The Blood Lie (11 page)

If Victor tried the rabbi's house, he wouldn't have found
him there. Rabbi Abrams had been at the temple since midafternoon, sitting in the sanctuary, worshipping and writing his Yom Kippur sermon. He knew nothing about what was happening, and so he worked undistracted under the perpetual light over the Torah ark.

When the clock on the dresser said 2:30, Jack turned out the light and lay down on his parents' bed. He stared into the blackness, listening to Martha's breathing and Harry's tossing. He never expected to fall asleep, but somewhere along the line, with Martha curled up next to him and Harry in a nest of blankets on the floor, he slipped beneath the surface of wakefulness.

Jack might have stayed in that light slumber, but all at once his mother's chickens squawked. He jerked to attention. The birds always fussed like this whenever the neighbor dog Agatha came scratching around the coop, and it didn't usually faze him. But tonight was different.
Tonight it might not be Agatha. Someone might be creeping around. Should I go take a look? What time is it, anyway?

Fortunately, the birds quieted themselves after a few seconds, and all was silent again—no voices, no footsteps, just a faint yap from Agatha and the rustling of Harry's blankets.

Jack rolled from his side to his back.
Where were Mama and Pa sleeping? Did they make any more phone calls? Had anyone found Daisy?

No, if Daisy had been found alive, word would have spread. Someone would have called the Pools, and everyone would have been sent to their own bedroom. But here they all
were, sleeping—or not sleeping—in the wrong rooms. Things were still bad.

Jack got up. He picked up the
shofar
from the rocking chair and sat down, turning the horn over and over in his hands. For thousands of years, the Jews had used the
shofar
to ring the alarm of war, to panic the enemy in battle, and to herald the coming of peace. Over the eons, not one change had been made to the instrument's design. The sound Jack made on his
shofar
earlier tonight was the same sound made by his most ancient ancestors, ancestors who survived hate and cruelty over and over.
I come from a people who survive
, he told himself.
That has to count for something.

Turning toward the window, Jack resolved to stay up and watch for the first hints of daylight to slide over the rooflines. What he'd do then, he had no idea. He only knew he had to do something, and if standing guard for daybreak was all he could manage, then so be it. Maybe he'd close his eyes first, though, just for a few minutes.

When he pried his eyes open, he thought he saw dawn breaking yellow and green low in the sky. It was a paltry smudge of light poking from a single corner of the horizon, as if the sun had sent a timid little substitute in its place. Jack wiped some of the condensation off the window and looked again at the patch of peculiar light gleaming through the glass.

But this wasn't the sun's first light. This was the temple. There was no mistaking the green-yellow glow spilling out of the synagogue's stained windows. There was no other color like it in the world. But why would the
shul
be lit up this time of night? Was it a fire—did someone set the building on fire? Were they after the rabbi?
What should I do?

Jack slid out of the rocking chair, tiptoed across the room and down the hall, and grabbed his shoes out of his bedroom. But as soon as he returned to the hallway he bumped into Harry.

“What?” Jack whispered.

“Huh?” Harry yawned. “Martha just woke up. She wants her doll.”

“Go back to bed and I'll get the doll. Tell Martha I'll bring it right now.”

Harry nodded sleepily and stumbled back to his bed of blankets while Jack went on to Martha's room. His parents were there, one on Martha's bed and the other on the trundle bed. One of them was snoring. He hurried to the vanity table where Martha kept her toys. No one stirred.

Harry and Martha were sound asleep when he set the rag doll down on the rocker. The
shofar
caught his eye. He picked it up and tucked it into the waistband of his trousers. He padded down the stairs, stopped himself in time to catch the screen door before it slammed behind him, and then he started running.

The night was such a strange shade of black—dark enough to hide people who might be looking for him but pale enough, it seemed, to utterly expose him.
Are those voices? What's poking my side?—uh, the
shofar. He crossed Main Street.
Is that someone up ahead? Can people hear the sound of my breathing?
He turned onto Hill Street, and the temple came into view.

No flames, no fire truck.
Thank God
. But the trooper's police car was there, parked in front.

Edging through the temple doors and into the foyer, Jack could hear voices in the sanctuary.
I can't just walk in. It might not be safe. Where can I hide?
To his right there was a small coat closet. A few feet beyond that were the stairs leading up to
the classroom.
Doesn't one of the stairs creak?
He hesitated, then slipped into the closet and shut the door behind him.

It smelled as musty as it did a decade ago when he used to hide with his Hebrew-school friends and make his mother “find” him. He'd forgotten all about those days. The closet was big and welcoming then. Tonight it was cramped and black and hung with stale air. Worst of all, it muffled the voices in the sanctuary. He opened the door a crack, just enough to hear.

“No, I have not heard anything about a little girl,” the rabbi was saying. “How can I help you?”

“What do you know about Daisy Durham?” asked the unmistakable voice of the cop.

“I'm not familiar with this child. How old is she?”

“Four. Listen, I'll get right to the point, Father—”

“
Rabbi
Louis Abrams. And you are…?”

“Victor Brown.”

“You are new,” the rabbi said.

“That's right. Now, I need to ask, do you have a holiday coming up?”

“Yom Kippur begins with the next sundown.”

“Is it a serious day, a fast day?”

“The most serious day of the year. Our Day of Atonement. But you came about a child. She is missing?”

“Since early afternoon.”

“How could a thing like that happen? Wasn't anyone with her, so young?”

“We don't have too many answers just yet. Anyhow, look, I see you're getting ready for your holiday, and I'm curious about something. Do your holiday customs ever call for, you know, sacrifices?”

“Ah,” said the rabbi in a scholarly tone. “In ancient times, our people did offer their animals—sheep, cattle, goats—at the Holy Temple in Jerusalem. But the Holy Temple was destroyed almost two thousand years ago. No animals have been offered since.”

“Uh
huh
. Well, what about other kinds of sacrifices? Besides livestock.”

“Other kinds? You mean fruits and vegetables?”

“Like humans.”

“Where did you get such ideas?” the rabbi asked.

The calm in the rabbi's voice stunned Jack. It sounded like he was almost amused.
But of course he's calm. He doesn't know about the accusations or the searches or the broken window or the angry crowds. He thinks the trooper is just curious. And stupid.

“I would like to set your sources straight,” the rabbi said pleasantly.

“Yeah, okay, so about the girl—” Victor said.

“Yes, of course. We digress. I am happy to help you however I can.”

“Good. Because I hear you people use the blood of a child for your holiday here. And with Daisy Durham missing, I have to wonder.”

There was silence as the rabbi put together the threads of conversation—missing child, religious practices, animal sacrifices. Finally, in a much too quiet voice, he asked, “Are you accusing us of murder?” And then, releasing the muzzle on his anger, he roared, “How dare you invade our temple for this mockery?”

Jack dropped his head against the closet wall.

“Now, Father, let's try to keep calm,” Victor said. “It's my
duty to conduct a thorough investigation. So just answer the question: do you make human offerings?”

“Nothing could be more unthinkable! We do not murder.”

“But do you use blood to—”

“Blood? Never! We even remove the blood from our meat. It takes salt and time, but we do it because the Bible—your Bible and mine—tells us to ‘be steadfast in not eating the blood, for the blood is the life, and thou shalt not eat the life with the flesh.' We would rather go hungry than consume blood.”

“Well then,” Victor said, “why did—”

“Blood accusations,” the rabbi broke in. “I should not be surprised in Troky, my Lithuanian home. I should not be surprised in much of the world. But in America? America is supposed to be a refuge from such madness. I would not have believed it possible here.”

The rabbi drew a heavy breath and continued, “Sir, let me tell you why we wear canvas sneakers on Yom Kippur instead of our usual shoes. Because our shoes are made of leather. An animal had to die to fashion them. Yom Kippur is a day of special grace and compassion. You defile it with your accusations, and you disserve this little girl.”

“Think what you like, Father. I'm still going to—” But Victor never got a chance to finish his sentence.

“Get him! Move it, move it!” The voices burst through the temple doors. “Show yourself, Abrams! It's all over now! Where've you got her? ABRAMS!” they yelled as they charged across the entrance.

The mob crowded into the sanctuary and started bellowing at both the rabbi and the trooper. “Give us the girl!”

“Make the murderer hand over the child!” “You'll burn for this!” “Take him in or we'll take him for you!” “Pig!” “Hang the damned butcher!”

Rabbi Abrams spoke before the trooper did. “Shame on you all!” he thundered. “You should be out searching for the lost child, or at home with your own families at such an hour. Leave! Do you hear me? Leave this holy place!”

A boy growled something as he approached the rabbi, but one of the men called him back. “He's pitch black on the inside, son. Keep your distance.”

Another boy said something to the first one. His voice sounded a little like George Lingstrom's. Then the shouting began again.

Emaline, Lydie and Mrs. Durham sat in the kitchen with three untouched Coca-Cola bottles on the table. The radio was still playing from earlier in the night, and the local announcer was reading from
The World Almanac
. “Listeners, we've reached the wee hour of four o'clock, so I'll close tonight's broadcast with one last fascinating fact…” Emaline got up and jiggled the tuner. She found the Potsdam station and sat back down. “…a chicken in every pot and a car in every garage,” Herbert Hoover was promising.

“Think he'll be our next President?” Lydie asked.

“Well, if he is,” Emaline answered absently, “I guess we'll all be getting free automobiles and chicken dinners, won't we?”

After Hoover's campaign plug came a staticky rendition of “Button Up Your Overcoat,” followed by the day's news.
The Yankees clinched the pennant today. A machine called an iron lung
made its debut at Boston Children's Hospital; a girl who'd stopped breathing recovered within seconds of being placed in the chamber. Volunteers rescued nine more survivors—three of them children—from last week's hurricane in Florida. The first successful helicopter flight over the English Channel happened this afternoon.
Then a new Al Jolson song came on.

Emaline glanced at her mother, who was staring out the window, and then she stood up.