Outside Eden (9 page)

Hagit and Yael chatted beside the pool. Everything was calm. Harper’s presence wasn’t required.

‘Mama! Eemah!’ Chloe spotted her, but continued to pour water onto the boy.

Hagit looked up, seemed startled to see Harper. Glanced at her watch. ‘You’re here already?’

Harper joined them by the pool, knelt to kiss Chloe. ‘How did the day go?’

‘How did you expect?’ Hagit asked. ‘It was fine. You can see for yourself.’

‘Chloe made lots of friends,’ Yael smiled.

‘She’s having fun. Go. Relax a while. I’ll bring her home later.’

Harper felt dismissed, but didn’t want to argue. She gave Chloe another kiss and wandered back out the gate, the sounds of children’s laughter fading as she got to her bungalow.

By evening, Harper was restless. She waited for the goodnight call from Hank, but when it came, it didn’t calm her. In fact, it upset her even more. Hank’s attention was divided because Trent was in the background, interrupting like a pestering child, nagging Hank to get off the phone. They talked for only a few minutes, long enough for her to say that Chloe liked nursery school and that she’d made it through her first day at the dig. She asked if there was any news about the murders in the shuk; he said he hadn’t heard anything except that the investigation was ongoing. She asked how his day had been; he gave a vague, clipped response.

‘Busy. Went to sea.’ Or to see? ‘Tired.’

And the call was over. Afterwards, Harper sat outside on the porch, looking at the stars and the dark valley. Then she looked in on Chloe, who clutched her stuffed monkey in her sleep. Hagit was drinking tea, watching Israeli television on the big flat screen. Harper didn’t want to watch television. Didn’t feel like reading. Finally, too unsettled to sleep, she decided to take a walk.

The air was cool, almost chilly. And the stars so bright, she could see her way even where there were no streetlights. She walked without a destination. Just following the road in the quiet star-filled night. For a while, the only sound she heard was her own footsteps. But then, passing the main office building, through the open windows, she heard a man’s voice. She stopped walking and listened.

Yes, someone was speaking in the meeting hall. Was there a kibbutz meeting? Or – uh-oh – a meeting about the dig? Had she missed a memo? She followed the voice, heard it more clearly but couldn’t make out the words until she heard a chorus of ‘Amen’.

Oh, of course. The church group. They must be having a prayer session. Harper relaxed, kept walking. But the man’s voice was so full of vibrato, so pulsing with energy that she had to stop and go close enough to hear it.

‘. . . And it will be glorious as promised. It will surpass all your dreams and hopes, will be more passionate than any love you’ve known, more joyous than any pleasure you’ve experienced . . .’

‘Amen!’ voices shouted.

‘The Lord has written it in the code that he guided me to decipher, has pledged it to you, the few who have come here with me, to Megiddo . . .’

More cries of ‘Amen.’

‘It will be here, where I have brought you. All we have to do is follow His word, as He has written it, as I have read to you from His hidden verses. We must bring unto Him—’

‘Three lambs,’ the voices answered.

‘Yes. Three lambs. Symbolizing each of His lineages, sacrificed according to His word, and then, only then, and exactly then on that date which He has written in the code that I have read to you – then will His promise be fulfilled and—’

‘The battle in Megiddo will begin and end,’ the voices answered.

‘And when it is over—’

‘We will rise.’

‘Yes, we will. We will rise with Him to His holy kingdom—’

‘Where we will live forever with the Lord. Amen.’ The voices rang, and a hymn began.

Harper stood transfixed. She hadn’t been to church in a while. But, even when she’d gone, she hadn’t heard this kind of preaching. What was the pastor talking about? Sacrificing lambs? Fighting a battle here in Megiddo? Rising up to God’s kingdom?

God’s kingdom, as in heaven? Where dead people went?

Oh Lord. Was this preacher one of those charismatic leaders – like Jim Jones? He’d been a charismatic. Years ago, he’d made his entire church kill themselves, promising they’d go to heaven. Some nine hundred of his followers had died – even children had swallowed poisoned Kool-Aid just because he’d told them to. Was this another Jim Jones? An end-of-the-world cult leader?

The small congregation was singing an unfamiliar hymn; someone with a soprano drowned the others out. The voices were strong, didn’t sound suicidal. Harper thought about what the preacher had actually said. He’d deciphered a code in the Bible. And they had to make sacrifices so they could go to God’s kingdom.

Maybe the pastor was just into Numerology. Wasn’t that all about codes hidden in the Bible? Or maybe he’d been preaching about the Book of Revelation. Didn’t that talk about the end of days? There were lots of possibilities. Interpreting the Bible didn’t make the pastor an instrument of death and suicide. No. Harper was seeing danger where there was none. Lynne’s pastor had nothing to do with Jim Jones.

Harper stood under the night sky, listening to the little congregation begin another song. ‘Amazing Grace’ floated out of the building, up to the stars.

She gazed up, felt small. Humbled. She walked back to her bungalow, ready to sleep. When she climbed into bed, she was still humming ‘Amazing Grace’.

The killer had gone through the motions of the day, mingling, chatting, eating. But by sundown, the tension had become unbearable. Every nerve was on fire, every muscle screamed. Relief could come only from fulfilling the promise, making it right. But how was that possible? How? Nothing had gone right so far. The assignment was a shambles. It hadn’t been completed, hadn’t gone as expected. And failure – well, failure would be catastrophic.

The killer was breathing too hard, sweating. Needed to regain control. Okay. It was best to begin by making peace with the Lord. Admit to Him that mistakes had occurred. Accidents had happened. Unpredictably. It was important to clarify what had happened. The killer knelt, head bowed, and offered a prayer. Apologized. Promised to make adjustments, fulfill the obligation. Prepare His people for what was to come. Make the required sacrifice. Clear the way for what He willed.

Afterwards, the killer washed again to be pure for the task at hand. Scrubbed away dusty traces of the physical world, scraped flesh until bloodstained water circled the drain. And then, cleansed, the killer donned black clothing and stepped into the night, called the assistant, and drove off, passing gates and security stops and miles of highway, to search for a proper lamb.

Finally, in the labyrinth again, while the assistant waited, the killer hunted. The hour was late, the stalls locked. The place almost abandoned. But that was fine. Those still here would be of the final lineage. Would fulfill the triad. Hunkering in shadow, the killer remained alert, ready to strike. The trap was set: a dark string tied tautly across the main path, a line for prey to trip over.

Waiting. Enduring cramps in the legs. Resisting fatigue. Mentally rehearsing the process: seeing the lamb stumbling and falling. Pouncing before it could recover, swinging the blade cleanly and mercifully across its neck while uttering the prayer. And finally, leaving the warning, the mark for all sinners to see.

This time, it would go smoothly, completing the command.

If only the lamb would show itself.

The killer counted seconds, minutes. Began to fear that it was too late, that sunrise was too close.

But, finally, footsteps clacked on the stone walkway, approaching the trap. The killer peered out of the dark corner, watching, gripping the blade. Ready. The prey wore a uniform. A soldier? Maybe security. And it walked with energy, a purpose in mind. The footsteps echoed against metal shutters of the booths. And they came closer. Ten steps away? Eight?

The killer counted down, thighs burning and set to spring, knife ready to slay.

Three steps. Two.

One.

The killer rose to strike, but the security officer walked on. Didn’t fall. Didn’t stumble. Didn’t even break stride.

Stunned, the killer gaped at the empty path, at the broken string. It had been too thin, had snapped. Hadn’t brought down the prey.

The killer jumped up and started after him, knife raised. Unwilling to admit defeat, revising the plan, deciding to call out and startle him. To plunge the knife when he turned.

But at the last moment, the killer hesitated. The officer was trained, would reach reflexively for his firearm.

Instead of getting shot, the killer went back to the shadows and tied another string across the path, this time doubling it. Failure was unacceptable; the offering had to be made, the sacrifice completed. And then, the position of honor would be eternal, with passion and joy for all time.

The killer waited, crouched in the darkness. When someone tripped on the string, the killer jumped, raising the knife, reciting the prayer and realized almost too late that it was the assistant coming to say it was time to go. The killer clutched the knife, angrily waiting for the assistant to recover. Neither made mention of how close the assistant had come to death.

Lugging the gear in the hot sun reminded Harper of other lugging, other gear. She rattled it off in her mind: ammunition, rifle, pistol, body armor, helmet, assault pack, food, flashlight, water, batteries, radio, first-aid kit. Eighty pounds, maybe more . . .

But this wasn’t Iraq. This land was moist and green. Its air clear and sweet, not heavy with sand and smoke. Not broken by cracks of rifle fire and cries of pain.

Damn. Why was she drifting back to Iraq? Oh, right: the gear. But this gear was trowels and gloves, brushes and screens. Peacetime gear, intended for discovery, not war and destruction. Harper stopped to look out over the site, the expanse of exposed sections, the pits partially dug. She took a deep breath, felt a rush of anticipation. Even working as a menial volunteer was exhilarating. She was reaching into the past. Bringing it back into the light. Who cared about the weight of the gear? She hurried to section thirteen to join Lynne and start working.

Lynne, however, was not as eager to work as Harper. She’d sat with her husband on the bus, and now she stood with him, the pastor and another man at the perimeter.

‘Harper,’ Lynne called her over. ‘Meet my husband, Peter. His dig partner, Lowell Olsen. And our pastor, Ramsey Travis.’

Harper had to put down the gear in order to shake their extended hands, one by one. Peter’s was perfunctory, impersonal. Lowell’s was eager, damp. And Pastor Travis’s was indistinct.

Harper didn’t want to stop and chat. She wanted to pick the gear up and go to work. But Lynne went on talking.

‘Harper’s a real archeologist. She actually knows what she’s doing here.’

The others chuckled. Well, everyone but Peter. His eyes were strained, and his smile forced.

‘Do you really?’ Pastor Travis’s broad shoulders towered over her. ‘Because our little group, our church members, are just relying on the Lord’s guidance. We’re here to help Him reveal what He will in His own time. Because time is different to the Lord. If you remember Peter chapter three, verse eight: With the Lord, a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day.’

Harper didn’t know how to respond. Wasn’t even sure what he meant. She thought of his preaching the night before and of Jim Jones’ poisoned Kool-Aid.

‘Amen,’ the others mumbled.

Harper looked at Peter. His skin looked clammy, as if it were melting. And his gaze shifted from Lynne to the ground, avoiding Travis. Lowell, by contrast, kept his eyes fixed on Travis, whose eyes locked with Lynne’s.

‘So,’ Harper finally spoke. ‘Lynne? Should we get to work?’

‘Oh.’ The idea seemed to surprise her. ‘Sure.’ But she didn’t move.

Harper hesitated. Maybe Lynne wanted to finish talking with the others; after all, Harper had interrupted.

‘Okay. Well. Nice meeting all of you.’ She picked up her gear and moved away. When she looked back a few seconds later, they remained just as she’d left them. Travis said something she couldn’t quite hear, and the others proclaimed, ‘Amen.’

By the time Lynne arrived at Section thirteen, Harper had already sifted a bucket of earth.

‘So. What did you think of him?’

Him? Harper looked up, squinting into the sun.

‘Could you sense his power? Just being near him, you can feel it. And I swear, it’s like . . . like he can see right through people, into their souls.’

Harper adjusted her hat to shade her eyes.

‘Besides which, Pastor’s literally a genius. He’ll never brag about it, but he knows practically everything there is to know about the Bible. I think he has it memorized, not just in English, but in Latin, too. And I think also – maybe in Greek? Or German? He read the Old Testament in Hebrew.’

So far, Harper hadn’t said a word. Lynne didn’t seem to notice. She squatted next to Harper, and went on. ‘Every morning, he starts our day with an inspirational prayer meeting; every evening, he ends with one.’

Harper kept digging, hoping Lynne would stop gushing. Then she realized Lynne was waiting for a reply. ‘That’s nice.’ She tried not to sound sarcastic.

‘Oh, Harper. I get it. You’re cynical. A doubter.’

Harper worked her trowel. ‘At the moment, I’m a digger. Are you going to help?’

Lynne picked up a folding shovel. ‘Sorry. I just get so excited.’

‘I can see that.’

‘You think it’s stupid.’ She fumbled with the shovel, trying to open it. ‘But you’d change your mind if you knew what Pastor has accomplished.’

Harper continued to dig. Lynne continued to fumble.

‘Harper.’ Lynne lowered her voice and looked around, making sure no one was within hearing distance. ‘Pastor Travis discovered something big. Secret codes in the Bible. And he deciphered them.’

‘You mean numerology?’

‘No no. It’s different. I’m no scholar, but I know this goes way beyond numerology.’ She tugged at the shovel, straining to open it.