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

plain and simple. I’m all about bringing them to justice. And you can help me. You’ve seen the damage they’re capable of, and you’ve had training from the Israeli Police.”

“As a volunteer, mind you. In the Mash’az.”

“Still, I gotta give it to you. You Israelis really know what you’re doing.”

“How else could we survive?”

“There. That’s what I’m talking about. You’re a junkyard scrapper, the sorta dog that grabs a person by the heel and won’t leg go.”

By the heel?

Benyamin tried to ignore the flare of heat along his scarred foot. There was no plausible reason Cal Nichols should know a thing about his private wound, and it was inappropriate for the American to be dragging him into this mess. Benyamin was starting fresh. He didn’t need more worries.

But what if there was truth to this, that his family was in danger?

“You have one minute, Nickel. Give me your punch line.”

“I believe the culprits are here, in Romania.”

“You’re serious.”

“I wouldn’t joke about it. My guess is that Flavius Totorcea—if that’s even his real name—is the head of a clan that’s been doing damage for years.”

“Killers turned winegrowers?” Benyamin smirked. “A clever cover.”

“An obvious mockery, more like. The whole thing smacks of sacrilege.”

“How so?”

“In the Gospels, God is pictured as a vineyard owner. When the time comes for Him to gather those whose names are written in the Book of Life, they will feast and drink of the New Wine. In fact, Yeshua compared Himself to a vine that bears fruit, and when He was crushed for mankind’s iniquity, He became that New Wine.”

“You know I don’t subscribe to such stories. After all, I am a Jew.”

Nickel raised an eyebrow.

“A nonpracticing Jew,” Benyamin qualified. “But born to a Jewish mother, so there it is, in my bloodline. A good woman too—may she rest in peace.”

“Sorry to hear it. I’m out of contact with my mother.”

“Life is this way. So, Nickel, now I understand the perceived sacrilege. How can you be sure, though, that these are the killers you seek? Perhaps you’ve watched too many of the old movies, Nosferatu and Dracula. Don’t let these legends cloud your mind. They’re rubbish. Harmless thrills and nothing more.”

“Eighteen,” Nickel said flatly. “Eighteen individual bite patterns.”

Benyamin suppressed a shiver. “Okay. But why would they come here?”

“Why’d you come here, Mr. Amit? Maybe you followed after them. Drawn along without realizing it, and putting your wife and son in the line of fire.”

“You are a madman. Who are you to make such accusations?”

“I’m nobody. I’m—”

“And why, exactly, would they come after us?”

“Because you came after them. Now, hold on a sec. I’m not saying it was intentional. Somewhere along the line, though, you got infected, and they feed upon that. They lap that stuff up. You’re like the gate to your family, Mr. Amit. You’ve lowered the drawbridge and let the enemy in. You think they don’t understand what that means?”

These indictments were ludicrous. Benyamin screwed his eyes shut, as his pulse throbbed in his temples.

“They’re not your average killers,” Nickel said.

Benyamin’s mind flashed back: skin covered with sores . . . yellow-green . . .

“They want to suck the life from you,” Nickel went on. “Bit by bit.”

A necklace of round, puckered wounds . . .

“Even from kids. Babies.” The American winced and lowered his head. When he looked up again, his face was chiseled from stone. “You know these HIV-infected orphans they’ve found? Thousands of them, all over Romania? No one’s been able to explain why they all stem back to ’89, but recent phylogenetic analysis shows that the virus had a unique nucleotide sequence and—”

“Please. This is too fast.”

“Basically, it proves there was an unusual relation to a Brazilian strain of the virus, found in patients from Rio de Janeiro.”

“Thiago. Was he from Rio?”

“Now you’re tracking with me.”

“So your theory is that Totorcea and his clan attacked Thiago in Jerusalem, became contaminated, then passed along the virus when they arrived in Romania?”

“By feeding from abandoned children,” Nickel said. “That’s right.”

“Who are these people?”

“Already told you, I don’t believe they’re human. Or not entirely.”

Benyamin huffed. “On that, we can agree. Animals show more respect.”

“You’re kidding, right? It’s a harsh world out there. Flat-out cruel, all around. Up and down the food chain, you see the signs of a conflict raging.”

“Is that so, Nickel? Are you going to lecture me on the Holocaust next?”

“Wow. Okay, I shoulda known better. My apologies.”

“Just tell me, is there a way to halt the deviance of these . . . beasts?”

“Always.” Nickel’s eyes flashed. “I’ve got just the tools for the job.”

“Your MTPs?”

“You got a good memory, man.” Nickel fixed Benyamin in his stare. “Here’s the deal. I know the methods of these undead, so I can direct you in making a stand. The catch is, I cannot intervene. For the sake of my other interests, so to speak.”

“Oh? So I’m to do all the—what do you Americans call it?—the dirty work.”

“Yes. While I supply weapons, tools, and intel.”

“Metal tent pegs? I prefer,” said Benyamin, “to leave my life as it is. I’ll keep my eyes open, of course, but I think I’m smart enough to recognize if I’m being—”

“You’re already working with one of them. Name Helene ring any bells?”

Benyamin swallowed. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t want to hear this, didn’t want to face the niggling suspicion—yet there it was. A simple nameplate: Helene Totorcea. He gulped at the air, reflecting upon those late-night exchanges at the Cetatea, his little deals with the devil. What had been Helene’s motives? She was no killer. She couldn’t be. He’d looked into her mellow eyes and seen nothing to give him pause.

“If there’s any truth to this,” he told Nickel, “you should take it to the authorities. The Israelis will know what to do. Present them with solid evidence.”

“Evidence. Yeah well, that’s hard to nail down.”

“The police can help. Tell them what you know, and they can take over.”

“I’m telling you, Mr. Amit. You used to be a patrolman with one of the finest