Elisha’s Bones (18 page)
“What did our Lord say, Jack, when the Pharisees told Him to instruct His disciples not to exalt His name? He said, ‘If they keep quiet, the rocks and stones will cry out.’ ” Alem’nesh leans in, closing the distance between us as much as the desk will allow. “You’ve found the place where the stones cry out, Jack—where worship comes from the rock. Now let the dragon speak to you.”
He will not say more. I don’t understand the part about the dragon but I won’t press him. I can guess what even this little bit has cost him. I am beyond grateful.
T
he one good thing about flying into Lalibela, rather than attempting the drive, is that the twenty-three-kilometer road from the airport to the town is paved, unlike many of the roads we might have taken had we braved ground travel from Addis Ababa. Coming in from the air, it was at first hard to see the town. It sits in the mountains, where it rests amid the natural greens and reds of the surrounding land. When I did locate it, by spotting the hotels and other larger buildings sitting at the top of a very steep hill, I couldn’t help but feel my heart kick out a few more beats per minute. The name of this place was carved on a floor on the other side of the world; this dusty town contains something of great importance.
Lalibela holds somewhere between ten and twenty thousand people, and much of it consists of modest stone dwellings with thatched roofs. One of the unique architectural identifiers is a preponderance of round two-story homes. The first story holds any animals owned by the family, and the people live above. I pulled up a few pictures on my laptop while on the plane and determined that the houses resemble small silos.
Right now I’m not researching anything beyond the flavor of the cigar I’m smoking. I’ve given the Cubans a rest and instead fired up a Clasico Robusto from San Cristóbal. I don’t have to worry about bothering the driver, who is enjoying one along with me. Espy has expressed her displeasure by lowering the window but is allowing me to retreat to the familiar for the time being.
It’s always when you’re most comfortable that something demands your attention. In this case, it’s my phone.
“Hey, Ducks,” I say after battling to extricate the phone from my pants pocket.
“There are five possibles.”
“That many?” I’m disappointed. I’d been hoping Duckey’s friend in the State Department would cull a definite bad guy from the list. Maybe someone who specializes in international hits.
“And let me make sure I put the proper emphasis on
possible
. There’s not a one of these guys with a criminal record that goes beyond minor traffic violations.”
My mood suffers further deflation. “Then how did you pick these over the other twenty?”
“Money. These are the only ones with access to the kind of money you mentioned.”
“That sounds reasonable, I guess.”
There’s a pause on the other end, and it occurs to me that I’m not exhibiting the level of appreciation Duckey probably expects.
“Jack, it’s not like in the movies, where some computer spook pulls up a nice picture of a single suspect with the push of a button. Travis says if this was a domestic case they were working on, they would assign a few agents to it, watch these guys for a while, and see what gives.”
“You’re right, Ducks. Sorry.”
“Not a problem. I’m just the messenger.” He clears his throat. “Look, I’m not going to pretend to know what you’re doing. But this just doesn’t seem smart. What am I supposed to tell everyone when you wind up dead?”
“You’ll have to tell them to cover my classes. And watch out for my second-year Asian Archaeology course. I’ve got a couple of sleepers in that one.”
“Funny.”
“I’ll be careful, Ducks. And clear your conscience. You didn’t force me to look for adventure over my break. It just sort of found me.”
“You better be careful. I’m too old to break in someone new for breakfast.”
“That’s my own personal penance. Can you email those names to me?”
“Soon as I hang up.”
Within sixty seconds of ending the call I have my laptop open and am booting up. True to Duckey’s word, a new mail icon pops into place in the task bar once the screen clears. Espy leans close as I move the cursor over the message. I hesitate, feeling distaste like bile in the back of my throat. I’m fond of personal privacy, and so it bothers me that when I open this message, I’ll see neatly compiled information about five men I’ve never met. It’s likely that four of these people are innocent of any wrongdoing, yet I’ll have a dossier on each. Their only collective crime is that they share some common physical characteristics: about six feet tall, brown hair, somewhere between one hundred eighty and two hundred twenty pounds. If I had been on the same plane with these men, it’s likely I would have made the list according to those criteria. That is, until one accounted for my financial situation. Having only 132 dollars in the bank generally eliminates one from suspicion in a high-stakes murder scheme. Pushing aside my discomfort, I continue on, telling myself that one of these men may well have been responsible for the attempt on my life.
I open the message. It’s a list of names, along with addresses, short bios, and pictures. “Thanks, Duckey,” I say.
“He looks mean.” Espy points at the first picture, one Bruce Burney. His face is thick and he has heavy jowls, with a monochrome tattoo on the loose flesh of his neck. His bio says he owns a chain of clothing stores. Espy’s right; he does look mean. But he’s not our mystery man.
“That’s not him,” I say. “Besides, even if I didn’t already know what our guy looks like, this would be too obvious.”
“Sometimes what you’re looking for is right under your nose.”
I’m afraid to, but I glance over to see if that statement has any hidden meaning. If it does, she’s keeping it to herself. Her eyes never leave the screen.
There are three pictures visible in the window, yet none of them match the image in my head. I scroll down and, as the fourth suspect comes into view, I feel my body tense as anger rises to the surface. The Aussie’s name is Victor Manheim. In an instant I am back in the Egyptian desert, looking up at him from the bottom of the RV’s stairs. Minutes later, Will was dead.
Espy sees the change and says nothing, but she reads his bio along with me. Victor’s a political attaché to the undersecretary of agriculture. His parents own a great deal of land in Australia’s southwest region. He matriculated in the States—Harvard— where he received a law degree. As Esperanza said of poor Bruce, Victor looks mean, but it’s an aristocratic meanness.
“Is that him?”
I nod and close the window. There’s a sick feeling in my stomach, and I know that it’s because I made the decision to come to Ethiopia first. My reasons seemed solid at the time, but now that I have something concrete to connect me with Will’s killer, I feel as if I’ve made a horrible mistake—even though I know I haven’t. I couldn’t have known that Duckey’s associate would provide me with anything useful. Without this information, I would be wandering around Australia with no direction. Ethiopia was the right choice, and Manheim will be there when I’m done with this business.
Espy puts a hand on my arm as if to confirm my self-therapy. Still, my mood is more sour than it was and I resolve to make an effort at improving it. We’re in a new place, and the possibility exists that we will find something unique here—if Reese has not already found it.
I watch as the car tops a rise and the town spreads out before us. It’s the kind of thing one might see in a postcard—one of those where it looks as if the photographer stumbled onto a spot where everything that’s wrong with a place comes together to produce something marvelous, frozen in the instant the shutter clicked. The difference now is that the scene is in motion; a movement of people for whom this is much more than a backdrop. They live and breathe this place, this rural community that remains much as it was four hundred years ago.
As the car follows the only paved road through the town, climbing the steep hill that leads to the Seven Olives Hotel, I see many more people roaming the streets, slipping into and out of rustic shops and eateries, than I would have expected. It looks like a carnival midway. Children are everywhere, forming and reforming into groups that flit from one side of the street to the other and back.
“Why are there so many children?” Esperanza asks.
“They are following the pilgrims,” the driver says in passable English.
I’m not sure what he means but I look more closely and I now see that the children are not just engaged in aimless flocking. There are nuclei to these undulations of small bodies. As I watch, a group of eight or so detach from two people who disappear into a tearoom, only to run ten yards up the road to encircle a trio of adults in western clothes.
“Of course,” I say. I should have realized this would be the case. For most of the year I imagine that Lalibela is off the map, entertaining sporadic visitors with off-season vacation schedules. At this time of year, though, the place takes on special significance.
“Care to share?” Espy prompts.
“This is one of the holiest spots in the country. If you were a devout member of the Orthodox Church, where would you go for Christmas?”
“By the time Christmas comes, there will be fifty thousand pilgrims here,” the driver adds.
Espy’s eyes widen and she mouths a silent
oh
.
Something the driver has said gives me pause—something about Christmas. I glance at my watch, a Relic, to check the date, then shut my eyes, annoyed with myself. I reach into my jacket pocket, pull out one of Duckey’s cigars, and offer it to Espy.
“Merry Christmas,” I say.
It makes me feel better to see by her reaction that the day slipped past her, too. She takes the cigar and gives it an appreciative sniff. Much to my surprise, she removes the end with her teeth and spits it out the window. When she leans in for a light, I fumble to provide one, and seconds later she’s puffing away.
“When in Rome,” she says, sinking back into her seat. She draws the smoke in and releases it through her nose. If it stings, she doesn’t show it. “If it’s Christmas,” she says, looking out the window, “where are these fifty thousand pilgrims?”
“Good question.”
“Christmas is still almost two weeks away,” the driver says, looking back at us in the rearview mirror. “January seventh.”
I nod as if I knew this, and I think that somewhere among the growing catalog of things I’ve forgotten is floating the knowledge that the Orthodox Church celebrates the holiday two weeks later than most of the rest of the world. I try to picture these streets with ten times this many people and it’s hard to visualize. I’m hoping we will not be here by then. For now, though, I decide that the increase in foot traffic is not a bad thing if it can cover our arrival and our activities while we’re here. I’ve been turning something over in my brain since leaving Addis Ababa: the chances of running into another team hunting for the same thing.
Our Peugeot is passing through the center of town, and several children run by the car, peeking in, some reaching hands through the half-open windows. The driver honks on the horn once and revs the engine, and the kids back off a few steps. The driver hits the gas a touch, sending the car up the steepest portion of the hill.
Once inside the gate of the Seven Olives, the driver pulls around to the front and stops. Clenching the last of the cigar in his teeth, he gets out and begins to remove our few belongings from the trunk. When he’s finished, I tip him and, with another thanks for the cigar, he hops in the car and speeds off back the way we came.
“It’s nice,” Espy says, and I have to agree. The hotel is a bit rustic looking, but I’m betting that’s half kitsch. Inside, it’s probably as modern as anything you’d find in most small towns back in the States. And I doubt many of the hotels back home boast a garden like this one. Espy has long held an interest in botany, and the well-kept grounds surrounding the Seven Olives could keep her busy for days if we didn’t have another pressing matter to attend to. Even my untrained eye spots a few flowers and bushes that merit attention, so I can only imagine what she sees as her eyes play over the foliage. Rather than compete for her notice, I pick up both our bags and my laptop and walk inside the hotel.
It’s just as nice inside and I see that my initial assessment was incorrect; the bucolic look is organic. It’s the other stuff— the technology—that has been added, built upon something that has been here for a long time. I cross to the front desk and navigate the process of reserving rooms. I’m hoping there are some left, what with the influx of people here for the celebration. I need not have worried. Espy and I each get a room, one right next to the other. As the desk clerk hands over the keys, he gives me the rundown on hotel services, their gift shop and wireless Internet access. The clerk also talks up the hotel’s best feature—the terrace, from which one can sit and enjoy the view of Lalibela from above.
When our business is concluded, I look back and see that Esperanza has not yet entered the hotel. So with a shrug I determine to check out the vista from the touted terrace. I deposit our bags by the restaurant entrance, trusting that no one will walk off with them, but I keep hold of my laptop.
The place seems full for this time of day, and I chalk it up to the seasonal visitors. Seeing the exit to the terrace across from me, I work my way through the restaurant and past the small, unoccupied bar.
I cross the threshold and look out over Lalibela. The clerk was right; it’s a spectacular view. But what makes it so is not so much that the town’s laid bare before my eyes, but that it seems so insignificant when compared to the landscape that hedges it into the mountain. I would probably be humbled if I wasn’t as tired as I am, but I do appreciate it. When I wake up tomorrow and come here for coffee and something unhealthy with which to start my day, I’ll give it another try and see what feelings the view evokes.
I turn and walk back into the restaurant, glancing again at the bar. There are now people there—three of them, with drinks poured. It’s obvious, even from the back, that they’re foreigners. I’m almost past the bar when one of the men leaning against the rail half turns to talk to one of his companions.
