The Masada Complex (20 page)

She realized her right eyelash was weighed down by a tear. She jerked her hand from Raul’s and stood up, wiping her eyes on her shirtsleeve.

“Dad?”

Masada turned away from him. “Go back to sleep.”

He sat up in bed. “Why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying. I’m coming down with a cold or something.”

He lowered his legs to the floor. “I think I need to go.”

“Go where? It’s nighttime.”

“Pee-pee.”

“Oh!” She held his elbow and guided him to the bathroom.

Raul pulled down his pajama pants and sat on the toilet. “You can close the door.”

She stood outside the door and listened as he did his business noisily.

“I’m better now,” he said.

“Good.”

“Are
you
better?”

“I’m fine.”

The boy was silent for a moment. “Why did you cry?”

“I wasn’t crying.”

He passed gas. “Sorry.”

Masada lowered herself to the floor, sitting with her back to the wall next to the bathroom door. “I’m just very tired. It’s been a rough week.”

“Dad says it’s good to cry.”

“How come?”

He gassed again. “Sorry.”

Despite herself, she laughed.

“It’s like, when your belly hurts? So if you let the stinky air out, then you feel better? Same when you have pain in your feelings. If you cry, the pain goes out with the tears.”

“Your dad said that?”

“Kind of.” Raul hesitated. “Dad said that if you cry it means you are brave enough to feel your feelings.” He flushed the toilet and washed his hands. Then there was silence.

“You can come out,” Masada said. “I’m not brave enough yet.”

The ringing alarm woke Elizabeth up. She rolled off the sofa onto the carpet. Smoke was everywhere. She crawled toward the door, certain that the building was on fire.

The putrid odor made her pause. It didn’t smell like a fire.

In the kitchen, the pot of stew was emitting white smoke. She snatched it from the stovetop, crossed the living room to the balcony, and put it outside. Then she opened all the windows and turned off the smoke alarm.

A glance at the time shocked her. She had slept for more than two hours. Had David rung the bell while she slept? Impossible! She would have heard it!

A sense of doom flooded her.
David had an accident!
She tried his mobile. No answer. She grabbed her car keys and ran.

Indian School Road was deserted, its six lanes dimly lit by store signs and street lamps. She pushed the old Camry as fast as it would go. In Arcadia, a family neighborhood of citrus trees and large lawns, she turned left, racing up Fifty-fifth Street.

The curb at David’s house was lined with cars. The windows were alight. People stood on the front lawn, chatting.

She entered a cozy foyer. Country music played loudly. She saw her reflection in a full-body mirror. The knitted red dress clung to her, the cleavage deep. She had never stepped out of her apartment in this dress.

“Ellie!” David came toward her, touching the wall for support. He gulped down a glass of urine-colored liquid. “You look hot, boobs!”

She took the glass from his hand, pushed him into a den off the foyer, and closed the door.

“What’s this smell?” He sniffed her. “Phew!”

“It’s our dinner.” She wanted to hit him. “I fell asleep and it burned.”

“Oops.” He collapsed into a chair. “I completely forgot. Anyway, it’s a great party. Go mingle!”

“I was expecting to mingle with you.” She wasn’t going to make it easy for him. It was time he took responsibility. And the drinking would have to stop—she would make sure of that. “And share some wonderful news.”

“That’s nice,” he said cautiously, as if expecting something bad. “What news?”

She smiled, trying to cheer up the occasion. “A miracle happened to me. To us. You see, we are exp—”

“Daddy?” A blonde girl in pink pajamas appeared in the door.

“Hey, princess!” David swept her in his arms. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

The girl crinkled her nose. “It’s too noisy.”

He kissed her. “You just want to have fun with the grownups.”

A big smile appeared on the girl’s face. “With you!”

He swiveled around, making his daughter yelp and giggle. She let him do as he pleased without fear—the total trust a little girl could only place in one man in the whole world. It put Elizabeth’s skin on fire. Her own father used to dance with her, hug and tickle her, throw her up in the air. She turned away, the sight of them together unbearable.

“Samantha?” David’s wife entered, holding a glass. She noticed Elizabeth. “Miss McPherson. What a surprise.”

“Mommy, I want to stay.” The girl clung to David. “I’m not tired.”

The likeness of daughter to mother was striking—the light complexion, skinny frame, and storybook features.

David handed his daughter to his wife. Elizabeth saw their eyes meet and knew instantly that they shared a bond of a type she would never enjoy with David.

He closed the door behind them and tried to smile. “What a crazy day.”

“Your wife seemed hostile.”

He went to the desk and sat on the edge. “Someone called earlier and told her we’re having an affair. I denied it, of course, but she’s suspicious. We’ll have to lay low for a while.”

Elizabeth went over and took his hand. “She’s the mother of your daughter. You have feelings for her. I understand. But that’s exactly why you should tell her the truth about us.”

He pulled away, crossing the room to the opposite wall. “I can’t do that. Not now.”

“Why?”

He avoided her eyes. “A scandal would ruin both of us. We’ll lose our jobs.”

“I’m willing to lose my job for a life with you.”

He didn’t answer, which was worse than a slap on the face. Elizabeth wanted to smack his beautiful lips, kiss him, punch him, fall on the floor, and cry. Instead she pulled back her shoulders, stuck out her chest, and walked to the door. “You’re not the man I thought.”

“Ellie—”

She went to her car, blinded by tears.

David caught up with her, a paper tissue in hand. Always the gentleman.

She got into the car.

“You said something about news?”

Elizabeth wiped her eyes. “It’s not important anymore.”

Thursday, August 7

P
rofessor Silver and Al Zonshine watched the rabbi’s house for the first half of the night. Rabbi Josh returned late, but Masada didn’t leave. After some time, the lights turned off. The obvious implication, that Masada and the rabbi had gone to bed together, sent Al on a verbal rampage, but Silver calmed him down with a reminder that the lovers’ time together would be short.

They drove to Masada’s house and parked Al’s van in the dry wash in the back. They crossed her backyard and reached the dark patio unnoticed. Al put on surgical gloves and forced a flat screwdriver between the aluminum-framed glass doors.

Inside, moonlight cast shadows through the three large skylights in the high ceiling. Al checked every room, closing doors. With a purposeful air, he knelt by the closed garage door, unzipped a black bag, and took out a miner’s lamp on a headband, which he put on. From a box of long matches he selected three and banded them together with a strip of blue tape. “Fuse,” he explained, taping the matches head-down to the bottom of the door, the ignitable heads almost touching the floor. He tore an empty matchbox and stuck it to the stone floor at an angle, making sure the blue tape did not cover the ignition strip.

“Done.” Al stood up, grabbing his bag. “She’ll park her car in the garage, come to the door, turn the knob, and push it in. The matches will scrape the pad, ignite, and
boom!”

“Right,” Silver said.
Together with the house and the memory stick hidden somewhere within these walls.
Then it would be Al’s turn to go, and Silver already had a plan.

In the kitchen, Al fumbled with the stove. He didn’t notice Silver going to Masada’s bedroom.

A mattress lay on the floor, wedged between the wall and a single night table. The light from the hallway fell on a book on the floor by the mattress. He picked it up and noticed a pair of holes that perforated his left cheek in the back-cover photo. He opened the book. The pin holes ran to page 67, and a light-brown stain had spread around each hole, as if something had been injected into the book.

Rejoining Al, he watched him turn a knob on the stovetop. An automatic starter began ticking and a flame appeared. Al lowered the flame, took a water bottle from his bag, unscrewed the top, and poured water in a circle over the burner, dousing the flame. Gas hissed slowly, spreading a sour smell.

They left through the patio, shutting the tall glass doors.

Silver said, “Good work, soldier.”

“Yes, sir!”

“What if she smells gas in the garage?”

“Solid wood door with tight rubber seal. Built to prevent gases from coming into the house from the garage. Works both ways.”

They got over the back fence and hurried through rocks and thorny brush to the path that ran down the middle of the dry wash. The neighbors’ homes were dark and lifeless. Huffing and puffing, Al glanced at the book. “You’re going to read it?”

“I wrote it.” Silver walked faster to keep up.

Al unlocked the van. “What’s it about?”

“About the German Jews in the thirties, under the Nazis.” He held on as Al drove off. “They wanted to escape Germany, but had nowhere to go. President Roosevelt called a conference of many countries in Evian, France, to discuss visas for Jewish refugees, but not a single country opened its gates. So Hitler concluded he could exterminate the Jews without interference from other nations.”

Al drove slowly, as Silver had instructed him, to avoid drawing attention. “They’re all anti-Semites.”

“That’s too simplistic. Many people admire the Jews for their intellectual achievements and national resilience.”

“They should.” Al pulled off his gloves and threw them in the back. “I mean, look at you, writing a book like that. How many goyim can write a whole book?”

“A few have.” Silver chuckled.

Al rotated his left arm, massaging his shoulder. “Pain’s driving me nuts.” He pulled a cigarette out of a pack and pressed in the lighter on the dash. “Suckers, that’s what we are. We work for the goyim, build universities and hospitals, find cures for diseases, and fight in their wars. And then they dump us, like they kicked us out of Sweden—”

“Spain, not Sweden.” The cigarette lighter popped, and Silver pulled it out and held it for him. “Portugal also, and England and France.”

Al drew deeply, blowing out enough smoke to momentarily hide the road ahead. “Screwing Israel is the new anti-Semitism. With help from traitors.” He spat out the window. “Going to burn, that bitch.” Al puffed a few times. “Wish I could watch her skinny ass getting barbecued.”

The image sickened Silver. “Al, please!”

“She’ll sizzle.
Tssss! Tssssssss!
”