Field of Blood by Wilson, Eric (pdf e book reader .TXT) 📕

worked hard to evade notice, feeding in state hospitals, orphanages, alleyways, even upon farm animals. How will this new strategy make that any easier? What am I missing?”

“Ahh,” Ariston cut in, smoothing his suit jacket. “It’s a demonstration you want, son? Then a demonstration you’ll get. Helene?”

“I called him earlier,” his wife said. “He’s on his way.”

An unsuspecting male . . .

Erota wondered who this person was? What was planned for him?

Ariston nodded toward Helene and Megiste. “Go on, then. We’ll fol-low along and meet you in the chapel in five minutes.”

“Come thirsty,” Megiste said.

The willowy priestess let the words trail behind her, and Erota registered the subtle charge of excitement that passed through the cluster. Yes, they were ready to drink.

There she was. Helene? Yes, that was her name.

Benyamin Amit had noticed her in city hall for the past year, an archivist at a small desk. Her movements were always fluid, her smile blithe, but it was those doelike eyes that first got to him. There was none of that fierce pride he saw in his wife, none of that sense of duty, of constant obligation. Helene was a mellow spirit.

Of course, when it came to spirits, Benyamin was a connoisseur.

“Ciao,” he greeted her.

“Ciao, Ben. You brought the payment? Good.” Helene turned along high earthen walls that formed one of the fortress’s six points. “Well, aren’t you coming?”

He tried to push from his thoughts that old wound on his heel—pulsating, still infected with poison. He followed after her, shoes crunching over frosty grass. He was watchful, comforted by the weight of the pistol loaded and holstered beneath his jacket.

Helene led him through darkness toward the Cetatea’s dilapidated chapel with its dual bell towers. The place saw few visitors. The parking area was now empty, and a breeze fluffed the branches of trees stationed around baroque-style buildings. From a distant riverbank, music and laughter marked the location of the Neptun Strand, where locals gathered to eat langosi and drink bere.

Though far-off, the familiar sounds reassured Benyamin.

Seemed safe enough. He and Helene had made exchanges here before. This citadel was a convenient drop point—deserted, yet only a bridge span from the city center.

Uninvited, a set of old images scrolled across his vision: Ein Bokek, the waters of the Dead Sea, and that shriveled corpse . . .

And Cal Nichols. Nickel. Haven’t thought about him in ages.

Benyamin could still picture those metal tent pegs—MTPs—tumbling onto the sand. Surely there couldn’t be any metaphysical purpose behind this recollection, though. He didn’t subscribe to such rubbish.

Best to stay focused now. Pay attention.

He came to a standstill. The presence of an auburn-haired female at the chapel doors gave him pause. Maybe it would be wise to go back the way he’d come, forget the exchange, and apologize to his wife. He had coerced her into moving to this land, pointing out Romania’s rich Jewish heritage and the fact that Elie Wiesel had been born here. Arad even had sister cities in Israel.

Dear Dalia. With nary a word, she had obliged and supported him. She deserved none of the distress he’d foisted on her. He would explain about this itch, and how it grew stronger at night when the loneliness worked as an irritant.

She would scold him. Perhaps lecture.

In the end, though, she would listen as she always did.

“You still want the case of tuica, don’t you?” Helene was touching his arm. The night air smelled warm, almost salty. “This lady, she is awaiting her money.”

“Helene, I’d like you to keep watch as I go in. Could you do that?”

“Expecting trouble?”

“My line of work dictates caution,” he said. “I wouldn’t put it past other black marketers to cut in on our private exchange.”

“See?” Helene told the other woman. “A trustworthy choice.”

The auburn-haired beauty turned her head. Poised, with shoulders back and bust pushing up against her blouse, she appraised him through the eyes of a jeweler. Her lips curled upward, and he took that as a sign of approval.

“Intrati, domnule,” she said, inviting him to enter.

“You have the case?”

“Just inside. I hope you don’t mind us using the house of God for our indiscretions, but it does offer such good cover. Besides, if the dear Lord gave you this body of yours, don’t you think He understands your need to address its fickle demands? It would be petty of Him to hold your weaknesses against you.”

“Weakness? No, no, no. For me, this is a medicine.”

“Oh, honey. I know all about such prescriptions.”

“Either way, I don’t worry over religion and old wives’ tales. We should enable ourselves, rather than relying on mental crutches. I’m a man of learning.”

“A man.” She curled her hair around a finger. “Yes, you certainly are.”

Benyamin was fit for his age, toned and powerful, and so he allowed her silky tones to strum his ego as his legs carried him onward. He would not concern himself with thoughts of Dalia just now, not after she’d taken it upon herself to drain his precious supplies. If these two women wished to fill his prescription, very well.

And if they thought it best to candycoat the prescription, he might be up for that too. Here a scratch, there a scratch.

Left, right, left.

“Ben, you have the money?”

He fumbled the bills from his pocket. “The case? It’s in here, you say?”

“Through those doors.”

His desire was a creeping vine, looped around his foot and reeling him in greedy lurches toward the token of temporary relief. He set a hand on his gun, but kept moving. Any apprehension on his part might cause these ladies to bolt.

It was best to keep walking, keep walking.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-ONE

Chattanooga

Gina gritted her teeth, grabbed her midsection, and rushed to the apartment bathroom. The toilet lid was down, and she—

No time. Hurry.

She brushed aside the ivory shower curtain and heaved into the tub. Her guts seemed to turn inside out as another spasm bent her over the drain.

Finally, she ran the water, sprayed the tub clean, then wiped her mouth and splashed