Field of Blood by Wilson, Eric (dar e dil novel online reading .TXT) 📗

pack for graph paper, a syringe, glass vials, a scalpel, and a zippered bag. There were other items less familiar to the Mash’az patrolman, including a mallet and long, crude spikes that tum-bled onto the sand.

“What’re those?” Benyamin asked.

“MTPs.”

“Forgive me, but perhaps in Hebrew we call them something different.”

“Metal tent pegs. Come in handy, especially when you’re on your own.”

“Are you a camper? My son and I go sometimes.”

“Uh, right. Camping.” Nickel pointed at the pegs. “In a tent, of course.”

The Israeli furrowed his brow, silenced by this strange reaction.

Nickel bundled the spikes, returned them to his pack, then fixed his attention on a laminated checklist. While Benyamin warded off passersby, Cal Nichols completed his tasks. At last, he eased the corpse into a body bag and paused for a moment of respect.

Sneaking glances, the patrolman felt grudging admiration. How proud he would be to see his own son proficient in such work. He flashed back to last night’s camping beneath the stars—and to the obnoxious bite on his heel.

Benyamin reached down and touched the spot.

That was odd.

Instead of easing away, the poison seemed to have knotted around his tendon and flared into something malignant.

CHAPTER

NINE

Cuvin

Gina pressed her face against the window’s mesh. Low clouds had dumped rain earlier in the evening, and sunflowers stood with drooped heads in the fields. She’d left a jar of homemade jam on a neighbor’s front step. Had the elderly man discovered it before the blue satin bow got drenched?

“Gina.” A voice barked from the front gate. “Call off your dog.”

She swiveled on her toes. Vasile again? Why not his nephew Teo instead?

At the screen door, she found her pet keeping the prefect at bay in an aggressive, three-legged crouch. Even with Treia’s protection, she hoped her mother’s bus from Arad was not delayed.

“Comrade, I think he likes you,” she said to Vasile.

“He’s growling at me.”

“Maybe he smells another animal on your clothes.”

“Make him leave.” Vasile was on the stone walkway, his right hand latched onto the clothesline stretched between the house and an elm sap-ling. His grip made the towels and embroidered tablecloth quiver. “If he bites me, I swear that your mother’ll pay a hefty fine.”

Gina cracked open the door, snapped her fingers. “Treia, over here.”

The dog ended his watch and loped back to his owner. Around his left eye, a sliver of white fur looked almost like a wink: Don’t worry. I’ll ward off this evil man.

“Keep a tighter rein on that creature,” Vasile said. “We must take pride in our village. No more of these wild beasts roaming the alleys and relieving themselves wherever they wish.”

“But, comrade, he was in our yard.”

“Even so, he’s a danger. He should be kept indoors.”

“He’s never hurt anyone.”

“What about that bandage on your neck? I suspect the mutt bit you.”

Gina cupped her hand to the wound, shook her head. She would never divulge to him the humiliation of the antique blade as it cut away the infection. So she was vulnerable. Weak. None of that was for him to know.

“You are impossible,” he said. “Let me talk with your mother.”

“She’s been at university. She’ll be coming around the corner any minute.”

“Education is a waste of a woman’s time, a modern conceit. And what sort of mother leaves her daughter alone with all the chores?”

“I’m capable.”

“Of course you are, Gina.” He flicked a glance in both directions. “But perhaps there’s something you need done in there that requires a man’s strength.”

“My mother says I should shoulder my own load.”

“You know, even adults need a bit of help now and then.” Vasile’s low chuckle matched the spookiness of his hooded eyebrows. “Tell me, are your mother’s sights set on that fellow she’s been seeing? He was here just a few days ago, was he not?”

“She’s not seeing anyone.” Gina eased back from the screen door.

“You wouldn’t forget him. Young, fit, with wheat-colored hair and bright eyes.”

The Provocateur’s handsome face played through her mind.

“Don’t you ever wish that you had a father around? A man to look after you? Let me come in. I’ll bring in an armload of firewood.”

“No, thanks, comrade.”

Vasile moved up the path, but Treia poked back outside and bared his teeth. This time, in a sudden rage, the man returned the snarl, then snapped his gaze to Gina. A hard, yellow fire blazed in his irises, fed by oil-black pupils.

“Call off your dog.”

“No.”

“He may be a cripple, but I’ll hurt him if I must.”

Gina’s heart thumped at her ribs, and her cheeks burned. Even stronger than her fear was her instinct to look after the defenseless and the outcasts. She said, “You should never underestimate a survivor. My mother taught me that.”

“How pertinent. Since you’re also a survivor.”

“You should go. She’s on her way.”

“She’s told you tales of the Nistarim, has she not? Do you know where they hide, these thirty-six? You know, I’ve . . . Well, let’s say I’ve overheard talk from this very home.” The flames in Vasile’s stare flared through his voice. “Look in a mirror, young lady, and tell me what you see. Do you see the proof of your role in this grand scheme?”

“Go away.”

“Do you?”

She spun inside, slamming the door with her elbow.

What did this repulsive man know? What had he seen? Yes, she’d heard talk of the Nistarim from her mother. What family of Jewish heritage hadn’t? Who didn’t wonder if, in fact, there was one of the thirty-six, a lamedvovnik, within their own family line?

But certainly this had nothing to do with the faint mark on her brow.

Unbidden, her fingers reached to trace the lines on her skin, the ones she’d tried so hard to conceal since their appearance a few weeks ago.

Arad, Israel

With only one leg under his bed sheet that evening, Benyamin listened to the wind come howling through the Negev Desert. It scraped cypress branches against the house and rattled window slats. Despite the oscillating fan on the dresser, the oppressive heat still leaned into his