Peter arrived at Red Square ten minutes before the agreed upon time. It was close to dusk. The normally bustling plaza had settled down for the evening, but a few students still lingered here and there, clustering down by Drumheller Fountain to the south. Through the distant haze, the snowy flanks of Mount Rainier glowed salmon-orange.
At the upper edge of the square stood the Broken Obelisk, a fifty-foot rusted caricature of the Washington Monument, but snapped off at its base, inverted, and balanced on the point of a low pyramid. A group of students stood in its shadow, swiping their phones, chatting, and loosely regarding a skateboarder as he failed miserably to ride the pyramid's base. The Israeli was nowhere to be seen.
Peter hurried across the square to Suzzallo Library. Pausing beneath its cathedral façade, he pushed opened the heavy bronze doors and stepped inside. The foyer greeted him with the familiar scents of wood varnish, old paper and dust. High lancet windows cast the airy chamber in golden stripes and solemn shadows. Twin marble staircases climbed gently to the second floor.
At the top, just to the left, an alcove window overlooked the Broken Obelisk and Red Square. Peter waited for Davila to arrive. The students were still there, but the skateboarder had given up and moved on to lesser conquests. In his place, two men in running pants and light jackets had stopped to stretch their calves.
As Peter waited, he found his gaze increasingly drawn toward the library's interior, across the landing to the Great Reading Room. He knew the place well, that lofty hall of books, haunted by green reading lamps and echoing coughs. He had spent a summer of Friday afternoons there devouring the first Harry Potter novel, imagining himself surrounded by murmuring ghosts, enchanted lamps, and tomes of forbidden magic. And at the end each day, Mom would fetch him, her arms loaded with vinyl record albums from the music library. Back at home, they would record the music onto cassette tapes for Mom's collection. These were the same cassette tapes Peter had been listening to when his mother's old Corolla broke down in the desert. And he had been listening to her favorite composition, "Solveig's Song" from Grieg's Peer Gynt Suite â the precise piece Peter's father had been playing in his penultimate voice mail message.
Peter dashed across the marble landing and veered through the low archway leading to the library's music stacks. Ranks of vinyl record albums crowded the shelves. He ran his finger along their spines until he came to the letter G, for Grieg. He pulled the albums out three at a time, heedless as they fell to the floor. Then he had it, the Peer Gynt Suite with its cover of dark Norwegian mountains brooding in the mist. Reaching inside, he withdrew the black vinyl record, clean and unscratched, untouched. Yet someone had tucked a sheet of folded yellow legal paper between the paper sleeve and the cardboard cover.
He fished it out and unfolded it. In the center of the page, someone had drawn a large stylized flower with four petals, captioned above and below with Viking runes. That someone, Peter knew, had to be his father.
In his mind, Peter translated the message:
Vindolanda Tablet III-245
British Museum London
Two additional runes occupied the flower's central disk, SS. "Solveig's Song." Or maybe seh-mee-nah see-nah-pees.
"Hello?" Nechama Davila stepped into the aisle. She was wearing jeans and a trim white blouse. A small cross-body handbag nestled beneath her left armpit. "Is everything all right?"
Peter hastily folded the paper and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he stooped to pick up the albums he had knocked to the floor. "How did you find me up here?"
"I saw you enter the library just as I arrived at the square. I wondered if something might be amiss, so I followed you inside." She knelt stiffly and helped gather the albums. "I see you like Grieg."
When they had finished, she suggested they go outside as not to be overheard. Peter agreed, and exiting the library, they crossed the square to Drumheller Fountain, its broad, circular pool now ringed with people anticipating another dazzling sunset. The skateboarder from the Broken Obelisk was there too, sitting in a posture of defeat, board across his lap, his balding head bowed.
At Peter's suggestion, they continued south to the old drawbridge spanning Montlake Cut, the narrow boat canal linking Lake Washington to the east with Union Bay to the west. Veering right, they passed through a gate. A narrow concrete path snaked down through a park of manicured grass, narrowing to a point between the canal on the left, and the windowless wall of a concrete building to the right, its base concealed by a tight hedge of ornamental cedars.
Davila stepped off the path and led Peter beneath a squat broadleaf tree. She glanced nervously about, eyes darting.
It was Peter who spoke first. "Tell me what you know."
She looked at him, her expression opaque. "I don't know anything for sure."
"You said you knew who killed my dad."
She turned to watch something down by the water, her profile stern against the setting sun, noble and feminine. "Was it arson?"
"How did you know that?"
She faced him. "I didn't. Not until you confirmed it just now. But clearly, I had my suspicions. Was his body burned beyond recognition? Did they have to rely on dental records?"
She knew. But Peter was not about to make the same mistake twice. "Just tell me who did it!"
"I'll tell you, if you tell me what you know about the Ramallah Ossuary."
"I told you, I don't know anything about it. And neither did my dad."
"Did he mention he was in Israel last month?"
Peter drew a sharp breath. He had mentioned that trip, just before they donated blood together.
"Well?" said Davila.
"Listen, I'm notâ"
She silenced him with a raised hand and nodded toward the water, whispering, "Do you see those two men down there? They were waiting at the Broken Obelisk when I arrived."
Peter had seen them too, the joggers in running pants and light jackets.
The two men were splitting up now. One was big and blond, his hair in a ponytail. He hurried along the canal and up toward the gate. The other was sallow, thin, and balding. As he strode directly toward them, he reached into his jacket for somethingâa gun with a long silencer attached to the barrel.
"Run!" said Davila, sprinting toward the cedar hedge as fast as her limp would allow.
Peter sprang after her just as something dense ripped the air an inch behind his head, followed closely by a sharp pop. Reaching the hedge, he crashed through the branches and found himself in a tight, litter-strewn space between the cedars and the wall. Immediately, a bullet impacted the wall just above his right shoulder, spraying him with bits of concrete. Spinning left, he ran downhill through the narrow space, leaping over garbage and fallen branches. Then his toe caught an exposed root, and he stumbled sideways into the dense foliage.
There he lay in a hammock of branches, perfectly still, cedar fronds itching the back of his neck. He could hear everything all at once, his pounding heart, his panting breath, the cars on Pacific Avenue, the cry of a seagull a mile away. And something else, much nearer: hard wheels rolling down the concrete path. A skateboard.
A twig snapped to Peter's right. He twisted his body, trying to stand, but instead he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun, the man behind it just a blur.
Holy Mary, Mother of God.
He thought to run, but his body refused even to twitch. And all at once, a strange peace settled over him, a crushing calm, like in his dream.
Pray for us, now and in the hour of our deaths.
He turned away, closing his eyes just as something white flickered in his peripheral vision. Was it the muzzle flash? Or was it the bullet ripping through his brain, the random discharge of neurons? If so, why did the cedar fronds still itch the back of his neck?
His eyes snapped open just as Davila's white blouse came flying into view, left to right, her leg extended in a karate kick. The sole of her shoe struck the outside of the balding assassin's right knee, and it buckled inward with a sickening crunch.
Bellowing in pain, he fell to his right, breaking the fall with his gun-hand. Davila dove on the weapon and pinned it down with every muscle in her body.
Managing to free and himself, Peter lunged forward to help, stumbling onto all fours. The assassin swung his free fist, striking Peter just above his right eye. The blow was so powerful, it spun him halfway around. Blindly, he drove his elbow backward and up toward the assassin's face. But it struck something else, soft and pliable.
Peter whipped around. The assassin was on his knees now, wide-eyed as he gurgled and clutched his throat with both hands. Davila snatched up the gun and slammed its heavy handle against the man's temple. He slumped to the ground, unconscious.
She hauled Peter to his feet and dragged him down the narrow space toward the canal. They had made it only a few yards when she stopped abruptly. Not two yards ahead stood the second assassin, gun raised, his bulky frame blocking the way, blond hair slicked back into a helmet. Davila scrambled behind Peter, and pulling herself close, she raised her right hand and waived it like a flag of surrender.
The blond assassin tilted his head, puzzled it seemed by her gesture. Or maybe it was the sound of skateboard wheels coming to a stop just on the other side of the hedge.
Something cold and hard slithered up Peter's back, sliding left, poking out beneath his arm: the long silencer of a gun, the gun Davila had taken from the first assassin.
The assassin firmed up his grip and aimed at the center of Peter's chest. There was no calming presence this time, no crushing peace, just hot desperation choking his lungs.
Peter flinched at the muffled pop. He looked down. There was blood on his shirt. He felt suddenly faint, and fell to his knees, frantically patting his chest for the entry wound. But there was none.
The assassin lowered his weapon. It slipped from his fingers and thudded the ground. He teetered, blue eyes suddenly dull and sleepy as his body collapsed joint by joint, folding down like an accordion until he lay flat on his back, legs splayed in a capital M beneath him. A vermilion stain spread through jacket's fabric just over his heart.
Peter scrambled to his feet and staggered back against the wall.
Davila kicked the blond assassin's gun out of reach and gaped at the weapon in her own hand. Then she untucked her blouse, wiped her prints from the weapon, and stashed it in the trees.
"Move!" she hissed. Stepping over the dead assassin, they continued haltingly down the narrow space, peering out through gaps in the hedge. When they reached the end of the edge at the corner of the building, Peter took out his cell phone, hands shaking so badly he could hardly unlock it.
Davila ripped it from his hands and powered it off. "Don't be stupid! Our phones are being monitored. How else do you think those men knew we would be at the Broken Obelisk?"
God, was she right?
She handed back his phone along with a wad of tissues from her handbag, glancing at his forehead. "You're bleeding."
The blood on his shirt was coming from his forehead just above the right eye. He pressed the wad of tissues to the laceration and got down on his knees, feeling faint again.
"Are you all right?" said Davila.
He waived her off. "Just give me a second. This always happens when I see blood."
Davila scanned their surroundings, head on a swivel. "We need to move."
Peter's spell was passing. "I think there's a police station nearby. We can walk to it."
"No!"
"Why the hell not?"
"I'll explain later, not here. We need to find somewhere safe, somewhere private."
Peter knew just the place. But could he trust this Israeli woman? At least she did not want to hurt him; of that Peter was sure. In fact, she had just saved his life.
He got to his feet. The bleeding had stopped. "OK. Follow me."
Six blocks north, in the heart of the University District, they turned down an alley and approached the third stoop on the right. Peter thumped on the door, and when no one answered, he knelt and sifted through the empty flowerpot for Anna's spare key. Just as his fingers touched the cool metal, he found himself staring at her mismatched socks in the open doorway.
"Peter?" said Anna.
He let go of the key, brushed off his hands, and stood. "I thought you were going to the hospital today."
"Oh my God. What happened to you?" Her eyes darted between Peter and Davila.
"I'm fine. She's with me. I'll explain inside."
They filed in, and Anna bolted the door behind them.
The Israeli stationed herself by the front window, while Anna took Peter to the kitchen. They sat at a small table. Anna wiped the blood from Peter's face with a damp towel while he explained what had happened.
"And you didn't call the police?" she said.
"No."
She wiped at a spot on Peter's chin. "Why not?"
"Our phones are being monitored."
Anna's hazel eyes narrowed, and she craned her neck to check on Davila. "You know I've seen her before."
Peter grabbed her arm. "What?"
Remember that woman I told you about, the one your dad was whispering to at the charity event?"
"That's her?"
She nodded.
Peter got up and strode into the living room.
Davila now sat on the couch, handbag open on her lap.
"What the hell was going on between you and my dad?" said Peter.
Davila looked up, dark eyes narrow. "Excuse me?"
"You met him at a charity event. My friend saw you two together."
"I did meet him, once, yes."
Peter recalled what the Medical Examiner had said, that whoever killed his father had used military-grade incendiary devices. And Davila had military training. At least she knew how to fight and how to use a gun. "You were in his truck. You were at his house!"
"I most certainly was not."
He shoved his hand into his jeans pocket, digging past the folded note from the library to the pendant earring he had found in the ashtray of his father's pickup truck. He pulled it out and dangled it by the hook so she could see. "Then whose is this?"
She sprang to her feet, spilling her handbag in the process. Leaning close, she examined the earring, mouth agape. The she stumbled back and plopped back onto the couch. "Where did you get that?"
"You left it in my dad's truck."
She shook her head. "No. God, no! He's here."
Anna entered the living room, looking up from her phone. "I just called 911. They'll be here any minute. What the hell is going on?"
Davila hastily gathered the contents of her handbag and rushed to the door.
"Hey! Where the hell do you think you're going?" said Peter.
Davila released the deadbolt and turned the knob.
Anna gripped Peter's arm. "No! Let her go."
___________________
Author's note:
Thank you for reading Chapter 10!
All comments welcome.
-Frode