Faye Kellerman - Sanctuary

“Shaul knows the boys are afraid. He thought they come to Israel to hide with us. Shaul knows we help the boys any way we can. Shaul looks for the boys to find out why they are afraid. Because Shaul is afraid, too. If he finds out why boys ran away, maybe he finds out who did this terrible thing to my daughter.” He looked at Yalom. “To our children.”

“Do you know where Shaul Gold is?” Decker asked.

“Lo. Shaul says he looks for the boys, then he will call me. I ask Shaully where are you staying, but he won’t tell. He says it’s better if I don’t know. I think he’s right.”

Decker noticed that Shaul had become Shaully.

Menkovitz straightened in his seat. “I wish I could help, but Dov tells me nothing. Shaul tells me nothing.”

“Dov didn’t give you any idea where he might be staying.”

“Lo. Only he and Gil are apart and we should not look for them. I want to, of course, but Dovie says no, no, no! Don’t look, he will call later.”

Decker allowed himself a pat on the back. He had been the right man for this case because he was Jewish. Rina had drummed it into him. Every identified Jew alive looked to Israel for sanctuary. The Yalom boys were no exception. And if Honey needed a city of refuge, she and the family were probably here as well. He said, “Dov hasn’t called you yet?”

“Not yet. So I wait.” Menkovitz sipped his tea. “Yes, I wait. My wife waits. The Yaloms wait. We don’t say anything, we just wait. And wait and wait.” His eyes misted. “I hope he don’t wait too long. I am an old man. I’d like to see my only grandsons before I die.”

As if she didn’t know, the sign said it all: Tourists were advised to turn back. If not, they traveled the roads at their own risk.

Rina plowed ahead, tailing the Fiat at a brisk pace.

Congestion eased as they moved out of downtown Jerusalem. The road wound its way out of the city, framed by old Arab homes-big houses with doors and grillwork painted blue to ward off the evil spirits. Flower boxes decorated the balconies, impromptu gardens springing up in empty spots. The hillsides were lush with vegetation. It must have been a wet winter. Farther along, past the old houses, were the newer Israeli developments. Hundreds of attractive-looking apartment houses waffled into the mountainside. Then as fast as they appeared, they faded. Once again, the ground was opened for cultivation.

Rina passed olive groves, citrus groves, and cultivated fields. Here was strong land. Here was fertile land. And here was contested land.

The sun was high, beating downward with unmolested power. The road to Hebron bordered on the Judean Desert and Rina had forgotten how hot the Mediterranean sun could be, even in the tail end of winter. She switched on the air conditioning.

The road continued to ebb and flow through hilly terrain. Rina kept her eyes not only on the Fiat but on her rearview mirror. Though in hostile territory, Rina was calmed by the slew of army jeeps she had passed-in front of her, behind her. In about ten minutes, she knew she’d hit Bet Lechem-Bethlehem. Once the Christian Arab city had been a sleepy little berg that had catered to Christian tourists wishing to see the Church of the Nativity. It had been full of tiny little shops stocked with religious articles and icons. The stores had done a bang-up business around Christmas and Easter. But when the uprisings had swung into full gear, tours had been canceled. The result? Lots of empty shops.

A few moments later, a large block of Israeli soldiers came into view. Rachel’s Tomb. Once visible from the road, it was now blocked by a wall. It was a holy spot for the Jews, especially infertile women. They would go there to beseech God for children, in the same manner that Rachel Emainu had beseeched the Almighty thousands of years ago.

Rina felt comforted by the army’s presence, by the Uzis the boys held. There were many of them. So young. Dressed in khaki greens, the kids weren’t much older than Sammy. Rina briefly flashed on her other life, how it might have been for her boys if she and Yitzy had stayed in Israel. It had been her loneliness that had propelled them back to the States-to Rav Schulman’s yeshiva. And just as soon as they had settled in the United States, Rina wished they’d never left Israel. Everything had gone downhill after that.

After incanting a quick prayer, Rina passed through the square blocks of Bet Lechem without incident. It was the same town she had known-open-market fruit and juice stands, cafés with Arab men passing around the hookah, playing long games of backgammon. Rina passed women balancing baskets on their heads as they walked down dusty roads in sandals or bare feet. Their hair was swathed in colorful scarves, their bodies covered with long, intricately embroidered black dresses.

Abruptly, Rina realized that the Fiat had become a dot in the distance. She sped up, the car grunting as it accelerated, hugging the road as it twisted and turned. Once the Fiat was in striking distance, Rina allowed herself to relax.

The hillsides had changed, no longer walls of rock. Instead, the mountains had been terraced, carved into steplike mesas of cultivated lands. This ingenious job of landscaping had been done hundreds of years ago, the barriers of granite and limestone still holding back the forces of Mother Nature with grace and beauty.

The Fiat moved rapidly and so did Rina. They passed the turn off to Efrat, a town that had been mislabeled as a settlement. Settlements to Rina conjured up images of temporary inhabitance-people with backpacks wandering through fields, pitching tents and sleeping on the ground. Efrat was anything but. The town was perched atop the hill and was filled with modern apartment houses and sprawling private homes. It had its own school system, its own libraries, its own stores, and of course, its own synagogues. Rina had lots of American friends who had moved to Efrat to enjoy the fresh air, safety, and open land. Now, with the Arabs set to patrol this land, Rina feared for their safety.

Rina thought about that as she drove farther into the West Bank. The road became not only emptier but decidedly more Arab. For every car she passed with an Israeli license, Rina had passed five with Arab plates. Her rental was a target, as vulnerable as if she were a blip on a radar screen. She rechecked her door locks, glanced in her rearview mirror, scanned the area for signs of an ambush.

Everything appeared quiet. Another oncoming army jeep passed her in the opposite direction. It gave her courage to continue.

The Fiat was speeding by now. The terraced mountainside had become a blur of rock. When it made the turn into Hebron, the wheels screeched. Rina followed, the air-conditioning blowing full force at her face. But the frosty air did little to relieve the internal heat. Sweat was running down Rina’s face, seeping through her clothing. The armpits of her blouse had become darkened stains. Taking the turnoff, Rina slowed as the roadway narrowed to the entrance to the city.

Then things began to move in slow motion, the area growing dense with people as she delved deeper into the village, into the marketplace. Hostile, hateful stares cast upon her, the heat of anger born thousands of years ago and nurtured steadily by blood and revenge. Rina kept her eyes straight ahead, hands clutched to the steering wheel. She wanted to check her doors again, but that would show fear. Fear is always an invitation for trouble.

The city seemed to reproduce before her eyes, the crowd thickening with each second that passed. The marketplace began to close in on her, fruit stands spilling onto the roadway. Donkey-driven carts sided her Subaru, animal and human faces staring into the car’s window. Some eyes were curious but most were unfriendly. Rina attempted to act outwardly calm, but inside her heart pounded furiously.