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

a reflection facing her in the glass. It was the slender brunette she had met down in the caverns, those almond-shaped eyes now glaring at her with malevolent intent.

What was she doing here, all the way from America? What were the odds? Maybe she really was a Collector, as Cal had claimed.

Gina twirled to confront the girl.

This was not the same person. Sure, there were similarities in face structure and skin tone, but the eyes were different, and the woman’s expression went flat at the sight of Gina. Probably just a window-shopper, hoping for her to move along.

What now? Gina asked herself. Am I’m turning schizoid again?

As she headed home, she found herself jumping at shadows from the arched walkways that branched off of the cobbled side streets. Her imagination was on overdrive. How crazy could she be?

Still, she vowed to keep Dov hidden from public scrutiny.

The boy, with his reclusive ways, made this easy for her. He sat in the corner of the rec room and watched his fellow wards, rarely taking part in their activities. At the dinner table, he tore into his food and made wolfing noises that disgusted the others. He avoided going outdoors, though he often stood in the daylight at his window and flipped through photos he kept in a pouch.

“What’ve you got there?” Gina asked one day.

“Pictures.”

“Of your mom and dad?”

“Yes.”

“Can I see? If not, that’s okay. I just thought—”

Dov handed them over. The prints were worn, yellowed and curled at the edges. Snapshots of the boy and his parents. Fishing. Camping. Floating in the waters of the Dead Sea.

“Are you from Israel? Your name’s Hebrew, by the sound of it.”

He snatched the photos back, slipped them into their pouch. The conversation was over, and Gina let it go at that. Aside from that initial confession of his at the Strand—given to ease his own mind, perhaps, or to elicit her protection—Dov clammed up when the questions became too numerous or too personal.

What was it he had done? Why would anyone want to kill him?

The letter Tav. That was all the explanation she needed.

As had happened with the other boys, chess became an avenue to friendship and communication. Dov had an analytical mind bubbling behind that inscribed brow, and he spoke of an Israeli grandmaster who had been his father’s favorite. Others, such as Pavel and Petre, were jealous of Gina’s time, and she had to approach things delicately in this communal environment.

A round-robin tournament one spring day brought Dov and Gina together for the final showdown.

“You’re good, Dov. You try to explore every possibility on the board.”

“I can beat you.”

“I’m sure you can,” Gina said. “But it hasn’t happened yet. And for your own sake, I won’t let it, unless you can do it on your own.”

As she spoke, her fingers caressed the carved chess figures. She ruminated on the things Cal had told her of the Nistarim, those who were humble in spirit. This boy carried the mark identifying him as a candidate, and yet he exuded a quiet arrogance.

Or was it confidence? Maybe bravado masking insecurity?

Gina showed him no mercy. When the game was over and the other boys had wandered off, she said, “Would you let me teach you some things, Dov?”

He shrugged. Adjusted his rows of polished warriors.

“I won’t waste my time, unless I know you’re going to be all ears.”

“Yes.” He looked around the room. “Please, I want to learn.”

“Have you ever seen the Immortal Game?”

He glanced up through shaggy black hair, intrigue dancing in his eyes. Gina took that as her cue to proceed. She explained the balance between calculated accuracy and artistry. Some people played the game by the book, by the numbers; others, she explained, played by intuition and gut instinct.

“You need both,” she said. “See how Anderssen controls the middle of the board, how his knight’s planted there on the fifth rank? How his pawn’s in black’s way? He built on the principles, then blew his opponent away with gutsy creativity.”

“The queen died.”

“A sacrifice, it’s called. Setting up the victory.”

Dov leaned forward and replayed the bishop’s final, checkmating move. He slid the piece and slammed it down, jarring the others on Gina’s black walnut board. “You see?” he said. “This is how it happened when I did the bad thing.”

“What do you mean, Dov?”

“He was hurting my mother, and I . . .” The boy slammed down the bishop again for emphasis. “I ran into the hills. That’s where the other man found me two nights later. He helped me hide.”

“Who?” Only mild interest. “Your father?”

“No, he’s gone. The other man, the one with gold in his eyes.”

Gina’s heart leapt. She knew a simple disguise could’ve been used to great effect, but she still had to ask. “Did he have yellowish-blond hair?”

“I think so. He wore a hat. He taught me how to use the tent pegs if I ever see them again.”

“Them?”

“The ones with green fingernails and sharp teeth. He said to watch out, because someday they would come back.”

CHAPTER

FIFTY

Early April 2000—En Route to Sinaia

The sound was meant to ward off evil spirits.

Thunk-thunk, thunk-thunk . . .

Along village roads, folks banged out the rhythm against planks suspended from fences and trees. This ringing of hammers upon wood was a Good Friday tradition meant to remind the spirits of Christ’s crucifixion for mankind’s sins.

Thunk-thunk . . .

The echoing pattern faded as the charter bus packed with kids and queasy muncitors wound up another road of switchbacks and mountain tunnels. Evergreens graced the steep ledges, and dots of white indicated sheep in the emerald valleys below. These views were the things of Gina’s past, triggering thoughts and emotions long untouched.

Thunk-thunk . . .

“Okay, very funny.” She turned to the twins behind her. “No more kicking my seat, please.”

“It was Pavel.”

“It was Petre.”

“It was both of them,” Dov said from his place across the aisle.

The Podran twins scowled at him. Dov turned his attention back to the magnetic chess set in his