks he's another Kahane. Arabs are subhuman-unclean animals. He goes to their villages and calls them dogs to their faces. He and his Gvura hooligans are a giant pain in the ass-bunch of misfits and nut cases. All they want is an excuse to go around breaking heads. Is it illogical to suppose that one of them has convinced himself it's a mitzva to slaughter unclean animals?" 'No.' said Daniel, "not illogical at all. But we ran a check on them last year, after Kagan was elected. Found no evidence of violence beyond tough talk and a couple of light skirmishes with the communists."

But even as he spoke, he recalled what Ben David had told him: Racist politics and psychopathy can be comfortable bedfellows… We're not all lambs. There's a reason for the commandment

Times change," Laufer was saying. "Crazies get crazier." The other thing to consider is that he's a Member of the

Knesset.'

One lousy seat," said Laufer. "An aberration-next elec-tion he'll be out on his ass. Couple of years from now he'll be back battling blacks in Brooklyn."

Brooklyn, thought Daniel. In a couple of years, where would Malkovsky be? He said nothing, but his thoughts were transparent and Laufer read them.

'Obviously, you like talking to rabbis, so talk to this one.

Your kipah should help forge a bond between the two of you.

I also heard that he likes Yemenites, tries to recruit them to prove he's not a racist. Go, drop in on him, send him regards from the whole damned department-two hundred thousand dollars American his last demonstration cost us in extra man-hours, barricades, new windshields. Send him regards and ask him if his hooligans have turned into slaughterers."

Laufer looked down and began shuffling papers. Smoking and rubber-stamping and signing his name. Daniel stood there for several moments, knowing if he left without being formally dismissed, the DC would dump on him.

"Anything else, Tat Nitzav?"

Laufer glanced up, feigning surprise at his presence. "Nothing. Get going. Go about your business."

He went back to his office, radioed Avi Cohen at Wolfson, had him come back to Headquarters and, when he arrived twenty minutes later, told him of Laufer's decision.

"Pencil-pushing prick," exploded the young samal. "Just when I'm getting a feel for the pervert-he's getting more and more nervous, always looking over his shoulder. Scratching his head and his crotch, pacing the courtyard. This morning he drove by a school, stopped for a few moments, and looked through the gate. I know he's up to something, Pakad."

"Which school?"

"The religious publicschool-Dugma,on Rehov Ben Zvi."

Mikey and Benny's school. Daniel visualized Malkovsky's enormous body silhouetted against the fence, pressing against the chain link.

"His own kids don't go there?"

"No, they're at the Prostnitzer Heder, near Mea She'arim. He'd already dropped them off and was on the way home when he stopped at Dugma."

"Did he do anything besides look?"

Avi shook his head. "Look was all, but I tell you he's getting more and more jumpy-yelling at his wife, showing up later and later at the yeshiva. And he's always alone. I haven't seen him with the rebbe. Yesterday he left early, went home, and stayed inside all day-no evening minyan. nothing. Maybe he had a cold or something, but I wouldn't count on it. For all we know he could be abusing his own daughters." Avi shook his head in disgust. "He's going to pop. I can feel it. This is the worst time to back off."

His handsome face shone with excitement. The thrill of the hunt, a detective's joy. The kid would work out fine, Daniel decided.

"Dammit," said Avi, "isn't there some way to get around it?"

"No. The order was clear."

"What kind of protekzia does he have?"

"I don't know." In Daniel's mind the bearish silhouette had pushed its way through the chain link, metal buckling and splitting open under the massive weight. Tiny bodies in the background, playing and whooping, unaware of the approaching monster. When the bodies took on faces, round and chubby-cheeked, with black curly hair, dusky skin, and Laura's features, he put the image out of his head, found that he'd been clenching his fist so hard it ached.

"Your new assignment," he told Avi, "is to hook up with the Chinaman, do what he tells you." The big detective was circulating around the Old City, combing the souqs and stalls and coffee-houses, walking every cobbled step of the dark, arched streets. Seeking out pimps and lowlifes, anyone who would talk, still looking for someone who'd seen

Fatma or Juliet.

'What does he need me for?"

"He'll inform you of that when you get there," said Daniel. A bureaucrat's answer-both he and Cohen knew it. Avi pouted, then just as quickly shrugged and smiled broadly, flashing even white teeth, blue eyes bouncing with mischief.

"Sounds like an easy job, Pakad."

'Don't count on it. Yossi's got plenty of energy." 'Oh. yeah, I know, a real gever. But I'm no girl. I can keep up.'

'Good for you," said Daniel, wondering about the sudden change of mood, the return of the rich-kid arrogance. Cohen might have instincts, but he still needed taming. "Have fun." Instead of leaving, Avi came closer. 'What I'm saying is that it won't keep me too busy." Are you complaining about the assignment?"

"No, Dani," grinned Avi, sounding inappropriately familiar. It was the first time he'd addressed Daniel by anything other than Pakad. "Terrific assignment, a real plum. What I'm saying, Dani, is that I'll have plenty of energy left over. For extra work." He held out his hands, waited expectantly. "No," said Daniel. "Forget it. The orders came down from the top."

"Thing is"- Avi's grin was wide-"there's more than just work involved. I met this girl at Wolfson, rich, kind of pretty, parents live in South Africa. She goes to Hebrew U., lives in this terrific apartment all by herself. Great chemistry. Who knows, it could be true love."

"Mazal tov," said Daniel. "Invite me to the wedding."

"True love," repeated Avi. "No crime in visiting my little sweetie, is there? Playing tennis and swimming in the pool? No crime in the pursuit of love, is there?"

"No," smiled Daniel. "That's no crime at all." Cohen looked at his watch. "In fact, with the Pakad's permission, I've got to run right now. Got a lunch date with her in a few minutes. Blintzes and iced tea, on her balcony." More teeth. "Great view from that balcony."

"I'll bet."

"No crime in lunch, is there?"

"Get out of here," said Daniel. "Call Yossi after you've eaten your blintzes."

Avi rubbed his hands together, saluted, and was off. As soon as the door closed, Daniel radioed the Chinaman. The connection was bad and they shouted at each other through a rain of static before Daniel told him to get to a phone. A few minutes later, the big man called; there was Arabic music in the background, the rattling of trays, a hum of voices.

"Where are you, Yossi?"

"Thousand Nights Cafe, just up from the Damascus Gate. Lots of eyes glued to my back. What's up?"

"How's it going?"

"Shitty-no one's talking; everyone looks pissed off. They're believing what they're reading, Dani-all that Zionist conspiracy garbage. I've even heard rumors about a general strike to protest the killings. Man, you should see how they're looking at me right now. It's the owner's phone-I sent him to serve coffee. Anyway, I spoke to the Border Patrol-they're keeping a watch out. You might tell Latam to send out more undercover guys, just for good measure."

"Good idea. I called to tell you Cohen will be contacting you in a couple of hours. He's assigned to you now. Keep him busy."

"What happened with the kid-raper?"

"We're off him, Laufer's orders."

"Why the hell?"

"Protekzia. Don't say it. I know. Cohen thinks he's ripe to do something sick-saw him looking at school kids."

"Wonderful," said the Chinaman.

"My kids' school, in fact. I'll be keeping an eye out, maybe dropping in to talk with the teacher, bring them lunch. Haven't been involved enough lately anyway."

"Absolutely. Got to be a good daddy. When my little ox starts school, HI be involved too. Meanwhile, what do you want me to do with Cohen?"

"He's turning out to be a decent interviewer. Show him the ropes. If you think he's up to it, give him a go at some of your lowlifes." Daniel paused. "Of course, if you need to send him on errands, that's okay too."

There was a longer pause; then the Chinaman laughed, 'Long errands? Clear across town?"

"Long errands are fine. He's confident of his energy." More laughter.

"But if his energy runs out," said the Chinaman, "you wouldn't want me breaking his ass, nice kid like that. Forcing him to work a full shift if his frail little body just can't keep up.'

"Never," said Daniel. "The current memo from Manpower says we must respect our officers. Treat them as if they were human beings.'

'As if" laughed the Chinaman. "Which means if he sneezes or blows his nose I should be careful not to overwork him, maybe even send him home for beddy-bye. We wouldn't want little Avi to catch a fever."

'God forbid.'

'God forbid," laughed the Chinaman. "God forbid."

The cat had been a big step forward, real science.

He was twelve when it happened, well into sex thoughts, two years into heavy-duty jacking-off, the hair starting to grow out of his face, but no pimples like some of the other kids-he had good skin, clean.

Twelve brought the noise in his head: sometimes just a hum, other times a race-car roar. All that bad machinery-he wondered how it got in there.

When he jacked off it went away, especially when the sex thoughts got all combined with good pictures: blood; his bug experiments; her on Doctor's lap, them screaming at each other, killing each other, but doing it.

He imagined doing it to a girl on his lap-squeezing her eggs, hurting her, finishing her off, making everything clean. No girl in particular, lots of them. He invented them from different pieces of different girls-pictures in his head collected from magazines and movies and real girls that he saw on the street. All kinds, but the best ones were dark and short, like Sarah. Big tits and pretty mouths that screamed really good.

Sarah had big tits now.

She was in college, had come visiting last semester break, but with a boyfriend, some lame-o named Robert who was studying to be a lawyer and liked to hear himself talk. They slept in separate rooms. He knew why, had heard his ' mother screaming at Doctor that she wasn't going to have any hook-nosed little slut fornicating in her house. But sometimes at night or early in the morning, Sarah got up and went to Robert's room.

Now there was something else to listen to.

When Sarah visited, Doctor took her out every night.

The fights in the library were postponed. When she left, they continued even worse-only once in a while. Doctor wasn't home much. Which made them kind of special.

At twelve he'd gotten smarter, even though his grades were still the same. He understood more about life, could figure out some of the things that had mixed him up when he was a kid. Like what his mother and Doctor were doing when she climbed into his lap after they fought, stabbing herself and bouncing around, screaming and calling him a fucking kike bastard.

What.

But not why.

The library fights gave him a giant hard-on. He carried tissues in the pocket of his robe.

They were both lame fucks. He hated them, wished they'd the while they were doing it and leave him the house and all the money. He'd buy lots of good stuff, fire the maids and hire pretty girls with dark hair to be his slaves.

She was always drunk now, every minute of the day.

Tripping over her own feet when she got out of bed. The whole room stank of gin and bad breath. And she'd gotten all puffy and fat and dark around the eyes; her hair looked like dry straw. She was really had-out.

Doctor didn't give a shit about anything. He'd stopped pretending. Once in a while they ran into each other in the morning-he'd be waiting near the curb for the school bus and Doctor would drive up in his big soft car, coming home to pick up a change of clothes or something. He'd get out of the car. looking all embarrassed, say hello, stare at a bush or a tree or something, then walk on, not even bothering anymore with his bullshit questions about how school had been, was he making friends.

Hello, son

Hello

Lame fuck

Both of them

She was a total zero, when she called for him now, he didn't answer, just let her keep calling until she gave up. He was twelve, with hair, didn't have to take any of her shit, her breath and tits hanging out. She was too had-out to come after him, could barely keep her eyes open. He did what he wanted, probably had more freedom than any kid in the world. More than anyone. Except the cat.

Usually it stayed up in the ice palace, eating human food and getting stroked and running its little pink tongue around the inside of the gin glass. Getting drunk and falling asleep on the big satin bed.

Snowball. C'mere, sweetie.

The only thing she bothered to take care of, washing and shampooing and combing out fleas with this little metal comb, then pinching them between her fingers and dropping them into a glass of liquid bleach. Once she asked him to empty the glass. He spilled it on the bathroom floor, let the fleas stay there on the tiles, little black freckles-he would have liked to see them on her face.

After grooming sessions, the cat got special treats: these crackers that came from an expensive store and were made by a cat chef. The fish ones looked like fish, the beef ones like little cows; the chicken ones were the head of a chicken. She broke off little pieces, teased the cat with them while she blow-dried its fur and rubbed oil into it, put little pink ribbons on its stupid head.

A boy cat, but they'd cut its balls off. Now it wore pink ribbons.

A real faggy cat, fat and nasty. It lay on the bed all day, too drunk to walk, peed wherever it wanted to.

But one night it walked.

A special night: They were going at it in the library.

He was listening on the stairs, not sure if they were going to do it afterward, not sure if he was going to jack off to reality or to thoughts, but prepared, wearing his bathrobe, with tissues in the pockets.

They were really going at it.

You cocksucking kike.

Shut up, you dumb cunt.

Borrring.

They yelled some more, then he heard something break.

Goddamn you, Christina, that ashtray was from Dunhills!

Fuck you, Charles.

Doctor said something, but mumbled it. He had to lean in closer to hear it.

She yelled back.

Borrring.

More yelling, for a long time. Then it stopped. Maybe? Silence.

Heavy breathing. All right!

First time in a long time. He felt himself get a hard-on, tiptoed down the stairs, wanting to be as close a possible. Stepped on something soft and slippery, heard a sound that made his heart jump so hard it hurt his chest-like someone being strangled, but it wasn't coming from the library. It was right here, right near him!

He stood up. The soft thing was still squirmy under his foot, knocking around on the carpet. Felt a sharp pain in his ankle-something had scratched him!

He backed away from it and looked down, feeling scared enough to pee his pajamas.

The cat hissed at him and bared its claws. Its eyes were shining in the dark. He tried to kick it. It screamed again, jiggled up the stairs making little crying noises.

What the hell was that!

Nothing, Christina, forget it.

That's-it sounded like Snowball-ohmigod!

It was nothing. Where do you think you're going!

He's hurt! Snowball, honey!

Oh, no, you don't. You-

Let go of me!

-can't start something and just-

Let go of me, you bastard. I have to find him!

I don't believe this. Once a year you-Ow, dammit!

(A grunt. Padded footsteps.)

Fine, just stay the hell out, you dumb cunt!

The footsteps got louder.

Snowball!

She was coming. He had to escape but his body was frozen. Oh, shit, he was caught. It was over. He was dead!

Snowball! C'mere, sweetie!

Move, feet, get unfrozen. Ohgod, finally they're warm again… running… can't breathe

Where are you, sweetheart?

She was out of the library, moving drunkenly up the stairs. Calling for the cat, so maybe she wouldn't hear him ten feet ahead of her, running, not breathing, pleasegod don't let her hear

Here, darling, here, puss. Come-a-here! Come-a-here to

Mama.

He made it to his room just as she came to the top of the stairs, threw himself in bed, and pulled the covers over himself.

Oh, Snowball-sweet, where are you? Don't hide, sugar-puss. Mama's got a treat for you!

She was in her room, coming out of it now, half-calling, half-singing: Pu-uss!

He was all wrapped up like the Mummy, grabbing the mattress to keep from shaking.

Puss? Sweetie?

He'd forgotten to close his door! She was coming near his room!

Snowball!

She was standing in the doorway. He could smell her, Bal a Versailles and gin. All of a sudden he had to hiccup. Holding it in was making his heart go crazy. He heard it swooshing in his ears, was sure she could hear it too.

Now where's my bad little boy?

Hiding, sorry, never do it again, promise promise.

C'mere, you bad boy.

No anger in her voice. Oh, no! Oh, God!

Bad little lover bo-oy!

Saved. She wasn't talking to him!

Pu-uss!

Swoosh, swoosh, like it was going to slide all the way up into his brain and start shooting blood all over the inside of his skull and he'd choke on it and die.

She kept standing in the doorway, calling inthat drunken, shaky, opera-singer voice

Kissy, kbsy, Snowball. If you're hurt, Mama will make it all better!

The roar in his head was louder than ever. He was biting down on his lip to keep the sound from coming out.

Come-a-here! Mama's got a treat for you-your favey-fave, tuna!

The voice was far away, getting farther and farther. The danger had passed. A moment later she was saying Snowball! Sweetheart!, making disgusting,, sloppy noises that let him know she'd found the fucking animal, was kissing it.

Close call.

It wouldn't happen again.

He waited eighteen days. By that time everything was planned, everything really good.

Eighteen days because that's how long it took for her to forget to lock her door.

It was in the afternoon, he'd come home from school, eaten a snack, and gone up to his room. The maids were downstairs, blabbing and telling their foreign jokes and faking as if they were working.

He was faking, too, sitting at his desk, pretending to be doing his homework. The door wide open, so he could hear the signal sounds: throwing up, the toilet flushing-a sign that she was getting rid of her afternoon pastries.

She was doing that more and more, the barfing. It didn't help-she was still getting fat and puffy. Afterward, she always drank more gin and fell deep asleep. Nothing could wake her.

He waited, really patient. Enjoying the wait, actually, because it stretched things out, gave him more time to think about what was going to happen. He had it all planned, knew he'd be in charge.

When he was certain she was asleep, he tiptoed to the door, looked up and down the hallway, then down over the balcony. The maids were still accounted for-he could hear the vacuum cleaner, them blabbing to each other.

Safe.

He opened the door.

She was lying on the fourposter, all lamed-out, her mouth wide open. A weird whistling sound was coming from it. The cat was curled next to her pillow-both of them fucking lame-os. It opened its eyes when he came in, gave him a dirty look as if it owned the place and he was some robber.

He cleared his throat, as a test. If she woke up he'd ask how she was feeling, if she needed anything. The same test he used before sneaking into the library and locking himself in so that he could play with the knives, read Schwann's big green book and the others, look through the stuff in the closet. Nothing. She was out. Another throat-clear. Out cold.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out the Tuna Treet, and showed it to the cat.

The blues eyes narrowed, then widened. Interested, you little fucker?

The cat moved forward, then sank back on the satin bed. Lazy and fat, like her. It got everything it needed, wouldn't surprise him if she jacked it off-no, she couldn't, no balls. It probably couldn't get a hard-on. He waved the Tuna Treet.

The cat stared at it, then him, then back at the fish-shaped cracker, water-eyes all greedy. It licked its lips and got all tight, like it was ready to spring. C'mere, sweetie. TOOONA! It didn't. It knew something was up. He touched the Treet to his lips, smiled at the cat. Lick lick, look what I've got that you don't. The cat moved forward again, froze. He put the Tuna Treet back in his pocket. The cat's ears perked.

Come-a-here, come-a-here. Pu-ss… The cat was still frozen, smelling the cracker but not knowing what to do, dumb dickhead.

He took a step backward, as if he didn't give a flying fuck. The cat watched him.

Out came the Treet again. Another lick, a big smile. Like it was the best thing he'd ever eaten in his life.

The cat took a couple of cautious steps, rocking the bed.

Lick.

Yum yum.

He waved the Tuna Treet, put it between his teeth, and started to leave the room.

The cat jumped off the bed and landed silently on the white carpet, stepping on her to do it, using her grossed-out belly as a diving board. She was so out of it she didn't even feel it.

He kept walking toward the door, real casual.

C'mere, sweetie.

A piece of the Treet broke off in his mouth-actually it didn't taste that bad.

Maybe I'll eat it myself, you furry little piece of shit.

The cat was following him from a distance as he backed out of the room, smiling and licking the Tuna Treet.

They were out on the landing now. He closed the door to the ice palace.

The cat meowed, making like it was his friend.

Beg, dickhead.

He kept walking backward, nibbling on the Tuna Treet. Not bad, actually. Kind of like fried fish.

The cat followed him.

Here, kitty, stupid, fucking kitty.

Walk, follow, walk, follow.

A look-down to see what the maids were doing.

Still blabbing and vacuming. The coast was clear.

Into his room, licking, waving.

In came the cat.

Close the door, lock it, grab the furry fucker by the neck and throw it hard against the wall.

Thud. It cried out and slid down the wall and landed on his bed, alive but something was broken. It just lay there looking funny.

He unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk, pulled out the hypodermic needle that he'd prepared. Lidocaine from one of the little rubber-topped bottles Doctor kept in the library closet, along with boxes of disposable needles, packages of gloves, bandages, and the empty doctor's bag-a Gladstone bag. it was called-which made this fantastic thunk when you opened and closed it. A couple of times he'd taken stuff, put it in the bag, and brought it up to his room.

Big smile: Hi. I'm Dr. Terrific. What seems to be the problem?

He'd used lidocaine on bugs and worms and the mouse that he'd found half-dead in the trap in the cellar. Mostly it killed them right away, so he figured it was too strong. But bugs were no fun anyway-so small, just sticking them with the needle fucked them totally up. And the mouse had been all crushed, almost dead when he found it.

A cat, now that was a different story-a step forward, real science.

In school, he was flunking science because it wasn't real science-the teacher was a lame-o, all words, no reality.

The cat tried to crawl off the bed, stopped, just lay there.

This was real. He'd been real scientific, taken the time to plan everything. There was a pediatrics book in the library-he read it for hours before finding a drug dosage chart for newborn infants, then used it to dilute the lidocaine, then added even more water, mixing all of it together in a juice glass, hoping he hadn't ruined the lidocaine.

Only one way to find out.

The cat was trying to get off the bed, again. Its eyes were all cloudy and its back legs were dragging.

Fuck you, dickhead, messing things up like that!

He picked it up by the scruff, stuck the needle in its chest, and shot in the lidocaine. Did it a bunch more times, the way it said in the book, trying to get pinpoint anesthesia.

The cat made squeaky sounds, struggled for a while, then shuddered and then went all stiff.

He placed it on his desk, belly-up, on top of the layers of newspaper he'd spread all over.

It wasn't moving-shit! No fair!

No, wait… Yeah, there it was, the chest going up and down. Fucker was still breathing, weak, you could barely see it, but still breathing!

All right!

He opened the bottom drawer again, took out the two knives that he'd chosen from the box in the library: the biggest scalpel and a curved bistoury. He held them in his hands, watching the cat breathe, knowing this was real science, not any bugs or half-dead mouses.

Hi, I'm Dr. Terrific.

What seems to be the problem, Mr. Cat, Mr. Snowball? Mr. Little Dickhead who almost ruined my life?

The cat just lay there.

Big problems for you. Things got all red in front of his eyes. The roar in his head got louder.

He took a deep breath. A bunch of them, until things got clear again.

Hello, Mr. Cat. Time for surgery.

Friday. Daoud's nights keeping Roselli under surveillance had been as productive as tilling concrete.

For the past week, the monk had remained within the walls of Saint Saviour's, taking only one brief walk Wednesday night, shortly after midnight. Not even a walk, really. Fifty steps before turning on his heel-abruptly, as if he'd experienced anxiety, a sudden change of heart about venturing out-and heading back quickly for the refuge of the monastery. Daoud had just begun to trail him, walking maybe ten meters behind, disguised as a Franciscan, the hood pulled down. After Roselli changed direction, Daoud kept on going and, as they passed each other, retracted his head into the brown folds of his robe and stared downward, as if lost in contemplation.

When Roselli had gone twenty more steps, nearing the curve at Casa Nova Road, Daoud permitted himself a half-turn and a look back. He watched the monk round the bend and disappear; then Daoud headed swiftly toward the monastery on silent, crepe soled feet, getting to the curve just in time to see his quarry vanish behind the large doors. He stopped, listened, heard retreating footsteps, and waited in the darkness for an hour before satisfying himself that Roselli was in for the night.

He kept the surveillance going until daybreak, shuffling back and forth on St. Francis Road, down Aquabat el Khanqa to the Via Dolorosa, reading the Arabic Bible that he'd brought for a prop, always keeping one eye on the tower of the monastery. He stuck it out until the city awoke under a golden banner of sunlight, watched early risers emerging from the shadows, and, tucking the Bible under his arm, started walking away in an old man's halting pace, blending in with the burgeoning stream of workers and worshippers, allowing himself to be carried along in the human flow that exited the Old City at the New Gate.

Engine roars and bleats and guttural commands filled his ears. Fruit and vegetable vendors were unloading their cargo; flocks of sheep were being herded toward the city walls for market. He inhaled the rotten sweetness of wet produce, made his way through dancing spirals of dung-laden dust, and walked the two kilometers to his car, still dressed as a monk.

The night-watch assignment was a little boring, but he enjoyed the solitude, the coolness of dark, empty streets. Took strange pleasure in the coarse, heavy feel of the robe, the large, leather-bound Bible he'd brought from home. As he drove home to Bethlehem, he wondered what it would have been like had he devoted his life to Christ.

Shmeltzer continued the week's routine of double-checking doctors, finding them arrogant, stingy with their time, a real bunch of little princes. Friday morning he had breakfast with his Shin Bet friend at the Sheraton, watched her eat buckwheat pancakes with powdered sugar and maple syrup. and asked the tape recorder in her purse to contact Mossad and check out Juliet Haddad's Beirut brothel. Afternoon was more record-searching and collating, the detailed, patience-straining work that he found enjoyable.

Friday evening he spent, as he had the past five evenings, with Eva Schlesinger, waiting in the corridor at the Hadassah Oncology Ward, then taking her arm as she walked shakily out of the room where her husband lay unconscious, hooked up to monitors and nourished by tubes.

Shmeltzer leaned against a gurney and watched people hurrying up and down the hospital halls, oblivious to his presence. Nurses, technicians. More doctors-he couldn't get away from them. Not that they were worth a damn. He remembered their reactions to Leah's aneurysm, the damned shrugs and false sympathy.

One time he'd peeked into Schlesinger's room, amazed at how far the old man had faded in so short a time. The tubes and needles were all over him, like the tentacles of some kind of sea monster-a giant jellyfish-wrapping themselves around what remained of his body. Meters and machines beeping away as it it meant something. All that technology was supposed to be life supporting-that was the story the white-coats told-but to Shmeltzer it seemed to be sucking the life out of the old palmahi.

A couple of times the hospital visits had been followed by tea at a cafe, an hour or so of winding down from the damned hospital ambience, small talk to hide from the big issue. But tonight Eva told him to take her straight home. During the drive back to French Hill, she was silent, sitting up against the passenger door,.as far from him as possible. When they got to her door, she turned the key in the lock, gave him a look full of anger-no, more than that: hatred.

Wrong time, wrong place, he thought, and braced himself for something unpleasant, feeling like an idiot for getting involved in a no-win situation, for getting involved at all. But instead of spitting out her pain, Eva bored her eyes into his, breathed in deeply, took his hand, and pulled him into the apartment. Moments later they were lying next to each other in her bed-Tell it straight, shmuck: their beds, hers and the old man's. Schlesinger wouldn't be sleeping in it again but

Shmeltzer still felt like an adulterer.

They remained that way for a while, naked and sweat-ing atop the covers, holding hands, staring at the ceiling.

both of them mute, the words knocked out of them, a mismatched pair of alter kockers, if he'd ever seen one. He, a scrawny bird; she, all pillows, wonderfully upholstered, her breasts heavy and flattened, thighs as soft and white as hallah dough.

She began crying. Shmeltzer felt the words of comfort lump up in his gullet, congealed by inhibition. He lifted her hand, touched dimpled knuckles to his mouth. Then, suddenly, they were rolling toward each other, slapping against each other like magnets of opposite polarity. Cleaving and clawing, Shmeltzer cradling her, listening to her sobs, wiping wet cheeks, feeling-and this was really crazy-young and strong. As if time were a pie and a large slice had been restored by some compassionate god.

The Chinaman spent another Friday night in and around the Damascus Gate, alternating between joking around with the lowlifes and pressuring them. Receiving promises from all of them, Arabs and Jews, that the moment they saw or heard anything, blah blah blah.

At one in the morning a series of behind-the-hand whispers steered him to a petty sleaze naned Gadallah Ibn Hamdeh, and known as Little Hook, a diminutive, crook-backed thief and swindler who sidelined by running girls out on the Jericho Road. The Chinaman knew him by sight but had never dealt with him personally and wasn't familiar with his haunts. It took an hour to find him, halfway across the Old City, in Omar Ibn el Khatab Square, inside the Jaffa Gate. Talking to a pair of backpackers at the top of the steps that led down to David Street, just past the facade of the Petra Hotel.

The Chinaman stood back for a moment and watched then conferring in the dark, wondering if it was a drug deal. Ibn Hamdeh was bowing and scraping, gesticulating wildly with his arms as if painting a picture in the air, reaching back every so often to touch his hump. The backpackers followed every movement and smiled like trusting idiots. Except for a solitary street sweeper who soon turned down the Armenian Patriarchate Road, the three of them were alone in the square; the Aftimos Market and all the other shops on David Street, dark and shuttered.

Too conspicuous for dope, decided the Chinaman. Had to be some kind of swindle.

The backpackers looked to be around nineteen or twenty, a boy and a girl, tall and heavily built, wearing shorts and tank tops and hiking boots, and carrying nylon knapsacks supported by aluminum frames. Scandinavian, he guessed, from the goyische features and blond, stringy hair. They towered over the little hunchback as he kept jabbering on in a steady stream of broken English. Laying on the shit in a high, choppy voice.

When the boy pulled out money, the Chinaman approached, nodding at the backpackers and asking little Hook, in Arabic, what the hell he was up to. The hunchback seemed to shrivel. He backed away from the money and the detective. The Chinaman whipped out his arm and grabbed him by the elbow. A look of protective aggression came into the male backpacker's eyes. He had peach fuzz on his chin, a narrow mouth set in a perpetual pucker.

"He's my friend, man."

"He's a crook," said the Chinaman in English, and when the boy continued to look hostile, showed him his police badge. The backpackers stared at it, then at each other.

"Tell them," the Chinaman commanded Little Hook, who was grimacing as if in agony, doing a little dance, calling the Scandinavians "my friends, my friends," playing the part of victim, outrageously overacting.

"Hey, man," said the backpacker. "We were seeking a place for the night. This fellow was helping us."

"This fellow is a crook. Tell them, Hook."

Ibn Hamdeh hesitated. The Chinaman squeezed his arm and the little thief started crowing: "I'm crook. Yes." He laughed, displaying toothless upper gums, lower incisors jacketed with steel. "I'm nice guy, but crook, ha ha."

"What did he tell you?" the Chainaman asked the backpackers. "That his sister has a nice place, warm bed, running water, and free breakfast-you give him a finder's fee and he'd take you there?"

The girl nodded.

"He has no sister. If he did, she'd be a pickpocket. How much did he ask for?"

The Scandinavians looked away in embarrassment.

"Five American dollars," said the girl.

"Together, or each?"

"Each."

The Chinaman shook his head and kicked Ibn Hamdeh in the seat of the pants. "How much money can you spend on a room?" he asked the backpackers.

"Not much," said the boy, looking at the bills in his hands and putting them back in his pocket.

"Try the YMCAs. There's one in East Jerusalem and one in West Jerusalem."

"Which one's cheaper?" asked the girl.

"I think they're the same. The east one's smaller, but closer."

He gave them directions, the boy said, "Thanks, man," and they loped off. Stupid babies.

"Now," he said, dragging Ibn Hamdeh up David Street and pushing him against the grate of a souvenir shop. He flipped the little rascal around, frisked him for weapons, and came up with a cheap knife with a fake pearl handle that he pulverized under his heel. Spinning Ibn Hamdeh around so that they were face to face, he looked down on greasy hair, fishy features, the hump covered by a flowered shirt that reeked of stale sweat.

"Now, Gadallah, do you know who I am?"

"Yes, sir. The…police."

"Go on, say what you were going to say." The Chinaman smiled.

Little Hook trembled.

"Slant Eye, right?" said the Chinaman. He took hold of Ibn Hamdeh's belt, lifted him several inches in the air-the shmuck weighed less than his concrete-can barbell. "Everything you've heard about me is true."

"Most certainly, sir."

The Chinaman held him that way for a while, then lowered him and told him what he'd heard on the street, got ready for resistance, the need to exert a little pressure. But rather than harden the hunchback's defenses, the inquiry seemed to cheer him. He opened up immediately. Laying on the sirs and talking fast in that same choppy voice about a man who had scared one of his girls the previous Thursday night, on the Jericho Road just before it hooked east, just above Silwan. An American with crazy eyes who'd seemed to materialize out of nowhere, on foot-the girl had seen no car, figured he'd been hiding somewhere off the road.

Eight days ago, thought the Chinaman. Exactly a week after Juliet's murder.

"Why'd you take so long to report it, asshole?"

Little Hook began an obsequious dance of shuffles and shrugs. "Sir, sir, I didn't realize-"

"Never mind. Tell me what happened exactly?"

"The American asked her for sex, showed her a roll of American dollars. But his eyes scared her and she refused."

"Is she in the habit of being picky?"

"Everyone's scared now, sir. The Butcher walks the streets." Ibn Hamdeh looked grave, putting on what the Chinaman thought was a reproachful look, as if to say: You've not done your job well, policeman. The Chinaman stared him down until the shmuck resumed looking servile.

"How'd she know he was an American?"

"I don't know," said Little Hook. "That's what she told me."

The Chinaman gripped his arm. "Come on. You can do better than that."

"By the prophet! She said he was American." Little Hook winked and smiled. "Maybe he carried an American flag-"

"Shut your mouth. What kind of sex did he ask for?"

"'Just sex, is all she told me."

"Is she in the habit of doing kinky stuff?"

"No, no, she's a good girl."

"A real virgin. What did he do then? After she refused?"

"Nothing, sir."

"He didn't try to force her?"

"No."

"Didn't try to persuade her?"

"He just walked away, smiling."

" Which way did he walk?"

"She didn't say." She didn't look?"

"She may have-she didn't tell me."

"You're sure of that?"

"Yes, sir. If I knew, I would certainly tell you."

"What was wrong with his eyes?"

Little Hook painted in the air, again, caressed his hump. 'She said they were flat eyes, very flat. Mad. And a strange smile. very wide, a grin. But the grin of a killer."

"What made it a killer's grin."

The hunchback's head pushed forward and bobbed, like that of a turkey pecking at corn. "Not a happy grin, very crazy."

"She told you that."

"Yes."

"But she didn't tell you which way he walked?"

"No, sir, I-"

"That's enough whining." The Chinaman pressed him for more: physical description, nationality, clothing, asking again what had been crazy about the eyes, wrong with the grin. He got nothing, which was no surprise. The pimp hadn't seen the man, had heard everything secondhand from his girl.

"If I could tell you more, I certainly would, sir."

"You're a fine upstanding citizen."

"Very surely, sir. I want dearly to cooperate. I sent out the word so you would find me. Truly."

The Chinaman looked down at him, thought: The little bastard looks pretty crazy himself, waving his arms, rubbing that hump like he's masturbating.

"I'm going to talk to the girl myself, Gadallah. Where is she?"

Ibn Hamdeh shrugged expansively. "Ran away, sir. Maybe to Amman."

"What's her name?"

"Red Amira."

"Full name."

"Amira Nasser, of the red lips and the red hair."

Not physically similar to the first two victims. The Chinaman felt his enthusiasm waning. "When did you see her last?"

"The night she saw Flat Eyes. She packed her bag and was gone."

"Wednesday night."

"Yes, sir."

"And you just let her go?"

"I am a friend, not a slavemaster."

"A real pal."

"Yes, sir."

"Where does her family live?"

"I don't know, sir."

"You said Amman. Why there?"

"Amman is a beautiful city."

The Chinaman frowned skeptically, raised a fist. Ibn Hamdeh flashed stainless steel.

"Allah's truth, sir! She worked for me for two months, was productive, quiet. That's all I know."

Two months-a short shift. It jibed with what he'd been told about Ibn Hamdeh. The hunchback was small-time all ihe way, not even close to a professional flesh peddler. He promised novice whores protection and lodgings in return for a percentage of their earnings but couldn't hold on to them for very long. When they found out how little he delivered, they abandoned him for sturdier roosters. The Chinaman pressed him a while longer, showed him pictures of both victims and got negative replies, wrote down a general physical description of Amira Nasser, and wondered if he'd see her soon, cut open and shampooed and wrapped in white sheeting.

"May I go now, sir?"

"No. What's your address?" Ibn Hamdeh told him the number of a hole in an alley off Aqabat el Mawlawiyeh, and the Chinaman wrote it down and radioed Headquarters for verification, requesting simultaneous record checks on both the hunchback and Amira. Ibn Hamdeh waited nervously for the data to come in, tapping his feet and caressing his deformity. When the radio spat back an answer, the address was correct. Ibn Hamdeh had been busted a year ago for pickpocketing, let off with probation, nothing violent in his file. Nothing at all on any Amira Nasser.

The Chinaman gave Ibn Hamdeh a business card, told him to call him if he heard anything more about the flat-eyed man, pointed him toward the Jaffa Gate, and ordered him to get lost.

"Thank you, sir. We must rid the city of the abomination. Life is not good, this way." The hunchback stopped before the gate, made a sharp turn on Christian Quarter Street, and disappeared into the darkness.

Flat eyes, thought the Chinaman, continuing east on David Street, then hooking north and taking the Souq Khan e-Zeit toward the Damascus Gate. A crazy grin. A redheaded whore. Probably another dead end.

The souq had been watered before closing, the cobblestones still wet and glowing in the bands of moonlight that seeped between the arches. The market street was deserted, save for Border Patrolmen and soldiers, giving way to noise and lights as he approached the Damascus Gate. He walked past the coffee-houses, ignoring the revelry and fanning away cigarette smoke, exited gratefully into the cool night air.

The sky was a starlit dome, as black as mourning cloth. He flexed his muscles, cracked his knuckles, and began circulating among the tents of the Slave Market, buying a soda at one and standing at the back drinking it, watching a European-looking girl do a clumsy belly dance. Flat eyes, a crazy grin. The hunchback was probably a habitual liar, so maybe it was a just another con-false cooperation aimed at weaseling out of a larceny bust. Or maybe not. Maybe he had put out the word because he wanted to talk.

Still, the time frame made sense: a week between murders, the killing on Thursday night, the dumping Friday morning. If Red Amira had been tagged as number three, her escape helped explain why the time lapse since Juliet. Maybe this guy had some sort of schedule that allowed him out only on Thursday and Friday.

On the other hand, the red hair didn't match. Maybe the whole story was bullshit.

He took a big gulp of soda, planned his next moves: Check out this Red Amira-too late for that right now. Examine the spot where the American had propositioned her, see if there was a place for someone to hide, if there was room to conceal a car. Also a daylight job.

If he found anything interesting, he'd call Dani tomorrow night. He had nothing yet that justified disturbing the guy"s Shabbat.

The bellydancer shook her cymbals and ground her abdomen; pooshtakim hooted and cheered. Bland, appraised the Chinaman, definitely European, a college girl picking up extra shekels. No zest, too skinny to make it work-you could see her ribs when she undulated. He left the tent, saw Charlie Khazak standing outside his pleasure palace, sucking on a cigarette and wearing a snot-green shirt that seemed to glow in the dark. The shithead hadn't forgotten their little heel-on-instep dance. When he saw who was looking at him, he threw away the smoke and backed into the tent, was gone when the Chinaman got there. Forty minutes later, he showed up, only to find the Chinaman stepping out of the shadows, using a shishlik skewer for a toothpick, yawning like some giant yellow cat.

"Shabbat shalom, Charlie."

"Shabbat shalom. I've been asking around for you, trying to help out."

"Gee," said the Chinaman, "I'm really touched."

"I'm serious, Lee. This murder shit is bad for all of us. Bad atmosphere, people staying home."

"How sad." The Chinaman broke the skewer with his teeth, began chewing the wood, swallowing it.

Charlie stared at him. "Want some dinner? On me."

"Nah, already had some. On you." The Chinaman smiled, pulled eight more skewers out of his pocket, and let them drop to the dirt. He stretched and yawned again, cracked giant knuckles. More than a cat, Charlie decided. Fucking slant-eyed tiger, he should be caged.

"So," said the detective, "business stinks. What a pity.

Who knows, you might have to turn to honest labor." He'd been hearing the same tales of woe from other pimps and dealers. Since the papers had started pumping the Butcher story, there'd been a fifty percent slowdown on the Green Line. worse in the small pockets of iniquity that peppered the Muslim Quarter-sin-holes deep within the core of the Old City surrounded by a maze of narrow, dead-black streets, nameless alleys that went nowhere. You had to want something very badly to go there. The hint of a scare and the places shut down completely. All the whores were kicking about working with strangers, girls on the border staying off the streets, opting, temporarily, for the comforts of hearth and home. The pimps expending more effort to keep them in line. receiving less reward for their efforts.

"Everything stinks," said Charlie, lighting a cigarette. "I should move to America-got a cousin in New York, drives

"Do it. I'll pay for your ticket."

The big screen TV was turned up loud; from behind the flaps came the sound of squealing tires.

"What's on tonight?"

"French Connection."

"Old," said the Chinaman. "Got to be… what? Fifteen, twenty years old?"

"A classic, Lee. They love the car chases."

"Then how come so few of them are watching? Your man behind the bar told me you had a newer one scheduled. Friday the Thirteenth, lots of knives and blood."

"Wrong time, wrong place," said Charlie, looking miserable.

"A temporary attack of good taste?" The Chinaman smiled. "Cheer up. It'll pass. Tell me, Rabbi Khazak, what do you know about a whore named Amira Nasser?"

"She the latest?"

"Just answer."

"Brunette, cute, big tits."

"I thought she was a redhead."

Charlie thought for a moment. "Maybe. Yeah, I've seen her with red hair-but that's a wig. Her natural color is dark."

"Does she usually go dark or red?"

"She takes turns. I've seen her as a blonde too."

"When did you last see her?"

"Maybe three weeks ago."

"Who runs her?"

"Whoever wants to-she's an idiot."

The Chinaman sensed that he meant it literally. "Retarded?"

"Or close to it. It's not obvious-she looks fine, very! adorable. But talk to her and you can see there's nothing] upstairs."

"Does she make up stories?"

"I don't know her that well, Lee. She connected to thej Butcher?"

The Butcher. Fucking press.

"Little Hook says he'd been running her."

"Little Hook says all sorts of shit."

"Could he be?"

"Sure. I told you she's an idiot."

"Where does she come from?"

"Hell if I know."

The Chinaman placed a hand on Charlie's shoulder.

"Where's she from, Charlie?"

"Go ahead, beat me, Lee," said Charlie wearily. "Why the hell would I hold back? I want this thing cleared up more than you do."

The Chinaman took hold of Charlie's shirt, rubbed the synthetic fabric between his thumb and forefinger, half expecting it to throw off sparks. When he spoke, his voice was knotted with tension.

"I doubt that, asshole."

"I didn't mean-" Charlie sputtered, but the big man released him and walked away, heading back toward the Damascus Gate in a long, loose, predator's stride.

"What's so interesting down there?" the girl called from bed.

"The view," said Avi. "There's a beautiful moon out tonight." But he didn't invite her to share it.

He wore skintight red briefs and nothing else, stood on the balcony and stretched, knowing he looked great.

"Come on in, Avraham," said the girl, in her best sultry voice. She sat up, let the covers fall to her waist. Put a hand under each healthy breast and said, "The babies are waiting."

Avi ignored her, took another look across the courtyard at the ground-floor apartment. Malkovsky had gone in three hours ago. It was doubtful he'd be out again. But something kept drawing him back to the balcony, making him think magically, the way he had as a child: An explosion would occur the moment he withdrew his attention.

'Av-ra-ham!"

Spoiled kid. Why was she rushing? He'd already satisfied her twice.

The door to the apartment remained closed. The

Malkovskys had finished their meal by eight, singing Shabbat songs,in an off-key chorus. Fat Sender had come waddling but once at eight-thirty, loosening his belt. For a moment Avi thought he was going to see something, but the big pig had simply eaten too much, needed air, a few extra centimeters around the waist. Now it was eleven-he was probably in bed, maybe mauling his wife, maybe worse. But in for the night.

Still, it was nice out on the balcony.

"Avi, if you don't come here real soon, I'm going to sleep!"

He waited a few moments, just to make sure she knew she couldn't push him around. Gave one last look at the apartment and walked inside.

"Okay, honey," he said, standing at the side of the bed. He put his hands on his hips and showed off his body. "Ready."

She pouted, folded her arms across her chest, the breast tops swelling with sweet promise. "Well, I don't know if I am."

Avi peeled off his briefs, showed himself to her, and touched her under the covers. "I think you are, my darling."

"Oh, yes, Avi."

Friday, at ten-thirty in the morning, Daniel called Beit Gvura. Though the settlement was near-midway between Jerusalem and Hebron-phone connections were poor. A chronic thing-Kagan had protested it on the Knesset floor, claimed it was all part of a government conspiracy. Daniel had to dial nine times before getting through.

One of Moshe Kagan's minions answered, announcing "Gvura. Weakness is death" in American-accented Hebrew.

Daniel introduced himself and the man said, "What do you want?"

"I need to talk with Rabbi Kagan."

"He's not here."

"Where is he?"

"Out. I'm Bob Arnon-I'm his deputy. What do you; want?"

"To talk with Rabbi Kagan. Where is he, Adon Arnon?"

"In Hadera. Visiting the Mendelsohns-maybe you heard of them."

The sarcasm was heavy. Shlomo Mendelsohn, cut down at nineteen. By all accounts a kind, sensitive boy who'd combined army service with three years of study at the Hebron yeshiva. One afternoon-a Friday, Daniel remembered; ye-shiva boys got off early on Erev Shabbat-he'd been selecting tomatoes from an outdoor stall at the Hebron souq when an Arab emerged from the throng of shoppers, shouted a slogan, and stabbed him three times in the back. The boy had fallen into the bin of vegetables, washing them crimson as he bled to death, unaided by scores of Arab onlookers.

The army and the police had moved in quickly, dozens of suspects rounded up for questioning and released, the murderer still at large. A splinter group in Beirut claimed credit for the kill, but Headquarters suspected a gang of punks operating out of the Surif area. The best information was that they'd escaped across the border to Jordan.

Moshe Kagan had been campaigning for Knesset at the time; the case was custom-made for him. He jumped in, comforted the family and got close to them. Shlomo's father made public statements calling Kagan Israel's true redeemer. After the thirty days of mourning were up, Kagan led a parade of enraged supporters through the Arab section of Hebron, arm in arm with Mr. Mendelsohn. Displaying the dead boy's angelic face on slogan-laden placards, trumpeting the need for an iron-fist policy when it came to "mad dogs and Arabs." Windows were broken, knuckles bloodied; the army was called in to keep the peace. The papers ran pictures of Jewish soldiers busting Jewish protesters and when the election was over, Kagan had garnered enough votes to earn a single Knesset seat. His detractors said Shlomo had been his meal ticket.

"When do you expect him back?" asked Daniel.

"Don't know."

'Before Shabbat?"

"What do you think? He's shomer shabbat," said Arnon with contempt.

"Connect me to his house. I'll talk to his wife."

"Don't know."

"Don't know what?"

"If I should let you bother her. She's cooking, preparing."

"Mr. Arnon, I'm going to speak with her one way or another, even if it means coming out there in person. And I'm shomer shabbat myself-the trip will disrupt my Shabbat preparation."

Silence on the line. Arnon snorted, then said, "Hold on. I'll connect you. If your government hasn't screwed up the lines completely."

Daniel waited several minutes, began to wonder if he'd been cut off, before Kagan's wife came on. He'd seen her at rallies-a tall, handsome woman, taller than her husband, with wide black eyes and pale skin free of makeup-but had never spoken to her and was surprised at the quality of her voice, which was soft and girlish, untainted by hostility.

"I'm sorry, Inspector," she told him, "my husband's out of town and I don't expect him back until shortly before

Shabbat."

"I'd like to speak with him as soon after Shabbat as possible."

"We're having a melaveh malkah Saturday night, honoring a new bride and groom. Would Sunday morning be all right?"

"Sunday would be fine. Let's say nine o'clock. I.n your home."

"Thank you, Inspector. I'll write it down."

"Thank you, Rebbetzin Kagan. Shabbat shalom."

"Shabbat shalom."

He hung up thinking What a gracious woman, filed his papers, and looked at his watch. Ten-thirty a.m. He'd been at the office since five forty-five, reading and reviewing, recycling useless data-succumbing to Laufer's suggestion that he'd missed something. Waiting for the discovery ofj another body.

But there had been no call, just a troubling inertia.

Two full weeks-two Friday mornings-since Juliet, and I nothing. No rhythm, not even the certainty of bloodshed.

He was disappointed, he realized. Another murder might I have yielded clues, some bit of carelessness that would finally establish a firm lead to the killer.

Praying for murder, Sharavi?

Disgusted with himself, he checked out and left for the day, determined to forget the job until the end of Shabbat. To get his soul back in alignment, be able to pray with a clear head.

He visited his father at the shop, stayed longer than usual, eating pita and drinking orange juice, admiring several new pieces of jewelry. When he invited his father to come for Saturday lunch, he received the usual answer.

"I'd love to, son, but I'm already obligated."

A shrug and a grimace-his father was still embarrassed after all this time. Daniel smiled inwardly, thinking of plump, cheerful Mrs. Moscowitz pursuing Yehesqel Sharavi, with soup and cholent and golden roast chicken. They'd been carrying on this way for over a year, his father complaining but making no attempt to escape. The man had been a widower for so long, perhaps he felt powerless in the pres-ence of a strong woman. Or maybe, thought Daniel, he was underestimating this relationship.-A stepchild at thirty-seven. Now that would be something. "After lunch, then, Abba. We have guests from America, interesting people. Laura and the children would love to see you.'

"And I, them. What do you think of the pin I gave Shoshana?"

"I'm sorry, Abba. I haven't seen it." His father showed no surprise.

'A butterfly," he said. "Silver, with malachite eyes. I conceived it in a dream I had two nights ago-springtime in the Galilee, flocks of silver butterflies covering the sky, alighting on a stand of cypress. Such a powerful image, I began work yesterday at sunrise and finished by the afternoon, just before Laura came by with the children."

"They were here yesterday?"

"Yes, after school. Laura said they were shopping at Hamashbir and decided to drop in. It must have been desti-ny' -the old man smiled-"because I'd just gone out to shop myself and had a brand-new chocolate bar in my pocket, Swiss, with raspberry jelly in the middle. Michael and Benja-min pounced on it like little lions. I offered some to Shoshana, too, but she said candy was for babies, she was too old for it. So I gave her the butterfly. The green of the malachite went perfectly with those wonderful eyes. Such a beautiful little girl."

"I got home after she was asleep," said Daniel, thinking How cut off have I been? "I'm sure she'll show it to me tonight."

His father sensed his shame, came over, stroked his cheek, and kissed it. The tickle of whisker evoked a flood of memories in Daniel, made him feel like a small boy-weak, but safe.

"I've been consumed with work," he said.

His father's hands rested on his shoulder, butterfly-light. Yehesqel Sharavi said nothing.

"I feel," said Daniel, "as if I'm being drawn into something… unclean. Something beyond my control."

"You're the best there is, Daniel. No man could do more."

"I don't know, Abba. I really don't know."

They sat together in silence.

"All one can do is work and pray," said his father, finally. "The rest is up to God."

Spoken by anyone else, it would have sounded pat-a cliche employed to kill discussion. But Daniel understood his father, knew he really meant it. He envied the old man's faith and, wondered if he'd ever reach that level, where reliance upon the Almighty could dissolve all doubt. Could he hope to attain the kind of religious serenity that obliterated nightmares, steadied a heart beating out of control?

Never, he decided. Serenity was out of reach. He'd seen too much.

He nodded in agreement, said "Amen, God be blessed," playing the dutiful son, the unquestioning believer. His father must have known it was an act; he looked at Daniel quizzically and stood, began circulating among the jewelry, tidying, fussing with velvet, and adjusting displays. Daniel thought he looked sad.

"You've been helpful, Abba. As always."

His father shook his head. "I bend wire, Daniel. I don't know about much anything else."

"That's not true, Abba-"

"Son," said his father, firmly. He swiveled and stared, and Daniel felt the little boy take over again. "Go home.

Shabbat is approaching. Time to rest and renew. Everyone rests, even God."

"Yes, Abba," said Daniel, but he thought: Does Evil have respect for God's calendar? Does Evil ever rest?

He got home at eleven-thirty, saw the look on Laura's face, and knew they'd either work things out or have a terrible fight. He stayed with her in the kitchen, plying her with smiles and unswerving attention, ignoring the lack of response, the seemingly frantic preoccupation with simmering pots and meat thermometers. Finally she softened, allowed him to rub her neck, and laughed when he got underfoot, the two of them knocking shins in the small, hot room.

She wiped her hands with a towel, poured iced coffee for both of them, and gave him a hearfelt kiss with cold lips and tongue. But when he tried for a repeat, she backed away and asked him to sit down.

"Listen," she said, settling opposite him, "I understand what you're trying to do. I appreciate it. But we have to talk."

"I thought we were."

"You know what I mean, Daniel."

"I've been overinvolved. It won't happen again."

"It's more than that. For the last few weeks you've been in another world. I feel as if you've locked me-all of us-out of your life."

"I'm sorry."

Laura shook her head. "I'm not trying to wring an apology out of you. What we need to do is talk. Sit right here and tell each other what's on our minds. What we're feeling." She placed her hand on his, white linen over mahogany. "I can only imagine what you've been going through. I want to know."

"It's very ugly, nothing you'd want to hear."

"But I do! That's the point! How can we be intimate if we skate on the surface?"

"Share with me what you've been doing," said Daniel. 'How's the Bethlehem painting going?"

'Dammit, Daniel!" She pulled her hand away. "Why are you being so withholding!"

"Sharing is mutual," he said quietly. "You have things of beauty to share-your art, the home, the children. I have nothing to offer in return."

"Your work-"

"My work is cruelty and blood."

"I fell in love with a policeman. I married a policeman. Did it ever occur to you that I think what you do is beautiful? You're a guardian, a protector of the Jewish state, of all the artists and the mothers and the children. There's nothing ugly about that."

"Some protector." He looked away from her and took a sip of coffee.

"Come on, Daniel. Stop punishing yourself for the horrors of the world."

He wanted to satisfy her, thought of how to begin, the right way to phrase things. But the words spun around in his head like clothes in a dryer, random sounds, nothing seemed to make sense.

He must have sat that way for a long time, because Laura was patient by nature, and finally she got up, looking defeated. The same look he'd just seen on his father's face.

You're a real harbinger of cheer, Pakad Sharavi.

"If you can't deal with it right now, fine. I can accept that, Daniel. But eventually you're going to have to."

"I can," said Daniel, taking hold of her wrist. "I want to."

"Then do it. There's no other way."

He took a deep breath and forced himself to begin.

At twelve-fifteen, feeling freer than he had in a long time, he drove to Lieberman's and picked up the groceries, dancing a verbal ballet with the garrulous shopkeeper in order to avoid discussing the case. His next stop was a florist on Rehov Gershon Agron, where he bought a bouquet of daisies and had them arranged against a bed of leather fern along with a card on which he wrote I Love You,

Battling the traffic, he managed to get to the Dugma school by twelve twenty-eight, just in time to pick up the boys. He idled the car by the curb, searched for Sender Malkovsky's bulk among the group of parents waiting for the children.

The child molester was nowhere to be seen, which was hardly surprising-no way would he be that obvious. Looking for him had been an irrational bit of desperation, but compulsive, like checking under the bed for ghosts.

Two minutes passed slowly and Daniel filled them with speculation, wondering what Malkovsky was up to. If Avi was on him, right now, or back in the Old City, pounding the pavement with the Chinaman. Then he realized he was back on work-thoughts and forced them out of his mind. Replaced them with butterflies.

Mikey and Benny came out of the gate, saw him, and whooped. They tumbled into the car like dervishes, keeping up a steady stream of insults and kid jokes as he headed for Shoshi's school. When he got there, she was just leaving, walking with a group of other girls, all of them swinging the oversized plastic purses that had come into fashion, skipping and laughing, chirping like birds.

She was definitely the prettiest, he decided. None of the others came close.

She passed right by him, engrossed in conversation.

He honked and she looked up-disappointed. Usually she walked home; he'd picked her up as a nice surprise, but could see that she was embarrassed at being treated like a little kid. She said something to the other girls and ran to the car. The butterfly brooch was pinned to her blouse.

'Hello, Abba. What's the occasion?"

"Does there have to be an occasion?"

"You always say walking is good for me."

'I got home early, thought we'd all do something to-gether.'

"What are we doing?" asked Mikey. "The zoo," said Benny. "Let's go to the zoo."

"Are we going to the zoo, Abba?" asked Mikey. "Okay, okay!'

Shoshi glared at them. "Will you both please shut up? The zoo is dumb, and besides, it closes early on Erev

Shabbat.'

The zoo is smart," said Mikey. "You're dumb."

"Quiet, all of you," said Daniel. "Eema will need us to help out in about an hour. In the meantime, we could go down to the park, throw the ball around or something."

Shoshi's friends began walking. She noticed the movement, turned and shouted, "One second!" but they kept on going. Facing Daniel, she said, "Abba, I'm in the middle of something. Can I go?"

"Sure. Have fun."

"You're not mad?"

"Not one bit. Be home by two."

"Thanks." She blew him a kiss and ran to catch up, the purse knocking against one narrow hip.

"Now can we go to the zoo?" asked Benny as Daniel put the car into gear.

"What do I need a zoo for? I've got wild animals right here."

"Rahhr," said Mikey, screwing up his little face and attempting to snarl. "Rahhr."

"Rahhr, me too," said Benny. He curled his hands into claws and raked the air.

Daniel looked at them in the rearview mirror. Little lions, his father had called them. More like kittens.

"Rahhrr!"

"Very fierce, boys. Let's hear it again."

Shabbat felt like Shabbat. A rosy, springtime glow seemed to settle around Daniel from the moment he woke up on Saturday.

He was in synagogue for the beginning of the shaharit services, stayed after services, wrapped in his tallit, listening to a visiting rabbi expound on the weekly Torah portion. He came home at noon, meeting Gene and Luanne as they got off the elevator. They'd brought flowers, a dozen red roses from the shop at the Laromme Hotel. Laura put them in water, next to the daisies. Daniel made Kiddush over a bottle of Hagefen Riesling and everyone helped bring out the food.

They ate themselves drowsy for an hour, cleared the dishes, then returned to the table for dessert and conversation, coffee and arak. Shoshi pulled Gene away for raisin poker, winning four games out of seven before the black man dozed off on the couch.

"Oh, Gene," said Luanne, and continued talking about their tour of the Negev.

At two-thirty Daniel's father came over, wearing his heavy black Sabbath suit, a snowy-white shirt, and a large black kipah embroidered with gold. The children jumped on him shouting "Saba! Saba!," covered his beard with kisses, and the old man pressed pieces of hard candy into their palms. The boys ran off, unwrapping their treasures. Shoshi pocketed hers.

"Abba Yehesqel," said Laura, hugging her father-in-law.

"Leora, beautiful as always!" he said, using her Hebrew name.

Daniel introduced his father to Luanne, cleared a place for him at the head of the table, and brought him the bottle and a glass. When he sat down, Shoshi climbed onto his lap.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Sharavi," said Luanne. "That butterfly is lovely."

"Saba made Eema's earrings too," said Shoshi, pointing. Laura pushed her hair aside and revealed a lacy silver pendant shaped like a spice box. From the bottom of the earring hung tiny gold flags.

'Lovely."

"My Saba is the best."

Yehesqel smiled, shrugged, and drank arak. Laura left and came back with a box full of jewelry, spread the pieces out on the tablecloth.

"These are all my father-in-law's creations."

"Such delicacy," said Luanne, examining the pieces. She picked up a filigree bracelet set with turquoise and held it up to the light.

"I learned to bend wire as a child," said the old man in heavily accented English. "What a man learns as a child, he remembers."

"My father is being modest," said Daniel. "He's a master of his art."

"Bezalel was an artist," said his father. "He carved the Temple vessels with God's hand guiding his. I am a craftsman. I learn by making mistakes." He turned to Luanne. "We Jews became craftsmen because we were forced to. In Yemen we lived under the Muslims, and the Muslims hated the crafts and gave them over to the Jews."

"How strange," said Luanne.

"It was their belief. They called us usta-masters-but put us under them, on the bottom. Seventy crafts we did: weaving, leather, pottery, baskets, making swords. A craftsman is a good job for a Jew, because it doesn't stop the learning of the Torah. A man makes a pot-when it cooks in the oven, he opens a book and studies. The Muslim understands that-he loves his Quran."

"I've been told," said Luanne, "that the Jews living in Arab lands were treated with respect."

Yehesqel smiled. When he spoke again, his speech took on a singsong rhythm.

"In the beginning, Muhammid thought the Jews would all become Muslim. So he said nice things about us, made Moses a big prophet in Islam. He even put parts of the Torah into the Quran-the Israilyat. It's still there. But when we said no, we want to stay Jews, Muhammid got very angry, told everyone that the Jews were cofrim… what's the word in English, Daniel?"

"Infidels."

"Infidels, The Christians, too, were infidels. Sometimes infidels were killed; sometimes they were kicked outside. In Yemen we were kept and protected-like children. We lived in small villages in the mountains. Even San'a, the capital, was just a big village. We lived very poorly. Many of the Arabs were poor also, but we were the poorest because we couldn't own land, couldn't be merchants. They kept us as craftsmen, because they wanted the Jewish crafts. Each village had a tekes…"

"Ceremony," said Daniel.

"The strongest imam in the village would kill a goat and make a Muslim prayer, tell Allah the Jews belonged to him. We paid a big tax to the imam-the geziyah-did the craft he needed. If our imam lost a war to another, we belonged to the winner."

Yehesqel mouthed a blessing, chewed on a piece of honey cake, and washed it down with arak.

"Not respect, Mrs. Brooker, but better than dying. We lived that way for hundreds of years, under the Sunni. Then the Zaydi Sh?a conquered the Sunni and wanted to make a very strong Islam. All the Jewish boy babies were taken away and given to Muslim families. A very bad time, like the slavery of Egypt. We tried to hide our sons-those who got caught were killed. In 1646 the Judge Muhammid al Sahuli made the gezerah ha Meqamsim- the scraping rule. The honor of scraping all the batei shimush-the toilets-in Yemen was given to the Jews. In 1679, al-Mahdi, the imam of Yemen, kicked us out of San'a. We had to walk across the desert to a place called Mauza, a very sick place, a bitza…"

"Swamp."

"A swamp full of sickness. Many of us died on the way, many more when we reached Mauza."

"You say us and we," said Luanne. "As if you were there. It's a part of you."

Yehesqel smiled. "I was there, Mrs. Brooker. The rabbis tell us that every soul was created at one time. The soul lives forever-there is no yesterday or today. That means my soul was in Egypt, at Mount Sinai, in San'a, at Auschwitz. Now it has come to rest in Eretz Yisrael, free to live as a Jew. If God is kind, it will stay free until Messiah." He broke off another piece of cake and began raising it to his lips.

"Saba," said Shoshi, "tell about Mori Yikhya."

The cake stopped mid-air. "Ah, Mori Yikhya."

"Let Saba eat," said Laura.

"It's okay," said the old man. He put the cake down, chucked Shoshi under the chin. "Who was Mori Yikhya, motek?'

'A great khakham of San'a."

'And?"

"A great tzadik."

"Excellent."

"Khakham means wise man," explained Daniel. "Tzadik means righteous man."

"What was Mori Yikhya's full name, Shoshana?"

"Mori Yikhya Al Abyad. Please, Saba, tell about the disappearing Torahs and the magic spring. Please."

Yehesqel nodded, resuming the singsong. "Mori Yikhya Al Abyad, the great tzadik, was one of those who died during the march to Mauza. He lived in San'a and worked as a sofer-he wrote mezuzot and tefillin and sifrei Torah. The Halakhah-the Jewish law-tells us that when a sofer writes a Torah, he must have a clean mind, no sin inside. This is most important when the sofer writes God's name. Many sofrim go to the mikvah-the special bath-before they write God's name. Mori Yikhya did it another way. What was that way, Shoshana?"

"He jumped into an oven!"

"Yes! Before he wrote God's name, he threw himself into a big oven fire and was cleaned. His tzidkut-his righteous-protected him, and his Torahs became special. How were they special, Shoshana?"

"If a bad man reads them, the words disappear."

"Excellent. If a man with sin in his heart reads one of them, Mori Yikhya's Torah turns yellow and the letters fade."

"There are scrolls, here in Jerusalem," Daniel told Luanne, "that people attribute to Mori Yikhya. No one dares to use them." He smiled. "They wouldn't last long."

"The magic spring, Saba," said Shoshi. She wrapped the coils of her grandfather's beard around her slender fingers. "Pie-ease."

Yehesqel tickled her chin, took another swallow of arak, and said, "When Mori Yikhya died, it was a terrible thing. He lay down in the sand and stopped breathing in the middle of the desert, a place without water-we were all dying. The Halakhah says that a body must be washed before it is buried. But there was no water. The Jews were sad-we didn't know what to do. We prayed and said tehillim but knew we couldn't wait a long time-the Halakhah also says a body must be buried quickly. All of a sudden something happened, something special."

He held out his hand to Shoshi.

"The magic spring came up!"

"Yes. A spring of water came up from the middle of the sand, a great miracle in honor of Mori Yikhya Al Abyad. We washed him, gave him honor, and buried him. Then we filled our water bottles and drank. Many lives were saved because of Mori Yikhya. As his soul entered heaven, the spring dried up."

"A wonderful story," said Luanne.

"The Yemenites are fabulous storytellers," said Laura. She added, laughing, "It's why I married Daniel."

"What stories did Abba tell you, Eema?" asked Shoshi.

"That I was a millionaire," said Daniel. "My name was Rockefeller, I owned a hundred white horses, and could turn cabbage to gold."

"Oh, Abba!"

"There are books of beautiful poems called diwans" said Laura. "They're meant to be sung-my father-in-law knows them all by heart. Would you sing for us, Abba Yehesqel?"

The old man tapped his Adam's apple. "Dry as the desert."

"Here's your magic spring," said Daniel, filling his glass with arak. His father emptied it, had another half glass, and was finally cajoled into performing. He stood, righted his beret, and cleared his throat.

"I will sing," he said, "from the diwan of Mori Salim Shabazi, the greatest Yemenite tzadik of all. First, I will sing his peullot."

Accompanying himself with hand and body movements, he began to chant, first softly, then louder, in a clear, reedy tenor, reciting in Hebrew as Daniel whispered translation in Luanne's ear. Using original melodies more than four hun-dred years old to sing the peullot-the miraculous deeds-of the Great Teacher Shabazi, who put an end to the exile to Mauza by bringing down an affliction upon the imam of San'a. Mori Shabazi, whose grave at Ta'izz became a sacred shrine, even to the Muslims. Who was so humble and God-fearing that each time worshippers tried to grace the grave with flow-ers, he whitewash flaked off the headstone, the monument finally disintegrating into thin air.

Gene opened his eyes and sat up, listening. Even the boys stopped their play and paid attention.

The old man sang for a full half-hour, of the yearning for Zion, the Jew's eternal quest for spiritual and physical redemption. Then he took a break, wet his gullet with more arak, and looked at Daniel.

"Come, son. We will sing of our ancestor Mori Shalom Sharavi, the weaver. You know that diwan well."

The detective got up and took his father's hand.

At four the old man left for his afternoon Torah class and Laura pulled a book out of the case.

"This is a recent translation of Yemenite women's songs, put out by the Women's Center in Tel Aviv. My father-in-law would never sing them-he's probably never even seen them. In Yemen the sexes were segregated. The women never learned to read or write, were taught no Hebrew or Aramaic-the educated languages. They got back at the men by making up songs in Arabics-closet feminism, really-about love, sex, and how foolish men are, ruled by lust and aggression."

"Amen," said Luanne.

"This is getting dangerous," Gene said to Daniel. He rose from the couch, hitched up his trousers.

"My favorite one," said Laura, flipping pages, "is 'The Manly Maiden.' It's about a girl who dresses up as a man and becomes a powerful sultan. There's this great scene where she gives a sleeping powder to forty-one robbers, takes off their clothes, and inserts a radish in each one of their-"

"That," said Gene, "is my exit line."

"Mine too," said Daniel.

They left the women laughing, took the children and Dayan down to Liberty Bell Park.

As Daniel came out of the apartment, his eyes were assaulted by the sunlight. He could feel his pupils expanding, the heat massaging his face. As he walked, he noticed that everything looked and felt unnaturally vivid-the grass and flowers so bright they seemed freshly painted, the air as sweet as sun-dried laundry. He looked at Gene. The black man"s face remained impassive, so Daniel knew it was his own perceptions that were heightened. He was experiencing the hypersensitivity of a blind man whose sight has miraculously been restored.

"Some guy, your dad," said Gene, as they made their way through the field that bordered the northern edge of the park. "How old is he?"

"Seventy-one."

"He moves like a kid. Amazing."

"He is amazing. He has a beautiful heart. My mother died in childbirth-he was mother and father to me."

"No brothers or sisters?"

"No. The same with Laura. Our children have no aunts or uncles."

Gene eyed the boys and Shoshana, running ahead through the tall grass.

"Looks like you've got plenty of family, though."

"Yes." Daniel hesitated. "Gene, I want to apologize for being such a poor host."

Gene dismissed him with a wave. "Nothing to apologize for. Tables were turned, I'd be doing the same."

They entered the park, which was crowded with Shabbat strollers, walked under arched pergolas roofed with pink and white oleanders, past sand-play areas, rose beds, the replica of the Liberty Bell donated by the Jews of Philadelphia. Two men out on a stroll, two out of many.

"What is this, Father's Day?" said Gene. "Never seen so many guys with kids."

The question surprised Daniel. He'd always taken Shabbat at the park for granted. One afternoon a week for mothers to rest, fathers to go on shift.

"It's not like that in America?"

"We take our kids out, but nothing like this."

"In Israel, we have a six-day workweek. Saturday's the time to be with our children." They continued walking. Daniel looked around, tried to see things through Gene's perspective.

It was true. There were teenagers, couples, entire clans. The Arabs came over from East Jerusalem, three generations ail banded together, picnicking on the grass.

But mostly it was Daddies on Parade. Big brawny guys, pale, studious-looking fellows. Graybeards and some who looked too young to sire. Fathers in black suits and hats, peyot and beards; others who'd never worn a kipah. Truck drivers and lawyers and shopkeepers and soldiers, eating peanuts and smoking, saying "Yes, yes, motek," to toddlers tugging at their fingers.

One guy had staked out a spot underneath an oak tree. He slept on his back as his children-four girls-constructed houses out of ice-cream sticks. A two-year-old ran bumpily across Daniel and Gene's path, sobbing and grubby-faced, arms extended to a blond man in shorts and T-shirt, crying "Abba! Abba!" until the man scooped the child up in his arms, assuaged her misery with kisses and tongue-clucks.

The two detectives stopped and sat on a park bench. Daniel looped Dayan's leash around a back slat, said "Sit," and when the spaniel ignored him, dropped the subject. He looked around for Mikey and Benny, spotted them clear across the park, climbing a metal structure shaped like a spaceship. Shoshi had met up with a girlfriend, was walking with her near the guardrail of the roller skating rink. Both girls had their heads lowered, lost in a conversation that looked serious.

The boys reached the top of the spaceship, clambered down, and ran toward the Train Theater, disappearing behind the boxcars.

"You let them get out of your sight like that?" said Gene.

"Sure. Why not?"

"In L. A. you can't do that-too many weirdos hanging out at the parks."

"Our parks are safe," said Daniel, chasing away the leering image of Sender Malkovsky.

Gene looked as if he were going to say something. Something related to the case, Daniel was certain. But the American stopped himself, bit his lip, said, "Uh huh, that's good," and stretched his legs out.

They sat there, surrounded by shouts and laughter, but lulled into inactivity by empty minds and full bellies.

Gene's arms dropped to his sides. "Very nice," he said, and closed his eyes. Soon his chest was heaving, and his mouth opened slightly, emitting a soft, rhythmic whistle. Poor guy, thought Daniel. Luanne had dragged him all over the country.("Sixty-three churches, Danny Boy-she's been keeping score.")

He sat there next to the sleeping man, felt himself sinking into the bench and didn't fight it. Time to let his guard down. Rest and renew, as his father had said. Time to remove his policeman's eyes-suspicious eyes trained to home in on discrepancy, the odd, disturbing flaw that an ordinary person wouldn't notice.

No protector, no detective. Just one of the fathers. A guy out with his kids in Liberty Bell Park.

His eyelids were heavy, he yielded to their weight. Shab-bat shalom. True Sabbath Peace.

So complete was his surrender that he had no idea he was being watched. Had been observed, in fact, since his entry to the park.

A big nigger and a little nigger-kike. And a little worm of a dog that would be good for a few minutes of fun.

Beautiful, just beautiful.

Amos and Andy. King Kong and Ikey-Kikey in blackface.

Nigger-kike-the very idea was a joke. De-evolution at its nadir, selective breeding for stupidity and weakness.

The little asshole was stupid, which was why he listed his name in the phone book. Everyone in this fucking country did-you could look up the mayor, go to his house, and blow his face off when he came out the front door. Come and get me. Instant victim: Just add Jew genes.

Reminded him of that invention he'd thought of as a kid. Insta-Auschwitz, little green box on wheels. Quick disposal of unwanted pets. And other untermensch nuisances. Clean it all up. Cut it away.

Look at that. Rufus and Ikey-Kikey Blackface limped out on the bench like a couple of grokked-out winos.

What did you get when you crossed a nigger with a bike-a janitor who owned the building? A shylock who npped himself off?

One big hook-nose squashed flat.

One hell of a circumcision-have to use a chain saw.

The man felt the laughter climbing up through his esophagus, forced himself to keep it bottled up. He feigned relaxation, seated on the grass among all the other people, half-hidden behind a newspaper, wearing a wig and mustache that made him someone else. Scanning the park with cold eyes concealed behind sunglasses. One hand on the paper, the other in his pocket, fondling himself.

All those kids and families, kikes and sand-niggers. He would have loved to come rolling in with a giant chain saw of his own. Or maybe a lawn mower or a combine, something relentless and gas-powered… No, nuclear-powered, with gigantic blades, as sharp as his little beauties but big. As big as helicopter rotors.

And loud, making a sound like an air-raid siren. Panic-feeding, ear-bleeding loud. Blood-freezing loud.

Come rolling in with the nuke-mower, just pushing it through the human lawn, listening to the screams, churning everything up.

Back to the primordial soup.

Some terrific game, a real pleasure diddle. Maybe one day.

Not yet. He had other things to do. Hors-d'oeuvres.

Project Untermensch.

The one who'd refused him had set things back, fucked up the weekly rhythm, really gotten him upset.

Stupid sand-nigger bitch, his money hadn't been good enough.

He'd watched her for a couple of days, gotten interested because of her face, the perfect fit for his mind-pictures. Even when she put on the tacky red wig, it was all right. He'd take it off. Along with everything else.

Everything came off.

Then she goes and fuck-you's him.

Unreal.

But that's what he got for improvising, deviating from the plan.

Trying to be casual-that never worked.

The important thing was structure. Following the rules. Keeping everything clean.

He'd gone home that night and punished himself for stepping out of bounds.

Using one of the little dancing beauties-the smallest bistoury-he'd incised a series of curved discipline cuts in the firm white skin of his inner thighs. Close to the scrotum-don't slip, ha, ha, or there'll be a major endocrine adjustment.

Cut, cut, dance, dance, crosses with bent ends. Rotated. One on each thigh. The crosses had seeped blood; he'd tasted it, bitter and metallic, poisoned by failure.

There, that'll show you, filthy boy.

Stupid sand-nigger whore.

A delay, but no big deal. The schedule could be fouled if the goal was kept sacred.

Project Untermensch. He heard children laughing. All these inferior slimefucks-it made his head hurt, filled his skull with a terrible roar. He hid his face behind the paper, concentrated on making the noise go away by thinking of his little beauties asleep in their velvet bed, so shiny and clean, extensions of his will, techno-perfection.

Structure was the answer. Keeping in step.

Goose step.

Dance, dance.

Moshe Kagan seemed amused rather than offended. He sat with Daniel in the living room of his home, a cheaply built four-room cube on a raised foundation, no different from any of the others in the Gvura settlement.

One corner of the room was filled with boxes of clothes.

On the wall behind Kagan was a framed poster featuring miniature oval portraits of great sages. Next to it hung a water-color of the Western Wall as it had been before '67-no sunlit expanse of plaza; the prayer space narrowed by a war wall and shadowed by jerry-built Arab houses. Daniel remembered coming upon it like that, after making his way through dead bodies and hailstorms of sniper fire. How demeaned the last remnant of the Temple had looked, rubble and rotting garbage piled up behind the wall, the Jordanians trying to bury the last reminder of three thousand years of Jewish presence in Jerusalem.

Underneath the watercolor was a hand-printed banner featuring the blue clenched-fist logo of the Gvura party and the legend: TO FORGET IS TO die. To the left of the banner was a glass-doored bookcase containing the twenty volumes of the Talmud, a Mikra'ot Gedolot Pentateuch with full rabbinic commentary, megillot, kabbalistic treaties, the Code of Jewish Law. Leaning against the case were an Uzi and an assault rifle.

An angry red sun Irad set itself resolutely in the sky and the drive down the Hebron Road had been hot and lonely. The unpaved turnoff to Beit Gvura anticipated Hebron by seven kilometers, a twisting and dusty climb, hell on the Escort's tires. Upon arrival, Daniel had passed through a guarded checkpoint, endured the hostile stares of a gauntlet of husky Gvura men before being escorted to Kagan's front door.

Lots of muscle, plenty of firearms on display, but the leader himself was something else: mid-fifties, small, fragile-looking, and cheerful, with a grizzled beard the color of scotch whisky and drooping blue eyes. His cheeks were hollow, his hair thinning, and he wore a large black velvet kipah that covered most of his head. His clothes were simple and spotless-white shirt, black trousers, black oxfords-and bagged on him, as if he'd just lost weight. But Daniel had never seen him any heavier, either in photos or onstage at rallies.

Kagan took a green apple out of the bowl on the coffee table that separated him from Daniel and rubbed it between his palms. He offered the bowl to the detective and, when Daniel declined, made the blessing over fruit and bit in. As he chewed, knotty lumps rose and fell in his jaw. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing thin forearms, sunburnt on top, fish-belly white on the inner side. Still banded, Daniel noticed, with the strap marks of the morning phylacteries.

"A terrible thing," he said, in perfect Hebrew. "Arab girls getting cut up."

"I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me about it, Rabbi."

Kagan's amusement spread into a smile. He ate half the apple before speaking.

"Terrible," he repeated. "The loss of any human life is tragic. We are all created in God's image."

Daniel felt he was being mocked. "I've heard you refer to Arabs as subhuman."

Kagan dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. "Rhetoric. Hitting the ass across the face in order to get his attention-that's an old American joke."

"I see."

"Of course if they choose to reduce themselves to animals by acting in a subhuman manner, I have no compunction about pointing in out."

Kagan chewed the apple down to the core, bit into the core, and finished it too. When only the stem was left, he pulled it out of his mouth and twirled it between his fingertips. "Sharavi," he said. "Old Yemenite name. Are you de-scended from Mori Shalom Sharavi?"

"Yes."

"No hesitation, eh? I believe you. The Yemenites have the best yikhus, the finest lineage of any of us. Your nusakh of prayer is closest to the original, the way Jews davened before the Babylonian exile. What rginyan do you attend?"

"Sometimes I pray at the Kotel. Other times I go to a minyan in my building."

"Your building-ah, yes, the toothpick in Talbieh. Don't look so surprised, Inspector. When you told Bob Arnon you were religious I had you checked out, wanted to make sure it wasn't just government subterfuge. As far as my contacts can tell, you are what you say you are-that kipah isn't for show."

"Thank you your endorsement," said Daniel.

"No need to get upset," said Kagan genially. "Blame the government. Four months ago they tried to slip an undercover agent-I don't suppose you'd know anything about that, would you? Yemenite fellow, as a matter of fact-isn't that a coincidence? He, too, wore a kipah, knew the right things to say, bless this, bless that-blessings with false intention, taking God's name in vain. That's a major transgression, not that the government cares about transgressions."

Kagan took another apple out of the bowl, tossed it in the air and caught it. "No matter. We found him out, sent him home to his masters a little the worse for wear." He shook his head. "Tsk, tsk. Jews spying on Jews-that's what thousands died for, eh? If the spineless old ladies of the ruling party spent as much time tracking down terrorists as they did harassing good Jews, we'd have an Eretz YLsrael as the Almighty planned it for us-the one place in the world where a Jew could walk down the street like a prince. Without fear of pogroms or being stabbed in the back."

Kagan paused for breath. Daniel heard him wheezing- the man was an asthmatic of some kind. "Anyway, Inspector Sharavi, the minyan in your building is Ashkenazi, not for you. You should be maintaining your noble Yemenite heritage, not trying to blend in with the Europeans."

Daniel pulled out his note pad. "I'll need a list of all your members-"

"I'm sure you've already got that. In quadruplicate, maybe more."

"An updated list, along with each member's outside job and responsibilities here at the settlement. For the ones who travel, their travel logs."

"Travel logs." Kagan laughed. "You can't be serious."

"This is a very serious matter, Rabbi. I'll begin interviewing them today. Other officers will be arriving this afternoon. We'll stay until we've talked with everyone."

"The children too?" said Kagan sarcastically.

"Adults."

"Why exclude the little ones, Inspector? We train them.to butcher Arabs as soon as they're off the breast." Kagan spread his arms, closed them, and touched a hand to each cheek. "Wonderful. Secular Zionism at its moment of glory.' He put the apple down, stared into Daniel's eyes. "What wars have you fought in? You look too young for '67. Was it Yom Kippur or Lebanon?"

"Your contacts didn't tell you that?"

"It wasn't relevant. It won't be hard to find out."

"The '67 war. The Jerusalem theater."

"You were one of the privileged ones."

"Where were you in '67, Rabbi?"

"Patrolling the streets of Crown Heights, Brooklyn. Taking on shvartzes in order to prevent them from mugging old Jewish ladies and stealing their social security checks. Not as glorious as liberating Jerusalem, but philosophically consistent with it. Or at least it was until the Jews of Israel got as soft and stupid as the Jews of America."

Daniel shifted his gaze down to his note pad. "Some of your members have police records. Have any new people with criminal backgrounds joined the settlement?"

Kagan smiled. "I have a police record."

"For disturbing the peace and illegal assembly. I'm more interested in those with a violent background."

That seemed to insult Kagan. He frowned, retrieved the second apple, and bit into it hard, so that the juice trickled over his beard. Wiping himself with a paper napkin, he held out the bowl again.

"Sure you wouldn't like some fruit, Inspector?"

"No, thank you."

"A polite Israeli? Now I'm really suspicious."

"Please answer my question, Rabbi. Have any new people joined who have violent histories?"

"Tell me, Inspector, did you risk your life in '67 so that the few could reach a new level of self-denigration?"

"Rabbi," said Daniel, "the investigation is going to proceed one way or the other. If you cooperate, everything will go faster.'

"Cooperate," enunciated Kagan, as if learning a new word.

'How long have you been involved in this investigation?"

"From the beginning."

"From the beginning," echoed Kagan. "So, no doubt you've visited an Arab home or two in the course of your investigation. And no doubt you were offered food in those homes-the vaunted culture of Arab hospitality, correct?"

Rabbi Kagan-"

"One moment. Bear with me, Inspector." Kagan spoke softly but with intensity. "You were offered food by the Arabs-quaint little dishes of nuts and fruits and seeds.

Maybe they rubbed it in donkey meat before bringing it out. Maybe they spit in it. But you smiled and said thank you, sahib, and ate it all up, didn't you? Your training taught you to respect their culture-God forbid one of them should be offended, right? But here you are, in my home, I offer you fruit, and you turn me down. Me you're not worried about offending. Who gives a damn if the Jew is insulted?"

Kagan stared at Daniel, waiting for an answer. When he'd had his fill of silence, he said, "A lovely little secular Zionist democracy we've got here, isn't it, Daniel Sharavi, descendant of Mori Shalom Sharavi? We bend over backward to pay homage of those who despise us, but kvell in the abuse of our brethren. Is that why you fought in '67, Inspector? Were you shooting and stabbing Arabs in order to liberate them-so that you'd have the privilege of providing them with free health care, welfare checks, turn them into your little burnoosed buddies? So that they could propagate like rats, push us into the Mediterranean by outbreeding us? Or was it materialism that kept your gunsights in place? Maybe you wanted video-recorders for your kids. Playboy magazine, hashish, abortion, all the wonderful gifts the goyim are more than happy to give us?"

"Rabbi," said Daniel. "This is about murder, not politics."

"Ah, said Kagan, disgustedly, "you don't see the point. They've indoctrinated you, ripped your fine Yemenite spine right out of your body."

He stood up, put his hands behind his back, and paced the room.

"I'm a member of Knesset. I don't have to put with this nonsense."

"No one's immune from justice," said Daniel. "If my investigation led me to the Prime Minister, I'd be sitting in his house, asking him questions. Demanding his travel log."

Kagan stopped pacing, turned to Daniel and looked down at him.

"Normally I'd dismiss that little speech as garbage, but you're the one who. dug up the Lippmann mess, aren't you?'

"Yes."

"How did your investigation bring you to me?"

"I won't tell that. But I'm sure you can see the logic."

"The only thing I see is political scapegoating. A couple of Arabs get killed-blame it on Jews with guts."

Daniel opened his attache case, knowing there was truth to what Kagan was saying and feeling like a hypocrite. He pulled out crime-scene photos of Fatma and Juliet, got up and gave them to Kagan. The Gvura leader took them and, after looking at them unflinchingly, handed them back.

"So?" he said casually, but his voice was dry.

"That's what I'm up against, Rabbi."

"That's the work of an Arab-Hebron, 1929. No member of Gvura would do anything like that."

"Let me establish that and I'll be out of your way."

Kagan rocked on his heels and tugged at his beard. Going over to the walnut case, he pulled out a volume of Talmud.

"Fine, fine," he said. "Why not? This whole thing is going to backfire on the government. The people aren't stupid-you'll turn me into a persecuted hero." He opened the book, moistened his finger, and began turning pages. 'Now be off. Inspector, I have to learn Torah, have no more time to waste on your naarishkeit." Another look of amusement. "And who knows, maybe after you've spent some time with us, something will rub off on you. You'll see the error of your'ways, start davening with the proper minyan."

The Gvura members were a motley bunch. He interviewed them in their dining hall, a makeshift concrete-floored space roofed with tent canvas and set up with aluminium tables and folding chairs. Clatter and the smell of hot oil came from the kitchen.

About half were Israelis-mostly younger Moroccans and Iraqis, a few Yemenites. Former street kids, all of them hard-eyed and stingy with words. The Americans were either religious types with untrimmed beards and oversized kipot or tough-talking secular ones who were hard to categorize.

Bob Arnon was one of the latter, a middle-aged man with curly gray hair, long, bushy sideburns, and a heavy-jawed face assembled around a large broken nose. He'd been living in Israel for two years, had acquired three disorderly-conduct arrests and a conviction for assault.

He wore faded jeans and crossed gun belts over a new YORK YANKEES T-shirt. The shirt was tight and showed off thick, hairy arms and a substantial belly. Poking up into the belly was the polished wooden grip of a nickel-plated.45-caliber revolver-an American-made Colt. The gun rested in a hand-tooled leather holster and made Daniel think of a little boy playing American cowboy.

In addition to the Colt, Kagan's deputy wore a hunting knife ensconced in a camouflage-cloth case, and carried a black baseball bat, the handle wrapped in adhesive tape that had long ago turned filthy gray. He was a combat veteran, he informed Daniel, and more than happy to talk about himself, starting in American-accented Hebrew but shifting to English after Daniel responded to him in that language.

"Saw hard action in Korea. Those were toughlittle suckers we were fighting-no Arabs, that's for certain. When I got back to the States I knocked around."

"What do you mean by 'knocked around"?" Arnon winked. "Little of this, little of that-doing my thing, doing favors for people. Good deeds, you understand? My last hitch was a bar in New York-up in Harlem, gorgeous place, you ever heard of it? Five years I worked the place, never had a single problem with the shvoogies." This last comment was punctuated by a toothy grin and a slap of the bat. "May I see your knife, please?"

"This? Sure. Genuine buck, great all-purpose weapon, had it for fifteen years." Arnon took it out of its case and gave it to Daniel, who turned it over in his palm, inspecting the wide. heavy blade, the serrated edge honed to razor-sharpness. A nasty piece of work, but from what Levi had told him, not the one he was looking for. Gray Man, on the other hand, he used a serrated blade. But duller, smaller… He gave the knife back to Arnon. "Do you own any other knives, Mr. Arnon?"

"Others? Oh, yeah. Got a tackle box that I brought over from the States-haven't had a chance to use it yet. They say there's great fishing in the Sea of Galilee. That true?"

"Yes. Your other knives, Mr. Arnon."

"A gutter and a scaler in the box, along with a Swiss Army-least, I think it's still there. Maybe a spare scaler too.

Then there's another buck for under the pillow and an antique Japanese samurai sword that I picked up in Manila. Want to know about the guns, too?"

"Not right now. Some other detectives will be here soon. They'll want to see your weapons."

"Sure." Arnon smiled. "But if I was the one cut up those Arab whores I wouldn't be advertising it, now would I? Leaving the knife around to show you."

"What would you be doing, Mr. Arnon?"

"Wiping it clean, oiling it, and hiding it somewhere. That's if, mind you. Hypothetical."

"Is there anything else you want to tell me-hypothetical?"

"Just that you're barking up the wrong tree. Gvura doesn't concern itself with an Arab here, an Arab there. It's a sociological problem-they've all gotta go."

The women were an odd mix of toughness and subser-vience, filing in after the men had been questioned. Stoic and unsmiling, they brought their children with them, resisted Daniel's suggestion that the youngsters leave.

"The questions I'll be asking aren't fitting for a child's ears." he told one of the first. She came in with three small ones, the oldest a girl of no more than four, the youngest an infant who squirmed in her grasp.

"No. I want them to see," she said. "I insist upon it." She was young, pallid, and thin-lipped, and wore a long-sleeved striped shift that reached below her knees. Her hair was covered completely with a white kerchief, and an Uzi was strapped over her shoulder. The baby's tiny fingers reached out and touched the barrel of the submachine gun. 'Why?" asked Daniel. 'To show them what it's like."

She sounded like a kid herself. A teenager asserting herself with her parents. So young, he thought, to have three of them. Her eyes were bright, vigilant, her breasts still heavy with milk.

'What what's like, Gveret Edelstein?" 'The world. Go on, ask your questions." A glance down-ward, the ruffling of hair. "Listen carefully, children. This is called harassment. It's part of being Jewish."

By noon he'd talked to a third of them, found no one who interested him, other than Arnon, with his knives and assault conviction. And even he seemed more bluster than substance, an aging tough guy living out his mid-life fantasies. His assault conviction itself wasn't much-the result of a confrontation at a rally. Arnon's left hook had landed on the nose of a peace now placard-bearer; when the police came to break it up, Arnon resisted. First offense, no jail time. Not exactly your psychopathic killer, but you could never tell. He'd have the others follow up on Cowboy Bob.

At twelve-thirty the lunch bell rang and settlement members swarmed into the dining room for salad and fried fish. They took their places automatically and Daniel realized seats were preassigned. He vacated his chair and left the hall, meeting Kagan and his wife as they came in.

"Any luck, Inspector?" asked the leader loudly. "Find any crazed killers among us?"

Mrs. Kagan winced, as if her husband had told an off-color joke.

Daniel smiled noncommittally and walked down the path toward the guard post. As he left he could hear Kagan talking to his wife. Something about melting pots, a fine old culture. what a shame.

At twelve forty-six, Shmeltzer and Avi Cohen drove up to the guard post in Cohen's BMW. Laufer had wanted four detectives questioning the Gvura people. Daniel had given in partially by pulling Avi out of the Old City for the afternoon, but this was no job for Daoud and he had no intention of removing the Chinaman from his current assignment.

He was interested in the big man's story about the flat-eyed American with the strange grin, despite Little Hook's credibility problem, because it was something-a solitary buoy bobbing in a great sea of nothingness. He double-teamed the Chinaman and Daoud again-the Arab helping out until sundown, before he began the Roselli surveillance. Those two and Cohen were to put all their energies into finding some backup for Little Hook's story, someone else who might have encountered Flat Eyes. And in locating

Red Amira Nasser. The dark hair and the fact that she was dull-witted put her in league with Fatma and Juliet. So far the only thing they'd come up with was a rumor that she had family in Jordan, had escaped there. And a medical chart at Hadassah Hospital-treatment six months ago for syphilis. No welfare payments, no other government records; a true professional, she lived off her earnings.

Avi parked the BMW next to Daniel's Escort. He and Shmeltzer got out and trudged up the sloping pathway, kicking up dust. Daniel greeted them, summed up his procedures, gave them the list of Gvura members, and told them to do a weapons check on all of them, paying special attention to Bob Arnon. Any blade that remotely fit Levi's descriptions was to be taken and tagged.

"Anything about this Arnon that makes him interesting?" asked Shmeltzer.

"He's an American, he likes to play with guns and knives, he beat up on a leftist last June, and he hates Arabs."

"Are his eyes flat?" Shmeltzer smiled sourly. He knew Little Hook from his days on the pickpocket detail, was far from being convinced of the hunchback's story.

"Bloodshot," said Daniel. "Otherwise unremarkable."

"Fucking political games, coming down here. A total waste of our time." Avi nodded along like a dutiful son.

"Okay, let's get it over with," said Daniel. "Send a report to Laufer and move on."

"Laufer knew my father," said Cohen. "He thinks I'm his boy. I think he's a shithead."

"What's with Malkovsky?" Daniel asked him.

"Nothing. Still edgy. I wish I were there instead of playing the shithead's game."

"The shithead cornered me in the hall this morning."

said Shmeltzer. "Wanted to know what we've gotten out of these sweet souls-just itching for another press release.

I told him we just started, it was too early to tell, but from the way it looked, they were all blameless as newborn lambs-did the esteemed Tat Nitzav wish us to continue in the same vein? 'What do you mean?' he says. I say,

'Should we start checkin' out the other MK's and their people too?'"

Daniel laughed. "What did he say to that?"

"Made like an old car-sputters and snorts, metal against metal-then headed straight for the bathroom. Primed, no doubt, for a little vertical communication."

Daniel got back to Jerusalem at two-thirteen, bought a felafel from a street vendor near the train station, and finished it while driving to Headquarters. Back in his office he began transcribing the interview with Kagan onto official forms, wanting to be rid of it as quickly as possible, then called the operator and asked for radio contact with the Chinaman. Before she completed the transmission, she interrupted, saying: "There's one for you coming in right now. Do you want it?"

"Sure." He endured a minute of static, was connected to Salman Afif, the mustachioed Druze, phoning from his Border Patrol Jeep.

"I'm out here with some Bedouins-the ones we spoke about that first morning. They've migrated south, found something I think you'll want to see."

He told Daniel what it was and reported his location, using military coordinates. Daniel pulled out a map and pinpointed the spot, three and a half kilometers due north from the Scopus ridge. Fifteen hundred meters past the perimeter of the grid search he'd ordered after viewing Fat-ma's body.

So close.

"What's the best way to get there?"

"I can drive up into the city," said Afif, "and take you back, retracing on the donkey paths, but it would be quicker for you to climb down the first kilometer or so on foot-to where the slope eases. From there it's a straight ride. How are your shoes?"

"They'll survive. I'm leaving now-meet you there. Thanks for keeping your eyes open."

"Nothing to it," said the Druze. "A blind man couldn't have missed it."

Daniel hung up, put his papers away, and called Forensics.

He parked the Escort across the road from the Amelia Catherine, put on a narrow-brimmed straw hat to block out the relentless Judean sun, tightened the buckles on his sandals, and got out. The watchman, Zia Hajab, was sitting at the entry to the hospital. Slumped in the same plastic chair, apparently sleeping.

Taking a quick backward look at the gully where Fatma had been found, Daniel sprinted toward the ridge, climbed over, and began his descent.

Walking sideways on bent legs, he made rapid progress, feeling nimble and fit, aware of, but unperturbed by, dry fin-gers of heat radiating upward from the broiling desert floor.

Summer was approaching-twenty-three days since the dumping of Fatma, and the case was snaking its way toward the new season. The rainy season had been brief this year, attenuated by hot easterly winds, but clumps of vegetation still clung to the terraced hillsides, denying the inevitability of summer. Digging his heels in and using his arms for balance, he half-walked, half-jumped through soft expanses of rusty terra rossa. Then the red earth began yielding to pale strips of mendzina-the chalky limestone that looked as dead as plastic but could still be friable if you knew how to work it-until soon all was pale and hard and unyielding-a crumbling, rocky course the color of dried bones. Land that would rather dissolve than accommodate, the emptiness relieved only by the last starved weeds of spring.

Afifs jeep was visible as a khaki spot on the chalk, its diameter expanding as Daniel drew near. Daniel removed his hat and waved it in the air, saw the blue Border Patrol light flash on and off. When he was forty meters away, the jeep's engine started up. He trotted toward it, unmindful of the grit that had lodged between his toes, then remembering that no sand had been found on either body. Afif gave the jeep gas and it rocked on its bearings. Daniel climbed in and held on as the Druze made a sharp U-turn and sped off.

The ride was spine-jarring and loud, the jeep's engine howling in protest as Afif tortured its transmission, maneuvering between low outcroppings of limestone, grinding single-mindedly through dry stream beds. The Druze's pale eyes were hidden by mirrored sunglasses. A red bandanna was tied loosely around his neck, and the ends of his enormous moustache were blond with dust.

"Which Bedouin clan is this?" Daniel shouted.

"Locals, like I told you. Unrelated to any of the big clans. They run goats and sheep from here up toward Ramallah, come in for the summer, camping north of the city."

Daniel remembered a small northern campsite, nine or ten low black tents of woven goat-hair, baking in the heat.

"Just past the Ramot, you said?"

"That's them," said Afif. He downshifted into a climb, twisted the wheel, and accelerated.

"How long have they been herding here?"

"Eight days."

"And before that?"

"Up north, for a month or so."

Bedouins, thought Daniel, holding on to his seat. Real ones, not the smiling, bejeweled businessmen who gave tent tours and camel rides to tourists in Beersheva. The most unlikely of informants.

The Bedouin saw themselves as free spirits, had contempt for city dwellers, whom they regarded as serfs and menial laborers. But they chose to live at bare subsistence level in terrain that had the utmost contempt for them and, like all desert creatures, had turned adaptation into a fine art.

Chameleons, thought Daniel. They told you what you wanted to hear, worked both sides of every fence. Glubb Pasha had built the Arab Legion on Bedouin talent; without them the Jordanian Army wouldn't have lasted twenty-four hours. Yet, after '67, they'd turned right around and vol-unteered for the Israeli Army, serving as trackers, doing it better than anyone. Now there were rumors that some of them were working for the PLO as couriers-grenades in saddlebags, plastique drop-offs in Gaza. Chameleons. "Why'd they come forward?" Daniel asked. "They didn't," said Afif. "We were on patrol, circling southeast from Al Jib-someone had reported suspicious movement along the Ramot road. It turned out to be a construction crew, working late. I was using the binoculars, saw them, decided to go in for a close look."

"Ever had any trouble with them?"

"No, and we check on them regularly. They're paupers, have enough trouble keeping their goats alive long enough to get them to market without getting into mischief. What caught my eye was that they were all gathered in one place. It looked like a conference, even though their camp was a good kilometer north. So I drove and found them huddled around the mouth of the cave. They started to move out when they heard us coming, but I kept them there while I checked it out. When I saw what was inside, I had them pull up camp and regroup by the cave while I called you."

"You don't think they had anything to do with it?" The Druze twirled one end of his mustache. "How can you be sure with the Bedouin? But, no, I think they're being truthful. There weren't any signs of recent activity in the cave. Old dried dung-looked like jackal or dog."

"How many of them actually went into the cave?" The kid who found it, his father, a couple of others. We |Aere fairly soon after they did, kept the rest out." 'I'll need fingerprints and foot casts from them for com-parison Forensics should be here within the hour. It'll be a long day.'

'I'll handle it, no problem."

Good. How many men do you have with you?"

'Ten'

'Have them do a search within a one-and-a-half-kilometer radius from the cave. Look for anything unusual- clothing, personal articles, human waste-you know

'Do you want a grid search?" 'You'll need reinforcements for that. Is it worth it?"

"It's been weeks," said Afif. "There was that strong khamsin eleven days ago."

He stopped talking, waited for Daniel to draw the conclusion: The chance of a footprint or clue withstanding the harsh easterly heat-storm was minimal.

"Do a grid within half a kilometer from the cave. If they find another cave, tell them to call in and wait for further instructions. Otherwise, just a careful search of the rest of it will be enough."

The Druze nodded. They dipped, traversing a network of shallow wadis strewn with rocks and dead branches, the jeep's underbelly reverberating hollowly in response to an assault of dancing gravel. Afif pushed his foot to the accelerator, churning up a dust storm. Daniel pulled down the brim of his hat, slapped one hand over his nose and mouth, and held his breath. The jeep climbed; he felt himself rise out of his seat and come down hard. When the particles had settled, the Bedouin camp came into focus along the horizon: dark, oblong smudges of tent, so low they could have been shadows. As they got closer, he could see the rest of the Border Patrol unit-two more jeeps and a canvas-top truck, of all them sporting revolving blue lights.

The truck was pulled up next to a ragged mound of limestone and surrounded by a mottled brown cloud that undulated in the heat: goatherds shifting restlessly. A single shepherd stood motionless at the periphery, staff in hand.

"The cave's over there," said Afif, pointing to the mound. "The opening's on the other side."

He aimed the jeep at the flock, came to a halt several meters from the goats, and turned off the engine.

Two Bedouins, a boy and a man, stood next to the canvas-topped truck, flanked by Border Patrolmen. The rest of the nomads had returned to their tents. Only the males were visible, men and boys sitting cross-legged on piles of brightly colored blankets, silent and still, as if tranquilized by inertia. But Daniel knew the women were there, too, veiled and tattooed. Peeking from behind goatskin partitions, in the rear section of the tent, called haramluk, where they huddled among the wood stoves and the cooking implements until beckoned for service.

A single vulture circled overhead and flew north. The goats gave a collective shudder, then quieted in response to a bark from the shepherd.

Daniel followed Afif as the Druze pushed his way through the herd, the animals yielding passively to the intruders, then closing ranks behind them, settling into a mewling, snorting pudding of hair and horns.

"The family is Jussef Ibn Umar," said Afif as they approached the pair. "The father is Khalid; the boy, Hussein."

He handed their identification cards to Daniel, walked up to the Bedouins, and performed the introductions, calling Daniel the Chief Officer and making it clear he was someone to be respected. Khalid Jussef Ibn Umar responded with an appropriate bow, cuffed his son until the boy bowed too. Daniel greeted them formally and nodded at Afif. The Druze left and began instructing his men.

Daniel inspected the ID cards, made notes, and looked at the Bedouins. The boy was ten, small for his age, with a round, serious face, curious eyes, and hair cropped close to the skull. His father's head was wrapped with wide strips of white cloth held in place by a goat-hair cord. Both wore loose, heavy robes of coarse dark wool. Their feet were blackened and dusty in open sandals, the nails cracked and yellow. The smallest toe on the boy's left foot was missing.

Up close, both of them gave off the ripe odor of curdled milk and goat flesh.

"Thank you for your help," he told Ibn Umar the el-der. The man bowed again. He was thin, stooped, sparsely bearded, and undersized, with dry, tough skin and one eye filmed by a slimy gray cataract. His face had the collapsed look of toothlessness and his hands were twisted and criss-crossed with keloid scars. According to the card he was thirty-nine, but he looked sixty. Stunted and damaged, like to many of them, by malnutrition, disease, inbreeding, the ravages of desert living.

At forty, it was said, a Bedouin was old, approaching uselessness. Not exactly T.E. Lawrence's noble desert con-queror. thought Daniel, looking at Khalid, but then again, most of what the Englishman had written was nonsense-in high school he and his friends had laughed at the Hebrew translation of The Seven Pillars of Wisdom until their sides ached.

The boy stared at the ground, then looked up, catching Daniel's eye. Daniel smiled at him and his head snapped back down.

Clear eyes, clear complexion, a bright-looking kid. The short stature within the range of normalcy. Compared to his father, the picture of health. The result, no doubt, of ten summer weeks camped outside the Ramot. Forays by social workers, tutors, mobile health units, immunizations, nutritional supplements. The despised ways of the city dweller

"Show me the cave," he said.

Khalid Jussef Ibn Umar led him to the other side of the ragged limestone mound. Hussein followed at his heels. When they reached the mouth of the cave, Daniel told them to wait.

He stepped back, took a look at the mound. A nondescript eruption, fringed with scrub. The limestone was striated horizontally and pitted, a decaying layer cake. Ancient waters had run down the north wall for centuries and sculpted it into a snail-shell spiral. The mouth of the shell was slitlike, shaped like a bow hole. Daniel's first impression was that it was it was too narrow for a man to enter. But as he came closer, he could see it was an optical illusion: The outer lip extended far enough to conceal a hollow in the stone, a dishlike depression that afforded more than enough space for passage. He slipped through easily, motioned the Bedouins in after him.

The interior of the cave was cool, the air stagnant and heavy with some musky, feral perfume.

He'd expected dimness, was greeted by mellow light. Looking upward he found the source: At the apex of the spiral was an open twist. Through it shot an oblique ray of sunshine, softened by refraction and dancing with dust specks.

The light was focused, as surely as if it had been a hand-held torch, spotlighting the center of a low, flat loaf of rock about two meters long, half as wide, then tapering to blackness in all directions.

On the rock was a rusty stain-a stone guitar. A woman-shaped stain. The outer contours of a female body, vacant at the center and delineated by reddish-greenish borders that ended in starburst fringes in some places, spreading in others to the edge of the rock and over. Fanning and flowing in lazy dribbles.

A silhouette of human sacrifice, stretched out on some altar. Etched in relief, as if by some lost-wax process.

He wanted to go closer, take a better look, but he knew he had to wait for Forensics and contented himself with observing from a distance.

The legs of the outline were slightly apart, the arms positioned close to the trunk.

Etched. The lost-blood process.

Blood deteriorated fast. Exposure to the elements could turn it gray, green, blue, a variety of nonsanguinary colors.

But Daniel had seen enough of it to know what this was.

He glanced at the Bedouins, knew they would have recognized it too. They slaughtered their own animals, got blood on their clothes all the time; when water was lacking they went weeks without washing. Even the boy would have known.

Khalid shifted his weight. His eyes were restless with uncertainty.

Daniel turned his attention back to the rock. The outline was headless, ending at the neck. He visualized a body splayed out helplessly, the head tilted back, the neck slashed open. Draining.

He thought he saw something-a patch of white-stuck to the upper edge of the rock, but the light evaded that part of the altar and it was too dark to be sure.

He scanned the rest of the cave. The ceiling was low and curved, arched as if by design. On the side of one wall he saw some spots that could also have been blood. There were footprints near the rock/altar. In one corner he made but a jumble of detritus: balls of dried dung, broken twigs, crushed rock.

'How did you find this?" he asked Khalid. 'My son found it."

He asked Hussein: "How did you find this cave?"

The boy was silent. His father squinted down at the top of his head, poked the back of his neck, and told him to speak.

Hussein mumbled something.

"Speak up!" ordered the father.

"I was… herding the animals."

"I see," said Daniel. "And then what happened?"

"One of the young ones ran loose, into the cave."

"One of the goats?"

"A baby. A ewe." Hussein looked at his father: "The white one with the brown spot on the head. She likes to run."

"What did you do then?" asked Daniel.

"I followed it." The boy's lower lip trembled. He looked terrified.

Just a kid, Daniel reminded himself. He smiled and squatted so that he and Hussein were at eye level.

"You're doing very well. It's brave of you to tell me these things."

The boy hung his head. His father took hold of his jaw and whispered fiercely in his ear.

"I went inside," said Hussein. "I saw the table."

"The table?"

"The rock," said Khalid Jussef Ibn Umar. "He calls it a table."

"That makes sense," Daniel told the boy. "It looks like a table. Did you touch anything in the cave?"

"Yes."

"What did you touch?"

"That piece of cloth." Pointing to the shred of white.

A forensics nightmare, thought Daniel, wondering what else had been disturbed.

"Do you remember what the cloth looked like?"

The boy took a step forward. "Over there, you can pull it off."

Daniel restrained him with a forearm. "No, Hussein. I don't want to move anything until some other policemen get here."

The terror returned to the boy's face.

"I…I didn't know-"

"That's all right," said Daniel. "What did the cloth look like?"

"White with blue stripes. And dirty."

"Dirty with what?"

The boy hesitated.

"Tell me, Hussein."

"Blood."

Daniel looked at the cloth again. He could see now that it was larger than he'd thought. Only a small portion was white. The rest had blended in with the bloodstained rock. Enough, he hoped, for a decent analysis. '

Hussein was mumbling again.

"What's that, son?" asked Daniel.

"I thought… I thought it was the home of a wild animal!"

"Yes, that would make sense. What kinds of animals do you see out here?"

"Jackals, rabbits, dogs. Lions."

"You've seen lions? Really?" Daniel suppressed a smile; the lions of Judea had been extinct for centuries.

Hussein nodded and turned his head away.

Tell the truth, boy," commanded his father.

"I've heard lions," said the boy, with unexpected assertive-ness. "Heard them roaring."

"Dreams," said Khalid, cuffing him lightly. "Foolishness."

"What," Daniel asked the boy, "did you do after you touched the cloth?"

"I took the ewe and went out."

"And then?"

"I told my father about the table."

"Very good," said Daniel, straightening himself. To the father: "We're going to have to take your son's fingerprints."

Hussein gasped and started crying.

"Quiet!" commanded Khalid. 'It won't hurt, Hussein," said Daniel, squatting again. "I

promise you that. A police officer will roll your fingers on a pad of ink, roll them again on a piece of paper, making a picture of the lines on your fingertips. Then he'll wash them off. That's it. He may also take a picture of your feet, using white clay and water. Nothing will hurt."

Hussein remained unconvinced. He wiped his nose, hid his eyes with his arm, and continued to sniffle.

"Hush. Don't be a woman," admonished the father, pulling the arm away. He dried the boy's tears with the back of his sleeve.

"You've done a very good job," Daniel told Hussein. "Thank you." He offered a smile that went unreciprocated, turned to Khalid, and asked, "Did anyone else touch anything in the cave?"

"No," said Khalid. "No one went near. It was an abomination."

"How long have you been grazing near this cave?"

"Eight days."

"And where were you before that?"

"Up." The Bedouin pointed to the ceiling.

"North?"

"Yes."

"How long were you grazing up north?"

"Since the end of Ramadan."

One lunar month, which jibed precisely with what Afif had told him.

"In all that time have you seen anyone else out here? Especially at night?"

"Only the jeeps with the blue lights. They come all the time. Sometimes an army truck too."

"No one else?"

"No."

"What about sounds? Have you heard anything unusual?"

"Nothing at all. Just the sounds of the desert."

"Which sounds are those?"

Jussef Ibn Umar scratched his chin. "Rodents, a leaf bending in the breeze. A beetle gnawing at a piece of dung.

His words-the precision of his perceptions-bought back memories. Of bowel-tightening night watches, learning that there was no such thing as silence.

"Night music," said Daniel.

Khaled looked at him appraisingly, trying to figure if this urban fool was ridiculing him. When he decided the comment had been tendered in earnest, he nodded and said "Yes, sir. And no false notes have been heard."

Steinfeld stepped out of the cave, frowning. He removed his gloves, brushed off his trousers, and walked toward Daniel. Several other techs were fingerprinting the Bedouins, taking foot casts and fiber samples from their robes. Afif's men were walking slowly across the immediate vicinity, carrying collecting sacks, eyes locked to the ground.

"Party time," said Steinfeld, eyeing the nomads. "The goats smell better than they do."

"What can you tell me?"

"Not much yet. I've taken distilled water samples, run the ortho-tolidine test, and it's blood all right. The luminol spray's the best for the rest of the cave but I need darkness to see the glow spots clearly. You'll have to cover that sky hole."

Daniel called over a Border Patrolman, instructed him to throw a tarp over the hole.

"Tight," Steinfeld called out as the officer departed. "I

did an ABO right there," he told Daniel. "All of it's O, same as both of your victims and forty-three percent of the population, so no big deal there. In terms of the other groupings, I think there was some difference between the two of them on a couple-maybe the haptoglobin, but don't hold me to it. I could be wrong. Anyway, don't get your hopes up. Blood decomposes fast, especially out here in the open. You're unlikely to get anything you can use in court."

"Forget court," said Daniel. "I'd be happy with an identification."

"Don't even hope for that. The best thing I can do is me the samples back Krthe lab. Maybe something'll still reactive. I've got a guy in there chipping off pieces of iother one scooping-up everything, including the shit, k is weeks old and definitely canine-if it barked you pMn't be surer. If we find something interesting, you'll be llrst to know."

"What about the cloth?"

"Looks like cotton," said Steinfeld. "It might match your

Śber one, but it's very common stuff. In answer to your

Mťcstion, the footprints are fresh-from the sandals of pMnadic friends. A few fingerprints have turned up, probably also theirs." He looked at his watch. "Anything else? That blood isn't getting any fresher."

"No. Thanks for coming so quickly. When can you give me your results?"

Steinfeld snorted. "Yesterday. That's when you need it, right?"

She went crazy about the cat, screaming and crying and just generally being lame, staggering all over the house, throwing open closets and drawers and tossing stuff onto the floor for the maids to clean up. Going into the kitchen, the cellar, his room-places she hadn't been for years. Sing-crying in that weird shaky opera voice.

"Snow-ball, come-a-here, come-a-here!"

He got a little nervous when she invaded his room and started going through it, even though he knew he'd been careful.

Have you seen my baby? Tell me, damn you!

No mom.

Oh, God! Sob, cry, tear hair.

He'd cleaned up really good-not a speck of blood remained. Used the surgical scissors from the case and cut up what was left of the body into little pieces, wrapped them up in newspaper, and dropped different parts in different sewer drains all over the neighbourhood. Doing it at night when it was fresh and cool, the summer flowers blooming and giving out this really sweet smell that lasted forever.

An adventure.

She went out, too-the first time he'd ever seen her out i of the house. Put on this satin robe that looked ridiculous on the street and actually made it halfway down the block singing, "Snow-ball, come-a-here, bad boy, naughty lover before having to rush back all scared and pale and locking herself in her room and throwing up so loud you could her heaving through the door.

When she finally realized the little fucker was gone for good, she started to get paranoid, certain that someone had killed it, convincing herself it had been Doctor, catching him in the library and accusing him of it.

Doctor ignored her, and she kept screaming that he was a murderer, had murdered Snowball for some kike blood ritual, using the blood for his fucking matzo.

Finally Doctor got mad and said, "Maybe it ran away because it was sick of you, Christina. Couldn't stand watching you drink and puke yourself to death."

After that it became just another fight, and he climbed down the stairs and took his regular seat on number six. Lis-ng and stroking himself and filing sex-pictures for future jack-off sessions.

The next morning she called the Humane Society, told them her husband was an animal murderer, had killed her prize Persian and taken it to the hospital for experiments.

Then she phoned the hospital and the Medical Board and reported Doctor for cruelty to animals.

The minute she opened her mouth everyone could tell she was crazy. No one paid any attention to her.

During surgery, the roaring had stopped. He'd felt about eight feel tall; everything had gone great.

A success, real science. Cutting carefully and peeling back all the layers, seeing all the colors: yellow fat, meat-red muscle, purple liver, tannish-pinkish intestines, all those blu-ish membranes covered with a network of blood vessels that looked like roads on a map.

The little heart pumping, kind of leaking around the edges.

It made him like the cat, feel that it was his pet.

The insides of animals were beautiful, just like the charts he'd seen in one of Doctor's books. The Atlas of Human

Anatomy-plastic sheets, layers of them, with different stuff printed on each one. They lay in a pile, one on top of the other. You peeled them off one by one, starting with a whole person-naked-and then peeling and getting the muscles, kind of a striped, red muscle man. Then off came the muscles and you got the organs, then a fringey-looking man made only of nerves and a brain, then a skeleton.

Two of them, actually. A plastic man and a plastic woman.

He liked the woman better, liked learning that inside, tits were mostly fat.

Funny.

Insides were beautiful, all the colors, really complicated.

School was fruit flies and words, not reality, nothing like this.

Not science.

When he was finished with the cat, he cut its diaphragm and it stopped breathing.

Then he cleaned up, took his time doing it, being super-careful.

That was the key, to clean up really good. You'd never get caught.

Without the cat she got worse, crazier. Spent a lot of time in her room talking to herself and barfing her meals-she was definitely losing it. The maids called her Senora Loca, didn't even bother to hide the fact that they thought she was nuts.

He wondered why she and Doctor stayed together, why Doctor didn't just kick her ass out. Then he heard them fighting once, she accusing doctor of fucking candy-stripers at the hospital, saying that he better not pull the shit he'd pulled on Lillian-she'd take him to the cleaners if he ever tried that shit on her. He'd be taking the bus to work, eating beans for dinner before she was finished with him.

Doctor didn't answer, so he figured there was something to the threat.

Not that the fights happened too often anymore, 'cause they didn't. Because Doctor was almost never home. But when he was, the shit really hit the fan.

He missed going down and listening. Even though his mind was working good, he had plenty of mental pictures and kill-sex memories to work with, there was nothing like actually hearing it, actually peeking through the door and seeing it.

They had a real good one when he was fifteen. A week after his fifteenth birthday, which no one had celebrated. He hadn't expected anything-she was too drunk and Doctor had ignored his birthdays since he'd refused to have a Bar Mitzvah.

Fuckbrain never did anything religious-why the fuck should he learn all that Jewish shit?

He'd waited for it to feel like a birthday. When it didn't, said fuckit, fuck them, and went out for a night walk. He found the dog a couple of blocks away-a ragged-looking ter-with no collar-choked it out, then brought it home hidden under his coat. Up in his room he anesthetized it and set up a terrific anatomy session, using the big Liston amputating knife and really enjoying the weight of it. The power.

Later that night he had terrific dreams, bunches of animals and girls all dancing and screaming and begging him to do it to them; he was sitting on this throne-type chair looking down on this pit that was half fire, half blood. An outrageous scene that he cleaned up perfectly and felt good about.

They woke him with their fight. All right! Happy birthday!

He was down there again on step six, feeling rich with memories, really comfortable.

He'd missed part of it but could tell it had to do with Sarah-the best ones always did.

She'd graduated college with honors, had been accepted to the first medical school of her choice, and Doctor was flying up to see her, rewarding her with money, a new wardrobe, and a trip abroad, all expenses paid-first-class airfare, the best hotels, a couple of charge cards.

When the hell did you ever give me anything like that? When the hell did you ever deserve it?

Screw you, you cheap bastard. I gave you my life, that's all. Ruined myself for you! Here we go again.

Don't sigh at me, you bastard. You're damned right here we go again. Don't think for a minute I don't know what you're doing.

And what's that?

Giving her all your money so there won't be any left in the community property.

Thinking about inheritance, are you?

Damned right. What else is there to live for?

Way you're going with the booze and the purging, Christina, I wouldn't count on being around to inherit anything.

Just you wait, you bastard. I'll be standing there when they put you under, laughing, dancing on your grave.

Don't count on it.

I'm counting.

Ten to one your electrolytes are out of whack, God knows how much liver you've got left-you even smell like a drunk. Jesus.

Don't Jesus me. Jesus loves me and he hates you, 'cause you're a Jesus killer. Don't you dare roll your eyes at me, you fucking kike Christ-killer.

All of a sudden you're religious.

I've always been religious. Jesus loves me and I love him.

You and Jesus have a regular thing going, do you?

Laugh all you want, you bastard. I'll be saved and you'll burn-along with that little hook-nosed bitch and her hooknosed mother. I'd take you to the cleaners right now, show the world what a thief you are if it didn't mean they'd stick their grubby hands in the pot, get their kike shyster lawyers to take it all away from me.

I thought I was giving it to them, anyway.

Don't try to shit me, Charles. I know what you're up to.

Fine, fine, whatever you say.

I say your hook-nosed bitches are going to burn along with you. I say I'll be damned if they clean me out before they do it.

Sarah's a terrific kid. She's earned it. I'll give her what I want.

I'll bet.

What's that supposed to mean?

No smile anymore? You know exactly what I mean.

You're disgusting. Get the hell out of my sight.

And your little hook-nose bitch, she's pure class, with her hairy legs and nose like a-

Lillian's a thousand times the woman you'll ever be.

-parrot beak. Real classy, that nose, huh?

Shut up, Christina-Shut up, Christina-trying to throw me out with the trash, are you? Well, I wasn't so disgusting when you wanted shiksa pussy, was I? Ignoring me, hotshot? You didn't ignore me when you wanted shiksa pussy, when shiksa pussy was all you wanted. You kicked your hook-nose bitch out so you could have some of this, c'mere, look-all blonde and sweet and ready to-

You're repulsive. Cover yourself.

Hook-nosed bitches don't have this, do they? Hook-nosed bitches are all hairy and smelly and dirty, just like the animals they are. Hook-nose Lillian, hook-nose Sarah- Shut your mouth!

Ah, that wipes the smile off your face, the thought of your He angel having a dirty- Shut up before I-

Before you what? Beat me up? Kill me? Go ahead. I'll come back to haunt you, dance on your grave. Enough.

Not enough, Charles. It's never enough, because you're a king, lying bastard who wants to give away what's mine to some little slut because she's convinced him she's the fucking

Virgin Mary or something. What do you think, you stupid bastard. she doesn't have one too? How do you think she got into med school? Got on her knees for some admissions officer and-

Shut your goddamned filthy mouth. The truth hurts, doesn't it?

Listen, you stupid, drunken moron! She got into med school because she was a straight-A student, summa cum laude, Phi Beta Kappa, and has more brains in her little finger than you have in your entire alcohol-besotted brain. A straight-A slurper.

All right, Christina, I'm not going to let you get to me. You're jealous of Sarah because she's a fabulous specimen and she threatens you.

She's a little hook-nosed bitch, just like her mother. Her mother's a first-class lady. I should have stayed with her.

Then why didn't you?

God only knows.

God knows, all right. Jesus knows. That you're a hypocrite and a fucking liar. She was frigid and boring and hairy. You wanted smooth white legs, some nice shiksa pussy, come in the Virgin Mary's mouth-wanted it so bad that you took me right in the examining room, all those patients still in the waiting room, and raped me, you bastard!

If any raping went on, it was you that did it-

Raped me and used me. Now you want to give what I earned-my blood money-to your hook-nosed bitch.

Enough, I'm tired. I have to operate early.

You're tired? I'm tired too. Of your bullshit. Giving her all those clothes and that trip-she's already spoiled rotten

She's a great kid and she deserves it. Discussion ended.

She slurps, just like her mother.

Her mother gave me a first-class kid.

And me? What did I give you? Tore myself up-I've never been the same!

Tore yourself? That's a laugh. You had a pelvis someone could drive a truck through.

It tore me, you fucking bastard. What did I give you, you fucking bastard?

A weirdo.

Fuck you!

He's a weird kid, Christina. No two ways about it.

Listen to me, you fucking kike. He's beautiful-that hair, like a Greek god! Those dreamy eyes. A small, straight nose. And tall-he's already your size, going to be taller than you going to be able to beat the shit out of you when I tell him to, to protect his mama.

He's weird, Christina-got all of your weird genes. Ever try to talk to him? Course not-how could you? Too damn pickled-

Fuck you, he's beaut-

Try it some time, you drunken moron. Say hello and catch the weird smile he gives you. He's like you-bizarre, stays in his room all day, all night. God knows what he does in there He's studying. He's an intellectual-it's in his eyes. Studying what? He's flunking out of school, hasn't gotten better than a D in three years. But you wouldn't know about that, would you? The headmaster doesn't call you-nobody calls you because everyone knows you're too drunk to talk. They call me. Teachers, counselors, every one of them thinks he's weird. The headmaster called me last week. In fact, I had to bribe him with a new science lab to keep your beautiful kid from getting booted out.

Did you tell the headmaster he had a crazy, cruel father who never paid any attention to him or to his mother, whom he raped? That his father killed Jesus and wanted to kill his wife, too, so he could fuck candy-stripers? Did you tell him-

No friends, no attention span, sits in class all day staring off into space-your genes, all the way, Christina. God only knows if he can overcome it. The headmaster suggested that he get psychiatric help. I talked to Emil Diefenbach-he works with a few teenagers, said he'd be happy to meet him.

You're not taking him to any kike head-shrinker.

I'll take him anywhere I damn well please. Not my son.

He's a goddamned weirdo, Christina-that's what you gave me a freak. Maybe he can be helped, I don't know. I'm going to give it a shot.

Over my dead body, you filthy, scheming bastard. All you want is to destroy him-poison his brain the way you poisoned mine, take away his share so you can give all of it to your hook-nosed-

Pathetic.

-bitch. I won't let you!

And how do you propose to stop me? I'll get a lawyer. A mother has rights. You're no mother. You're nothing, Christina. You haven't been a mother-or anything else-for a long time. I'm his parent. Jesus put me here to protect him. I'm his parent too. The only sane one he's got. Don't you dare mess with his head, you bastard! Good night, Christina.

He's not yours to mess with, you bastard! There's not an ounce you in him!

Discussion closed, Christina. Get out of my way. Take a good look at him, you bastard! His hair, his nose - there's no kike in him. He's not yours.

If only it were true. Let go of my arm.

It's true, you stupid kike bastard. He's not yours-he's Schwann's!

(Silence.)

He's Schwann's, you asshole. Don't you see the resemblance?

What the hell are you talking about?

Ah, now he's upset, now he wants to kill me. Get away from me-I'll scream.

I said, what are you talking about, Christina?

The summer Schwann stayed with us, he had me every day is what I'm talking about. We did it in the house, on the beach, in the pool!

(Silence.)

Take a good look at him. Remember Schwann's face. Strong resemblance, isn't it, Charles?

Absurd.

You were absurd, Charles. Playing hotshot doctor, giving Schwann your pompous speeches about surgery and its place in society, thinking he was looking up to you and thought you were so hot, calling you Herr Doktor Professor, and all the time it was me he was after. I was the reason he kept kissing up to you, telling you how goddamned wonderful you were. The moment you walked out the door and left him here with your books, I was Johnny-on-the-spot and we were climbing all over each other and loving it and he gave me a beautiful baby with no filthy kike blood in it, SO STAY AWAY FROM HIM, YOU BASTARD, DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH HIM, HE'S NOT YOURS!

(Silence. Heavy footsteps.)

Ah! Now he's quiet, walking off with his tail tucked between his legs. Now he's got nothing snotty to say!

The shithead will be proud of you," said Shmeltzer as he entered the conference room. "Is this communication going to be horizontal or vertical?"

"Diagonal," said Daniel. He was tacking a map of Jerusa-lem and its exurbs onto the wall next to the blackboard. The spots where both victims had been dumped were circled in red crayon. as was the cave.

Shmeltzer took his place at the table. He nodded at the Chinaman and Daoud while reaching for the coffeepot. Jt was eight in the morning, twenty hours after the discovery of the bloody rock. The room was on the ground floor of Head-quarters, white-walled and refrigerated by an overexuberant air conditioner.

Daniel finished hanging the map and picked up a pointer, Shmeltzer passed him the coffeepot and he filled his cup. The Chinaman and Daoud lit up. The cold air filled quickly with smoke and tension.

"Where Cohen?" Daniel asked the Chinaman. "Don't know. He was supposed to meet me at seven, do a walk-through of the Armenian Quarter. I haven't seen him or heard from him."

'Ah, the vagaries of youth," said Shmeltzer. He filled his cup, took a long swallow.

"We can't afford vagaries," said Daniel. He picked up the phone. left a message with the switchboard for Samal Cohen to call in immediately, then hung up, irritated. Just when he'd thought the kid was shaping up. So much for flexibility.

"Let's begin," he said, tapping the pointer to the map.

Last night he'd called each of them, informed them about the cave. Now he went over the basics, gave them time to take notes before returning to his seat and picking up the Forensics report.

"We owe Meir Steinfeld a dinner at Cow on the Roof. He worked all night and came up with more than we could have hoped for. There were two classes of animal blood in the cave-rodent and canine-and one human sample, type O, Rh positive. Both Fatma and Juliet were O-positive, but they differed on the haptoglobin test. Juliet was type two, the commonest, but Fatma was type one, which shows up in only about fifteen percent of the population. All Steinfeld found was type one, so it looks as if Juliet wasn't killed in the cave."

"That's no proof Fatma was," said Shmeltzer. "Fifteen percent isn't that rare."

"No proof," said Daniel, "but strong indications. Steinfeld estimates the volume of blood loss as monumental. Dr. Levi confirms it would have had to be fatal. The anthropometric analysis of the outline on the rock indicates a slender female of Fatma's height. A copious amount of dried blood was found in the dirt at the head of the rock, suggesting a deep. draining head or neck wound. The blood flow over the sides indicates smaller, multiple wounds on the trunk. Know of any other victims who fit that description?"

"For the sake of argument," said Shmeltzer, "here's another scenario: The Bedouins cut up one of their own women on that rock. Executed her for fucking the wrong guy or talking out of turn, then buried her somewhere in the desert."

"The time frame doesn't work," said Daniel. "Steinfeld estimates the age of the blood at three to six weeks-nothing he'll swear to, but it's definitely older than eight days, which is howJong the Bedouin have been grazing in that part of the desert. Border Patrol's had a good fix on them for some time -since the end of the rainy season they've been up north, nowhere near the cave. And the shred of cloth fits the descrip- tion of the shift Fatma was last seen wearing." He paused. "It's not ironclad, but it's well worth pursuing."

Shmeltzer nodded and drank more coffee. "All right," he said, "two killing grounds. Why?"

"I don't know," said Daniel. "And neither body was washed in that cave-there's been no water down there for four months and both bodies were washed thoroughly."

"You could bring water into the desert in bottles," said the Chinaman. "Last summer we spent a couple of weeks at my wife's kibbutz. They put me to work at the carp ponds, schlepping bottles of distilled back and forth in order to backflush the filters. Big plastic ones-they hold eight liters each, weigh about thirty kilos. Two would be enough to wash a body, don't you think?"

Shmeltzer got up and took a close look at the map. "We're talking a four-kilometer climb, Yossi. Down a mountainside in the dark. Know anyone who could pull that off while hauling sixty kilos of water, maybe a forty-kilo corpse as well?" The Chinaman grinned and flexed a huge bicep. "Is that a confession, Goliath?" Shmeltzer shook his head and returned to his seat.

"The water could have been carried down on donkey-back." said Daniel, "but no one's spotted any donkeys down there- and it would be tremendously inefficient. The more logical assumption is that Fatma was murdered in the cave and most of her blood was allowed to drain out there. The body was then moved to the second place, where the final cleanup took place. Maybe the same place Juliet was killed."

"He kills her, then moves her to wash her," said the Chinaman. "Very weird. What's the point?"

"Like a sacrifice on an altar," said Shmeltzer. "A korban, straight out of the Bible." He smiled sourly. "Maybe we should have grilled Kagan's people more thoroughly." Korbanot, the ancient Judaic sacrifices that antedated prayer. Daniel had thought of it himself-the implications dis-turbed him. Looking across the table, he sought out the single non-Jewish face. Daoud's expression was noncommittal. 'Yes," he said. "More of that same ceremonial quality." He found a piece of chalk and wrote on the blackboard:

FATMA: Killed in cave, washed? JULIET: Killed?, washed?

'There are caves near Ein Qerem," said Daoud. "Not far from where Juliet was found. And some of the streams there are still running."

Daniel nodded. "The Border Patrol began searching them at sunrise. Afif called in an hour ago-they've found nothing so far."

"Maybe we've got more than one kill spot," said Shmeltzer. "because we've got more than one killer. Why not a whole group.of murderous bastards, some crazy cult? Way things are going, it wouldn't surprise me. They could bring water down to the cave in small containers. If they used their homes, there'd be God knows how many kill spots to choose from."

"A caravan of people would be conspicuous in the desert," said Daniel. "Afif's men would have been likely to spot them with the infrared."

"Those boys are eagle-eyes but they're not infallible," said Shmeltzer. "They missed a murderer hiking four kilometers with a body over his back and gear-the knives, the sheet, some kind of portable light. Assuming he cut her at night."

"All right," said Daniel, "we won't rule it out." He wrote: multiple killers? on the board. Pausing to take a sip of coffee, he found it had turned tepid and replaced the cup on the table.

"Something else," he said. "From the outside, the cave looks impenetrable. Someone would have had to inspect it to know about it. It's not exactly a garden spot-the guides don't take tourists down there."

"Which is why I thought of the Bedouins," said Shmeltzer. "They know every crack in the sand. Or maybe we've got murderous archaeologists on our hands."

"Contact the university, Nahum, and the Nature Conservancy. Find out if any digs have been planned in the area, any groups taken on hikes down there within the las year or so."

Shmeltzer nodded and made a note.

"Next order of business," said Daniel. "I got a call from the army about Aljuni-the wife murderer from Gaza. He gal tired of being watched, finally agreed to a polygraph. Tel Aviv will do it and send us the report. Any other updates? Then on to Little Hook's story about the flat-eyed American."

"Little Hook's a treacherous piece of dirt," said Shmeltzer, "He'd just as soon lie as breathe."

"Any reason for him to make up a story like this one? asked Daniel.

Shmeltzer held out one hand and ticked off fingers. "Avoiding a larceny bust, trying to curry favor with us, attention seeking."

"I don't think so, Nahum," said the Chinaman. "The lowlife have come around to our side on this one. This Butcher shit is wiping them out financially. Red Amira may have spun a yarn for Little Hook, but my bet is that he's repeating it faithfully"

"Putting aside Little Hook's credibility," said Daniel, there are problems fitting the story to our case. From the way it sounds, Flat Eyes was looking for a curbside pickup. Nothing about our killer indicates that type of impulsive selection. And neither of our victims was working the streets: Fatma was no whore; Juliet had just gotten into town-she had no time to set up her brothel contacts and had no street experience here in Israel."

'She streetwalked in Haifa," said the Chinaman.

"For one day before she got caught. And she was clumsy- the Northern District detective who picked her up told me he was surprised she was a professional. She had no idea sex for hire was legal as long as she kept her mouth shut. He caught her breaking the soliciting law aggressively, throwing herself at sailors. No doubt she would have gotten smarter had she stayed alive and eventually found employment, but the whores and pimps you've spoken to never spotted her or Fatma working Jerusalem, did they, Yossi?"

'No' admitted the big man. "neither of them have been seen at the pickup places. But Juliet could have done some back-alley stuff. And it's possible Fatma wasn't that innocent.

Her boyfriend was slime-maybe he sold her to others."

'Maybe," said Daniel, "According to the brother, Abdel said she was dead, which could have meant she'd turned promiscuous, but no one spotted her hooking and the regular girls always notice newcomers." He shook his head. "No, I don't see either of them meeting the killer at curbside. This wasn't just quick sex-they were shot up with heroin, injected without resistance. To me that says some kind of seduction was used to snare them. Juliet was a drug user, so for her the heroin may have actually been the lure. But what convinced a traditional girl like Fatma to lie there and get stuck?"

"First thrills," said the Chinaman. "When they fall, they fall fast."

"We have evidence she hadn't fallen that far. A few days before she left the monastery, she waited in the olive grove for Anwar, begged him to help her reconcile with the family. So her corruption was far from complete. Taking that needle was a big step-someone very credible had to convince her to do it, or trick her. Someone exploiting a position of trust. Which is why we spent so much time on the doctors, why I put Elias on the monk." To Daoud: "How's that going?"

"The same. He starts walking, then all of a sudden he stops and heads back for the monastery. The farthest he's ever gotten is to the end of the Via Dolorosa. Usually he returns after just a few steps. As if something's bothering him."

"Stick with it. Maybe you'll find out what it is. Daoud nodded, then said, "One question, Pakad."

"What is it?"

"The issue of the casual pickup. We're dealing with a psychologically disturbed person, a deviate. Perhaps he deviated from his own rules and yielded to impulse."

"Perhaps he did, Elias. But why would he go for Amira Nasser? Fatma and Juliet looked remarkably alike, which implies he's after a certain type-small, pretty brunettes wearing earrings. And he probably likes them young-Juliets baby face fooled him. Without her wig, Amira is a petite brunette, but someone watching her work wouldn't know that. He'd see a redhead, hot pants and fishnets, all plastered with makeup."

"Maybe he goes for different types for different things." said the Chinaman. "Redheads for sex, brunettes for killing."

"Wait a minute," said Shmeltzer. "Before we go any further with this, let's bear in mind that this American guy didn't do a damned thing that was incriminating. He offered cash, the whore turned him down, he walked away, end of story. Supposedly he had flat eyes-whatever that means. Very weak. boys. And the fact that it comes via the hunchback makes it weaker than weak."

"I agree with you," said Daniel, "but weak is better than nothing. And having stated all the problems with the story. it still holds my interest. The fact that Amira was scared by this guy can't be brushed off-prostitutes get good at assessing their customers because their safety depends on it. If Amira thought there was something weird about him, there probably was. And the time frame is appealing: Thursday night-a murder a week. Now, exactly how did she describe him, Yossi?" The Chinaman flipped through his note pad. "According to Little Hook he was 'an American with crazy eyes… he came out of nowhere… she figured he'd been hiding somewhere off the road.' I took a look at the area-there's a small field someone could hide in. Forensics found some tire marks, lots of footprints, but all of it was too indistinct to identify."

"Go on," said Daniel. "He offered sex for money, but his eyes scared her and she refused.' I asked Little Hook what was wrong with the eyes and he said Amira had told him they were 'flat. Mad… A strange smile, veiy wide, a grin. But the grin of a killer.' As to what made it a killer's grin, he said, 'Not a happy grin, very crazy.'"

The big man closed the pad. "I tried to get more- squeezed him hard enough to get juice, but that's all there is. If you want, I can pick him up again."

"Just see that he stays in town." Daniel got up, wrote AMERICAN? on the board.

'To Amira," he said, "American could have meant any number of things-a genuine American, someone who spoke English or wore American clothes. Or someone who looked American, which could translate to fair-skinned, big-boned, a T-shirt with the American flag-who knows? But at the very least we're talking about some kind of foreigner-a man with a non-Levantine appearance. Which gives us a possible line of inquiry."

"Comparisons with foreign homicides," said Shmeltzer. 'America and Europe."

'Exactly. Our new Interpol liaison in Bonn is a fellow named Friedman. I've been trying to reach him since Yossi told me Little Hook's story. He's out of town-no one in his office will say where. When he calls in I'm going to have him contact all the Interpol chiefs in Europe, see if they can find records of similar crimes within the past ten years. It shouldn't be difficult; with the exception of the Germans, their homicide rates are generally as low as ours. A vicious one will stand out. The American situation's more complicated: They record tremendous numbers of sex murders each year and there's no central reporting-each city has its own police jurisdiction. They seldom communicate with one another. Lately, though, the FBI's gotten involved-they've been collating homicides and finding serial murderers who travel across the country, killing people. They're in the process of setting up? computer bank, and I think I have a way of hooking into it without going through all the red tape. In the meantime, though, it would be nice to talk to Amira. Any information on her whereabouts, Yossi?"