“No way,” I said.
Ryan shrugged.
“Peripherals?” I asked.
“Dora Ferris, victim’s mother.”
“Courtney Purviance, victim’s employee.”
“We’re getting goofy.”
“True,” I agreed. “But one thing is clear. Somehow it all comes back to Max.”
“Hypotheses?” Ryan opened phase three.
I started.
“Proposition one. A group of ultra-Orthodox Jews has discovered Max’s identity and fear his presence at Masada will taint the image of Judaism’s sacred site.”
“But we know Max is not J.C. So who is he?”
“A Nazarene. Suppose this ultra-Orthodox group has learned that those living in the cave weren’t with the main group of Jewish zealots. They were, in fact, Jewish followers of Jesus, maybe even members of his own extended family.”
“Yadin knew this? The IAA?”
“That would explain Yadin’s reluctance to discuss the cave remains, and the government’s refusal to do further testing.”
“Tell me again. Why are Jesus followers on Masada a bad thing?”
“The Israelis have made Masada a symbol of Jewish freedom and resistance against external forces. It turns out there were Christians living up there, Jewish or not? They think they’ve reinterred the bones of the last defenders of Masada, but they’ve got early Christians buried under their monument? It would be enormously disturbing, especially for Israeli Jews.”
“Proposition one suggests some fringe group of black hats is willing to do what it takes to keep all this quiet?”
“I’m just throwing it out there.”
I remembered Donovan Joyce’s strange theory, and Lerner’s reaction to it.
“Remember that book I read calledThe Jesus Scroll?”
“The one about Jesus going geriatric?”
“Yes.” I held up two fingers. “Proposition two. A group of militant, right-wing Christians has learned of Max’s existence and believes he is Jesus. They fear the skeleton could be used to invalidate scripture.”
“Yossi Lerner believed that,” Ryan said.
“Yes.” I said. “And perhaps Ferris. And at one time, Morissonneau.”
“But Max isn’t J.C.”
“Weknow Max can’t be Jesus. But Lerner was sure he was Jesus, and look how he reacted. Maybe others think so, too, and they’re playing hardball to make the bones disappear.”
“Proposition three.” Ryan gave my scenario a different spin. “A group of Islamic fundamentalists have learned of Max’s existence and believe he is Jesus. They want to use the bones to undermine Christian theology.”
“How?”
“Jesus at Masada would shatter the central concept of the resurrection. How better to kick the legs out from under Christianity?”
“And these Muslim fanatics will stop at nothing to get their hands on Max. That works.”
I pictured Sylvain Morissonneau in his office at l’Abbaye Sainte-Marie-des-Neiges. I made a note to contact LaManche to find out if an exhumation and autopsy had been ordered.
“Proposition four.” I offered a hybrid of my proposition two and Ryan’s proposition three. “A group of Islamic fundamentalists have learned of Max’s existence and believe he is a Nazarene, perhaps even a member of the Jesus family. They fear both Christians and Jews might embrace this finding, reinterpreting Masada with zealots and early Nazarenes struggling against oppression, side by side. They fear the skeleton might be used to trigger a resurgence of religious ardor in the Judeo-Christian world.”
“And they’ve vowed to prevent that,” Ryan added. “That works.”
We took a moment to consider our hypotheses. Fanatic Christians, Jews, or Muslims believing the bones were those of Jesus or one of his family or followers? Each proposition was as frightening as the next.
Ryan broke the silence.
“So who is Kaplan’s mystery woman?” he asked. “And how does she link to Ferris? And how does she link to Max?”
“Excellent questions, Detective.”
“I expect phone records this afternoon.”
Ryan pulled me closer.
“Friedman wants to let Kaplan stew for a day.”
“Stewing can be productive,” I said.
Ryan kissed my cheek.
“I think we’re on the right track, Ryan.”
“Even if you’re on the right track, you’ll get run over if you just sit there.”
“Will Rogers,” I identified the quote. Another game.
Ryan’s hand went to the back of my neck.
“Not much doing on the Sabbath.”
Ryan’s lips brushed my ear.
“Day of rest,” I agreed.
“Little we can detect right now.”
“Mm,” I said. I think.
“But I have another excellent question,” Ryan whispered.
I had an excellent answer.
Yes!
In the Toronto airport I’d noticed a book on the tao of sex, health, and longevity. I hadn’t purchased it, but at the current rate, I was guessing I’d live to be 180. The deep breathing alone must have bought me a decade and a half.
Following breakfast and an argument concerning my driving solo to Beit Hanina, Ryan headed to police headquarters and I drove solo to Beit Hanina.
Jake was in better spirits than when I’d left him.
“Got something you’re going to love,” he said, flapping a paper above his head.
“Beard’s recipe for grouse pie.”
Jake dropped his hand. “Your abrasions look better.”
“Thanks.”
“You have a facial or some kind of treatment?”
“Moisturizer.” I cocked my chin at the paper. “What do you have?”
“A memo from Haas to Yadin containing notes on the Cave 2001 bones.” Jake leaned close and squinted. “Just moisturizer?”
I squinted back. “Positively Radiant.”
“No treatment?”
Not one I was going to discuss.
“Let me see the memo.” I held out a hand.
Jake yielded the paper. The notes were handwritten in Hebrew.
“How long have you had this?”
“A couple of years.”
I shot Jake a look.
“It came mixed in with materials I requested on these first-century synagogue ruins I’m digging. Probably because there’s a first-century synagogue site on Masada. The thing popped into my mind while I was eating breakfast. I vaguely remembered skimming some memo from Haas. It had nothing to do with the Talpiot site, so I set it aside. I dug back through my files, and there it was. I’d never really read it until this morning.”
