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

the tales Benyamin’s mother used to tell of mighty Sisera, oppressor of the Israelites, giant among the sons of God.

Weary and on the run from a lost battle, that particular giant had taken refuge in a woman’s tent dwelling and downed a bowl of warm lebben, curdled milk, before falling asleep wrapped in a rug.

Only, Sisera never awoke.

The woman drove a spike through his temple. A metal . . .

Metal tent peg. An MTP.

Well, perhaps Cal Nichols was onto something there, toting around his daypack of rustic tools—the mallet, a few pegs, perhaps some bottles of warm milk for putting the bedtime monsters to rest.

Of course, that had all happened thousands of years ago, before read-ily available shotguns and pistols. Even a blunderbuss could do the job with more efficiency. There was no reason, in Benyamin’s mind, to join Those Who Resist when he could deal with matters on his own by a few well-placed shots.

“I said not to move,” Benyamin repeated.

The apparition stopped.

Some believed that the name Sisera meant Servant of Ra. Well, this modern-day counterpart looked nothing like a minion of the Egyptian sun god. He was wearing work boots and a thick corduroy jacket over a wool sweater. He was enormous, broad backed, but maybe a man after all.

“Don’t shoot,” the maybe-a-man said. “I’m just taking you to the vineyard.”

“You’re not taking me anywhere.”

Benyamin remembered something else about Sisera. To this day, during the Jewish festival of Rosh Hoshanah, the shofar was blown a hundred times to represent the cries of Sisera’s mother when she heard of his demise. In Benyamin’s ears, he imagined that soul-wrenching wail now, the primal cry of the ram’s horn. A call to judgment.

A 9x18mm judgment . . . Meet your Makarov.

“Not another step,” Benyamin said.

“But I have my orders.”

“Stay right there.”

With eyes blazing again, the creature defied his command and charged ahead on powerful, driving legs.

Sisera, viscera . . . You’re going down.

The former patrolman squeezed the trigger twice in rapid succession.

Chattanooga

“Did you hear that?” Gina said.

A throng of tourists milled at the railing, eyes fixed on a red-lit natural amphitheater of fluted stone formations and stalactites. A few cocked their heads, as though intrigued by what sounds might be trapped hundreds of feet beneath Lookout Mountain. The rumbling of an earthquake? Cries of the Confederate dead?

“Vat are vee supposed to hear?” a German man asked.

“Nothing. I’m sorry.”

Gina stepped back from her tour group and cupped a hand over her stomach. In her ears—or was it only in her imagination?—she had registered two sharp thunderclaps. The baby inside had squirmed at the same moment, his discomfort radiating throughout Gina’s body.

During this pregnancy, Gina had felt a heightened sensitivity of her physical senses that seemed to carry over into realms of emotion. It sounded crazy, even in her own head, yet she was convinced that her child had somehow dialed her in to others’ turmoil and pain.

So had somebody been shot? Was someone in danger?

She grimaced. Rolled her neck. “It’s okay, little guy.”

“You’re having a boy, huh?”

Gina glanced into the attentive almond-shaped eyes of a brunette. The girl was Gina’s height, around the same age, with an unidentifiable accent, Ray-Bans pushed up onto her forehead, and slender legs and hips.

Gina hated her for that. Though Jed kept telling his wife that she hadn’t lost any of her appeal and that he especially appreciated her swelling chest, one look in the mirror proved that her once shapely behind had turned to lard.

“Yes,” she told the girl. “He’s a constant mover.”

“A little bundle of joy.”

More like a ball of constant sorrow.

But Gina said nothing, afraid it might trigger abdominal cramps or hormonal sobs. She tried to keep tears to herself, hiding them from even her husband.

“Is it true,” the girl inquired, “what they say about the ultrasound?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, Gina—about determining the sex.”

Gina fidgeted with her name tag, not sure she liked being addressed so personally. However, she had grown used to these questions regarding her pregnancy, particularly on the daily trips through the caverns. She was six weeks from her due date, toting a small watermelon beneath her uniform. What did she expect? But why did the promise of new life give strangers the right to rub her belly, ask what names she had picked out, and offer uninvited advice?

She looked into the upturned eyes and recalled seeing this same girl in previous tours, maybe a month or two back. That was strange. Never mind, though. The girl meant well, just wanting the best for mother and baby.

“Haven’t heard that one,” Gina answered. “Look, we better move along.”

“There’s no rush.” Cold fingers touched Gina’s arm. “The others are still taking pictures. From what they tell me about ultrasounds, males always have their hands down in their laps—yes, we know how those boys are, don’t we?—and the females have their hands up by their heads, already primping.”

“Sure. That could be true.”

“So. A boy, huh? I bet you’re excited.”

Gina nodded.

“You look about ready to pop.”

Gina gave her a questioning look, but saw nothing but reptilian disregard above the girl’s pasted-on smile. “Still got a ways to go,” she said.

“Have they given you a due date?”

“Hope it’s soon, that’s all I care. Okay, I’ve got to gather everybody before the next group catches up.”

“You seem upset, Gina.”

“About what? No, I—”

“Hello.” The German man came alongside, voice booming and friendly, a daypack in hand. “Vee also haf places like this in my country, Gina. Sehr schön. You haf lunch break soon? Vee can sit down, I buy you Big Mac, and vee talk about it, ja?”

Hitting on a pregnant woman? What was up with that?

“I’m sure it’s nice,” she said. “C’mon, everyone, let’s move along.”

Gina eased from the girl’s olive-skinned touch, but the chill of those fingers clung to her forearm for the rest of the tour, accompanied by a faint, briny odor. She checked her arm two or three times, thinking the brunette had taken hold of her again, only to