"I'm not running a fever."

"The rain will cool me down, do me good."

"I'll climb those stairs faster than you will."

"Like I said, Doctor, you don't have to wait. You've already done enough."

He kneaded the back of his neck, his jaw tight. "I'll wait, Mr. Lapid. But if you're not back here in fifteen minutes, I'm coming in to see if you're okay."

He'd parked right before the front door. Still, my hair was wet by the time I hobbled into the lobby. The clerk looked up from his magazine. His bulging eyes protruded further when he saw me.

I walked to the counter. "I'm checking out. I'm going upstairs to get my things. But I seem to have misplaced my key."

He raised his chin a tad, and a malicious smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "There's a three-lira fine for losing your key."

I wanted to grab his shirtfront, drag him over the counter, and hurl him at the nearest wall, but I was in no condition to. So instead I took three one-lira bills from my wallet and tossed them on the counter. He replaced them with a key, then stepped back as I reached for it, as though afraid of contracting whatever ailed me. I had half a mind to cough deeply in his direction but knew that would cause me agony. So I merely picked up the key and headed for the stairs.

Before beginning to climb, I followed the rise of the dim staircase with my eyes all the way to the second-floor landing. I counted fourteen steps. No big deal. But now it seemed like I was about to scale a sheer mountainside, and I had to get to the top without falling even once.

I gripped the banister, set my right foot on the bottom step, and heaved myself upward. This simple movement, normally done mindlessly, without effort, now felt as though I were stretching my body to its breaking point. A little more pull and I would tear apart like a badly stitched seam.

By the time I cleared five steps, I was gasping for breath. After ten, my body was shaking. Twice, I was dizzy and had to grab the banister with both hands to steady myself.

When I got to the second-floor landing, I stood with my head pressed against the wall until I recovered a bit of strength. I wondered how much time had elapsed. Three minutes? Five? Maybe more?

The thought of Dr. Aboulker barging in at any moment impelled me to move on. I had another flight of stairs to climb.

This one was harder than the first. Each step a jagged shard of torment. When I finally reached the top, my heart was hammering, and an acidic lump of bile was lodged at the bottom of my throat. My legs wobbled. My chest ached. My various bruises throbbed. Each inhalation seemed to contain not merely air, but also a lick of flame that scorched my lungs. I wanted to sit down right there in the hall, but I knew that if I did, it might be a long while before I was able to stand up again.

I staggered to my room instead, unlocked the door, and went inside. I could tell instantly that someone had been there in my absence.

Kulaski and his fellow cop goons.

I swore, surveying the mess. The mattress was crooked. They had looked underneath and hadn't bothered to straighten it. My bag had been overturned. My things lay scattered across the floor. Nothing seemed to be missing, though I couldn't be sure.

My heart went into palpitations when I saw the dresser had been pulled from its place, a cake slice of blackness between its back and the wall. All the drawers were open, each to a different degree, but none had been pulled out entirely, including the bottom one, under which I'd hidden the gun. A good sign, but they might have put it back just to give me false hope. It was just like Kulaski to pull a trick like that.

The next part was difficult. Gingerly, I lowered myself to my knees as though I were made of the thinnest glass and was liable to shatter at the mildest tension. It still hurt. As did my knees and shins when I set my weight on them. My attackers hadn't spared those body parts either.

I pulled the bottom drawer, wincing as I scooched back to get it all the way out. I set the drawer aside and, holding my breath, peered at the space between the floor and where the drawer usually lay. There, right where I'd left them, lay the gun and two magazines. An exhalation of pure relief whooshed out of me. A triumphant smile spread across my face.

"Kulaski, you incompetent moron," I murmured. But maybe that wasn't the reason why Kulaski and his pals hadn't found the gun. Maybe they hadn't tossed my room to find anything, but merely to intimidate me further. To pass on yet another message. To appear stronger and make me feel weak and small in comparison. So maybe they hadn't searched too hard. They'd just made a mess and left.

My smile widened. Kulaski had no idea how close he'd been to a key piece of evidence in the Shapira murder investigation.

You don't know as much as you think, Inspector, I thought. Not nearly as much.

I put the gun in my coat pocket. The two magazines I buried among the clothes I gathered back into my bag. I felt safer with the gun on me, within easy reach. If Kulaski had a change of heart and tried to prevent me from leaving Jerusalem, I intended to fight.

I returned the drawer to its place—another simple task that caused me great suffering. Then I zipped the bag shut, grabbed the leather handles, and tried to stand. A swirl of dizziness clutched me, spinning the world around me, robbing my equilibrium. I stumbled, flailed around with my left hand, and luckily managed to brace myself against the dresser or I would have fallen on my face. I waited a moment until the world stabilized and, with tentative, old-man steps, headed for the door. Descending the stairs was going to be a trial, especially with one hand monopolized by the bag.

The quick thud of approaching feet greeted me as I stepped into the hall. Someone was bounding up the stairs toward me. I dropped the bag and ducked my right hand into my pocket. My fingers curled around the cold grip of the gun. My forefinger slipped into the trigger guard, pad on the trigger, ready for firing.

I was about to pull out the gun and aim it where the stairs met the hallway when a voice reached my ears: "Mr. Lapid? Mr. Lapid, where are you?"

A second later, the owner of the voice appeared on the landing, panting a little, droplets of rain in his hair.

Dr. Aboulker.

I'd completely forgotten about him. My physical discomfort and the menacing sound of approaching footsteps had wiped him from my mind. I'd been certain it was Kulaski.

I let out a breath. Released the gun grip. "Has it been fifteen minutes already, Doctor?"

"Just about," he said, frowning a little. "What's the matter? Why are you looking at me like that?"

I'm just happy I didn't shoot you, I thought, saying: "I'm happy to see you, that's all. Thank you for sticking around. Sorry it took me so long."

His frown didn't go away. "You got your things?"

"In the bag."

He looked at it, down at my feet. "Why is it on the floor?"

"I dropped it," I said. "I'm a little weak. Would you do me a favor and carry it down for me?"

He hesitated. Whatever it was I didn't wish him to see might be in this bag.

"Never mind," I said, and started to bend down to pick it up.

"Let me do it," Dr. Aboulker said, rushing forward and grabbing the bag before I could.

I thanked him, and he led the way. For some reason, perhaps because of Dr. Aboulker's presence, or maybe fortified by the reassuring weight of the gun in my pocket, I found the descent easier than the ascent had been.

"So long and go to hell," I said to the clerk, brandishing the key he'd given me before letting it fall to the lobby floor. Dr. Aboulker and I stepped out into the rain. I got into the car. He dumped my bag on the back seat, next to his briefcase, and climbed behind the wheel.

On the drive over to the central bus station, his eyes kept darting to me and then to the rearview mirror, where he could see the bag. He kept rubbing his mouth nervously, which made me feel bad.

After stopping outside the station on Jaffa Street, he asked, "Who are you really, Mr. Lapid?"

I saw no harm in telling him. Besides, now that I was on the cusp of fleeing Kulaski's domain, my anxiety had decreased and my professional curiosity was beginning to reassert itself. "I'm a private investigator. I'm working a case here in Jerusalem. A case pertaining to your hospital, in fact."

"My hospital?"

"Yes. It concerns a nurse by the name of Moria Gafni. Did you know her?"

"Not closely, no. We never worked together, but I know who she was. News of her death was all over the hospital. What does it mean, your case concerns her?"

"I was hired to discover why she killed herself."