“A tomb in the Kidron.”
Jake seemed to struggle a moment, then, “The Hevrat Kadisha.”
“At least one of them has a future in major league baseball.”
“We’ve got to get out of this place.”
“If it’s the last thing we ever do.”
“Is the bag still in the loculus?”
“Yes.”
Jake hopped to a squat, swayed, dropped his head, and braced himself straight-armed against the ground.
I reached out to steady him.
“Can you climb the hill?”
“Minor setback.” Whole muscle bundles went taut, then Jake dropped to all fours. “Beam me up, Scottie.”
As I lit his way, Jake crawled not to the entrance, but to the northern wall, rolled a large stone toward the loculus containing Masada Max, and wedged it into the opening.
“Let’s go,” he said, rejoining me.
“Will they come in here?”
“Maybe. But we’d never make it past them to the truck.”
“Will they notice the hockey bag?”
“I could move it to the lower level.”
For the first time since crawling topside, I remembered what I’d uncovered in the lower chamber. I didn’t want the Hevrat Kadisha going down there and finding it. Losing Max would be bad enough. Losing what had been walled in below would double the calamity.
“Let’s leave the bag in the loculus and hope they don’t spot it. If they do come in here, I don’t want them poking around downstairs. I’ll explain when we’re in the truck. How do we do this?”
“We walk out.”
“Just like that?”
“When they see that I’m injured, they’ll probably back off.”
“They’ll also note that we’re empty-handed.”
“They’ll also note that.”
“Do you suppose they saw the hockey bag?”
“I have no idea. Are you ready?”
I nodded, and switched off the flashlight. Jake stuck his head through the opening and shouted.
Surprised? Wary? Rearming? The Hevrat Kadisha fell silent.
Extending both arms, Jake flexed his legs, and torqued himself up and out.
When Jake’s boots cleared the opening, I followed. Halfway up I felt a hand on my waistband, then I was kneeling on the hillside.
The jolt to sunlight was blinding. My pupils went to pinpoints. My eyes slammed shut.
I opened them to one of the strangest scenes I’ve ever witnessed.
23
OUR ATTACKERS WORE BROAD-BRIMMED HATS AND LONG-COATEDblack suits. Bearded and side-curled, each looked hotter and angrier than the next.
Okay. My mental image had been spot-on. But I’d been way off on the numbers.
As Jake again wished the men peace and opened discussion, I took a quick count.
Forty-two, including a couple of kids under the age of twelve, and another half dozen who looked to be teenagers. Apparently ultra-Orthodoxy was a growth industry.
Hebrew flew around me. Based on my newly acquired vocabulary, I was able to grasp that Jake and I were being accused of having taken or done something forbidden, and that some thought we were the children of Satan. I assumed Jake was denying both charges.
Men and boys shouted, glasses and clothing coated with dust. Some bobbed, side curls bouncing like tethered Slinkys.
After several minutes of animated dialogue, Jake focused on a gray-hair who seemed to be the alpha male, probably a rabbi. As the two spoke, the others fell silent.
The rabbi bellowed, face raspberry, pointed finger wagging in the sunlight. I caught the word “ashem.” Shame.
Jake listened, replied calmly, the voice of reason.
Eventually, the foot soldiers of Orthodoxy grew restless. Some resumed shouting. Some shook fists. A few of the younger men, probably yeshiva students, picked up stones.
I kept my eye on the latter.
After a fruitless ten minutes, Jake raised his hands in an I-give-up gesture. Turning to me he said, “This is pointless. We’re out of here.”
I joined him, and together we circled left.
The rabbi yelled a command. The battalion split. The right flank stayed at the tomb. The left flank stuck to Jake and me.
With long strides, Jake began climbing up out of the Kidron. I followed, taking two steps to every one of his.
Yard after yard I scrambled, panting, sweating, hauling myself up on rocks, vines, and bushes. My hip screamed. My legs grew heavy.
Now and then I glanced downhill. A dozen black hats dogged my trail. My neck and back stayed stiff, anticipating the impact of cobble on cranium.
Fortunately, our pursuers spent their days in temples and yeshivas, not gyms. Jake and I left the valley well in the lead.
A half dozen cars now occupied the clearing behind Silwan. Jake’s truck was where we’d left it, but the driver’s side window was not. Tiny cubes of glass flashed sunlight from the ground. Both the truck’s doors were open, and papers, books, and clothing lay tossed about.
“Shit!” Jake sprinted the last few yards, and began grabbing his belongings and tossing them into the back.
I joined in. Within seconds we’d gathered everything, slammed ourselves in, and hit the locks.
The first black hats crested the summit as Jake turned the key, palmed the gearshift, and hit the gas. The wheels spun, and we lurched forward, two plumes of dust following our wake.
I looked back.
The men were wiping brows, replacing headwear, shaking fists. They looked like a jittering troupe of black marionettes, momentarily tangled, but firm in their belief God was pulling the strings.
Jake made a left, then a right out of the village. I kept my eyes on the rear window.
At the blacktop, Jake slowed and put a hand on my arm to calm me.
“Think they’ll follow?” I asked.
Jake’s fingers closed like a vise.
I turned to him.
And felt yet another rush of fear.
Jake’s left hand was gripping the wheel hard. Too hard. His knuckles protruded like bony white knobs. His face was pasty and his breath was coming in short, shallow gasps.
“Are you all right?”
The truck was losing speed, as though Jake couldn’t keep his mind on both accelerating and steering.
Jake turned to me. One pupil was a speck, the other a vacant black hole.
I grabbed the wheel just as Jake collapsed forward onto it, his boot dropping full on the gas.
The truck lurched. The speedometer rose. Twenty. Twenty-two. Twenty-five.
