The Book of Names Page 7

  Ben Moshe had said they were searching for the names.

  And one of them is Stacy’s.

  David yanked out his cell phone and listened in frustration as Stacy’s line rang four times and then dumped him into voice mail.

  “Hi, Munchkin.” He tried to sound natural, but his voice sounded strained. “Give me a call as soon as you get this, okay? Just checking in to see how you’re doing.”

  He tried Meredith next and swore aloud when her recorded message began.

  “Call me, Mere, it’s urgent. I need to talk to you about Stace. Right away.”

  Not that he knew what he was going to tell her when she called back. How do you tell someone their kid’s name might be on a list of people who are turning up dead? He needed to get some answers from Yael HarPaz before Meredith or Stacy called back.

  Pacing to the desk near the window, he unlatched the rabbi’s satchel. As Yael spoke in rapid-fire Hebrew behind him, he scanned its contents—a Hebrew prayer book, a looseleaf binder, a small bronze coin embossed with a figure eight.

  David looked closer. No, not a figure eight—a pair of snakes.

  He noticed two laminated cards on the bottom and picked one up, staring at its strange, intricate drawing. What’s this?

  It was a diagram. Ten different colored molecules connected by intersecting lines. It reminded him of a molecular formula on a prescription insert. Or something he’d built as a kid with his wooden Tinkertoys.

  As he heard Yael end the call, he dropped the diagram back into the satchel and wheeled to face her.

  “Now I’d like that explanation.”

  She spoke coolly. “Where do you want me to start?”

  “The names in my journal. Why are they written on all the ancient papyri the rabbi told me about?” The words poured out of him. “Whose names are they? What do they have in common?”

  “They are the people who keep the world in existence. Rare and special people. And they are being systematically murdered by the Gnoseos.”

  A cold terror drenched him. The names he’d Googled—he’d been right. All those accidents weren’t really accidents.

  Stacy.

  God, where was she?

  “My stepdaughter’s name is in that journal.” His voice cracked. “Are you telling me she’s in danger?”

  Yael swallowed. A hint of compassion flickered in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Yes, she is in danger. All of the Lamed Vovniks are. Is she in D.C.?”

  “No, on the opposite coast. Santa Monica.” David gritted his teeth. “Are the same people after her? These Dark Angels?”

  She nodded, her expression grim. “They are highly trained and relentless killers.” She drew a breath. “If they have her name, they’ll find her. She needs protection immediately. I’ll call Avi back—”

  “No.” David’s jaw was set. “I’ve got someone I trust. He’s the best there is. He’ll protect her, and he’s less than an hour from her by plane.”

  Yael bit her lip, then shrugged. She peeled off her soaked silk blazer and shivered. The color still hadn’t returned to her face. “Very well. I’ll brew some coffee while you make your arrangements.”

  David punched in Karl Hutchinson’s number, one he knew by heart. It had been three years since he’d seen him, but they talked every few months. He prayed Hutch would answer.

  “Hola!” Hutch’s familiar voice told him to leave a message after the tone. David’s chest constricted.

  “Hutch, it’s me, I’m in New York and I’ve got an emergency. I think Stacy’s life is in danger. I need you, buddy.”

  David’s head felt like it was going to explode. He gulped down a deep breath, and then another. Focus.

  He focused on Yael as she handed him a cup of coffee. “Now will you tell me everything that’s going on?”

  “I’ll try. Sit down, David.” She looked at him appraisingly. “This isn’t going to be easy for you to accept. Or for me to explain.”

  David folded himself into the desk chair and set down the coffee cup.

  He remembered what ben Moshe had shouted to Yael as she climbed onto the fire escape.

  There was no way he was getting on a plane to Israel—not without Stacy.

  His gaze leveled on the long-legged woman seated on the bed across from him.

  “You can start,” he said quietly, “by telling me about the Lamed Vovniks.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Are you familiar with the Talmud?” Yael watched him steadily.

  “Generally. Ancient rabbinical commentaries on the Old Testament, right?”

  “It’s more than that. The Talmud is the main body of Jewish religious writings—everything there is to know about Jewish law, history, philosophy, moral teachings—even legends.” Yael took a sip of her coffee.

  “Sixty-three tractates, all written between the third and sixth centuries by the most learned of Jewish sages—men who spent their entire lives arguing, analyzing, and defining every aspect of Jewish law. Within the Talmud lies the explanation of the Lamed Vovniks.”

  “Keep talking.” David struggled to control his impatience.

  “According to Rabbi Abbaye—one of those learned sages—in every generation the world must contain thirty-six righteous people who are blessed by the Shekhinah.”

  “Who?”

  “God’s feminine aspect.” She met his eyes.

  “Jewish tradition teaches that only by the inherent merits of these thirty-six does God continue to keep the world in existence.”

  David shook his head. “Hold on—you’re telling me that there’s only thirty-six righteous people in the entire world?”

  “Actually, there are about eighteen thousand,” she said with a flicker of a smile. “But the Lamed Vovniks are special-individuals, people whose souls reach the highest spiritual level. Their goodness is so powerful, so inherent, that they’re capable of complete spiritual unity with God while on earth.”

  His brows lifted in disbelief. “You’re saying they have a hotline to God? Look, I’ve always known Stacy was a sweet-hearted kid, but, c’mon—”

  “The mystics say that the Lamed Vovniks walk among us undetected. At least thirty-six in every generation, always unknown, even to themselves. So anyone who claims to be one is definitely not. They’re humble and do good in quiet ways, avoiding credit or praise. The Hasidic rabbis tell tales of Lamed Vovniks who arrived as strangers in a town, saved it from disaster, and then vanished without fanfare as quickly as they’d appeared.”

  Yael’s hands were clenched around her coffee cup. “If all the Lamed Vovniks in a generation were to die, the world would cease to exist.”

  Thunder split the sky. They both glanced at the window, where rain sheeted down upon a city already drowning.

  “Don’t you see, David? It’s already started. Haven’t you wondered about all the horrors multiplying around the world, one after the other? Do you remember a time when the turmoil was so intense, so relentless? The Gnoseos, David, they are destroying the world. By destroying the Lamed Vovniks.”

  David’s head began to pound again, in syncopation with the drum of the rain. He pushed himself from the chair, crossing to the window. He focused on the swell of rainwater gushing along the street. As he watched, lightning arced off the building across from him. Its upper windows shattered even as thunder exploded like a bomb. David jumped back as the reverberations shook beneath his feet.

  The earthquakes in Turkey, the explosion at the port in Dayyer, the terrorists in Melbourne. The hurricanes spinning one after the other in the Atlantic . . . the mudslides in Chile. . . .

  No. Impossible. He spun toward Yael. Her clear green eyes were somber in the dim hotel room. “David, we need to get you to Israel—to Safed, a sacred and mystical city.”

  “I’m not going anywhere except to Santa Monica.”

  “Safed, David. The answers are there. It’s in the light—in the air. And even secular scientists like my father and I can’t d
eny the mystical aura that seems to beam from the stars there. The Kabbalists in Safed need your journal, your mind. They have scraps of papyri dug from the sand, fragments of the ancient book containing the names of all creatures—including the secret names of the Lamed Vovniks. But you, David, have their names, too. They’re in your head.”

  “If Stacy’s one of them—” he broke off, his stomach roiling with fear. If they even exist.

  She thrust her hand through her hair, sweeping the burnished waves from her face. “We cannot count on your Hutch to get to her quickly, especially since he has not returned your call. I’m sending in a backup team. My contact Avram Raz has access to the best of Israeli security and intelligence. His name fits his work.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Raz means ‘secret’ in Hebrew. But every Hebrew letter also carries a numerical value. And the letters that spell Raz have the same numerical value as the Hebrew words for ‘light’ and ‘stranger.’ ”

  “I’m still not following you.”

  “Avi Raz is a man who brings secrets and strangers to light,” she said, opening her phone. “That should tell you enough about his occupation—and his qualifications.”

  David clamped his lips together. He needed to hear from Stacy now. His cell rang just as Yael began speaking quickly in Hebrew, and he snatched it up, praying he’d see Stacy’s name across the display.

  Hutch.

  “David, what in hell’s going on? Tell me what I can do.”

  “Get to Santa Monica—I need you to protect Stacy and Meredith. You remember the house? Get them out of California. A backup team’s coming—I’ll need you to call me with your location once you’re all safe.”

  “Jesus, man, what are we dealing with here?”

  “I think Stacy’s on a hitlist, Hutch.” David could scarcely believe what he was saying. “Some religious cult is after her. I need you there yesterday, pal.”

  When he snapped his phone closed, David found Yael watching him. No trace of sympathy softened her eyes.

  “Avi hand picked two Mossad agents who are flying in to LAX tonight. As soon as Hutch gets word to us, they’ll meet up with him and take over. She’ll be all right, David. You have to trust me on that.”

  As another crack of thunder shook the windows, she pushed herself off the bed and advanced toward him. “In the meantime, you and I must get to Safed as soon as possible.”

  “Not going to happen. I’m going to my daughter. She’s my only priority.”

  “She’ll be protected, David. But there are a lot of other people who won’t be. Think about it—after what happened today, you’re on the Gnoseos radar. If you go to Stacy now, you could lead them right to her.”

  David’s temples throbbed. He could still hear the gunshots in his head.

  What if Yael was right?

  “You can help her more in Safed than anywhere else. The sooner we get there the better, but someone needs to overnight your passport.” Her eyes locked with his.

  “Who can you trust?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Floating on her back was the most peaceful feeling in the world. Stacy closed her eyes and basked in the caress of the sun, sighing contentedly at this near-perfect afternoon. She’d won today’s game, her fortune cookie had promised an adventure, and best of all, David was going to talk her mother out of dragging her along on the “family honeymoon.”

  Now if only she could block out the sound of her mom making those mewing noises on the phone to Len. It was nauseating.

  If I wasn’t so comfortable, Stacy thought, I’d paddle over to the pool deck and crank up the music. But she didn’t want to move. . . .

  From the window above, her mother’s laughter shot up ten decibels. Who am I kidding? She slipped off the raft into the tepid water, her face scrunched in exasperation. Who can relax when their own mother is embarrassing herself like that, and loud enough for all the neighbors to hear?

  Sloshing from the pool, she padded toward the chaise longue where she’d dumped her phone, her sunscreen, and her towel. Her can of Coke had grown warm in the sun but she swigged it anyway as she spun up the volume on her boom box.

  There. Way better. Now she didn’t have to listen to—Coke shot from her nostrils as she was grabbed hard from behind. The can went flying and she struggled for air as a rough-skinned hand smashed against her nose and mouth. She was choking, gasping, fighting for breath and trying to scream all at the same time, but even though she managed to wrench her lips slightly apart nothing audible came out.

  Terror punched through her as with one hairy arm her attacker hoisted her clear off her feet. Her chest felt like it was going to burst from lack of air as he began running with her like a quarterback streaking for the goalpost.

  Wild with panic, she realized where he was headed. In ten strides she’d be inside the strange van parked outside the garage.

  Eva Smolensky grunted as she tugged the Dyson down the stairs. She was a tiny bird of a woman, barely a few inches taller and not much wider than the vacuum she pushed into Dr. Shepherd’s office. Flicking on the overhead light, she clucked her tongue at the stack of newspapers that had piled up since she’d cleaned last Tuesday. She figured as long as Dr. Shepherd had called and asked her to let Father McGrath in this afternoon, she’d clean the house a day early, leaving her Tuesday morning free to visit her newest grandchild.

  But, boy oh boy, she wasn’t as young as she used to be. Eva hadn’t cleaned this late at night since her kids were little and she’d waited until they went to bed to pick up around the house. And picking up after Dr. Shepherd wasn’t exactly easy. He was a very nice young man and all, but he was a slob, just like her son-in-law, Henry.

  Eva shook her head. Well, at least he’d called early enough. She’d have most of his house in order before Father McGrath got here and picked up whatever Dr. Shepherd needed.

  Peering out the window for a glimpse of the priest, Eva massaged the small of her back. She was getting too old and creaky to clean houses, but she still kept her favorite customers. For now.

  Next year, who knew? Maybe she’d finally retire.

  There was no sign of that handsome priest yet, so she trudged back to the vacuum and bent over, pushing the plug into the wall. No matter if he came to the door while she was still vacuuming—she’d told him the front door would be unlocked in case she didn’t hear the bell over the vacuum and washing machine.

  As her finger hovered on the vacuum switch, a buzzer sounded. The dryer. With a sigh, she shuffled to the laundry room and the waiting load of permanent-press shirts. Those she had to get on hangers right away, before they wrinkled.

  The washing machine thudded into its rinse cycle as she opened the dryer door. Now why couldn’t someone invent a washer and dryer that cycled on the same schedule? Would that be too much to ask? Suddenly, Eva heard movement in the hall. Father McGrath. He must have slipped in right before she looked out the window. Now how had she missed him? Maybe she did need a hearing aid like her daughters kept telling her. . . .

  Hmmph. She scurried to the hall, more than happy to spend a few moments with her favorite priest. Not only was Father McGrath easy on the eyes, but he had that warm and gentle manner about him. Every time she saw him, she came away feeling she’d been in the company of angels.

  She peered around the hall. Strange. He wasn’t there.

  “Father McGrath?” Eva sang out. She padded to the kitchen and glanced around, then doubled back to the hall and squinted up the staircase.

  Odd. She could swear she’d heard someone in the house. “Father?” she called again.

  There was only silence.

  Puzzled, Eva started toward the office.

  But she never got there.

  Dr. Shepherd’s pin-striped pale blue shirt was still piping hot from the dryer when it was flung over her head and its sleeves twisted around her crepey throat.

  She fought for air like a marionette dangling at the end of her strings
, but she was with the angels a full minute before her body was stuffed in among the shirts wrinkling inside the clothes dryer.

  Stacy’s eyes pleaded toward her mother’s open bedroom window. Mom, she wanted to scream. Mom! But she couldn’t scream, she couldn’t even breathe. Her nostrils, her throat were on fire, and pinpricks of light began to dot her vision.

  She struggled to wrest free of the man’s grip, twisting the same way she did to wrench the ball from an opponent. It wasn’t working. He was too strong. The van’s open hatch yawned like the mouth of a monster. Don’t pass out, she told herself, then on a surge of adrenaline she forced her mouth open as widely as she could and bit down like a Doberman on the fingers crushed against her lips.

  Instinctively the man released his grip and yelped. Stacy gulped air and twisted free of his grasp. She threw herself forward even as he lunged for her.

  “Help! Rape!” Her bare feet pounded toward the street. Thank God! Mr. Atkins was taking Reckless for his after-dinner walk.

  The border collie began barking and Mr. Atkins was staring at her. Then he was suddenly dragged forward as the leashed dog lunged for the Lachmans’ driveway.

  The van’s engine roared to life behind her and she dove out of the way, toppling into the jacaranda tree as the van squealed past her and careened into the street.

  “Stacy! Who was that? Are you all right?” As Mr. Atkins and Reckless reached her, Stacy let out another scream.

  “Mom!”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A muggy twilight settled over Capitol Hill. Dillon McGrath let himself out of the house on D Street and hurried to his Acura. He slid behind the wheel and fitted the key into the ignition, but didn’t turn it. Instead, he pulled out his cell phone and a handkerchief, swiping at the perspiration beading along his upper lip.

  “Dillon, do you have it?”

  David sounded more anxious than Dillon had ever heard him. That was more than understandable, Dillon thought, considering he’d seen ben Moshe die right before his eyes.