Part 61 (1/2)

The cat's head jerked up, then it froze, one paw raised and curled. Eyeing me, it gave one tentative mrrrp. mrrrp.

”Where the h.e.l.l's Jake?” I asked.

The cat clammed up like a cheat at a tax audit.

”Jake!”

Alarmed, the cat shot past me and exited the way it had entered.

Jake wasn't in his bedroom. Nor was he in the workroom.

My mind logged details as I flew through the flat.

Mug in the sink. Aspirin on the counter. Photos and reports cleared from the table. Otherwise, the place looked as it had when I left.

Had Jake taken the bones to Ruth Anne Bloom?

Hurrying to the back porch, I fumbled for a wall switch. When I found one and flipped it, nothing happened.

Frustrated, I returned to the kitchen and dug through drawers until I located a flashlight. Clicking it on, I returned to the porch.

The cabinet was at the far end. Where its doors met, I could see a black strip shooting from top to bottom. My heart clenched in my chest.

Gripping the flash over one shoulder, I crept forward. I smelled glue, and dust, and the mud of millennia. Outside my beam, shadows overlapped and forged odd shapes.

Six feet from the cabinet, I froze.

The padlock was gone, and one door hung askew. Bones or no bones, Jake would have secured the lock.

And the front gate.

I whipped around.

Blackness.

I could hear my own breath rising and falling in my mouth.

In two strides I closed the gap and illuminated the cabinet's interior. Shelf by shelf, I checked, dust twirling and revolving in the hard, white shaft.

The reconstructed ossuaries were there.

The fragments were there.

The shroud bones were gone.

37.

HAD J JAKE TAKEN THE BONES TO B BLOOM?.

Not a chance. He'd never have left the cabinet open, and he wouldn't have gone out with his pa.s.sport and wallet still here, and the door unlocked.

Had the bones been stolen?

Over Jake's dead body.

Oh G.o.d. Had Jake been abducted? Worse?

Fear gives rise to a powerful rush of emotions. A stream of names tore through my head. The Hevrat Kadisha. Hershel Kaplan. Hossam al-Ahmed.

Tovya Blotnik!

A soft crunching sound penetrated my dread.

Footsteps on gravel?

Killing the light, I held my breath and listened.

Sleeve brus.h.i.+ng jacket. Branch sc.r.a.ping stucco. Goat bleat drifting up from the yard.

Only benign sounds, nothing hostile.

Dropping to my knees, I searched for the padlock. It was nowhere to be seen.

I returned to the kitchen and replaced the flashlight. Closing the drawer, I noticed Jake's answering machine on the counter above. The flasher was blinking in cl.u.s.ters of ten.

I tallied my own calls to Jake. Eight, the first around five, the last just before leaving the hotel.

One of the other messages might hold a clue to his whereabouts.

Invade Jake's privacy?

d.a.m.n right. This looked to be a bad situation.

I hit ”replay.”

The first caller was, indeed, me.

The second message was left by a man speaking Hebrew. I caught the words Hevrat Kadisha, and isha, isha, woman. Nothing else. Fortunately, the guy was brief. Hitting ”replay,” again and again, I transcribed phonetically. woman. Nothing else. Fortunately, the guy was brief. Hitting ”replay,” again and again, I transcribed phonetically.

The next caller was Ruth Anne Bloom. She left only her name and the fact that she was working late.

The last seven messages were again mine.

The machine clicked off.

What had I learned? Zilch.