Джонатан Келлерман - The Golem of Paris

He cuts her off with a shake of the head. “I can’t leave.”

“But why not?”

His answer is to indicate the walls around them.

No particular pride. Just resignation to fate.

He’s in charge, now.

She says, “I’ll send you the jars as I make them. And I’ll write to you. You must write back. Tell me you’re okay.”

He nods.

“And always be careful. Not just for the near future, but always.”

“I am,” he says, and he nods toward the door. “It’s time.”

She lifts the bar, grasps the handle.

Pulls.

The door doesn’t move.

She tries again, without success.

Digs her heels into the floorboards and throws her weight back.

The door refuses to budge. Peter steps in to help, putting his arms around her waist and leaning, the two of them straining until they get traction, a few inches, a few more, the hinges emitting a piercing shriek.

She whispers for him to go, go.

He flops onto his stomach and disappears over the edge.

Bina leans out to make sure she won’t accidentally kick him in the head. The moment her face touches the bare air, the garbage-strewn cobblestones begin flying up toward her, like a lover coming in for a kiss, her thoughts condensing awfully.

Jump.

She won’t fall, she’ll float.

How lovely.

She pitches forward.

Catches herself on the door frame, shoves back, heart storming.

Quickly she gets down, worming backward, feeling with her foot for the top rung, descending, the tallis bag pinched hard between thumb and forefinger.

Jump.

Down, down, down, her eyes fixed on the plaster, rubber-soled shoes treadless on slick rungs, frozen metal burning her bare hands.

Jump, jump.

A high-pitched scream.

She looks back over her shoulder.

Below, Peter Wichs dangles from the bottom rung, still high off the ground, his legs kicking air as he tries to reascend.

Dmitri stands off to the side of the terrace, gun in hand, watching him placidly.

“I have it,” she shouts.

Dmitri looks up at her.

She waves the tallis bag. “It’s in here.”

Jump jump jump jump jump jump jump jump

“Do anything to him and I will smash it against the wall.”

Peter has stopped kicking and is hanging limply. She grips the bag with one hand, the rung with the other; her own forearm is beginning to quiver. She can imagine that he will not last much longer.

“Help him,” she yells.

Dmitri pockets the gun and walks over to the ladder. He’s so tall that his outstretched hands nearly reach Peter’s hips.

Peter stares up at her, terrified.

“It’s okay,” she says, nodding. “You can do it.”

Peter shuts his eyes and lets go. The Russian catches him easily and carries him to the center of the cobblestones and sets him down, wrapping a fatherly arm across the boy’s chest.

“Your turn,” he says.

She doesn’t move.

Dmitri takes out the gun and presses it to Peter’s temple.

“You won’t,” she says.

And she’s right: she still has the bag.

Dmitri smiles. “Doktor Tremsin ordered me to kill you before I left. He doesn’t know who you are, what a loss that would be for the world.”

“Let him go,” Bina says.

“I saved you. Still you chose to deceive me. Why would you do that?”

She raises the bag to smash it.

Dmitri lifts his arm.

Peter stands paralyzed. A dark stain in his trouser leg. He’s wet himself.

She yells to get his attention.

“Go,” she says. “Now.”

Peter comes to life, scrambling up the stairs to Pařížská Street, running for the shadows.

Bina waits until she can no longer hear the echo of his footsteps, then turns to grasp the rung with both hands, to catch her breath, which feels insanely lush as it billows out and fogs the plaster, her thoughts gathering in an unstoppable mob.

Behind her, Dmitri is speaking: “You can’t stay there forever.”

She shakes her head, hard. An instant of focus, instantly decaying.

She cranes back. “Put the gun down. Your car keys, too.”

A beat. He sets the pistol and the keys on the ground.

“My passport.”

He adds it to the pile.

She orders him into the corner, away from the stairs. He obeys, retreating to the rear wall. The terrace is shallow, he could reach her in one ambitious stride.

Bina descends shakily, pausing every few rungs to ensure that he hasn’t moved.

Reaching the bottom rung, she dangles, drops.

Her ankle buckles but she hurries to stand, holding the bag above her head, as if she’s going to hurl it to the ground.

He has not come any closer.

She inches forward to collect the gun, the keys, her passport.

“I’ve done exactly as you asked,” he says. “Time for you to uphold your end.”

“I’m going to put it down there. Don’t move until I say or I will crush it.”

He nods.

She kneels where the terrace meets the alleyway. Through the fog clotting her brain she is vaguely aware of pain in her ankle, the joint beginning to swell. She opens the tallis bag and sets the old cracked jar on the ground.

The fact that it’s wrapped will give her time.

She buries it in trash, to give herself more.

She bolts up the stairs, timing him in her mind.

He is hurrying forth to claim his prize.

She reaches the street.

He is brushing off the garbage, carefully peeling away the cloth.

She reaches the car. So many keys on the ring; and what a moment for her hands, her most faithful servants, to disobey her.

He is lifting the lid.

Discovering nothing inside.

She has not gotten hold of a second key when he comes thundering up the steps. She points the gun and fires and keeps firing till the gun clicks, but still he is coming, and she drops the weapon and flees, skating on the icy pavement until she gains purchase and breaks toward the river, head down, legs pumping.

It is perhaps four in the morning. There is no one else on the street. No taxis. No trams. She should be shouting all the same but her flight is a graceless ballet, her lopsided gait and her pinched breath and behind her the drum of boots on the pavement, his shadow lengthening to overtake her.

Without knowing quite what she intends to do — throw a jar at him? throw the clay? — she fumbles inside the tallis bag, grasps a smooth finger of wood, and as a giant hand swallows her shoulder, she swings her arm around and up, jamming the blade of the potter’s knife through his scarf and into the side of his neck.

She twists.

Then they are falling, falling together, his body crushing hers, his mouth opening in ungodly silence.

She yanks the knife out and uncorks a cold torrent of blood, blood saturating the woolen scarf and rushing through to drench her, blood in unbelievable quantity, breaking the wine-rimmed cracks between his fingers as he clutches at the gash; blood icy and viscous and numbing like seawater, his eyes smashing around crazily inside their sockets, his expression rictal and incredulous, the immense weight of his torso pinning her until she can wriggle free and crawl away, leaving him writhing on the sidewalk, drowning in a deep mute ocean of blood.

Finding the knife, the bag, she stumbles to her feet and runs.

His neck drawn taut, Jacob felt the edge of the potter’s knife kiss his throat, stopping just shy of incision. Overhead the skylights gaped, black pits mercilessly thumped by fists of rain, then slashed to eye-white by lightning. Molchanov released his grip on Jacob’s hair, the blade in place to prevent Jacob from moving; the giant raised the sprayer wand and began releasing gas, which mingled with the steam, engulfing them in a noxious white column.