It was a somber ride to the hospital in the wailing ambulance. Jack thought that he must once have looked as hopeless as Uziel did now when he had been the one riding in an ambulance. He wished that Uziel could have the same chance at life that had been given to Jack by the Israeli doctors. He held on to a thread of hope, even though he knew better.
When they raced into the ambulance bay at the hospital, there was already a team of doctors and nurses waiting. Uziel’s lifeless body was rolled in through double doors, surrounded by a medical team running beside the gurney.
Jack hoped against hope they could perform a miracle, the same as they had done for him.
He waited all alone on a bench in a hallway, wishing he had never found Uziel. Wishing he had never told him that he might be able to save lives. Uziel had wanted to do it, though. Jack wished he had said no and left Uziel to live his life.
But finding those rare people with Uziel’s vision was Jack’s calling in life. It was what he could do that none other could.
It was late that night when the doctor came out to see Jack. As he expected, there was no saving the young man. Jack nodded and thanked the doctor. With no sense of urgency, the doctor went back in through double doors, leaving Jack all alone on the bench. People rushed up and down the hall, past the green-painted walls, past Jack sitting on the lonely bench.
He didn’t know what he was going to do. He felt lost. He missed Kate, and at the same time hoped that she had vanished off the grid and that a killer hadn’t found her as well.
Sometime in the night, as he was sitting on the bench, mourning Uziel, lost in his own thoughts, Ehud arrived.
He sat down on the bench beside Jack.
“Any word?”
Jack stared at the floor. “He didn’t make it. The doctor said there was nothing they could do.”
Ehud nodded. “I’m really sorry, Jack.”
“It was planned out, you know. That suicide bomber was a distraction. Uziel had been the real target. At least no one was killed by that bomb. We’re lucky it was defective.”
“It wasn’t defective,” Ehud said.
Jack frowned. “What do you mean, it wasn’t defective? I saw the guy pushing the detonator over and over.”
Ehud arched an eyebrow as he leaned in. “That wasn’t the detonator he was pushing. It was the arming switch. He kept hitting the arming switch over and over, thinking it was the detonator. The bomb was live. If he would have instead hit the detonator it would have gone off. He would have been a martyr.”
Jack leaned back and folded his arms. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Nope. The guy was probably panicked that he was about to die, panicked that the bomb strapped around his body was about to blow him apart. In the confusion of that wild emotional state he kept hitting the arming button instead of the detonator.”
“Do you really think so? That seems pretty odd. That kind usually want to die.”
“Yeah, but right at the last instant, it has to be traumatic. I imagine the human mind doesn’t think clearly in that last moment when it knows it is about to die.”
“I suppose. What did the guy have to say for himself?”
“That’s the weird part,” Ehud said.
“What’s the weird part?”
Ehud glanced up and down the hall, making sure no one was standing within earshot.
“The weird part is that he doesn’t speak Arabic, Farsi, or Hebrew, or any other Middle Eastern language or dialect.”
Jack made a face. “What does he speak, then?”
“Spanish.”
Jack leaned in a little more. “Spanish? He’s from the ETA?”
Ehud shook his head. “No, he’s not part of the Basque separatist movement. He’d never heard of them.”
“Who, then?”
“The only thing we could get out of him is that he’s from Santiago de Querétaro, in Mexico.”
“Mexico!” Jack looked up to make sure no one nearby had heard him. “He’s from Mexico?” he asked in a lower voice.
“That was about all we could get out of him. He’s here from Santiago de Querétaro, in Mexico.”
Jack heaved a sigh. “So he’s a Mexican suicide bomber?”
“It appears so.”
“Did you find out anything else?”
“Just that his name is José.”
“José. Why was José from Santiago de Querétaro in Mexico trying to blow himself up all the way over here in Jerusalem?”
Ehud shrugged. “All he would say was that he wanted to martyr himself for God. But I’ve got to tell you, Jack, the guy is dumb as a rock.” He tapped his temple. “I don’t think he’s all there.”
It suddenly made sense. Terrorists often recruited the mentally handicapped and convinced them that it was the right thing to do, that it was the right thing to do for God.
Jack rubbed his aching knees. “Do you think that maybe he was recruited because he’s easily persuaded?”
“Possibly.”
Jack sat back against the wall and folded his arms again. “A Mexican suicide bomber. I don’t get it.”
“I don’t either,” Ehud admitted as he stood. “How about I give you a lift home.”
Jack stood and went with Ehud. “A Mexican suicide bomber?” he muttered to himself as he walked down the hallway.
TWENTY-ONE
It was a warm day for autumn, so Angela was wearing the same low-rise cutoff shorts she intended to wear to her bartender job later. She had delivered a half dozen courier drop-offs for lawyers, and was about to head to Barry’s Place to work until they closed, when she got a call from Mike’s Mail Service.
Mike handled a variety of mail-related services for people, including collecting drop-offs for UPS and FedEx. When people occasionally brought him something that needed to be delivered locally by courier, he would call Angela. It wasn’t often, but it all added up to make ends meet.
When she walked into Mike’s place, he was making out UPS shipping labels. “What’s up?” she asked.
Mike came to the counter. “A courier came in from Syracuse. He’s never been down here and doesn’t know the area. He couldn’t locate the address for his package. He said he’s a small courier service and he’s really outside his element down here. He needed to get back and asked me if I could have a local courier finish the delivery. He left some cash with the package.”
Angela shrugged. “Sure, no problem.”
Mike pulled the box from under the counter. It was long and light. She thought it might be long-stemmed roses.
When she saw the address, she immediately understood why the courier couldn’t find the place. It was in the industrial area where most of the abandoned factories were located. The area was a maze of streets, alleys, vast concrete expanses, buildings, loading docks, and train tracks with sidings beside old factories, as well as fenced areas guarding corroded, outdated factory equipment and heavy machinery parts slowly rusting away.
Many of the buildings had collapsed roofs, leaving only standing walls. Several of the buildings were still in good enough shape to be used for things like equipment storage. A few offered small office or business space. Those office areas were dingy and crude, but they were cheap and used only occasionally by the people who stored equipment there long-term.
Even though a few of the buildings were occasionally still used, Angela had never seen anyone in the area.
Because the old industrial tract was a labyrinth of derelict buildings, the addresses were confusing and for the most part missing. None of it was accurately located on any GPS. You just about had to be familiar with the abandoned area to find anything. The city didn’t care to spend money maintaining what was, in essence, a ghost town, so street signs were rare. She suspected they were stolen for souvenirs or for decorations in teenagers’ bedrooms.