Джим Батчер: Weird Detectives: Recent Investigations

“I want to tell you a story.”

“Story?”

“Yeah, bear with me. See, there was once a terrible war. The people who suffered the most were the Jews.”

The corners of her mouth quirked. “That could be all of Jewish history.”

“But in this war, there was a demon. I believe devout Jews think of Hitler as Amalek, right?”

“That’s right. Amalek was the great-great-grandson of Abraham, and there are specific injunctions to beware of Amalekites. Amalek has come to symbolize all evil.”

“Okay. So Evil attacks the Jews. The Jews are expelled from their homes. Whole villages are destroyed; the Jews are killed, or sent to concentration camps. Some survive and they remember. But they’re worried others will forget. And some can’t let that past go. They wonder why they were spared. And they’re lonely.”

“This is,” she began, then stopped when the waitress came with our drinks. The waitress tacked a napkin to the table with Gold’s wine, slid one under my bourbon. When she’d gone, Gold said, “Do you have a point?”

I angled my glass toward a candle burning in a squat glass holder, liking the way the light shone gold through the liquor. “I’m getting to the best part. Isn’t it true that the reason Chassids dress the way they do is to preserve a piece of their past?”

“That’s one interpretation.”

“So what keeps someone from preserving other customs, rituals?”

“Such as?”

“Magic.”

She gave a very small half smile. She raised her glass, tipped wine into her mouth. “Jews don’t believe in magic.”

“Yes, they do.” I flicked a finger at her pendant. “That thing, that’s magic, right?”

“It’s just a necklace.”

“No. It’s very specific. I know, because I looked it up.” Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out my notepad and flipped. “Yeah, here it is. That shin is a really interesting letter. It means the Eternal Flame, and it reflects the fact that God is changeless, forever. There are some other things about shin I don’t get.”

“The mystical meanings.”

“Right. And I have to admit I couldn’t figure the key until I read about this very important angel named Râzîêl. Râzîêl sits at God’s throne and takes notes, and he’s written a book in which he recorded all celestial and earthly secrets. I’ve seen a picture from the book. To the Kabbalists, the book is a key. In fact, Râzîêl’s book is supposed to hold the fifteen hundred keys to the secrets of the universe.” I closed my notebook. “And Râzîêl’s color is gold.”

Her eyes were hooded. “And?”

“And Râzîêl, Rachel . . . the names are very close, don’t you think?”

“Yes.” She sipped wine. “Quite a coincidence.”

“Know something else?”

“What?”

“You told the truth. You didn’t kill that baby.” I paused. “But you let evil destroy itself.”

“And why would I do that?”

I slid out the photograph of the baby’s chest. “The tattoo. We got it wrong, because of the numbers. And the location threw us: over the left breast, not the left forearm. The Germans didn’t start putting tattoos on forearms until after 1942. So, that L —well, it’s not an L. It’s a triangle. And that letter we thought was a cursive M. It’s two ones. And the Z is a seven. See, we don’t put a horizontal line through our sevens and we don’t have that long tail on our ones, but Europeans do. Germans do, except the German lady—and it was the ladies who did them—the one who did this tattoo was sloppy. Not all Germans cared, because these were Jews, after all. But this is a number, Miss Gold: a triangle, then 1-1-7-2-9. Auschwitz Prisoner 1-1-7-2-9.”

I leaned forward. “Tell me about gilguls, Miss Gold.”

Her face was unreadable. “What would you like to know?”

“Whatever you can tell me about reincarnation.”

“Why don’t you tell me, Detective? You’re the one with the story.”

I nodded. “Fair enough. Here’s how I think it goes: the Kabbalists believed in reincarnation because they thought all souls came from one great big soul. An Oversoul, I guess you’d call it. Reincarnation isn’t supposed to happen until a person dies. But the Kabbalists said there was ibur, meaning pregnant. That is, a person who already had a soul could house another: two for the price of one. But that was very rare and only happened when the person was very, very good.”

“A tzaddik. A righteous person.”

“But I also found a very obscure reference to an old ritual where a Kabbalist could conjure a soul to share, or take over another body. Here’s the kicker: it’s got to be a kid. Boys are best. The infant is to be left alone, outside, near water and within a week after birth, or if it’s a boy, before his circumcision.” I looked into her eyes. “I’ll bet some of those Holocaust survivors would do just about anything to bring their families back. Even witchcraft.”

“Yes, they would,” she said, her voice calm. “But it’s not their place. Only God can decide.”

I nodded. “So, tell me, Rachel . . . your name is Rachel?”

Her lips curled slightly. “It’ll do.”

“I don’t suppose you’d tell me who Prisoner 11792 was, would you? The records from 1941 aren’t too good.”

“I can’t do that. That’s for God now.”

“I figured. But when they conjured the gilgul of their lost relative, it was your job to stop them. That’s why you summoned Lilith to take the child.”

She inclined her head. The key glittered in candlelight. “The child was an abomination.”

“From where I’m sitting, it’s murder even if you didn’t do it. You could have saved that child. You could have taken it to a hospital.” And yet, I had an involuntary thought: how many times had God killed in the name of justice? The great paradox of the Bible: a book that preaches against killing venerates one of the greatest mass murderers in history.

As if reading my mind—and maybe she could—Gold said, “There are choices, Detective. God can’t rescue you every time you make the wrong one. There are consequences, and sometimes the consequences are unpleasant. Sometimes the consequences include death.”

We were silent a moment. Then she asked, “How did you know?”

“Honestly? A leap of faith. Your employment record, for example. You’ve shown up in a lot of different places, but there’s one thing those places all have in common. They have huge Orthodox populations, mostly German and Eastern European. I’ll bet if I looked, there’d be a string of dead kids before you moved on. And there was that pendant, of course. But the clincher?” I took a sip of my bourbon, savoring the burn. “Your shoes. Like I said—no burrs. But they weren’t muddy either, or wet. And then it hit me.”

“What?”

“You didn’t have to walk, and do you know why?” I grinned then, not quite believing I was going to say it until I did. “Because you flew.”

When a body isn’t claimed, the city buries it. Or volunteers: churches, synagogues, charities. So I wasn’t surprised when Jews buried that baby the night before Halloween.

It’s a year later now. October, again. Halloween. A lot of fall color left. The sky is gunmetal gray and the weatherman said rain, so it’ll probably snow.

The cemetery’s quiet. King David, it’s called. There are stones, flowers. I don’t know why I’m here. I stare down at a child’s grave. The stone is new: ben Judah, son of Israel. A date. A tiny Jewish star.

I think about Rachel Gold. And I come back to the two questions I faced now that I faced then: how the hell do you prosecute an angel? How do you know you should even arrest her?