The Butcher's Theatre

The force of the word startled her and she took a step backward. Suddenly, Daniel felt boorish, at a loss for words.

"Oh," she said, looking at his bandaged hand. "Okay. It's just that you were staring at me, and then you got angry. I was just wondering if something was wrong."

"Nothing," he repeated, forcing himself to soften his tone. "I saw you drawing my portrait and was surprised, that's all."

The girl raised her eyebrows. Broke out laughing. Bit her finger to stop. Continued giggling.

Spoiled baby, thought Daniel, angry once more. He turned to walk away.

"No. Wait, "said the girl, tugging on his sleeve. "Here. "She opened her sketch pad, flipped it around so he could see it.

Still life. Bowl of fruit and wineglass.

"Pretty bad, huh?"

"No, no." Idiot, Sharuvi. "It's very nice."

"No, it's not. It's dreadful. It's a cliche, kind of a joke-an art school joke."

"No, no you're a very good artist. I'm sorry, I thought-"

"No harm done." The girl closed the sketch pad and smiled at him.

Such a wonderful smile. Daniel found himself hiding his scarred hand behind his back.

Awkward silence. The girl broke it.

"Would you like your portrait done?"

"No, I don't, I have to-"

"You have a terrific face," said the girl. "Really. Great contours." She raised a hand to touch his cheek, pulled it back. "Please? I could use the practice."

"I really don't-"

She took his arm, led him up King George. Minutes later he was sitting on green grass, under a pine tree in Independence Park, the girl squatting across from him, cross-legged and intent, sketching and shading.

She finished the portrait. Tore the paper out of the pad and handed it to him with lovely, smudged fingers.

At this point in the dream, reality receded and things got strange.

The paper grew in his hand, doubling, trebling, expanding to the size of a bed sheet. Then larger, a ba

Miles of whiteness.

Four faces rendered in charcoal.

A thoughtful Daniel, looking better than life.

Three laughing, round-faced infants.

This doesn't make sense, he told himself. But it was nice. He didn't fight it.

The portrait took on color, depth, achieved photographic realism. A sky-sized mural.

Four giant faces-his own face, smiling now. Beaming down from the heavens.

"Who? he asked, staring at the infants. They seemed to be smiling at him, following him with their eyes.

"Our children." said the girl. "One day we'll make beautiful babies together. You'll be the best father in the world."

"How?" asked Daniel, knowing her, but not knowing her, still dream-baffled. "How will I know what to do?"

The blond girl smiled, leaned over, and kissed him lightly on the lips. "When the time comes, you'll know."

Daniel thought about that. It sounded right. He accepted it.

At eight-thirty, Gene and Lua

The next afternoon was spent tolerating a visit from Laufer and other members of the brass. Faking drowsiness in the middle of the D.C.'s little speech.

Laura returned at di

His father stayed late, taking out a Tehillim and singing psalms to him in a sweet, soothing voice, using ancient nigunim from Yemen that synchronized with his heartbeat.

When he woke up, it was nine forty-five. The room was dim; his father was gone. Only the psalmbook remainded closed on his nightstand. He picked it up, managed to open it one-handed, chanted the old tunes softly.

Shmeltzer burst into the room minutes later. A heavyset nurse followed on his heels, protesting that visiting hours were long over; this patient had already, had too many visitors.

"Off my back, yenta," said the old detective. "I've put up with your rules long enough. This is official police business. Tell her, Dani."

"Official police business." Daniel smiled. "It's all right."

The nurse placed her hands on her hips, adjusted her cap, said, "It may be all right with you, but you don't make the rules, Pakad. I'm calling the attending doctor."

"Go, call him," said Shmeltzer. "While you're at it, take a tumble with him in the linen closet."

The nurse advanced on him, fumed, retreated. Shmeltzer dragged a chair to the bed and sat down.

"Bastard's real name was Julian Heymon," he said. "American, from Los Angeles, rich parents, both dead. A loser from day one, kicked out of Sumbok-why, we don't know, but a place like that, it had to be serious. He couldn't get into any other medical school and tramped around the U.S., living off inheritance and attending medical conventions using false identities. Our busting him helped the FBI close fourteen murders. There are at least five other possibles. Don't hold your breath waiting for thanks.

"The real Sorrel Baldwin was a medical administrator from Texas, bright young guy on his way up-earned a master's degree at the American University and stayed on to work at their hospital when Beirut was still Zurich East. He stayed a year, returned to the U.S. in '74, took a position ru