SATURDAY, 5:31 A.M.
There was a knock on Robert Ramsey’s door.
MONDAY, 9:41 A.M.
Everyone in the class noticed the woman come in. It was Professor Mossler again. The students who’d seen her last time—who’d resisted the urge to sleep in through Professor Abrams’s Friday-morning lecture—stole quick, nervous glances at her as she took a seat at the back of the room.
They needn’t have worried. There would be no scene, no awkwardness this day.
She wasn’t weeping. She was beaming.
Professor Abrams smiled back at her. It was a big smile, too. A grin, even. Which seemed wrong. Professor Abrams wasn’t a grin kind of guy. Not usually anyway.
He’d seemed perkier all morning, though. Livelier. As if he’d been sleepwalking around campus for who knew how long but had finally awakened.
What the students couldn’t have guessed was this: Abrams already knew the good news Professor Mossler had come to tell him.
That their friends Cynthia and Jason had been keeping an eye on Robert Ramsey’s house.
That the day before, they’d noticed the front door open for hours.
That Ramsey’s car and U-Haul were gone from the driveway.
That when they risked a peek inside, they found the house cleared out, deserted.
That Robert Ramsey had apparently changed his mind about moving back in.
That Robert Ramsey was gone.
Professor Abrams was wrapping up an animated talk about the ibbur—a benevolent spirit, the flip side of a dybbuk—when one of his students raised her hand and asked about Jewish views of the afterlife. Her roommate, a Reform Jew, had told her that she didn’t believe in heaven or hell or immortality of any kind. How could Jews believe in ghosts if they didn’t believe in life after death?
“Things change,” Professor Abrams said with a shrug. “Jiminy Cricket, do they change.”
Well, when did that happen? another student wanted to know. They’d discussed all kinds of immortal creatures from Jewish folklore. Not just spirits like ibburim and dybbukim but angels, the demon-goddess Lilith, the Wandering Jew . . .
“Let me stop you right there,” Professor Abrams said. “Yes, Lilith and the angels and cherubim we’ve discussed. Maimonides, Mendelssohn, Kant, Cohen and the long debate over the soul—all that we’re getting to. The Wandering Jew, on the other hand, we haven’t talked about nor will we. Anyone know why?”
Professor Abrams looked around the room. No one raised a hand.
“‘The Wandering Jew,’” he said, “is the story of a Jewish man who supposedly taunted Jesus when he was on his way to be crucified. As punishment, the man was subjected to a peculiar curse: He couldn’t die. He would roam the earth until Christ returned. He would be immortal . . . if you can be said to be immortal when you’ve got an expiration date.”
The professor paused to see if he’d get a chuckle. Only Professor Mossler obliged him.
“Thank you,” he told her with another grin. “Now. There are two reasons the Wandering Jew isn’t relevant to a class on Jewish myths. First off, it’s not a Jewish story. It’s a story Christians tell about a Jew. Second—”
Abrams stopped and checked his wristwatch.
“Oh, my. Where does the time go? I’ll see you all on Wednesday.”
He headed for the back of the room, still smiling, as his students gathered up their things and left.
He never did say what the second reason was.
VSI
NANCY HOLDER
Nancy Holder is a New York Times bestselling and multiple Bram Stoker Award–winning author, and a short story, essay, and comic book writer. She is the author of the Wicked, Crusade, and Wolf Springs Chronicles series. Vanquished, in the Crusade series, is out now; Hot Blooded, the second book in the Wolf Springs Chronicles, will be out soon. She has written a lot of tie-in material for “universes” such as Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Teen Wolf, and many others, and recently won the Scribe Award for Saving Grace: Tough Love, based on the show by the same name. She lives in San Diego.
Birds trilled through Boston, and jocund dawn was on its way. Claire and Jackson had already been well into overtime when their informant placed their fugitive here, now; and in the grab-game, it was arrest while the iron was hot or give the glory to someone else. And so.
“I have her at the door. She’s A and D. She’s going upstairs; she’s out the back door; I am in pursuit!” Jackson told Claire via earpiece. He was laughing.
“What the hell?” Claire shouted into her mic. He’s telling me she’s armed and dangerous and he’s laughing?
Positioned behind a dead apple tree in the weed-choked yard of the duplex, she stepped on a dollop of dog poop—nice—with her service weapon out just as a completely naked woman of a certain age (and size) soared over the balcony railing, which was decorated with a set of jumbo Christmas lights, and landed ten feet away from Claire.
Bingo. Claire would have to thank the police sketch artist who had provided them with Linda Hannover’s likeness. He had captured every nook and cranny of her tired, doughy face.
Ms. Hannover’s landing stuck, although she wobbled. Claire was amazed the woman hadn’t broken an ankle. In her right hand, the suspect clutched a turkey baster. The baster didn’t look loaded but you could never be too sure.
“FBI. Don’t move,” Claire said.
The woman teetered a moment as Claire approached. She was very large, and very naked.
“Oh, Jesus, oh, sweet Jesus,” the woman said, taking in Claire’s FBI vest, helmet, and, presumably, her gun.
“Drop the baster,” Claire said.
Ms. Hannover did not comply. Instead, she wheeled around to an open side gate—Claire’s original ingress—and zoomed through it. Whapping it shut behind her, the suspect took off like a bat out of hell. Claire was astounded. The lady was hauling. She had to be on drugs.
“FBI! Freeze!” Claire bellowed at her. She always said “FBI” as much as possible to give it as many chances to sink in. Resisting arrest always added so much more paperwork.
Ms. Hannover did not freeze.
Claire vaulted over the gate, nearly landing on a rusted, broken tricycle. Claire gave chase—hell, she wasn’t even thirty, and she was in fighting trim—but she watched with awe as her naked criminal made it to the sidewalk and hung a left. Ms. Hannover’s bare feet slapped on the pavement.
Somewhere, a dog barked and a car engine started up. In a second Bureau car, Santos and Park, their backup, threw open their doors and aimed guns at Claire’s bad girl.
Still, Ms. Hannover ran. She might have made it as far as the crosswalk if Claire hadn’t tackled her. Claire’s face smacked against Ms. Hannover’s naked behind and her left elbow ended up in more dog poop. Didn’t these fine citizens curb their dogs? Or wear anything?
Then she saw the spotless boots of Jackson approaching, stopping at Claire’s eye level and madame’s ass.
“FBI. Don’t move, ma’am,” Jackson said, so much more professional than laughing. Claire was going to chew his balls off for breakfast.
“Oh, Jesus,” the woman said, as Claire extracted herself and whipped out her handcuffs. Then Claire read Ms. Hannover her rights, and together they hauled her to her feet. Ms. Hannover remained silent until Claire was finished. Then she started panting and said, “Jesus, who’s going to cook my goddamn Thanksgiving turkey?”
Claire and Jackson traded incredulous looks. “You should have thought about that before you started cooking methamphetamines in your spare bedroom,” Jackson said.
“Yes, unfortunately, it’s your goose that’s cooked,” Claire added, with a straight face.
“It’s not cooked. And it’s a turkey. It’s going to spoil,” the woman said, sounding confused. And high. Higher than the rising sun.
The backup team approached with a double-extra-large FBI Windbreaker and Special Agent Santos wrapped it around Ms. Hannover with some difficulty, trying to snap up the front without getting sued for sexual harassment.
“My son was messing around with that stuff,” Ms. Hannover argued as they walked her to their car. “That’s his room.”
“Your son is serving twenty-five to life for murder,” Jackson said.
“My nephew is staying in Sweetie’s room while Sweetie’s in prison,” Ms. Hannover prevaricated. Her teeth were very pointy, as in maybe filed down on a whim or for some trick’s big bucks, or as a result of some pimp’s payback back in the day before Ms. Hannover lost the will to limit her caloric intake to only three double cheeseburgers at a single sitting. Claire realized that lack of sleep was making her snarky. As a rule, she had nothing against people who liked their food.
“Sweetie told his cell mate that you committed the murder,” Jackson added. She’d been read her rights. She hadn’t asked for a lawyer. Things were looking good.
“I’m going to be in jail on Thanksgiving.” She chuckled and grinned at Claire with those freaky teeth. “I won’t have to cook but you will, honey.” She broke wind against the Windbreaker.
“She’s riding with you guys,” Jackson told Santos. He wrinkled his fine freckled nose at Claire’s assorted dog poop stains. “Maybe she should, too.”
Santos narrowed his eyes at Jackson, promising payback, and escorted Ms. Hannover to the backup car. When Jackson and Claire got back to their own government-owned vehicle, Claire folded a towel and sat sideways with her feet on the ground as she scraped off her shoe. Behind the wheel, Jackson pulled all kinds of little-boy “ew” faces that she ignored entirely. She started cleaning her elbow with a fresh wet wipe.
“You were laughing,” she said to him.
“She caught me unawares,” he said. “Door opens, I see her in the buff, she bolts.”
“And you’ve been an agent for what, six seconds?” In truth, he had more time in the Bureau than she did. They’d partnered up in fugitives three years ago, and before that, he’d done years and years in white-collar crime—while she’d had just a handful of assignments as a new agent.
He shrugged unapologetically. “Whatevah,” he said, in his Southie accent.
“I wonder if she thought no one in the neighborhood would see her running naked down the street? Was she hoping to blend in?” Claire said.
That set them both to laughing.
“Did you see her teeth?” Claire asked. “Maybe she used to be a goth.”
“When—1953?” Jackson shot back.
Claire shook her head. “A woman that size, leaping off a second-story balcony. I’d think she’d break an ankle. And she was so fast.”
“PCP. It’s a beautiful thing,” Jackson replied. “So, you all packed?” he asked, changing the subject only slightly.
Claire’s merriment faded. “This is bogus. Advanced evidence collection techniques on Thanksgiving? For two weeks? It’s got to be code for something else.”
Jackson rolled his eyes heavenward. “The aliens have landed. Finally.”
“What about people with kids?” she pressed. “Or elderly parents? What was the Bureau thinking, scheduling this now?”