"Quit that already, will you," Kulaski said. "You'll drive us into a building."
"I'm fine," Rapfogel answered, putting the bottle aside and wiping his mouth. "I can handle much more than this bitty bottle." He laughed, looking back at me. "Last time you paid for four glasses, remember? And it didn't slow me down any."
"Keep your eyes on the damn road," Kulaski barked as the car began to drift. Rapfogel whipped back, gripping the wheel with both hands and righting the car.
"Where are you taking me?" I asked, shifting in my seat. The cuffs were cutting into my wrists, and I tried in vain to find a position that would ease the pain.
"We're throwing you out of Jerusalem. And this time, I hope you'll stay out." Kulaski didn't look at me as he said this, and the lie was so obvious that I had the crazy urge to laugh.
"Where's your buddy, the third guy who beat me?"
"He couldn't make it tonight." The statement was mundane, but by his tone and the way his mouth tightened, I could tell Kulaski was angry. Not at me, but at the unnamed third officer. Maybe he didn't have the stomach for what Kulaski and Rapfogel planned. Maybe he was open to a beating but drew the line at cold-blooded murder.
We were near the city limits now. The buildings flowing past my window dark and brooding hulks of Jerusalem stone, the sidewalks empty of souls like my body would soon be empty of mine. No cars on the road to witness our passage.
It got darker when we exited Jerusalem. Just the stars and moon and the twin beams of the headlights slicing through the darkness ahead.
"Why not let me out here?" I asked for no useful reason. "We're out of Jerusalem, aren't we?"
"A few more minutes," Kulaski said. "It won't be long now." Rapfogel merely drank more wine.
We neared a bend, and Rapfogel slowed to a crawl. He leaned forward, peering out the window. "There it is," he said, and turned onto a narrow dirt road cutting between tall trees. We bounced over ruts and potholes for a few minutes, and then the trees spread out, and the road spilled into a clearing. Rapfogel stopped and jerked up the handbrake, but left the motor running, the lights burning bright like two tongues of fire. "We're here," he said, then drained the bottle before tossing it onto the floor.
Kulaski opened the door and climbed out. "Let's go, Mr. Lapid. Final stop."
I didn't move. I was covered in cold sweat, and my breath was fast and off tempo, like my lungs had lost their natural rhythm.
Kulaski leaned into the car. "Don't make us drag you out. Be sensible for once."
"You're a son of a bitch, Kulaski."
His lips curled wickedly. "Not half as much as you, Lapid. Now get out!"
I did. Standing in the clearing, I noticed that Kulaski was holding a different gun, having pocketed Moria's after he got out of the car. His gun was bigger, familiar, but with my brain panicked and jumpy, I couldn't put my finger on the model. But it wasn't standard police issue. Over by the front of the car, Rapfogel held a gun, too, also a nonstandard issue.
It figured. You didn't use your regular guns for a murder. You used pieces you confiscated on one of your cases. Then you disposed of them, and there was nothing that could point to you.
I looked around me, my heart stammering. Nothing but dense trees and darkness between them, and the empty ribbon of dirt on which we had traveled here. No noise apart from the hum of the vehicle and the vague sounds of forest nightlife. The fresh smell of trees and shrubs crisp and pleasant. The moon a bleached unblinking eye in a black sky.
A beautiful night, but that didn't make it a good time to die. I recalled all the times I'd come inches from death but somehow survived. A few times in Hungary before the war, many more in Auschwitz and Israel's War of Independence, and several times since. But I couldn't see how I'd make it through tonight.
I couldn't fight. I had no weapon, and my hands were cuffed. I could run, but I wouldn't get far. I was in the middle of the clearing, the trees a few meters away. No cover between me and them, and long before I would get to them, a bullet would get to me.
"You should have signed that confession when you had the chance," Kulaski told me. "You should have taken your punishment like a man."
"I didn't beat that cop."
"It doesn't matter anymore. Now step away from the car and move that way."
I didn't budge, so Kulaski grabbed me by the arm and hauled me, struggling ineffectually, to where the headlights shone brightest, and I was reminded of the searchlights that scoured the grounds at Auschwitz at night, the armed guards who shot anyone they felt like.
With Kulaski close, I searched for an opportunity to strike him, but with my hands useless, I couldn't do much, and Kulaski kept me at arm's length. Finally, he gave me a shove, and I stumbled a little but managed not to fall. Now he was six feet away from me, and whatever chance I'd had was gone.
Rapfogel had another bottle and was guzzling more wine. His face was flushed, and his brow glistened with perspiration, unlike Kulaski, who was cool and calm.
Now they'll do it, I thought. I had just a few seconds to live. Groping for a way to stave off death, I said the first thing that came to mind.
"Did Kulaski tell you I'm under the protection of the deputy commissioner?" I asked Rapfogel. "That's why he had to let me go."
Rapfogel frowned at his superior. "What's he talking about?"
"Nothing. Don't listen to him."
"If I die, the deputy commissioner will wonder why. He'll want answers."
Rapfogel tugged Kulaski's sleeve. He was slurring now. The wine was getting to him. "Is he telling the truth? Does he know the deputy commissioner?"
"No, he doesn't. He's trying to fool you. Now put that damn bottle away, and let's get this over with."
"There'll be cuff marks on my wrists," I said. "When they find my body, they'll know cops killed me. They'll come for you, Inspector. And for you, Sergeant."
Rapfogel looked nervous, but Kulaski just laughed. "By the time they find you, the animals will have eaten all the evidence." He raised his pistol. "Enough talk. No last words for you."
"I know who killed your sister," I blurted, my stomach so cramped it was hard to stand straight.
"What did you say?" he asked, staring at me without blinking.
"I know who planted the bomb that killed your sister. I know who constructed it." I had no idea if those men had been caught. I was betting my life that they hadn't.
"Who are they? What are their names?"
"You have to let me go."
"I'll shoot you if you don't talk," he shouted. His face was turning red. His gun hand shook a little. The tendons in his neck stood out like taut ropes. This was the reason we were here; this was why he wanted to kill me. His sister. He couldn't punish the men who had caused her death, so he took it out on anyone connected with the Irgun or the political party affiliated with it, Herut. Now I was dangling his wildest dream before his nose: the chance to get even with those directly responsible for his sister's death. I was hoping the temptation would make him careless.
"Shoot me and you'll never know. You'll go to your grave without knowing."
"Who are they?" he screamed, and somewhere in the trees behind me, a bunch of startled night birds took flight.
"They live in Jerusalem," I said, feeding the furnace of his desire. "You can be at their homes in under an hour. If I tell you the addresses."
I could see it in his eyes: the moment he snapped. Then he was sprinting toward me, a frenzied yell gushing from his throat like lava from a volcano. His gun was in one hand; the fingers of the other were curled like talons. "Tell me, or I'll—"
I didn't let him finish. When he was a step away, I tucked my chin into my chest and lunged forward to meet him, ramming the top of my head into his face.