The Butcher's Theatre (49 page)

“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.

“Snowball, 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, “Snowball, 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 bluish 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