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

memories: quaking earth . . . fabric rending . . . moisture on her parched tongue.

Now, she had only a vague queasiness to remind her of the day’s earlier turmoil. No use saying anything to Jed about it. Wouldn’t help to complain, or to worry him. The upset stomach could’ve come from food poisoning or the twenty-four-hour flu.

What’d it matter? She always rebounded from this sort of stuff. Tomorrow, she was convinced, she would wake up healthy as ever.

The sickness returned at dawn. In a sheen of sweat, Gina stumbled to the bathroom and faced the toilet on her knees. She puked once. Then again.

The convulsive nature of her malady left her drained, and each movement was an effort that set her head spinning. She held on. Stared down at mauve- and cream-colored tiles, where shorn whiskers from Jed’s electric shaver formed a haphazard dark-brown sprinkle.

Lovable Jed Turney. Messy, mind-on-other-things Jed.

He was at work already. She was alone, with a few hours before the start of her Wednesday shift. No one could see her here, hunched, with bedraggled hair, and knuckles white around the porcelain rim.

She felt insignificant. Humbled, and lowly.

What was going on? Was God punishing her for the tattoo, or the live-in boyfriend, or her myriad other sins—as listed in the Book of Nikki? Had last year’s confrontation with the business end of a moving van inflicted damage to her internal organs? Or . . .

She did the math. Put the pieces together in her mind.

Is it even possible? Could I be . . . ?

Gina’s whisper filled the bathroom: “I think I’m pregnant.”

CHAPTER

TWENTY-FOUR

Arad

Collectors were unable to read minds. Sure, that presented some challenges, but who needed omniscience? Really. It was such a crutch.

Erota, after eons of practice, had little trouble discerning individuals’ weaknesses. Follow their steps, their eyes, their hands. Eventually, actions betrayed a person’s desires with all the clarity of that sign she’d seen on TV, the one in New York City’s Times Square, scrolling thoughts and motives in blazing color for all who cared—or dared—to look.

“Let’s have some fun,” she suggested to her sister.

In three days Erota and Domna would be returning to Kiev by train, and soon after Erota would be on her way to the United States. To Atlanta. Maybe even with a chance to visit New York City someday.

Why not have one last hurrah together, here in Arad? Hunters and prey. Wasn’t that what their father had spoken of ?

Domna was a willing participant. “What’ve you got in mind?”

In the predawn hours, the pair of long-legged teenagers trailed Benyamin home. He was still woozy from the incident in the Cetatea chapel, knees wobbly, eyes watery. He closed the metal gate with exaggerated care, then disappeared inside.

The girls waited. At daybreak he reemerged with his son, climbed into a Peugot sedan, and headed off, presumably for work and school.

“Let’s see what his wife’s up to.”

“She’ll be out soon enough, Domna. Give it a few minutes.”

Sure enough, Mrs. Dalia Amit appeared with empty canvas bags over her arm. She locked the gate, then shuffled along cracked side-walks toward the corner market, folds of skin swaying beneath her chin. According to Megiste’s assertions, this woman might already be victim to thorns of her own—perhaps a cantankerous vine of bitterness rooted in Mr. Amit’s alcohol abuse—but that in no way dissuaded Erota from the pursuit of blood and personal pleasure. In fact, it might even simplify the procedure.

“There she is,” Erota said. “As expected.”

Domna tipped her sunglasses. “My, she’s a plain woman, isn’t she?”

“Good thing we don’t get any older, huh?”

“I’d rather die than look like that.”

“You,” Erota said, “are so shallow.”

“Look at her. It’s no wonder our friend Benyamin drinks. You and I, we know how men are, and to be honest, I’m surprised that’s his only vice.”

“All it takes is one.”

“True enough,” Domna said. “What’s hers, do you think?”

“We keep on her trail long enough, and I’m sure she’ll give herself away.”

They did. And she did.

It started at an outdoor bazaar. Dalia bought bulk paprika from a wizened woman in a thick wool coat . . . and made every effort to avoid contact with those dark gypsy hands. At the bakery, she told her after-noon plans to an acquaintance . . . while her eyes passed judgment upon the woman’s revealing blouse and caked mascara. Dalia even angled her body away, separating herself from this obvious hussy.

To the baker, she grumbled: “N-aveti piine proaspata?”

The bread’s freshness was not above scrutiny from insufferable Mrs. Amit.

Browsing a rack of fried donuts, gogosi, Erota and Domna listened and observed. They each selected a goody—why not indulge their taste buds, as part of the disguise?—then convened outside.

This would be too easy, they agreed. If any one foible offered more prospects for subversion and distortion, they couldn’t think of what it was.

Oh, the potential in an overblown sense of piety.

Benyamin Amit chased two aspirin with a glass of water, smoothed back his hair, and jaunted down the marble stairway. His sidearm’s reassuring weight shifted in the holster against his ribs. On the third floor of city hall, his superior was locked behind double doors for a committee meeting, leaving Benyamin unsupervised for the next forty-five minutes.

Enough time to visit his favorite doe-eyed archivist.

He eased into the file room on the building’s lower floor. Aside from the dull throbbing between his temples, he felt better than he had in days. No limp. No itch. On his heel, the scar was nothing but a sunken depression beneath tan socks.

“Helene?

“Buna zuia.” She rose from her seat. “Ce mai faci?”

“And a good day to you,” he replied from the doorway. He gripped the lapels of his suit jacket. “I’m doing well. Very well, in fact.”

“Is that so?”

He gave a sly grin. “Last night relieved quite the burden, you know.”

She checked the hallway behind him, then propped herself against the corner of her desk, with legs crossed beneath a long skirt. Behind her, a brass nameplate