Greg Iles - The Footprints of God

I should go alone, I thought, looking down at her. Then I saw an image of myself falling unconscious in the street, lost in a narcoleptic dream. I couldn't risk that. I went to the bathroom and got into the shower.

Israel was nothing like my dreams. From the moment we'd entered Ben Gurion airport in Tel Aviv, we were assaulted by modernity from every side. Radios, metal detectors, submachine guns, the odor of jet fuel. We rode from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem in a sherut, a hired minivan with six other people. I kept quiet most of the way, and Rachel occasionally squeezed my hand in reassurance. She could tell I was disoriented, that the scenery outside the van was not what I'd expected to find.

As we neared Jerusalem, though, I caught sight of the Old City on its hill, pristine in the dying sunlight, and my disappointment faded. Whatever I had come for, it awaited me behind those ancient walls.

It was nearly dark by the time we reached our hotel. We gave our passport numbers to the desk clerk and fol¬lowed our bags up to the sixth floor. The room was clean but small. We'd planned to go out for food, but when we sat on the bed to catch our breath, jet lag and the exhaustion of the past two days caught up with us. Rachel had slept a little on the plane, but I had not. The warmth and silence of the hotel room were like a nar¬cotic poured into my veins. I ate an orange Rachel had bought at Ben Gurion and fell into oblivion. Only the dream of the garden had brought me out of it.

I shut off the shower nozzle, toweled myself off, and walked back into the room. Rachel had rolled onto her stomach. Her bare shoulders still showed above the cov¬ers. I went to the window and pulled back the curtain in the hope of seeing the Old City, but nondescript buildings blocked my view.

I walked to the bed and shook Rachel's arm. She didn't respond. I shook her again. She blinked several times, then stretched and got up on one elbow.

"Is that clock right?"

"Yes. We've got a car coming."

This did not seem to please her. "You still want to go today? It's late already."

"I had another dream."

"What about?"

"The Garden of Gethsemane."

She lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. "That's a lot further in the chronology than you were before, isn't it?"

"Yes. Gethsemane begins the countdown to the cruci¬fixion. I have to get to the Old City. It can't wait until tomorrow."

She pulled the sheet around her, then stood and gazed into my eyes. "I think we should wait until tomorrow."

"Why?"

"We're safe in this room. It's a miracle that we even got here, and I think we need some time to recover from all we've been through."

"But my dream…"

She reached down and took my hand. "Nothing is going to happen to you, David. Not even if you dream of the crucifixion. You're here with me, and I know how to take care of you."

She dropped her other hand to mine, and the sheet fell around her feet. I tried not to drop my eyes, but she meant for me to see.

"Rachel, I have to go today."

"We can go. Just not yet." She laid her head against my chest and put her arms around me. "The world isn't going to end if we take a few minutes for ourselves."

She kissed my chest, then nuzzled my neck and pulled me against her waist. Her professional persona had been shed like a dead husk of skin. This new woman was a revelation to me, and I wanted her. I bent to her upturned face and kissed her. Her lips were warm and elastic, nothing like the waxy lips in my dream. A shud¬der passed through me at the memory.

She drew back and looked into my eyes. "What's the matter?"

"I'm okay." I leaned down to kiss her again.

She shook her head. "You're not. You're not going to be all right until we put this Jesus business to rest once and for all."

The phone rang, startling us both.

I picked it up. "Yes?"

"Your car is here, sir," said an accented voice.

"Thank you." I hung up.

Before I could explain, Rachel kissed my cheek, then turned and began to dress.

Our driver was a mustached old Palestinian named Ibrahim. His English-speaking qualification was mar¬ginal, but he understood that we wanted the Old City, and that was enough to get us to the Jaffa gate. As we approached the sun-bleached stone wall, I felt my first wave of deja vu. Behind that wall, in that blood-drenched repository of history, lay a secret for me alone. For two thousand years it had waited, invisible to those who came with shovels, toothbrushes, files, and dental picks. What that secret was, I didn't know, but I would know it when I found it.

"Where do you want to start?" Rachel asked.

"Jesus' last day."

"Yes," said Ibrahim, looking back at me. "Mount of Olives, Garden of Gethsemane, place of the skull."

A motorcycle honked angrily and shot past us.

"Place of the skull?" I asked.

"In Hebrew, Golgotha, in Latin, Calvary. Where Jesus was crucified."

"That's what we want."

"Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Nine stations of the cross outside the church, last five stations inside. I take you there now."

"Why there?" Rachel asked me.

I felt a wave of heat pass through me, and for a moment I couldn't breathe. "I don't know."

"David? What's the matter?" She put a hand to my forehead. "You're burning up."

Thirty seconds ago I'd felt fine, but she was right. "Let's just hurry."

Ibrahim pulled into a parking place as a Citroen backed out. A huge tour bus blocked out the light behind us.

"Are we stopping outside the wall?" Rachel asked.

"Yes," Ibrahim replied. "Is customary to walk from here. See landmarks of the city."

"How far away is the church?"

"Holy Sepulchre? On day like today, half hour to Via Dolorosa, maybe little more."

Rachel looked doubtful. "Can you get us closer?"

"Is the mister sick?"

She hesitated. "Yes. He's come to Jerusalem in the hope that it will help."

"Ah. Many sick people go to Jesus' tomb and kiss the rock where he rose up from the death."

"Can you help us?"

"Of course. For a hundred shekels more I get you there very fast."

"Whatever it takes."

Ibrahim backed up, then honked his horn and stepped on the gas, earning curses from a shawled woman who had to dodge his front bumper to save her life. Another wave of heat rolled through me. I was afraid I might pass out.

"Is it narcolepsy?" Rachel asked.

"No. Different."

"We should go back to the hotel."

"No. The Via Dolorosa."

"Via Dolorosa," echoed Ibrahim. "Way of Sadness. Christians here call it the Way of Flowers. First station Jesus condemned to death, second station the cross was forced upon him, third station he stumbled for the first time, fourth station…"

Our guide's voice quickly became a drone I couldn't follow. Sweat poured from my skin, and I felt suddenly cold. As our car whipped through the narrow streets, I saw stone walls, bright shutters, market stalls spilling knickknacks from their shelves, and tourists dressed in the apparel of a hundred nations. Ibrahim rolled down his window to curse someone, and the scent of jasmine filled the car. When it entered my nostrils, I felt a sudden euphoria, and then everything went white.

"David? Wake up. We're here."

Someone was shaking my shoulder. I blinked and sat up. Rachel was leaning in through the back door of the car.

"Where are we?"

"The Via Dolorosa. It's a surrealist painting in motion. Do you still want to see it?"

I pulled myself out of the car and stood gazing in awe at the throngs of tourists, four of whom carried large wooden crosses over their shoulder. Two of the would-be Jesuses wore white robes, the others street clothes. The crosses had wheels to ease the burden, which to me made the act of carrying them almost pointless.