Outside Eden: A Harper Jennings Thriller

Robin.

Harold Clemmons had been cheated. Suckered. Scammed. Duped.

Even worse: his wife had been the one to discover it. She’d gone online, totaling their credit card expenses, and boom – there it was. A charge for two hundred dollars. And he’d caught hell about it. Dot had kept him up the whole damned night, listing all the treasures she could have bought for the money if he hadn’t simply signed it away. Even now, as he approached the gate of the shuk, he could still hear her.

‘Didn’t you even look at the sales slip? You just signed? Genius. They could have put down ten times the amount – they could have put down anything they wanted. Why don’t you just wear a sign saying, I’m a chump; cheat me. Take my money!’ Dot’s voice had a piercing, nasal twang that jangled his skull, reverberated in his mind. ‘So where is it?’ She’d stared at him, her hands on her hips.

It took a moment for him to realize that ‘it’ was the receipt for the purchase. He had no idea where the thing was, hadn’t paid attention. They’d been in a crowded street in the teeming marketplace of Jerusalem’s Old City, and she’d bought souvenirs for what amounted to less than twenty dollars. Was he supposed to have kept track of every receipt for every paltry purchase she made? How was he supposed to have known the guy was going to rip him off? Dutifully, to appease her, he’d gone through his wallet and miraculously he’d found the thing. Sixty-eight shekels.

But Dot had been unrelenting. She’d gone on and on, calling him everything she could think of – irresponsible, careless, foolish, soft. Saying that he was an easy mark, that he all but invited people to take advantage of him, that it was the same back home. That he didn’t command respect, let alone fear. Sometime after two in the morning, he’d pretended to be asleep, while in reality he’d lain awake, simmering. Mad at the vendor, mad at Dot. Mad enough that, as soon as the sun came up, he’d gotten up and showered, gone downstairs to breakfast, leaving Dot asleep, mouth wide open, but at least silent.

As soon as the shops opened, Harold entered the Jaffa Gate, passing through the tall white granite walls into the Old City. He hurried past security guards and busloads of tourists, rehearsing what he would say to the vendor, if he could find him. Practicing standing tall and looking fierce like a man not to be messed with. At some point he stopped, getting his bearings, not sure exactly where he was. He walked along a main street, saw endless rows of shops. Clusters of travelers and shoppers. Schoolgirls in plaid skirts – but wait. Their uniforms looked Catholic or maybe Greek Orthodox. Definitely not Muslim. So he must have wandered out of the Muslim section, away from his vendor.

Harold changed direction, wandering the labyrinth of intersecting paths in the shuk, surrounded by booths displaying their wares. Sandals, jewelry, water pipes, scarves. Fragrant spices. Aromatic toasted nuts. Fresh fruits and flowers. Hundreds of booths, but not the booth he was looking for.

The morning was warm, and Harold’s shirt was already damp. He went up an alleyway, around a corner, around another. Every display seemed familiar, identical. Vendors called to him: ‘Come, sir. Buy a gift for your wife.’

‘I have excellent souvenirs for you to bring home. Anything you like.’

‘Come in. Take a look – just for one minute.’

Harold kept moving, grinding his teeth, determined to find the culprit. Turning left, then right, he found himself in a dank and shadowy passageway that came to a dead end. Harold stopped. He was wet with sweat, breathing too hard. Needed to slow down, cool down. Wiping his brow, he retraced his steps to the wider alley and continued searching the booths, hearing the clamor, seeing the monotony of trinkets, T-shirts, brass camels, brocade elephants, wallets, candlesticks, sun hats, harem pants. How was he to find the vendor he was looking for?

In fact, he almost didn’t. He walked right by it, probably more than once, but finally, he saw them: Big brown eyes, too big for their bony face. Dark hair clipped almost to his scalp.

The thieving vendor.

Harold pushed past a hanging carpet, bumped a rack of dresses, and entered the tiny shop.

The vendor smiled broadly as if he’d never seen him before. ‘May I help you?’

Harold stood at the small wooden board that served as a counter, shoved a display of beaded necklaces and charm bracelets to the side, dumping out his sack of key chains and scarves. He stood up tall and narrowed his eyes. ‘I’m returning these…’

‘Sorry?’ The vendor’s eyes widened, his hands raised, palms up.

‘I bought these from you yesterday…’

‘I don’t know. I see many customers.’

‘Well, I know. You sold me this stuff.’ Harold’s voice sounded thin. His pulse pounded, face sweltered. Sweat rolled down his back. ‘And you overcharged my—’

‘But why would you return these things?’ The vendor picked up a key chain, examining it. ‘Nothing is wrong with the merchandise.’

‘Seriously? It’s crap—’

‘Crap?’

‘And you charged me sixty-eight shekels for it, but you billed my credit card—’

‘Only sixty-eight shekel? For all this? Well, you must have bargained well. That was an excellent price—’

‘No – that’s not the point.’ Harold felt flustered, wiped his forehead. ‘Point is you overcharged me—’

‘But all our sales are final. So what I can do for you, because I want you to be happy, is to let you exchange this—’

‘No, I don’t want to exchange anything. I want my money back.’ Harold sensed people standing behind him, watching. Fine. He’d let others know what was going on in this place. ‘You charged my credit card two hundred American dollars – that’s a lot more that sixty-eight shekels.’

The vendor looked astonished. ‘This is not possible – show me the paperwork.’ The vendor scowled, crossed his arms.

Harold presented his receipt.

‘This says sixty-eight shekels.’ The vendor pointed to the number.

‘And I was charged six hundred and eighty.’

‘No, sixty-eight. See?’

‘But you charged my credit card—’

‘How can I be sure?’

Harold took his phone out, began punching up the credit card information his wife had obtained the day before. He heard the people behind him moving, watching, listening. Good. If he embarrassed the vendor enough, maybe he’d get his refund.

The vendor didn’t wait. He waved his hands. ‘Either way, it’s between you and your credit card company. It doesn’t involve me. Anyway, we don’t give refunds. I’ll tell you what; look around. Find something you like. I’ll give you a good price…’

‘Nothing doing.’ Harold squared his shoulders, trying to look powerful. ‘I want you to refund my credit card!’

‘Is there a problem, Ahmed?’ Someone bumped Harold from behind; someone else stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder.

Harold turned. Three beefy men with dark shining eyes stood in an arc around him.

‘No, no problem,’ the vendor said. ‘This man simply can’t make up his mind what to buy.’

Harold was surrounded. The vendor in front of him, a man to his side, two others blocking his exit.

‘What will it be?’ The vendor smiled, gestured at the wall of brass figurines. ‘How about a lovely chimpanzee? Only six hundred and eighty shekel.’ He lifted one, held it out.

Harold turned slowly, facing the three newcomers, looking from one to the other. Finally, head down, he stepped toward them. They didn’t move. He was alone, outnumbered in the crowded, cubby-holed shuk. If they wanted to, they could make him disappear, never to be seen again. Never return to the hotel, never again see Dot or his mother in Ohio.

‘Excuse me.’ He turned to leave, managing to look the largest one in the eye.

‘Wait,’ said Ahmed, the vendor. ‘You forgot your chimpanzee.’

Harold looked at him, at the brass ape, then at the men blocking his way.

‘Only six hundred and eighty shekel.’ Ahmed began wrapping the thing up.

Harold’s face burned; blood roared in his head. He was trapped. He reached into his pocket, took out his credit card. Handed it to Ahmed, who processed the purchase and handed the package to Harold, smiling. ‘Enjoy your ape.’

Harold turned to go, faced a wall of large, smirking men.

The biggest one waited a beat, then stepped back, clearing the way. Harold rushed out of the booth, down the passageway. At the corner, he looked back, saw the men following him. He kept going, hurrying. Pushing past shoppers, going deeper and deeper into the shuk, becoming completely lost. Sweat poured down his face; he didn’t bother to wipe it away. It trickled down his nose, off the tip. He kept moving, trying to get away, running up a staircase, down a narrow lane, around shoppers, through a small courtyard. Finally, rounding a corner, he came to a shadowy, abandoned area where the booths were all shuttered. He stopped, looked back, didn’t see the men. He stepped back, peeked around the corner. Saw nobody. He’d lost them. Probably they were back with Ahmed, laughing at him, dividing up the money from the dumb American they’d chased away and ripped off. Twice.

His face got red again. He could feel it, hot and pulsing. But never mind. All he wanted now was to get back to his hotel. He thought of Dot, what she’d do when she found out he hadn’t gotten a refund – that, instead, he’d dropped another 680 shekels. Harold gathered his breath, trying to figure out what to tell her, and realized that he’d have to find his way out of the tangled paths of the shuk before he could tell her anything. Why had he ever set foot in the cursed place? He should have left it alone, let Dot rant and scold. But no, he’d had to be a hero, had to show her what a tough guy he was. How he could fix it. He regarded the package in his hand.

The chimpanzee was an insult, a symbol of his humiliation. He looked for a trash can to throw it away, then saw two people approaching. They looked American; one wore a T-shirt and jeans, the other a plastic raincoat. Odd, since it was hot and there was no chance of rain. But Harold was elated; the two would help him find his way out of this godforsaken maze. He walked toward them, and they smiled, came closer.

‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Are you American?’

‘Yep.’ The shorter one grinned, and the one in the raincoat walked right up to him. Invading his space.

By the time he saw the knife, it was too late. The shorter one stood back, blocking his escape. The taller one raised the knife and ran the blade across his throat. Harold collapsed. Falling, bleeding, he had three final thoughts.

The first was that he was about to die.

The second was that he had no idea who these people were or why they were killing him.

The third was that he wouldn’t have to tell Dot about the extra charge on the credit card.

All around her, women prayed, their heads bowed and covered. Some stuffed pieces of paper into small cracks and crevices between rocks. Harper Jennings stood at the Western Wall of the Old City in Jerusalem, holding her hand flat against a stone block in the structure. It felt rough, sturdy, solid. Ancient. It had kept its place for over two thousand years, outlasting invaders, empires, cultures, gods. Harper pressed her fingers against it, less interested in the bustling women around her than in the inanimate wall, its past. Who had cut the stone, hauled it, placed it there? And what had it seen –  worshippers, warriors, centuries of change? How many other hands had touched it? Millions? Her hand on the stone, Harper felt connected to all of them, a chain of hands and shadows of hands, linked by a rock through ages.

But Harper couldn’t linger. Hagit had the baby, and she didn’t know Hagit very well. Following the practice of the other women, she moved away from the wall without turning her back to it, a sign of respect. When she was sufficiently distant, she looked around and saw Hagit and Chloe, holding hands, waiting for her.

Harper went to them, swept Chloe up, got a joyous squeal.

‘Did you put in a prayer?’ Hagit nodded at the wall.

‘A prayer?’

‘In the cracks. Didn’t you see? People put prayers on paper and leave them in the wall.’

‘I saw them.’ Harper tussled Chloe’s curls. Kissed her warm round cheek.

‘I’ll wait.’ Hagit held out a pen and scrap of paper. ‘Go – put it between the stones. Write down a prayer and leave it there. It’s supposed to be like a … a what do you call it? A mailbox? No –  like FedEx for God.’

Harper laughed.

‘Even if you’re not religious, it wouldn’t hurt…’

‘It’s okay.’ Harper looked back at the wall, the women gathered against it, the divider between them and the men on the other side. The men were praying, their shoulders covered with shawls, their heads with kippahs or black wide-brimmed hats.

Hagit watched her, disapproving. Shorter than Harper, she was plump, probably fifty, her unruly hennaed hair struggling to get free of a silver barrette. Harper wasn’t sure who’d hired her. Maybe the organizers of Hank’s symposium, maybe the Israeli Ministry of Foreign Affairs. But someone had hired her, for the moment they’d checked into their hotel, exhausted from the almost twelve-hour flight with a baby who’d had no desire to sit still or be quiet or sleep, Hagit had shown up with credentials and taken charge, telling Hank and Harper to rest, that she’d watch little Chloe. From then on, for the last two days, while Hank, Trent Manning and their international colleagues attended their meetings, Hagit had been Harper’s helper, babysitter, tour guide and constant companion.

‘Down, Mama.’

Chloe was restless, wanted to move. Harper sat on a ledge at the edge of the courtyard and set her down. As soon as her little feet hit the ground, Chloe took off, demonstrating her recently acquired ability to scurry. Hagit at her side, Chloe forged ahead, crashing into a gaggle of women before wobbling and grabbing a hemline to steady herself.

Harper ran over to apologize, but the owner of the hem was already crouching, chatting with Chloe. ‘Aren’t you a big girl, running all by yourself?’

‘She’s beautiful.’ One of the hem owner’s friends grinned at Hagit. ‘What’s her name?’

Hagit frowned, shook her head, no.

‘Her name’s Chloe.’ Harper stooped to open Chloe’s fist and free the fabric of the skirt. ‘Let go, honey. Sorry – she’s not interested in walking, only in running. And she doesn’t have good brakes.’ She helped Chloe to her feet.

‘How old is she?’

‘Fourteen months.’

‘Only? She’s agile for fourteen months. And so adorable.’ The third woman grinned.

‘Look at those curls!’ The first woman cooed.

‘And a charmer.’ The second one beamed. ‘Look at the twinkle in her eyes.’

Hagit mumbled something; her frown deepened. ‘She’s a baby. Nothing special.’ She grabbed Chloe’s hand and led her away.

Nothing special? Harper bristled at the remark, made an awkward, apologetic shrug and wished the ladies a good day. Then she chased after Chloe, who’d pulled her hand from Hagit’s and sped off again across the courtyard, shrieking.

Harper caught up, her eyes never drifting from her child. Hagit had been approved by Israeli security, but Harper had never had a babysitter before, hadn’t trusted anyone but Hank to watch the baby when she wasn’t there. Consequently, Chloe had spent much of her first year in a sling attached to Harper’s body, going mostly everywhere with her. But now, Chloe was becoming a little girl. She could walk, was starting to talk. She needed more independence, more people in her life. Hagit provided a first step in that direction. So Harper forced herself to let Hagit help with Chloe, but she watched them like a mama lion, lurking nearby.

When Chloe tumbled again, this time reaching for a stray cat, Harper ran over and scooped her up. She fastened the wiggly twenty-two-pound bundle into her sling, trying to get her to hold still long enough to tie it. Soon, Chloe would be too big for this mode of transportation, but for now, it offered a means of control.

Hagit watched, arms crossed, still frowning.

‘What?’ Harper eyed her.

‘What do you mean, what? Those women. Why did you allow that?’

‘Allow what?’ Harper had no idea.

Hagit lowered her voice, looked around. ‘The Evil Eye.’

Harper tilted her head. The what?

‘They drew its attention to the baby.’

Harper shook her head. ‘Sorry. I don’t know what—’

‘You heard them. Saying she’s beautiful and a genius and so on? Kenahara. Harper, the Evil Eye is always watching. When attention goes to someone, it goes, too. It’s dangerous to say a child is pretty or clever or somehow better than the rest. Why would you let them say such things, inviting trouble? You have to say a Kenahara.’

‘A what?’

‘Kenahara. It means No Evil Eye.’

Harper shook her head. ‘Wait, you’re saying it’s wrong to call a baby pretty?’

‘Not just a baby. And not just pretty. You should never point out good luck or success. Attention like that – praise like that? It’s like a phone call to the Evil Eye – you might as well send him an invitation. Ask him for trouble. Come with me. Hurry. There’s still time.’ Hagit grabbed Harper’s arm and, rearranging the diaper bag on her shoulder, led her into the shuk.

The light changed as soon as they stepped inside. And so did the mood. The solemnity and awe that surrounded the Wall vanished. Suddenly they were in a teeming bazaar, closed into a dimly lit narrow corridor streaming with people. On all sides were overstocked booths, their goods spilling into the passageway. Vendors with dark shiny eyes beckoned and called, ‘Come and look.’ ‘See what I have for you.’

The air was hot, dense. Crowded with smells: flowers, sweat, incense, spices. The cologne of a passer-by. Something pungent. Something decaying. And there was such noise – a steady undercurrent of shuffling and voices, bits of conversations in many languages. Commotion.

Harper moved along, Chloe snug against her in the sling, Hagit’s hand gripping her elbow. She had a feeling of being caught in a current, being swept along. And her senses were on high alert, as if the waters held danger.

But Hagit seemed unfazed. She led them along, turned into one alleyway, then another. Harper fought waves of claustrophobia, glimpsing displays of motley wares – clothing and trinkets, hookahs and pashminas, pomegranates and rugs. Shoes and flowers. Roasted nuts.

‘Mama. Go.’ Chloe kicked Harper’s sides, a rider spurring on a horse.

Hagit finally stopped at a booth displaying finer items: watches, silver and gold jewelry. Leaving Harper at the entrance, she stepped inside, stood at a display case. The vendor greeted her, offering help.

Hagit peered into the case and pointed. ‘That one. And that one.’

‘Certainly, you have excellent taste.’ The salesman smiled, unlocked the case. Took out two necklaces with hand-shaped pendants, one tiny enough for a small child’s neck.

Hagit said something in another language – Hebrew or Arabic, Harper wasn’t sure. The man looked shocked and offended; he replied, shaking his head, no. An argument ensued. Eventually, Hagit put the necklaces down and turned to leave; the vendor grumbled and waved her back; Hagit took out her wallet.

‘Mama.’ Chloe kept kicking. ‘Down.’

‘Not now,’ Harper said. ‘It’s too crowded.’

‘DOWN.’ The word was loud and shrill, and delivered to Harper’s ears with simultaneous heels to the hips. Chloe had definitely outgrown the sling. Time for a stroller.

‘Stop kicking.’ Harper grabbed Chloe’s feet, pictured herself with two matching heel-shaped bruises. She stepped out of the shop, looking up the aisle for a booth that sold strollers, but Hagit came back and fastened a chain around Chloe’s neck.

‘Wear this always.’ She stood behind Harper, talking to Chloe.

‘What is it?’ Harper looked over her shoulder, couldn’t see.

Hagit held up the larger one, showing Harper a gold, not inexpensive, charm before hanging it around her neck.

‘These are hamsas,’ Hagit explained as she fastened the chain. ‘Protection.’

Protection? ‘Good-luck charms?’

‘No. Not to bring good luck. Just to keep away bad.’ Hagit pulled her away from the booth, back into the crowd.

Harper went along, fingered the charm, its hand-shaped woven gold. Even if it were just a superstitious symbol, it was a generous gift. ‘Thank you, Hagit. You shouldn’t buy us—’

‘Wearing the five fingers will hold off the Evil Eye. Wearing the hamsa, plus saying Kenahara – say it.’ She stopped walking and faced Harper, waiting. Blocking the passageway.

People bumped into them. Pushed their way past.

‘Kenahara,’ Hagit repeated. ‘Say it.’

Chloe kicked, impatient.

‘Kenahara.’ Harper obeyed, eager for Hagit to lead them out of the shuk.

‘Good. The world is full of evil, Harper. Believe me. You have to take whatever precautions you can.’ She held up the ornate, ancient-looking hamsa around her own neck. ‘Now, come this way.’ She led them round a corner into another narrow but less crowded corridor, along another aisle of booths that all looked the same.

Somewhere up ahead, a man was yelling in English.

‘It’s crap!’

As they moved along, the voice got louder.

‘You overcharged me … refund my credit card…’

Harper strained to see who was yelling, saw a red-faced, balding man in khaki shorts and a sweat-stained green polo shirt, surrounded by Middle Eastern men.

‘… want my money back.’

The vendor’s voice was low, but he was shaking his head. Refusing. The other men closed in around the American, menacing.

Instinctively, Harper took a step forward, to help him.

Hagit grabbed her arm. ‘What are you doing?’

‘He’s outnumbered…’

‘It does not involve you.’

‘He’s an American. And he’s alone. I can’t just watch…’ But she stopped mid-sentence. What was she doing? Chloe was on her back. Was she really going to step into the middle of an altercation with the baby there? She held Chloe’s feet to stop them from pounding her.

Hagit was still talking. ‘… in the Muslim section, not my part of the shuk. Let them alone. They will work it out. He can call a security officer or a policeman if he wants.’ She pulled Harper away from the man with the complaint.

Harper turned to look back at him. He was sputtering, his face crimson. Still arguing, even as the men closed in around him.

‘He’ll be all right; don’t worry about him. Most merchants here are honest enough.’ Hagit forged through a cluster of tourists. ‘I shop here. I buy my spices and fruit. Fish. Flowers. Only one thing: here, I wouldn’t use a credit card.’

Really? ‘Because they cheat?’

Hagit tugged Harper’s hand, turned a corner. ‘Let me just say evil can dig in its roots anywhere and can take on many forms. Smart people know that. Kenahara.’

By the time evening arrived, Harper was exhausted. She’d lost a night’s sleep because of the seven-hour time change and had run around with Hagit and Chloe ever since. Chloe, however, didn’t seem the least bit tired. Harper hoped a bath would relax her but, as she sponged warm water over Chloe’s back, Chloe slapped the water, splashed and jabbered energetically.

Maybe a lullaby would help. Harper began to sing. ‘Hush little baby, don’t say a word. Mama’s gonna buy you—’

‘No!’ Chloe raised her little arms, sending water flying, drenching the front of Harper’s T-shirt. Okay, maybe Harper wasn’t the best singer, but she hadn’t thought she deserved a soaking. Enough bath time. Harper pulled the plug, lifted Chloe, wrapped her in a towel. Chloe wriggled and squirmed to get free.

‘Down, Mama. Down.’

And as soon as Harper set her on the bed to dress her, Chloe slid off and scampered through the suite, giggling.

Harper dropped onto the bed, seeing no point in chasing her. Chloe was delighting in her freedom, her new ability to scamper on two legs. Sooner or later, she’d tumble;