The Butcher's Theatre (79 page)

But this nightwalker kept going, toward the city. Katz matched the silhouette grow smaller, turned up the magnification on the scope, and nudged it gently in order to keep the departing figure in his sights.

He continued following and filming until the road dipped and the figure dropped from view. Then he got on the police radio, punched in the digital code for the security band, and called Southeast Team Sector.

“Scholar, here. Progress.”

“Relic speaking. Specify.”

“Curly, on foot down the Mount of Olives Road, coming your way.”

“Clothing and physicals.”

“Dark sport coat, dark pants, dark shirt, dark shoes. No outstanding physicals.”

“Curly, no vehicle, all dark. That it, Scholar?”

“That’s it.”

“Shalom.”

“Shalom.”

The communication was monitored by Border Patrol units stationed in the desert above Mount Scopus and near the Ras El Amud mosque, where the Jericho Road shifted suddenly to the east. The man who’d answered the call was a Latam man, code-named Relic, stationed near the entry to the Rockefeller Museum at the intersection of that same road and Sultan Suleiman, the first link in the human chain that made up Southeast Team Sector. The second and third links were undercover detectives positioned on Rehov Habad at the centre of the Old City, and the Zurich garden at the foot of Mount Zion.

The fourth was Elias Daoud, waiting nervously at the Kishle substation for word that a suspect was headed due west of the city walls.

The radio call came in at Daniel’s flat when he was on the phone to the American Medical Association offices in Washington, D.C., trying to find out if a Dr. D. Terrif was or had ever been a member of that organization. The secretary had put him on hold while she consulted with her superior; he handed the phone to Gene and listened closely to what Katz was saying.

Wondering, along with the rest of them, if Dr. Richard Carter had anything else in mind tonight, other than a casual stroll.

A miracle, thought Avi, watching Wilbur stumble toward his front door, carrying something in a paper bag. Amount of liquor the shikur had inside of him, it was a miracle he hadn’t ended up in some gutter.

One forty-three in the morning—late-ending party or an all-nighter cut short?

Through his binoculars he saw the reporter fumble with his keys, finally manage to find the right one, scratch around the front-door lock.

Put a little hair around it. Though from the looks of this jerk, even that wouldn’t help.

Wilbur finally got the key in and entered the fourplex. Avi radioed the Latamnik in back to let him know the subject was home.

“Aleph here.”

No answer.

Maybe the reporter had walked through the building straight to the back alley—to throw up or get something from his car—and the undercover man couldn’t give himself away by answering. If that was the case, any transmission would be a betrayal.

He’d wait a while before trying again, watch for some sign that Wilbur was up in his room.

For ten minutes he sat impatiently in the Volkswagen; then the lights went on in the reporter’s second-story window.

“Aleph here.”

The second radio call went unanswered, as did a third, five minutes later.

Finally, Avi got out of the car, jogged the half block to Wi’bur’s building on brand new Nikes, and tried the radio again.

Nothing.

Maybe Nash had seen something, followed Wilbur into the building, and he should hold back.

Still, Sharavi’s clear instructions had been to stay in regular contact.

Follow orders, Cohen. Stay out of trouble.

He was in front of the fourplex, enveloped by darkness. The light in the reporter’s flat was still on, a dim amber square behind blackout shades.

Avi looked up and down the street, pulled out his flashlight, and insinuated himself in the narrow space between Wilbur’s building and its southern neighbor. He walked over wet grass, heard a crunch of broken glass, stopped, listened, and inched forward until he’d slipped completely around the building and was standing in the alley.

The back door stood partially open. The section of cor-fidor it revealed was black as the night. Wilbur’s leased AlfaSud was parked in the small dirt lot along with three other cars. Avi made a mental note to record their license plates, continued slowly toward the door.

He smelled something foul. Shit. Really ripe shit, had to be close by—he wondered if he’d gotten any on the Nikes or his pants. Wouldn’t that be wonderful!

He took a step closer; the shit smell was really strong now. He had visions of it coating the bottom of his cuffs, clicked on the low beam of the flashlight, ran it over his trousers, then onto the ground in front of him.

Dirt, a bottle cap, something odd: shoes.

But vertical, pointing up at the sky. A pair of running shoes attached to white ankles—someone else’s trouser legs. A belt. A shirt. Splayed arms.

A face.

In a split second he made sense of it: the body of the Latamnik, some sort of cord drawn tight around the poor guy’s neck, the eyes open and bulging, the tongue distended and sticking out from between thickened lips.

A froth of saliva.

The smell.

Suddenly his homicide course came to mind, the English-language textbook that had made him sweat. Suddenly he understood the shit smell: death by strangulation, the reflexive opening of the bowels …

He turned off the flashlight at once, reached frantically under his shirt for his Beretta; before he could get it out, felt stunning, electric pain at the base of his skull, a cruel flash of insight.

Then nothing.

Bitter-mouthed and queasy, Wilbur dragged himself out of the shower, made a halfhearted attempt at drying himself off, and struggled into his robe.

What a night—crap topping off crap.

They’d gotten to him, the Chosen People had.

CP: l.MW:0.

No more Butcher stories, not a single sentence since Sharavi and his storm troopers had put him through their Gestapo …

Jesus, his head hurt, he felt feverish, sick as a dog. Stupid broad and her cheap brandy—thank God he’d had the presence of mind to pick up the bottle of Wild Turkey.

Thank God he hadn’t wasted it on her. The bottle was waiting, still sealed, on his nightstand.

Ice cubes in the freezer; he’d filled the tray this morning—or was it yesterday morning? No matter. Important thing was, there was ice. And Turkey. Pop the seal—deflower the seal—and get some good stuff in his system.

A single, solitary cheerful thought at the end of a very crappy day.

Several crappy days.

Wiring his stories and watching for pickups, but not a single goddamned line in print. Good stories, too: human-interest follow-up on the Rashmawis, most of it made up but poignant—goddamned poignant. He knew poignant when he saw it. Another one with a Tel Aviv U. shrink armchair-analyzing the Butcher. And an interview with a disgruntled former Gvura creep exposing how Kagan cadged funds out

of rich, respectable American Jews, silk-stocking types who insisted their names be kept secret. The piece h&‘d written had busted the secret wide open, listing names along with dollar amounts. He’d tacked on a tasty little summary tying the whole thing in with a Larger Social Issue: the conflict between the old Zionist idealism and the new militaristic …

Big fucking deal. Not a word of it picked up.

Nada. They’d erased his identity—for all practical purposes, murdered him.

At first he’d thought it was a delay, maybe an oversupply of stories holding up his. But after four days he knew it was something else, grabbed the phone and called New York. Making noise about state censorship, expecting outrage, backup, some Freedom of the Press good fellowship, we’re behind you, Mark, old buddy, will get right on it, yessir.

Instead: hemming and hawing, the kind of talking without saying anything politicians did when they wanted to avoid a . cutting question.

New York was part of it.

He’d been laid out on the altar for sacrifice.

Just like the Butcher victims: the unsung victim—how long before they buried him?

Nebraska. Or Cleveland. Some dead-end desk job purgatory. Meanwhile all he could do was bide his time, work on his screenplay, send letters to L.A. agents—if that panned out, fuck ‘em, he’d be eating duck pizza at Spago …

Until then, though, a cycle of wretched, empty days. A good romp would have eased the pain.

Romp and Turkey.

Thank God he hadn’t wasted the good stuff on her, the phony.

Australian reporter, shoulders on her like a defensive lineman. But a nice face—no Olivia Newton-John, but good clean features, nice blond hair, good skin. All those buttermilk freckles on her neck and chest—he’d been curious as hell to know how far down they went.

Way she came on at Fink’s, he was sure he’d find out. He’d bought the Wild Turkey from the bartender—double

retail plus tip, on his expense account. He sat down at her table. Five minutes later, her hand was on his knee.

Wink and a whistle, my place or your place?

Her place.

Dinky single, just a couple of blocks from his, almost no furniture—she’d just arrived from kangaroo land. But the requisite party toys: stereo, soft-rock cassette collection. A futon mattress on the floor, candles. Bottles.

Lots of bottles: cheap brandy, ten varieties, every fruit you could think of. A cheap-brandy freak.

They’d tossed back shot after shot, sharing a jam jar. Then her little secret: little chocolate-colored hashish crumbs inserted into a Dunhill filter tip—an interesting buzz, the hash softening the edges of the bad booze.

Mind candy, she’d whispered, tonguing his ear.

Soft lights, soft rock on the tape deck.

A tongue duel, then lying back. Ready to dive into their own personal Down Under. Nice, right?

Wrong.

He let the towel fall to the floor, felt the cold tile under his soles, shivered, and swayed unsteadily. Vision blurred, nausea climbed up to his throat.

God, he felt like heaving his guts out—how much of that swill had he ingested?

He leaned over the sink, closed his eyes and was hit by an attack of the dry heaves that left him weak and short of breath, needing to hold on to the sink for support.

Pure swill—he didn’t want to think about what it was doing to his intestinal tract. And had the hash been anything other than hash? He recalled a night in Rio, Mardi Gras craziness. Weed laced with some kind of hallucinogen, he’d walked on rubber sidewalks for three days.

But she’d put away an entire bottle by herself, not even blinking.

Australians—they were bottomless pits when it came to booze and dope. Descended from criminals, probably something in the genes …

He felt his heart pounding. Irregularly. Brushed aside heart-attack terror, closed the commode and sat down on the lid, having trouble getting a good deep breath. Trying not to

think of tonight’s disaster, but the more he tried, the more the memories forced themselves into his muddy consciousness.

The two of them lying side by side on the futon, his hand on her thigh—hefty, freckled thigh. Tossing back swill and smoking hash and tossing back more swill, his hand in her blouse, she, letting him, smiling goofy-eyed and saying cheers and burping and putting it away as if it were Perrier.

Everything going well, goddamned salvation after all those shitty days. Then she suddenly get the talkies—all she wants to do is jabber.

Off goes the blouse—big girl, big freckled tits to make a centerfold jealous, just like he’d imagined. Big brown nipples; she let him suck on them, play with her—we’re heading home, Marko—but she kept right on talking.

Dope-talk. Fast and furious, with an undercurrent of hysteria that made him nervous, as if one wrong move and she’d be sobbing uncontrollably, screaming rape or something.

Crazy-talk. Sliding from one topic to the next without benefit of logical association.

Her ex-husband. Exotic birds. Her parents’ taste in furniture. High school drinking parties. A cactus collection she’d had in kindergarten. Homesickness. An abortion in college. Her brother, the sheep shearer.

Then lots of weird stuff about sheep: shearing sheep.

Dipping sheep. Watching sheep fuck. Castrating sheep—not exactly the lexicon from which erotic alphabet soup sprang

What the hell was he talking about? Her craziness was catching.

His head felt ready to split open. After several attempts he finally got to his feet, lurched into the bedroom, and made for the Turkey bottle. The ice could wait.

The light was off. Funny, he thought he’d left it on.

The mind gone, memory cells blasted to hell—he was sure she’d put something in the hash. Or the rotgut.

The darkness better anyway. His eyeslids felt crammed with gravel, the darkness more soothing, just a little soft glow from the foyer highlighting outlines …

He went for the Turkey on the nightstand, groped air.

It wasn’t there.

Oh, shit, he’d put it somewhere else and forgotten about it. He was really blasted, had really done it this time. The stupid broad had poisoned him with her blackberry-peach-pear rotgut. Jerked him around and poisoned him.

And how he’d been jerked. She’d let him do anything, everything, allowing him into her pants, passive as a coma victim. Letting him spread her big freckled legs, accommodating him as he slipped in it like a finger in a greased glove. So accommodating he wondered if she felt it—was she used to something bigger? He moved to make her feel it, stroked her, used every trick she knew, but all she did was lie there staring at the ceiling and talking, as if he were doing it to someone else, she wasn’t even a part of it, was in some talktalk twilight zone.

Putting up no resistance, but jabbering until he lost his hard-on, pulled out, stood up.

Jabbering, spread-eagled, even as he put his clothes on, grabbed the unopened Turkey bottle. He could still hear her jabbering as he closed the door to her apartment… .

He stumbled around the room, feeling for the Turkey.

Where the hell was the goddamned bottle?

Mind, gone; memory, gone. He stomped around the room, checking the floor, the bed, his dresser, the closet, feeling the panic starting to rise—