Masada carried a tall stepladder back to her bedroom. She brought over a ten-gallon paint container, which she had bought the day before, planning to spend Saturday painting her scorched walls. The bedroom door was solid oak, eight feet tall, attached to the door frame with three brass hinges. She closed the door, but not completely, leaving a narrow opening, and climbed the ladder, pulling up the paint container rung by rung. She balanced it evenly on top of the door, the side of the container leaning against the wall above the door frame. She slowly let go.
The trap was set, the heavy bucket of paint ready to drop on Al’s head should he dare to invade her home.
When she got into bed, Masada reached for Silver’s book on the nightstand. It wasn’t there. She turned off the reading light and closed her eyes. Immediately she heard Raul trying to startle her, the big smile on his little face.
Are you brave yet?
She saw Rabbi Josh holding the dead boy in his arms, pleading for help.
Curled into a fetal position, Masada sobbed.
Elizabeth steered her Toyota through construction barriers on Scottsdale Road. “If he’s so dumb, why did you use him?”
“Dumb isn’t the right word.” Silver considered Al’s role in all that had happened. “He’s isolated and confused, especially after I convinced him to stop taking his medications. You see, my plan required a prominent senator with a dark secret. They all need cash, but I had to have a stick too.” Silver held the door handle as the old car rattled loudly over a stretch of bad asphalt. “I provided the criteria, and our brothers in Ramallah did the search. They followed a rumor that Mahoney wasn’t the hero he claimed to be, that while he was a prisoner in Vietnam he broke down under torture and spilled military secrets that cost American lives. Our brothers found a lead, a veteran who shared a cell with Mahoney at Hanoi Hilton. I came to Arizona a couple of years ago and joined the same synagogue. I befriended Al and gained his confidence by recruiting him into the imaginary Judah’s Fist organization, so he doesn’t question why we always met in secret. He told me the truth about Mahoney. Apparently Mahoney’s father, who was a marine admiral, pulled strings to save his son’s reputation, and Al, being the only person who knew about Mahoney’s treason, was ordered to keep mum about the whole thing.”
“That explains everything,” Elizabeth said. “Mahoney took the bribe because he feared Al would tell the media about what had happened all these years back.”
“Sometimes the carrot is also the stick, and vice versa.”
As Elizabeth turned onto Echo Canyon Road, a police car suddenly appeared in her rearview mirror.
“Keep going,” Silver said, “they’re here to catch him, not us.”
Elizabeth began to turn around the cul-de-sac.
Flashing lights came on.
“Go farther up,” Silver commanded. “I don’t want Masada to wake up and see us.”
She stopped at the curb.
A female officer came to Elizabeth’s window. “A bit dark for sightseeing, isn’t it?”
“We’re checking on our friend,” Silver said from the passenger seat. “We couldn’t sleep, worried about Miss El-Tal. We’re glad to see you’re here, keeping her safe.”
“And you are?”
“Levy Silver. I’m a member at Temple Zion, where the tragedy occurred.”
The officer nodded. “You two go home. We have it under control.”
Elizabeth drove slowly up the street and turned left.
Silver peered into the darkness, where the dry stream cut a wide swath behind the back fences. He caught a glimpse of white. “Stop!”
The moonlight was enough to help him navigate through the thorny shrubs and hunched desert trees. Al’s van was parked behind a cropping of prickly pears not far from the rear of Masada’s backyard. The van was empty. The professor looked at Masada’s dark home and whispered, “Go ahead, Al. Finish her off.”
Masada tried to yell, but a callous hand smothered her. A blunt object pounded her head, which felt as if it had split in half. She couldn’t see anything. The pain turned the darkness into white haze. Was this the whiteness described by dying people?
Anger filled her. I’m not ready to die! I can’t let them win!
She tried to breathe and realized someone was sitting on her chest.
Laughter came through the fog. A voice said hoarsely, “Won’t fail again.”
With one arm free, she tried to push him off. He was too heavy. She twisted her body and discovered he had tied her ankles together.
“Prepare yourself, bitch! He breathed stench into her face. “For a real man!”
She craned her neck and tried to bite him.
He hit her head again. The pain exploded, worse than before. She fought for air. Her body arched, but his weight kept her down. He hit her again, harder.
Masada stopped moving. Was this another nightmare?
It felt real.
Al got off her chest. She gulped air in short, heaving breaths. He shoved his knee between her legs to force them apart. She tried to press her legs back together, but he crouched between them. Leaning forward on top of her, he sniffed her neck. “God,” he whispered, “you smell good, traitor!”
She tried to think. Her vision cleared, and she saw the window, which was missing its glass like the rest of her windows. So much for her clever trap. The knee brace was out of reach, in the bathroom. She had no weapon.
His weight forced her thighs even wider apart.
“I have AIDS.”
Al uttered an edgy, tense laughter. “I’m dead already.”
She looked aside, told her muscles to relax, her mind to go elsewhere. She felt his hands on her breasts, over the cotton nightgown, which he tore apart. He licked the inside of her ear, groaning, rubbing his crotch on her stomach. His saliva left pungent odor that made her gag.
Think of something else.
Of what?
Mahoney? Ness? Rabbi Josh? Raul?
No!
He slurped her ear. “Show you. A real man.” His hand forced its way into her underpants.
She tried to push him off. “It won’t work.”
“Works already.” He folded her legs, her knees forming opposite triangles with her bound ankles, and tore off her underpants. “Oh, yes. It works.”
She felt him nibbled her left breast. His stubble burned her skin. She gasped when his hardness pressed against her.
“Told you it works.” He was panting now, his smell engulfed her.
“Don’t.” Her voice betrayed her. “It won’t go in.”
“Will go,” he boasted, rubbing against her, “all the way to your evil brain.”
She tried to close her legs, but his girth was keeping her apart, open, exposed.
He stabbed into her, and pain exploded. She cried, clenching her teeth. Tears flowed from her eyes.
His movements became frantic, fueling the fire that spread up through her abdomen to her chest and head. His breathing turned to panting. Acid rushed through her body, her skin rubbed by sandpaper. She retched, but nothing came up. He thrust his hips against her parted thighs again and again in rising intensity, his breath shrieking, whizzing, as if he was starved for air.
Suddenly he released a throaty grunt and pushed into her one last time, as deep as he could.
When his belabored breathing slowed, Al rolled off and lay on his back beside her. “See how a real man does it!” He coughed hard and spat a mouthful of phlegm.
Masada pulled the comforter up to cover her body. She began shaking.
Al stood, pulled up his pants, and buckled his belt. He picked up the gun and aimed it at her. “Shalom, traitor,” he said. “Enjoy the fires of hell.”