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Five forty-eight: A white Mercedes-Benz diesel sedan with United Nations plates drove around to the back of the hospital. A man wearing a kaffiyah and Arab robes removed several cardboard boxes labeled RECORDS in Arabic and delivered them to the hospital. Two of the boxes were judged possibly large enough to conceal a human body if the body was bent to the point of contortion. The man was estimated to be approximately the same height as Richard Carter. Several photographs were taken and enlarged. Headdress and position of subject prevented a full-face photo. A partial profile shot revealed a hairless chin and small dark mustache, no spectacles, no resemblance to a computer-enhanced portrait of Richard Carter minus his beard. License plate recorded and verified to U.N. Headquarters at Government House.
"It doesn't say he left," said Daniel.
"He arrived fifteen minutes ago, Dani," said Harel, pointing to the time. "You got this hot off the press. If he spends the night, you'll be the first to know."
At six-fifteen, Daniel drove home for a shower and change of clothes, parked the Escort near the entrance to his building. A faint breeze blew, causing the jacaranda trees to shudder.
He walked to the pebbled-grass exterior door and found it locked. Had the dog returned?
As he fitted his key in the lock, he heard shouts, turned, and saw rotund figure half a block away, trotting toward him and waving. A white apron flapping in the breeze.
Lieberman, the grocer. Probably a pickup Laura had forgotten.
He waved back, waited. The grocer arrived moments later, breathing hard, wiping his forehead.
"Good evening, Mr. Lieberman."
"Pakad," huffed the grocer, "this is probably nothing, but I wanted to tell you anyway."
"Easy, Mr. Lieberman."
The grocer took a deep breath, patted his chest.
"Football days long gone." He smiled.
Daniel smiled back. He waited until the grocer's breathing had slowed, then said, "What's on your mind, Mr. Lieberman?"
"Probably nothing. I just wanted to keep you in touch- you know how much I see, sitting behind the counter: the human parade. I figure it's my duty to let you know."
"Absolutely, Mr. Lieberman."
"Anyway, about an hour ago, your daughter went off with a guy. Big blackie, said he'd found her dog."
"My American guest is black," said Daniel. Thinking: Good for Gene. The ultimate detective.
"No, no. I've met Mr. Brooker. Not a shvartze-a blackie, a fanatic-long black coat, black hat, big beard."
"A Hassid? Shoshi went off with a Hassid?"
"That's what I'm telling you. She'd just come by the grocery. She and her friend were baking cookies, they ran out of chocolate, and Shoshi came by to get some. After I rang her up, she left, had gone maybe five meters and this blackie steps out of a parked car and starts to talk to her. I figured maybe he was one of her teachers or some friend of the-"
"What kind of car?"
"White Mercedes diesel, made a lot of noise-"
Daniel's heart stopped. "Did you see the plates?"
"No, sorry, I-"
"Go on. What happened?"
"This blackie said something about finding the dog. It was injured-he'd take her to it. Shoshi thought about it for a moment. Then she got into the Mercedes and the two of them drove off. A few minutes later I started wondering about it-the guy was religious, but she hadn't seemed to know him. I called your wife-no one answered. I thought maybe I should-"
A voice inside Daniel screamed no. no. no! He gripped
Lieberman's soft shoulders. "Tell me what this Hassid looked like."
"Big, like I told you. About your age, maybe older, maybe younger. Full red beard, glasses. Big grin, like a politician. Let me see, what else-"
Daniel's grip tightened. "Which way did they go?"
The grocer winced. "That way. "Pointing north."She's okay, isn't she?"
Daniel let go of him and raced toward the Escort.
No! Please God. Pleasegod, pleasegod.
I should haves, I could haves. Prayers shrieked through a deafening nightmare storm. His right leg pushed the gas pedal to the floorboard; his hands were welded to the steering wheel.
Not my baby, my first baby, my little mongrel.
Precious, precious. No, not her. Anyone else.
Unreal. But too real.
Nightmares, the nightmare machine.
Silence it!
Tears flowed from his eyes like blood from a mortal wound. He forced himself to stop crying, keep his head clear.
Keep speeding, stretch the minutes.
Please, God.
A red light came on at the King David intersection; the boulevard was congested with traffic. Opposing traffic begi
He leaned on the horn. No one moved. Steered the
Escort onto the sidewalk, swerving to avoid hitting terrified pedestrians. Waddling tourists in peacock clothes. A mother and a baby carriage.
Out of the way.
Got to save my baby!
Whistles and screams, a fury of horns. Hitting the rim of the central island, then over the curb and on it.
Scraping the underside of the Escort, ripping metal, hubcaps spring loose..
More screams. Maniac! Asshole!
Off the island, skidding, swinging left, dodging cursing motorists. Filthy-mouthed taxi drivers.
Fuck you-not your baby on the altar.
A shouting, gesticulating traffic officer near the King David Hotel tried to block his passage.
Move or die, idiot.
Not your baby.
The idiot moved at the last moment.
Please God, please God.
Speed.
Making deals with the Almighty: