I pulled my new hat low over my face as I got off the bus in Jerusalem. I sneaked glances under its brim but saw no cops in the station. For the first time since this case started, I wished it would rain; it would make me harder to recognize. Still, night offered some cover, which was partly why I chose to return to Jerusalem this late.
The air smelled of exhaust fumes and the faint odor of someone's pipe. My skin crawled as though I were being watched, but I spotted no watchers. It was as though Kulaski was an evil spirit roving about Jerusalem, seeing everything that went on in the capital.
It was after eleven, the streets dark and cold and nearly empty, but it was still too early for what I had in mind. Most cafés and restaurants had already closed for the night, but I finally found a small bar that was still open. I chose the rearmost table, ordered a glass of wine I had no intention of drinking, and tried to read the latest paperback Greta had brought me. I couldn't concentrate on the story; I kept raising my eyes from the text to look at the front door, sure I'd see Kulaski grinning at me.
It was well after midnight when I picked up my bag and got out. It was time to go to sleep.
There was a chance Kulaski had given my name and description to all Jerusalem hotels. And if not, he might periodically check with them. I couldn't risk it. I needed someplace else to lay my head, where no one would know I was there, and I could think of just one option.
I made my way north and entered the now familiar streets of Kerem Avraham. On the corner of Malkei Israel and Amos, I paused and took a long stare into the street where Moria Gafni had made her home.
Both sidewalks were empty. Nearly all the windows I could see were dark. I counted just three lights, none of them in Moria's building. The street was quiet apart from the whisper of the wind and the pattering of small animal feet in the impenetrable shadows between buildings.
I turned onto Amos Street, scanning the windows on either side, but saw no curious faces peering out at me. At the entrance to Moria's building, I paused and listened. No sound. No baby crying, no muffled speech, no sense of movement anywhere.
I removed my shoes and padded inside, crossed the lobby, and started up the stairs. If anyone opened their door and saw me in my stockinged feet, I'd have some difficult explaining to do.
A shaft of moonlight from a rectangular aperture set into the wall bathed the second-floor landing a tarnished silver. I held my breath as I tiptoed past the Shukrun apartment. Lillian was probably asleep, but I wanted to take as few chances as possible.
I still had the key to Moria's apartment. I slid it into the lock as quietly as I could and turned it, cringing at the clicking sound the bolt made as it retracted. I went inside and closed the door gently. I waited with my ear pressed to the door for two full minutes, but it seemed no one was coming to check on the apartment. Gritting my teeth, I relocked the door. More noise, but it was worth it. I did not wish to be surprised in my sleep.
The air in the apartment was breathless and dead; the windows were shut against the cold and wind. It was gloomy, Moria's furniture nothing but obscure black humps, and I did not dare to switch on the lights. Leaving my shoes by the door, I soft-footed to the bedroom and set my bag by the closet. My gaze landed on the unmade bed where Moria Gafni had taken her own life. Greta had been right: this was morbid. But I had slept in places far more ghoulish.
Unwilling to risk making unnecessary noise, I did not make the bed. Nor did I remove my clothes. But I did take out the gun before stretching out on the same mattress where Moria had lain dead. I wanted it in my hand while I slept.
As I closed my eyes, I could sense the nightmares brewing in my subconscious. They would be especially gruesome tonight. Before I drifted off, I rolled up my handkerchief and jammed it between my teeth. It was the only way I could think of to choke off my screams.
I woke up early and exhausted. My sleep had been brittle and shallow and haunted. My jaw was cramped, and my throat burned, as though all the screams I'd stifled had seared my airways.
The light outside the windows was gray and sickly, just like I felt. I sat up, my feet on the floor, then jerked my head around as a cold finger ran down my spine. Of course the mattress was empty. No ghosts here or anywhere except in my dreams.
I treaded softly to the bathroom, peed, but did not flush. I remembered how loudly the pipes rumbled the last time I did.
I didn't dare go out. Not yet. Instead, I took up position by the window overlooking the entrance to the building, but stood well back so I could not be seen by any passersby below.
Beside me I had the bottle I'd brought with me from Tel Aviv, which I had filled up with water at the bar last night, and an open can of peas with the spoon I got from my bag; I didn't want to open any kitchen drawers if I could help it.
I stood for a long time before I saw anyone exit the building. It was a man I didn't know, one of the neighbors I hadn't encountered, probably. Then there was one of the women I'd spoken to and her children, school bags on their backs.
It was seven thirty when I saw the hulking form of Daniel Shukrun lumbering outside, a lunch pail in his grip. He walked south toward Malkei Israel Street and disappeared from sight.
That left Lillian. Nosy, watchful Lillian. She was the one I feared most. I hoped she would venture out soon.
Two hours passed and she didn't. My back started to ache. My ribs throbbed, reminding me that I was not fit for so much standing. But if I sat, I would have to move closer to the window to be able to see the building's entrance and near sidewalk, and then I might be seen in turn. I ate another can of food, corn this time. I drank all the water in my bottle. I wanted a cigarette badly, but I feared someone might smell the smoke from the landing.
Another hour. And then another. This was like guard duty in the war, standing watch over an empty landscape, getting so bored you half wished the enemy showed up and broke the tedium. A soldier's foolish mind.
"Come on, Lillian," I mouthed. "Go do some shopping. Take the baby out for a walk. Let her have some air, dammit."
And, as though God himself had heard my prayer, she appeared. Bundled up in a coat and pushing a baby stroller before her. She paused, started raising her head, and I took a hurried step backward, cursing. Was the woman psychic? Did she have a sixth sense?
I was too far from the window to see her now, and I worried that if I stepped forward, she might see me somehow. So I stayed rooted to my spot for a good minute, then inched forward to peek down.
She was gone.
Had she slipped back inside, alerted somehow to my presence? I moved right, caution thrown to the wind, to get a better angle of the southern portion of Amos Street.
There she was. Walking away, her back slightly bent as she maneuvered the stroller around a pair of chatting women.
I exhaled loudly and moved quickly. I had no idea how long Lillian would be gone. I flushed the toilet, had a drink of water, and got out of the apartment after checking through the peephole that no one was lurking on the landing.
I turned north, in the opposite direction of the way Lillian had gone, and left Amos Street behind me. That was the easy part of my day. Now came something harder.
* * *
The night we talked in Café Atara, which seemed like years ago now, Naomi Hecht had told me she lived on the corner of Malachi and Zeharia Streets. I had no idea if she was home at the moment. I also didn't know whether her husband would be there, but he was likely at work. As for her, unless she had found a new job since the day I fled Jerusalem, she was currently unemployed.
I walked through a drizzle, my spine tingling, my pulse spiking every time I turned a corner, sure Kulaski would be waiting for me, his immaculate uniform magically untouched by the precipitation and a merciless tight-lipped smile on his lips.
My palm was clammy around the grip of the gun in my pocket. If Kulaski came after me, he was in for a big surprise.
And afterward?
I preferred not to think about that.
Naomi Hecht's building was four stories tall. A departing neighbor told me she lived in apartment 6, on the second floor. A child's bicycle leaned against one of the walls in the lobby. The smell of cooking permeated the second-floor landing. Someone was making powdered eggs and beans. A potent combination.
I knocked on the door marked 6. Naomi Hecht opened it. Her face registered surprise when she saw me. She was wearing a black dress that fit her perfectly and white stockings that clung to her calves. Her only ornament was her wedding band.
The days that had elapsed since our last encounter had been cruel to her. She looked more tired than ever.
