even at that distance, a sense of urgency.
“Don’t take too long. Something bad happens soon.” He paused, following branches and possibilities that had sprouted in his head while they talked. “Who owns this place? Maybe we can find someone who knows the history of that thing, where it came from, what it does. Get your answers that way. Faster.”
She cocked her head to one side. “Funny you should ask. We don’t know who owns this wreck. We’ve been trying to track it down, but Jews don’t have a bishop or a diocese or anything like that, no national organization that runs things or owns things. The congregation owned the building, and the congregation seems to all have died or moved away. Like I told you, this place hasn’t been used in decades.”
“Doesn’t the city have an address for the tax bills?”
“Tax exempt. Religious building. Not even utility bills—water, electric, gas. All cut off years ago. That’s one reason why I went to Historic in the first place. If nothing else, we need to figure out who pays to tear it down.”
He looked around. Roof gone, except for that bit of dome in the front, walls damaged or half gone, no windows left, wood posts and beams charred to the point where half of them collapsed—a hot fire that had plenty of time to work before the fire company got here. Historic as hell, maybe one of the oldest synagogues in North America? Maybe, but she was right. It wouldn’t be a repair job, and rebuilding to historic standards would cost a ton. No congregation, he had to assume no insurance.
She could see him working his way through that. A faint smile twitched her mouth. “Now get lost. I’m supposed to be on sick leave, and you’re keeping me from a cold beer.”
He thought she was joking. “Doesn’t your Prophet forbid alcohol?”
She stilled and that muzzle came back to his chest, unwavering, with a click that meant the safety was off again. Her face settled into a slit-eyed glare that could have frozen the bay.
“Little man, I once killed a Badakhi because he thought he should beat me for going unveiled. He was much larger than you. I killed him with my knife, slowly, starting with his manhood. Then his brothers came for his blood, and we killed them. Then their cousins came, and their cousins. We had better rifles, from the farangi, but this grew tiresome, and the ammunition cost much. So we left our mountains, and came here. Do you wish to start such a thing?”
She’d slipped into the sing-song cadence he remembered from the Bengali delta to the Pamirs, English as a second language. The New York accent had vanished, leaving him with more questions than answers. He gulped and backed away.
That might be another reason why the police put up with her. None of her bosses dared to chew her out or fire her.
She let him live. She let him go. He picked up his cane and backed all the way to the end of the alley, turned, and hiked up the street with a crawling sensation between his shoulder blades, wondering if she’d shoot. All the way, Kipling’s words kept chasing their tails through his head:
When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An’ go to your Gawd like a soldier.
He wondered where Kipling had met her grandmother. Or however many generations back it had been—when he’d lived in that country, both men and women bred young and died young, even for humans. He didn’t think it had changed much.
He wouldn’t have minded if Legion had materialized out of thin air just then. He had some questions for the damned demon, and felt up to arguing with it. But that Kipling reference kept nagging at him.
Part of being old was remembering things that had long gone out of fashion. Kipling was one of them. People didn’t read him much any more, particularly his poetry, didn’t memorize it. Nationalistic racist doggerel, they said, “white
“Don’t take too long. Something bad happens soon.” He paused, following branches and possibilities that had sprouted in his head while they talked. “Who owns this place? Maybe we can find someone who knows the history of that thing, where it came from, what it does. Get your answers that way. Faster.”
She cocked her head to one side. “Funny you should ask. We don’t know who owns this wreck. We’ve been trying to track it down, but Jews don’t have a bishop or a diocese or anything like that, no national organization that runs things or owns things. The congregation owned the building, and the congregation seems to all have died or moved away. Like I told you, this place hasn’t been used in decades.”
“Doesn’t the city have an address for the tax bills?”
“Tax exempt. Religious building. Not even utility bills—water, electric, gas. All cut off years ago. That’s one reason why I went to Historic in the first place. If nothing else, we need to figure out who pays to tear it down.”
He looked around. Roof gone, except for that bit of dome in the front, walls damaged or half gone, no windows left, wood posts and beams charred to the point where half of them collapsed—a hot fire that had plenty of time to work before the fire company got here. Historic as hell, maybe one of the oldest synagogues in North America? Maybe, but she was right. It wouldn’t be a repair job, and rebuilding to historic standards would cost a ton. No congregation, he had to assume no insurance.
She could see him working his way through that. A faint smile twitched her mouth. “Now get lost. I’m supposed to be on sick leave, and you’re keeping me from a cold beer.”
He thought she was joking. “Doesn’t your Prophet forbid alcohol?”
She stilled and that muzzle came back to his chest, unwavering, with a click that meant the safety was off again. Her face settled into a slit-eyed glare that could have frozen the bay.
“Little man, I once killed a Badakhi because he thought he should beat me for going unveiled. He was much larger than you. I killed him with my knife, slowly, starting with his manhood. Then his brothers came for his blood, and we killed them. Then their cousins came, and their cousins. We had better rifles, from the farangi, but this grew tiresome, and the ammunition cost much. So we left our mountains, and came here. Do you wish to start such a thing?”
She’d slipped into the sing-song cadence he remembered from the Bengali delta to the Pamirs, English as a second language. The New York accent had vanished, leaving him with more questions than answers. He gulped and backed away.
That might be another reason why the police put up with her. None of her bosses dared to chew her out or fire her.
She let him live. She let him go. He picked up his cane and backed all the way to the end of the alley, turned, and hiked up the street with a crawling sensation between his shoulder blades, wondering if she’d shoot. All the way, Kipling’s words kept chasing their tails through his head:
When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An’ go to your Gawd like a soldier.
He wondered where Kipling had met her grandmother. Or however many generations back it had been—when he’d lived in that country, both men and women bred young and died young, even for humans. He didn’t think it had changed much.
He wouldn’t have minded if Legion had materialized out of thin air just then. He had some questions for the damned demon, and felt up to arguing with it. But that Kipling reference kept nagging at him.
Part of being old was remembering things that had long gone out of fashion. Kipling was one of them. People didn’t read him much any more, particularly his poetry, didn’t memorize it. Nationalistic racist doggerel, they said, “white
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