I did. Standing in the clearing, I noticed that Kulaski was holding a different gun, having pocketed Moria's after he got out of the car. His gun was bigger, familiar, but with my brain panicked and jumpy, I couldn't put my finger on the model. But it wasn't standard police issue. Over by the front of the car, Rapfogel held a gun, too, also a nonstandard issue.
It figured. You didn't use your regular guns for a murder. You used pieces you confiscated on one of your cases. Then you disposed of them, and there was nothing that could point to you.
I looked around me, my heart stammering. Nothing but dense trees and darkness between them, and the empty ribbon of dirt on which we had traveled here. No noise apart from the hum of the vehicle and the vague sounds of forest nightlife. The fresh smell of trees and shrubs crisp and pleasant. The moon a bleached unblinking eye in a black sky.
A beautiful night, but that didn't make it a good time to die. I recalled all the times I'd come inches from death but somehow survived. A few times in Hungary before the war, many more in Auschwitz and Israel's War of Independence, and several times since. But I couldn't see how I'd make it through tonight.
I couldn't fight. I had no weapon, and my hands were cuffed. I could run, but I wouldn't get far. I was in the middle of the clearing, the trees a few meters away. No cover between me and them, and long before I would get to them, a bullet would get to me.
"You should have signed that confession when you had the chance," Kulaski told me. "You should have taken your punishment like a man."
"I didn't beat that cop."
"It doesn't matter anymore. Now step away from the car and move that way."
I didn't budge, so Kulaski grabbed me by the arm and hauled me, struggling ineffectually, to where the headlights shone brightest, and I was reminded of the searchlights that scoured the grounds at Auschwitz at night, the armed guards who shot anyone they felt like.
With Kulaski close, I searched for an opportunity to strike him, but with my hands useless, I couldn't do much, and Kulaski kept me at arm's length. Finally, he gave me a shove, and I stumbled a little but managed not to fall. Now he was six feet away from me, and whatever chance I'd had was gone.
Rapfogel had another bottle and was guzzling more wine. His face was flushed, and his brow glistened with perspiration, unlike Kulaski, who was cool and calm.
Now they'll do it, I thought. I had just a few seconds to live. Groping for a way to stave off death, I said the first thing that came to mind.
"Did Kulaski tell you I'm under the protection of the deputy commissioner?" I asked Rapfogel. "That's why he had to let me go."
Rapfogel frowned at his superior. "What's he talking about?"
"Nothing. Don't listen to him."
"If I die, the deputy commissioner will wonder why. He'll want answers."
Rapfogel tugged Kulaski's sleeve. He was slurring now. The wine was getting to him. "Is he telling the truth? Does he know the deputy commissioner?"
"No, he doesn't. He's trying to fool you. Now put that damn bottle away, and let's get this over with."
"There'll be cuff marks on my wrists," I said. "When they find my body, they'll know cops killed me. They'll come for you, Inspector. And for you, Sergeant."
Rapfogel looked nervous, but Kulaski just laughed. "By the time they find you, the animals will have eaten all the evidence." He raised his pistol. "Enough talk. No last words for you."
"I know who killed your sister," I blurted, my stomach so cramped it was hard to stand straight.
"What did you say?" he asked, staring at me without blinking.
"I know who planted the bomb that killed your sister. I know who constructed it." I had no idea if those men had been caught. I was betting my life that they hadn't.
"Who are they? What are their names?"
"You have to let me go."
"I'll shoot you if you don't talk," he shouted. His face was turning red. His gun hand shook a little. The tendons in his neck stood out like taut ropes. This was the reason we were here; this was why he wanted to kill me. His sister. He couldn't punish the men who had caused her death, so he took it out on anyone connected with the Irgun or the political party affiliated with it, Herut. Now I was dangling his wildest dream before his nose: the chance to get even with those directly responsible for his sister's death. I was hoping the temptation would make him careless.
"Shoot me and you'll never know. You'll go to your grave without knowing."
"Who are they?" he screamed, and somewhere in the trees behind me, a bunch of startled night birds took flight.
"They live in Jerusalem," I said, feeding the furnace of his desire. "You can be at their homes in under an hour. If I tell you the addresses."
I could see it in his eyes: the moment he snapped. Then he was sprinting toward me, a frenzied yell gushing from his throat like lava from a volcano. His gun was in one hand; the fingers of the other were curled like talons. "Tell me, or I'll—"
I didn't let him finish. When he was a step away, I tucked my chin into my chest and lunged forward to meet him, ramming the top of my head into his face.
I connected with bone and heard it crunch and break. Kulaski and I flopped to the ground right next to each other. He was knocked out, his nose and mouth bloodied. The top of my head hurt like hell, and my vision swam a little, but I bit my lip to clear it up. From the corner of my eye, I saw Rapfogel gawking at the unexpected scene, the wine bottle discarded and dripping at his feet. Then he lifted his gun to fire, but Kulaski and I were so close, he had to be careful not to hit his friend.
Kulaski had dropped his gun when I hit him. I rolled to it, earth exploding near my face as Rapfogel fired, and then I grabbed the gun awkwardly in my cuffed hands, struggling to fit my finger onto the trigger. I rolled again, small stones and acorns digging into my back and stomach, as another shot rang out, and then two more. If Rapfogel had been sober, I doubt he would have missed me.
Rolling onto my stomach, Kulaski's gun in my brittle grip and pointed in Rapfogel's general direction, I pulled the trigger over and over, shifting my hands to cover more ground, howling an incoherent battle cry, firing without aim or sense until the magazine was spent.
I fired eight bullets. Seven of them missed. The eighth bit through Rapfogel's shoe and masticated his foot. He screamed, crashing down, gun discarded and forgotten as he gripped his ruined foot with both hands.
I rolled to Kulaski, who was beginning to stir. I didn't have much time. I had to get free before Kulaski came to or Rapfogel stopped wailing long enough to remember that more than his foot was at stake here tonight.
I wormed my fingers into Kulaski's closest pocket, praying that was where he kept his keys, and fumbled around until my fingertips touched metal. I tugged the key ring out and undid the cuffs. The instant they fell off my wrists was one of the most exhilarating moments of my life.
I knelt by the stunned inspector and, digging through his pockets, found Moria's gun and a fresh magazine for Kulaski's pistol. He came to as I was rummaging, and for the first time I saw sweet fear in his eyes. He tried to shove my hand away, so I smacked him in the mouth, and he screamed with agony. "Doesn't feel so good getting hit on an injury, does it?" I said. I pocketed Moria's gun, reloaded Kulaski's pistol, and aimed it at him. "I am truly sorry about your sister," I said, and shot him in the center of his face.
I turned to Rapfogel. The shot I'd just fired seemed to have reminded him of the danger he was in. Grimacing, his foot a red mess, he scrambled for his fallen firearm, but I was faster.
"Please," he whined, tears streaming down his ashen face. "Please don't shoot me. It was Kulaski. He ordered me to."
