Cross Bones Part 67

A weak pulse? I couldn't be sure.

Ripping Purviance's jacket. I searched for the wound that was pumping out blood. A black crescent slashed her belly. I pressed a palm to it.

At that moment, a blast tore the night. I heard the awful sound of metal shearing metal.

As my head snapped up the Citroen exploded in a ball of light. Fire burst from the engine, strobing white geysers into the blue-black fog.

Dear G.o.d! Where was Jake?

I ran toward the Citroen.

Twenty feet out the heat stopped me like a wall. I threw up an arm.

"Jake!"

The car was an inferno. Flames licked its underbelly and leaped from its windows. No sign of Jake.

"Jake!"

I felt ash and sweat on my face. Mist. Tears streaming down my cheeks.

"Jake!"

A second depth charge blew metal and flames into the sky.

A sob rose in my throat.

Hands gripped my shoulders.

I was yanked roughly back.

40.

I'LL TELL YOU RIGHT OUT THE GATE. EVERYONE SURVIVED.

Change that. Everyone survived but the guy in the shroud. He went from being bone to being bone ash.

Jake burned his hands and singed his brows. No big deal.

Purviance lost a lot of blood and fractured some ribs and a foot. Her spleen was removed in pieces, and she'd need hardware in the ankle. But she'd recover. And serve time.

The Citroen would not recover. Its remains were barely worth hauling for sc.r.a.p.

Purviance was unconscious for a day, then the story dribbled out.

Slowly. As Ryan suggested variations based on info from Kaplan and Birch.

My mental mapping was spot-on. Ferris and Purviance had been an item. Birch found the usual at her apartment in Saint-Leonard. Man's robe in the closet. Extra Bic and Oral-B in the medicine chest.

The affair started shortly after Purviance began working for Les Imports Ashken.a.z.im. As the years pa.s.sed, she increased the pressure on Ferris to divorce Miriam. He kept putting her off. She also increased her hold on the business.

Purviance was familiar with operations at the warehouse. Read: she knew everything and was involved in everything. She overheard Ferris's call to Kaplan asking him to middleman the Masada skeleton. She overheard his conversations with Father Morissonneau and Tovya Blotnik, and learned of the skeleton's history. She resented Ferris's working this deal on his own and freezing her out.

Not long before, she'd overheard Ferris's conversations with the travel agent. Ferris was planning to vacation in sunny Florida with his wife. It was the last straw. Ferris was working a score without her and was trying to rebuild his marriage. Purviance confronted her lover about his priorities.

Tired of guilt, or tired of the stress of maintaining the balancing act, Ferris decided to cut Purviance loose. Les Imports Ashken.a.z.im had hit a rough patch, but, all in all, was doing well. His relations.h.i.+p with Miriam was improving. He didn't need Purviance. Sure, the business was riding some economic b.u.mps, but the sale of the skeleton would take care of that. It would be better if he fired Purviance. Ferris promised her six months' severance pay, and told her to clear out.

The first call to Boca during beach week had been Purviance begging Ferris to reconsider. Ferris curtly cut her off. She'd really, truly been dumped. She was without lover and without job.

The second call to Boca was Purviance delivering a threat. She was wise to the skeleton and its value. She wanted a piece of the action or she'd enlighten Miriam about their affair and inform the authorities about the skeleton. Ferris laughed at her.

The more Purviance thought about it, the angrier she became. She'd built Ferris's business. She'd taken him to bed. And now she was being tossed like last week's garbage. Ratting him out to wife and cops would harm him but gain her nothing. And it wouldn't harm him enough. Ferris would have to pay a much bigger price. Primed on CSI, Law & Order, CSI, Law & Order, and and NYPD Blue, NYPD Blue, Purviance decided to hire a hit man. Dispose of Ferris and take control of the business. Purviance decided to hire a hit man. Dispose of Ferris and take control of the business.

Nice Jewish girl, totally unconnected. She didn't know any hit men. Who you gonna call? Kaplan was an ex-con who did illegal work. Purviance had his number from the caller ID on the warehouse phone.

Kaplan was a felon, all right, but not a killer. He saw a real pigeon and a profit opportunity. He took Purviance's money and provided no services.

Scorned lover. Discarded business a.s.sociate. Duped consumer. Purviance was seething. Driven by an obsessive rage, she decided to act. Knowing her neighbor kept a gun in his car, she stole it and killed Ferris herself.

Her fury, however, obstructed her strategic thinking. After putting two bullets into Ferris, Purviance wrapped the Jericho in his fingers and fired overhead. More TV cop show savoir faire. With a self-inflicted gunshot wound, the doc finds trace on the hand. Only, Purviance made a major blunder. She left the weapon, but collected the bullet casings, eliminating any chance of a ruling of suicide.

In the end, SIJ found a bullet fragment in the closet, created during the keyhole entry into Ferris's skull. Another bullet was dug from a wall in an outer hallway. With the earlier bullet from the closet ceiling, and the fragments recovered from Ferris's head, that demonstrated three shots. A ballistic reconstruction suggested Ferris was. .h.i.t while facing the door. He was probably oblivious to Purviance's homicidal intent when she entered the closet and circled behind him.

What next for Courtney? She had quite surprised herself with her coolness in dispatching Ferris. Now to score two for one. Get out of Dodge, and recoup economic losses. Purviance booked it for Israel, using the name Channah Purviance, the pre-Canadian version on her Tunisian pa.s.sport. The discrepancy allowed her to slip under the radar.

Knowing Ferris had phoned Blotnik, Purviance dropped in at the IAA, claiming to represent her boss and wanting to firm up the method of payment. More injustice awaited her. Blotnik hadn't received the Masada skeleton. Purviance bluffed, saying she knew who'd taken it. She could deliver if Blotnik had money or something of value to trade. Blotnik showed her the shroud bones. Agreeing that these had significant cash potential, Purviance struck again, and bagged the new bones.

Kaplan's story was simple. Miriam Ferris had always been kind, a friend even while he was serving time. Miriam sent him chocolates. Wrote him letters. The note we'd found in Kaplan's apartment was just one of many encouraging him to keep the faith.

Kaplan knew from Purviance about her affair with Ferris. It had been his first question when she'd contacted him to kill her boss. In their negotiations, Kaplan came to believe Purviance was treacherous and without conscience. If cornered, he figured she'd throw up a smoke screen to save herself. Who more vulnerable than the betrayed wife? Fearing Purviance might point the finger at Miriam, Kaplan slipped me the photo of Max to steer the inquiry in another direction.

Kaplan also feared Purviance might implicate him. Or worse. She'd planned to have her lover killed. If she swung into action herself, why not also off the weasel who'd scammed her three grand? And Kaplan's buddy Litvak was p.i.s.sed because Kaplan had promised the Masada skeleton and then defaulted. Like Purviance, Kaplan saw the opportunity for a twofer. Make yourself scarce locally and mend fences in Israel. He, too, booked it.

Why had Blotnik stolen the shroud bones? On that one Jake was probably right.

Blotnik had been a prodigy in his grad school days in New York. Articles in prestigious journals even before completion of the Ph.D. Then the opus, three hundred pages on Ecclesiastes Rabbah, Ecclesiastes Rabbah, a rabbinic commentary from the Talmudic era. Job offers flowed like wine at Cana. Blotnik moved to Israel, married, scored permit after permit to dig coveted sites. The world was his. a rabbinic commentary from the Talmudic era. Job offers flowed like wine at Cana. Blotnik moved to Israel, married, scored permit after permit to dig coveted sites. The world was his.

A junior colleague also decided to be his. Giddy while it lasted, the affair ended badly. Blotnik's wife left him. His lover left him.

Maybe it was embarra.s.sment. Maybe loneliness. Maybe depression. After the divorce, Blotnik largely disengaged. He organized a few excavations, published a few articles. A thin work on the ancient baths of Hammat-Gader. Then, two decades of nothing.

Ferris's call must have come like manna from heaven. Masada bones missing for over four decades? During his many years in Israeli archaeology, Blotnik had heard rumors of such a skeleton. One can only speculate what else Kaplan or Ferris told him, or what had been whispered among his colleagues. The bones were those of an important figure in first-century Roman Palestine? A biblical VIP? Blotnik must have seen his future light up like a Hollywood marquee.

Then the manna was pulled back by the death of Ferris. Lights out. Not long after, I phoned. I had the Masada skeleton. A new dawn! Cue the credits!

Seeing a way to supercharge his flagging career, or supercharge his bank account, as Ryan believed, Blotnik had researched the Masada skeleton and Cave 2001. Then Max was, again, s.n.a.t.c.hed from him. Jake and I came to say the skeleton had been stolen. Blotnik was despondent. His potential comeback had fizzled. Like Purviance, the boy genius handled disappointment poorly, and was in a foul mood.

Then, more manna. A doc.u.ment carelessly left at a Xerox machine.

Blotnik read Getz's report and made himself a copy. First-century burial shroud? With the possibility of human remains? Discovered by Jake Drum? What was that bloke Drum's theory about a Jesus family tomb?

The explosive implications of Jake's theory and my shroud find weren't lost on Blotnik. If he couldn't have the Masada skeleton, this would work. Arming himself with a bolt cutter, he headed to Beit Hanina and waited for Jake to leave the house. It was easy.

And what of Jake?

True as stated. He'd driven to his site to find the Hevrat Kadisha causing major disruption. In the end, the police had to be called. By the time he'd left it was too late to visit Getz or Bloom. The police at the site had asked to see paperwork authorizing the excavation, which Jake kept at home.

Returning to the flat, he'd put down his pocket effects in the usual place, and dug out copies of his permits for the Talpiot site. Then he discovered the cabinet open and the shroud bones gone. Enraged, he'd stormed off without locking up. Trying to deal with both things at once, he'd first detoured to the district police headquarters to deliver his doc.u.ments, then headed straight for Blotnik.

I had arrived at the Rockefeller first, and he found me in the closet.

So.

The shroud bones were incinerated to ash.

Blotnik was dead.

Kaplan was free.

Purviance would be charged with Blotnik's murder in Israel. Extradition later? Maybe.

And Max?

Representatives of the Hevrat Kadisha admitted, under pressure from Friedman, that they'd liberated and re-buried the Masada skeleton. Neither thumbscrews, garrotes, nor threats of prosecution could get them to disclose the location. They'd heard all that before. To them it was a matter of sacred Jewish law. Halakha. Halakha. Appeals for temporary access under their watch were unyieldingly rejected. Appeals for temporary access under their watch were unyieldingly rejected.

So. Only three things remained. The original Kaplan print. The bone samples taken for DNA testing. The photos I'd shot at my Montreal lab.

Otherwise, Max was gone.

41.

IT WAS NOW T THURSDAY, FOUR DAYS AFTER THE CRASH. RYAN AND I would be returning to Montreal on the midnight flight. Before leaving Israel, we'd decided to make one last call. I would be returning to Montreal on the midnight flight. Before leaving Israel, we'd decided to make one last call.

I found myself again traveling the Jericho road. Ryan and I had pa.s.sed Qumran, famed for its Essenes and caves and scrolls; and Ein Gedi, famed for its beaches and spas. On our left, the Dead Sea stretched cobalt-green toward Jordan. On our right, a tortured landscape of b.u.t.tes and mesas.

Finally I saw it, stark red against the perfect blue sky. Herod's citadel at the edge of the Judean desert.

Ryan made a turn. Two kilometers later we pulled into a lot and parked. Signs rea.s.sured tourists. Restaurants, shops, toilets, this way.

"Cable car or Snake Path?" I asked.

"How rough's the climb?"

"Piece of cake."

"Why the name?"

"The trail winds a little." I'd been warned the trek was mean and dusty and took an hour or more. I was pumped.

"How about we cable up, then a.s.sess?"

"Wimp." I smiled.

"It took a Roman legion seven months to reach the top."

"They were battling an army of zealots."

"Details, details."

Masada is the most visited spot in Israel, but not that day.

Ryan bought tickets and we entered an empty cable car. At the top, we mounted a twisting staircase, then the ancient site sprawled before us.

I was awestruck. Romans. Zealots. Byzantines. Nazarenes? I was standing on the very same soil. Soil trod long before Europeans laid eyes on the New World.

I scanned what remained of the cas.e.m.e.nt wall, shoulder high now, the old stones weathered and bleached. My eyes took in the playa within the wall's encompa.s.s. Mojave dry, here and there a scrub vine eking out life. Purple blossoms. Amazing. Beauty in the midst of brutal desolation.

I thought of soldiers, monks, and whole families. Dedication and sacrifice. My mind wondered. How? Why?

Beside me, Ryan checked the orientation map. Above me, an Israeli flag snapped in the wind.

"The walking tour starts over there." Ryan took my hand and led me north.

We visited the storehouses, the officers' quarters, the northern palace in which Yadin had recovered his "family." The Byzantine church, the mikveh, mikveh, the synagogue. the synagogue.

We pa.s.sed few people. A couple speaking German. A school group protected by armed parent-guards. Fatigue-clad teens with Uzis on their backs.

Standard circuit completed, Ryan and I reversed and headed toward the southern end of the summit. No other tourist was venturing that way.

I checked the diagram in my pamphlet. The southern citadel and wall were noted. A water cistern. The great pool. Not a word about the caves.

I paused at the cas.e.m.e.nt wall, awed anew by the plain of sand and rock fading into s.h.i.+mmering haze. By the giant, silent formations molded by eons of scouring wind.

I pointed to a square faintly visible in the moonscape below.

"See that outline?"