The Theatre - Kellerman, Jonathan

• Название: Kellerman, Jonathan
• Автор: The Theatre
• Жанр: Прочая старинная литература

For all its many crimes of passion and politics, Jerusalem has only once before been victimized by a serial killer. Now the elusive psychopath is back, slipping through the fingers of police inspector Daniel Sharavi. And one murderer with a taste for young Arab women can destroy the delicate balance Jerusalem needs to survive.

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Uphill. The Escort struggled. Go faster, fucking damn fucking car, go faster or I'll rip you apart-

Rip him apart.

Fueling himself with boiling blood. Weapons assessment: only the 9 mm. The Uzi back at Headquarters.

He had his hands.

One good one.

Speeding past Zahal Square, more close calls, hateful shouts from the ignorant. If they knew the truth, they'd cheer him on.

Only Sultan Suleiman through a scatter of frightened faces.

The Old City. Not beautiful anymore. A bloody city. Conquest upon conquest, graveyard upon graveyard.

Jeremiah lamenting.

Mothers eating babies as the Romans besieged the walls.

Blood running down limestone. Altars.

Christian Crusaders wading knee-deep in blood, slaughtering the innocence-

Not my innocent.

Shoshi.

Fatma. Shoshi. Fatmashoshi.

Torturing himself with policeman's knowledge that cracked the glacier:

His motek. Number Four-no! Amsterdam, a dry run.

The Israeli butchery replicating the American butchery. American Number Four.

Gene's voice: This one was very messy, Danny… all the internal organs-No! Abba's coming, angel.

Motek, motek, hold on, hold on. Make yourself live. Force it.

Literally skin and bones- No!

Should have been there, should have been a better daddy. Promise to be better. God allowed back: making deals.

An old Arab man wheeled a barrowful of melons across the street. Daniel sped by. A bus coming from the opposite direction kept him from swerving far enough, and his rear bumper nicked the front end of the barrow.

Rearview mirror story: Melons rolling down Sultan Suleiman. Old man lying flat, then rising, shaking his fists.

Fuck your melons. My fruit is precious. Let her be alive.

Ben Adayah empty, a clear climb: God responding. A single tour bus bumping its way down the Mount of Olives Road.

Dodging to avoid him. Idiots pointing, chattering. Fly by them, fly! Onto Scopus.

Bloody eye of a bloody city. Abba's coming!

The fucking slaughterhouse of a hospital, rosy pink, the pink of diluted blood.

He aimed the Escort at the entrance, screeched to a halt, blocking it. Took hold of the Beretta, checked the clip, and jumped out.

The Arab watchman, Hajab, on his feet. Shaking a fist.

"Halt! You cannot park there!"

Ignore the idiot. Running, through the courtyard.

Hajab stepping in front of him, trying to block his way.

Idiot face flushed with indignation. Idiot mouth opening: "Halt! You are blocking the entrance! Trespassing on United Nations property!"

Charging the idiot.

Idiots arms spread to halt him.

"I am warning you, when Mr. Baldwin returns you'll be in big-"

Swinging the Beretta and hitting the idiot square in the face. Hearing bones crunch, the rustle and thud of collapse.

Running, flying, through the courtyard, trampling flowers. Gagging on sickly-sweet roses.

Funeral flowers.

No funeral today-coming, motek!

Through the door, mentally unfolding the Mandate-era blueprints.

West wing: servants' quarters. Staff quarters. Tagged doors.

The slaughterhouse, empty.

He ran, gun in hand.

Someone heard him, peaked a head out.

The old nurse Hauser, dressed in starched white, a white cap. Touching her hand to her lips in fear.

She shouted something. Ma'ila Khoury, the Lebanese secretary, stepped out into the corridor on awkward high heels. Saw his face and ran back into her office, slammed the door and locked it.

He transformed himself into a bullet. Shot round the corner.

Names on doors. Baldwin. DaroushaHajab. Blah blah blah. Carter.

Carter.

Nazi scum.

He turned the doorknob, expecting to find it closed, ready to aim the Beretta and blast the lock.

Open.

Carter in bed, blue pajamas. Under a top sheet.

Ghost-pale, propped on pillows, his mouth a dark hole in the beard, an elongated O.

No, Shoshi! Too late-oh, no, oh, God!

He pointed the gun at Carter. Screamed:

"Where is she!"

Carter's eyes opened wide. Yellow corneas around gray eyes. "Oh, shit."

Daniel came closer.

Carter covered his face with his arm.

Daniel took in the room as he ran to the bedside.

A real mess. Pig of a Nazi. Dirty clothes and papers everywhere. The nightstand crowded with pill vials, tubes. A plate of half-eaten food. A stethoscope.

The room reeked of medicine and flatulence and vomit.

Sickness-stench.

He forced Carter's arm down. -Ripped off the Nazi's eyeglasses and flung them across the room.

Shattering glass.

Carter blinking. Shaking. "Oh, God."

Nazis prayed too.

He put his knee on Carter's chest, pressed down. Nazi gasped.

Transferring his gun to his bad hand, he used the good one to grab Carter's neck. Big neck, but soft.

He squeezed.

"Where is she, damn you? Where is she! Damn you, tell me!"

Nazi gurgled. Made an unhealthy-sounding squeaking noise from deep inside of him.

He let go. Carter coughed, gulped air.

"Where is she?"

"Wh-Who?"

Slapping the monster hard. Handprints materializing like Polaroid images on the pale Nazi flesh.

Choking the monster again.

Carter's eyes rolled backward.

Daniel let go. "Where is she?"

Carter shook his head, tried to scream, produced more squeaks.

"Tell me or I'll blow your fucking head off!"

"Wh-"

"My daughter!"

"I don't kn-"

Slap.

Tears, gasps.

"Where is she!"

"I swear…"gasp-gulp… "I don't kn-know wh-what…" gasp… "you're talking about."

"My daughter! A beautiful girl! Green eyes!"

Carter shook his head frantically, began sobbing, coughing, retching.

"Cohen," said Daniel. "Nash. Fatma. Juliet. Shahin. All the others, you filth!"

Raising his hand.

Carter cried out, cowered, tried to slide under the covers.

Daniel grabbed his hair, pulled up hard. The Nazi's scalp hot, the hair greasy with sweat.

"Last chance before I blow your filthy head off."

An acid smell filled the room, a wet stain spread on the sheet near Carter's groin.

"Oh Guh-God,' croacked Carter. "I sw-swear it, please buh-believe me. Oh, shit-I do-don't know what you're ta-talking about."

Hand around the throat again.

"Tell me, you-"

A voice at his back, female, indignant: "What are you doing? Get off him, you!"

Hands pulling on his shirt. He shook them loose, kept his knee on Carter, put the gun against the monster's temple, and swiveled.

The movement knocked Catherine Hauser loose. The old nurse stumbled backward. She fell, legs spread, revealing tallowry thighs encased in white stockings. Sensible shoes.

She pushed herself up, brushed off her uniform. Her face was mottled. Her hands shook.

"Out of here," said Daniel. "Police business."

The old woman stood her ground. "What do you want with poor Richard?"

"He's a killer. He has my daughter"

Hauser started at him as if he were mad.

"Nonsense! He's killed no one. He's a sick man!"

"Out of here right now," Daniel barked.

"Gastroenteritis," said Hauser. "Poor man's been sick in bed for the last four days."

Daniel turned and looked at Carter. The Canadian made no effort to move. His breath was rapid, shallow.

Identities.

Stage actor. Manipulator.

"Not that sick," growled Daniel. "Early this morning he took a walk into the city and killed three men, then abducted my daughter."

"Ridiculous!" snapped Hauser. "What time this morning?"

"He left around midnight, stayed away all day, returned just before six."

"Absolute nonsense! Richard was in the room from eight until now-throwing up, diarrhea. I've been here myself, caring for him. I cleaned out the emesis basin at twelve-thirty, gave him sponge baths around two and four, and have been checking on him since then, every hour on the hour. I took his temperature twenty minutes ago. He's got a fever-feel his forehead. Dehydrated. He's taking antibiotics, can barely walk."

Daniel removed the gun from Carter's brow, touched the Canadian's face with the top of his hand.

Burning.

Carter shook with sobs.

Hauser looked at him, raised her voice to Daniel.

"The poor man can't walk two steps, let alone hike into the city. Now I'm warning you, Inspector Whatever-your-name-is: The U.N. authorities have been called. If you don't stop brutalizing him, you'll be in serious trouble."

Daniel stared at her, then at Carter, who was whimpering and breathing hard. His neck was red and raw, already starting to swell. He coughed, gurgled.

Daniel stepped away from the bed. Hauser moved between him and Carter.

"I'm sorry about your daughter, but you've tormented an innocent man."

A hard-faced old woman.

He stared at her, knew she was telling the truth. Carter was vomiting onto the sheets. Hauser brought a metal basin, held it under his chin, wiped him with a washcloth.

Sick as a dog. Four days in bed.

Not Carter on the nightwalk.

Shifting identities.

A manipulative psychopath.

Carter rocked and shook violently. Spit up clear mucus and groaned.

Not acting.

"Please leave, Inspector," said Hauser.

Not Carter. Then who?

Oh, God, who?

Then he thought of the watchman's warning: When Mr. Baldwin returns you'll be in big-

When Mr. Baldwin returns from where?

According to the surveillance log, the administrator hadn't left the Amelia Catherine since Sunday morning.

Shifting identities.

Exchanging identities.

Dr. Terrific.

Runs the place. Boss over the doctors.

Takes on an alter ego when he goes out to kill.

Carter on nightwalk-but not Carter.

False Hassid.

False Arab driving a white Mercedes diesel. Carrying cardboard boxes labeled records. No beard.

Judged possibly large enough to conceal a human body if the body was bent to the point of contortion.

Or small.

A child's body.

He granted Hauser her wish. Ran for the door labeled BALDWIN, S.T.

Locked.

He aimed the Beretta, shattered the lock, stepped in, ready to kill.

A large room, tile-floored and whitewashed, twice the size of Carter's

Blueprint recall; storage pantry.

Big, cast-iron bed. The covers drawn and tucked military tight. Neat and clean, everything in its place.

A Hassid's clothes folded neatly on the bed. False red beard, eyeglasses.

Something shiny and green.

A butterfly pin, silver filigree with malachite eyes.

Not a sign of the monster.

No Shoshi.

He followed the Beretta into the bathroom.

No one.

Luggage in the corner: three suitcases, packed tight and fastened.

A messy one, Danny.

Swallowing his fear, he opened them.

Only clothes in the two bigger ones, neatly folded. He scooped his hands under the garments, tossed them out, opened the smallest.

Toiletries, a shaving kit. False mustaches, wigs, more beards, bottle of hair dye, tubes of theatrical makeup.

In the shaving kit was a one-way ticket on a Greek-registered ship to Cyprus, leaving tomorrow from Eilat Harbor.

He faked us out, Pakad.

He searched the closet: empty.

Looked for attic passages, trapdoors.

Nothing.

Where? The cave? Border Patrol staked out down there- he would have been notified.

He sank to his knees, looked under the cast-iron bed. Silly ritual, like checking for ghosts.

Saw brass hinges, a rise in the tile. Wood.

Trapdoor in the floor.

Blueprint recall: the auxiliary wine Cellar.