“What if ancestry’s unclear?” I was thinking of the bones in the bag behind me.
Jake snorted. “The Ministry of Religious Affairs ponies up a thousand shekels for each reburial. How many do you suppose are declared non-Jewish?”
“But-”
“The Hevrat Kadisha say prayers over the bones and, voila, the dead are converted to Judaism.”
I didn’t get it, but I let it go.
Ominous quiet slipped in from outside. Again I checked my watch. Nine twenty-two.
“How long do we wait?” I asked.
“Until the coast is clear,” Jake said.
Jake and I fell silent. Now and then one or the other of us would shift, seeking to gain a more comfortable position. Being six-six, Jake shifted most.
My hip hurt. My shoulder hurt. I was cold and damp. I was sitting in garbage in a crypt waiting out folks who would have put the Inquisition to shame.
And it wasn’t even 10A. M.
An eon later, I again illuminated my watch face. Twenty minutes had passed. I was about to suggest checking for cleared coasts, when a man shouted.
“Asur!”
Another took up the cry.“Asur!”
My stomach knot tightened. The men were close now, on the hillside just outside the tomb.
I looked at Jake.
“‘Forbidden,’” he translated.
“Chilul!”
“‘Desecration.’”
Something ricocheted off the outcrop above the tomb entrance.
“What the hell was that?”
“Probably a rock.”
“They’re throwing at us?” If a whisper can be shrill, mine was.
I heard another something wing off the capstone.
“B’nei Belial!”
“They say we’re children of the devil,” Jake explained.
“How many are out there?” I asked.
“Several carloads.”
A fist-size stone hit the rim of the entrance.
“Asur! Asur la’asot et zeh!”It had now become a chant.“Asur! Asur!”
Jake raised his eyebrows at me. In the darkness they looked like a solid black hedge levitating skyward. I raised mine back.
“I’ll have a look,” he said.
“Be careful,” I said, for lack of a better contribution.
Squat-walking to the entrance, Jake dropped one knee, placed a hand on it, and craned out.
What happened next happened fast.
The chanting fragmented into individual cries.
“Shalom alaichem,”Jake wished the men peace.
Angry voices shouted back.
“Lo!”Jake shouted. I understood enough Hebrew to know that meant no.
More yelling.
“Reik-”
There was a sickening crack, as rock hit bone.
Jake’s spine arched, one leg shot backward, and he slumped to the ground.
“Jake!”
I scrabbled to him on all fours.
Jake’s head lay outside, his shoulders and body inside the tomb.
“Jake!”
No response.
Reaching out, I placed trembling fingers on Jake’s throat.
I felt a pulse, weak but steady.
Rising to a crouch, I leaned into the opening for a better view of Jake’s head.
Jake’s face was down, but I could see the back and side of his skull. Blood flecked his ear, and glistened red in the sunlit grass. Already flies were buzzing in for quick look-sees.
Cold fear barreled through my veins.
First a jackal, and now this! What to do? Move Jake and risk exacerbating his injury? Leave him and go for help?
Impossible without risking a skull fracture of my own.
Outside, the chanting started up again.
Give the bastards what they want?
They’d bury the skeleton. The truth about Max would be lost forever.
Another rock winged off the tomb’s exterior. Then another.
Sonovabitch!
No ancient mystery was worth the loss of a life. Jake needed medical attention.
Setting the flashlight on the tomb floor, I scrabbled backward, took hold of Jake’s boots, and pulled.
He didn’t budge. I pulled again. Harder.
Inch by inch, I tugged Jake into the protection of the tomb. Then I crawled around his body and turned his head sideways. Should Jake become nauseous, I didn’t want him choking on his vomit.
Then I remembered.
Jake’s cell phone! Was it on him? Could I get at it?
Working my way down, I checked Jake’s shirt pocket, his left front and rear jeans pockets, and every accessible opening on his camouflage jacket.
No phone.
Damn!
The hockey bag?
I angled toward the northern loculi. My hands looked bitter white as I crawled toward the bag. It was as though I were watching the hands of another. I saw them struggle with zippers, disappear into pouch after pouch.
My brain recognized the feel of the familiar shape.
Yanking the phone free, I flipped the cover. The small screen flashed a neon blue welcome.
What digits to punch? 911?
I had no idea what one dialed in an emergency in Israel.
Scrolling through Jake’s directory, I chose a local listing, and hit “send.”
The screen flashed the number and the word “Dialing.” I heard a series of beeps, then one long beep, then the screen welcomed me anew.
I tried again. Same result.
Damn! Too deep in rock for a signal!
I was about to try again, when Jake moaned. Pocketing the phone, I crawled to him.
When I arrived, Jake had rolled to his belly, and drawn his palms in under his chest.
“Take it easy,” I said, picking up the flashlight.
Moving gingerly, Jake maneuvered to a sit. A tendril of blood trickled from a gash in his forehead. He swiped at it, creating a dark smear across his nose and right cheek.
“What happened?” Groggy.
“You stopped a rock with your head.”
“Where are we?”
