Vigil Page 3

  The passport inspector was an elderly man with wire-rimmed glasses who studied his passport silently, flipping the pages idly back and forth for a few seconds.

  “When were you last in the United States, Mr. Metzger?”

  “Approximately three years ago.”

  “You were working abroad?”

  “Yes, in Israel.”

  “What kind of work would that be?”

  “I was a fellow at the Feldstein Institute.” This was at least partly true—and Ezra had already decided to stick as close to the truth as possible.

  The inspector looked at him intently through the top of his bifocals. He seemed to be waiting for more.

  “It’s a research institute. They use modern technology in the dating and analysis of archaeological finds.”

  The inspector nodded. “Must be a lot of those in that part of the world.”

  “Yes, yes, there are,” Ezra readily agreed.

  “Is that why you were back and forth so much between”—and he stopped to glance at the passport pages again—“Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Lebanon?”

  “Yes, that’s why. Sometimes I did field work.”

  The inspector became silent again, and Ezra feared he’d already said too much. He was trying to leave out the important stuff, but at the same time volunteer as much of the rest of the story as he could. The cardboard tube rested carefully against his leg.

  The inspector lifted his stamp and rocked it back and forth on the back page of Ezra’s worn passport. Ezra breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Welcome back,” the inspector said, handing him back the passport. “Baggage claim and customs are straight ahead.”

  As Ezra walked down the aisle past the desk, thinking One obstacle hurdled, one more to go, he heard the inspector call out after him. “Mr. Metzger?”

  Ezra stopped and turned, his heart in his mouth.

  “If you plan on doing a lot more traveling, you may want to apply for a new, duplicate passport. That one’s pretty far gone.”

  Ezra smiled, tilted the old passport toward him. “I’ll do that.” Then turned back toward the luggage area.

  His bags were some of the first to come off the conveyor belt—one more advantage to flying first class—and as he dragged them toward the customs counters, he tried to make a quick assessment. Which customs officer looked the least alert? Which one had the longest line of people already impatiently waiting to get through?

  He chose a stocky inspector who seemed to be more interested in joking around with one of her fellow workers than in inspecting the bags passing before her. When his turn came, he smiled at her and nonchalantly passed her the customs declaration he’d filled out on board.

  “Long flight,” he said, casually stretching and looking around.

  She smiled back, glanced down at his paperwork. “You came in on the Alitalia flight from Rome?”

  “Yes.”

  “Connecting?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You connected there from somewhere else?”

  “Yes. I left from Tel Aviv.”

  “On what airline?”

  “El Al.”

  Why was she asking all this? Ezra hadn’t expected it. When had she suddenly decided to focus on her job? The other inspector, the one she’d been kidding around with, had also settled down.

  “Has anyone else been left in charge of your bags?”

  “Other than the airline, no.”

  “Did anyone else pack these bags for you?”

  “No, I did it myself.”

  “Please place them on the counter and open”—she deliberated for a second, as if waiting to see which bag his own eyes might flit to—“this one.”

  Ezra placed the bag flat on the counter, then unzipped it. My God, he’d picked wrong—he was going to be inspected. Stay calm, stay calm, he told himself. Even if they found what he was carrying, they wouldn’t know what to make of it.

  She pulled the flap back and began sifting through the contents of the bag. Black cotton turtlenecks, khaki cargo pants—the very outfit he was wearing now—socks, underwear, a couple of books that he didn’t trust to the mails and had decided to carry back with him. The other books—several hundred—he was having shipped.

  Then she tapped his leather toiletry kit. “Please open this for me.”

  He took it out of the bigger bag, opened it, and laid it on the counter for her. She rummaged around among the toothpaste and dental floss, razor, and aspirin bottles, and stopped only when she came to the Desert Mirage Exfoliating Scrub. “You use this?” she said.

  “I sometimes worked outdoors, and got very dirty,” he said. “Nothing else worked as well.”

  She unscrewed the lid, and he tried not to look concerned. But he could feel his heart pounding, and his palms growing damp. Don’t wipe them, he said to himself. Let them be.

  The jar was filled with a dusty red paste. The inspector sniffed it. “Whew,” she said, drawing back. “You put this stuff on your face?”

  “Yes. If you scrub it in, it feels great.”

  She screwed the lid back on. “I’ll stick to Noxzema.”

  She put it back in the toiletry kit, and gestured at the cardboard tube. “What’s in there?”

  “Some papyrus artwork, souvenirs I bought at the airport shop in Israel.” He rummaged in his pocket. “I have the receipt,” he said, producing it. “They’re nothing of any value.”

  “Just pop the end off the tube, please.”

  Ezra did as she asked, and she lifted the cylinder like a telescope and rotated it to look inside. How much could she even make out, he wondered?

  “Who’s the one with the head of a dog?”

  “That’s Anubis you’re probably looking at,” he said. “God of the dead. He has the head of a jackal, actually.” Jesus, what was he thinking? Correcting her?

  She popped the plastic seal back where it belonged, then placed the tube on the counter next to his bag. She stamped the bottom of his declaration.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Ground transportation is down the corridor on your left.”

  Ezra gathered up his bags, tucked the tube back under his arm, and made his way out of the customs area. His black turtleneck, he could feel, was stuck to his back with sweat, but it was all he could do not to jump for joy.

  As soon as he got to the arrivals area, he saw his Uncle Maury in a blue windbreaker, holding up a handwritten sign that said METZGER.

  Ezra, burdened down with the bags, lifted his chin to acknowledge him, and Maury hurried over to help. Putting the bags down, they embraced, then Maury stepped back to look him over. “You’ve lost weight.”

  “And so have you.” Which was a lie—his uncle was not only as heavy as ever, but looked all of his sixty-five years, maybe even a bit more. “But what’s with the sign? You thought I wouldn’t know you?”

  “I thought I might not know you.”

  Maury started to pick up the bulkiest bag, but Ezra stopped him. “Here,” he said, handing him a small carry-on, “you can carry this.”

  Maury walked slowly, listing from one side to the other, on his way out of the terminal. Even though he was only a year older than his brother, Ezra’s dad, he looked much older than that. Life had been hard on Maury, and—as he liked to say—he’d been hard on life. While his brother Sam had excelled at everything, and made a fortune by the time he was thirty, Maury had drifted around from job to job, woman to woman, without ever really settling down or getting serious about anything. Finally, he’d wound up working for Sam and his family, as everything from handyman to babysitter, or, as he was tonight, chauffeur.

  The black Lincoln town car was parked in the first spot reserved for VIP parking—an instant reminder to Ezra that he was once again entering his father’s sphere of influence—and Maury opened the back door for him.

  “You don’t want me up front?” Ezra said.

  “Come on and get in, I got too much of my stuff up there.”

  Ezr
a got in back—he knew that his uncle had always preferred it that way—and waited while Maury lowered himself into the front seat, pushed his Daily Racing Forms to one side, and navigated the car out of the airport maze.

  On the way into the city, Ezra asked where his father and stepmother, Kimberly, were that night. He was hoping that they might be at their place in Palm Beach.

  “They’re home. In fact, they’re throwing a dinner party.”

  Ezra’s heart sank.

  “Who’s on the guest list?”

  Maury knew this wouldn’t go down well. “The mayor,” he said, somewhat reluctantly, “and a bunch of other big shots.”

  “Can we go in the back way?”

  Maury glanced at him in the rearview mirror. Even after all this time, he thought, not much had changed. “You can try, but they’re expecting to see you.”

  Ezra had always dreaded this homecoming—which was why he hadn’t done it for years. The last words he’d exchanged with his father, in person, had been awfully blunt ones. And now, to make matters worse, there were the peculiar circumstances under which he’d had to leave Israel. He wasn’t sure exactly how much his family knew of what had happened there—he hadn’t told anyone the full story—but his father, as he had known all his life, had sources everywhere. What he didn’t know yet, he would soon find out.

  For the rest of the ride, they caught up on more neutral topics—the Mets, city politics, Gertrude the housekeeper, Trina the cook—and when they got to the building, Maury pulled the car into the circular driveway and stopped. “You can leave your bags in the trunk,” he said, “I’ll send ’em up in the freight elevator.”

  “Thanks,” Ezra said. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

  “Just try and keep me away.”

  He picked up the cardboard tube and carried it inside with him. The doorman, someone new, didn’t recognize him, but he did recognize the Lincoln town car and Maury unloading the bags.

  “I’m going up to the penthouse, I’m Mr. Metzger’s son,” Ezra explained anyway, and the doorman said, “Should I buzz?”

  “No, no, that’s all right. They know I’m coming.”

  In the elevator, Ezra said hello to the operator—one of the building’s long-time employees—then stepped out at the top floor, directly into the wide marble foyer of his family’s vast apartment. It was lucky he’d been warned that the mayor was there for dinner, or he’d have been shocked by the sight of a policeman, perched on a French Empire chair and reading a tabloid under the Rodin ballerina.

  “Who’re you?” the cop asked.

  “I live here,” Ezra said—then wondered if that was quite true.

  “Okay, then, you can go inside.”

  “Awfully big of you,” Ezra said.

  Inside, he could hear the sounds of glassware clinking and people chattering, but he thought if he was sufficiently stealthy he could creep down the hallway to his old rooms without being noticed.

  “Ezra!”

  So much for stealth. Or had the doorman buzzed to alert them, after all?

  His stepmother—all ninety-eight pounds of her—came out, in a skintight black and silver sheath, teetering on three-inch heels, with a necklace of diamonds and emeralds (no doubt the latest gift from his besotted father) glittering around her neck.

  “Welcome home,” she said, placing her hands—as cold as the diamonds—on both of his cheeks, in a perfectly simulated display of affection. “It’s been such a long time.”

  “Yes,” he said, “it has,” wondering, already, if it had been long enough.

  “How was your flight?”

  “Fine. It was fine, thanks.”

  “Your father is dying to see you. You are going to come in and at least say hello, aren’t you?”

  “Sure, of course. Just as soon as I’ve washed up.”

  “Good. You do that. The mayor’s here tonight.”

  Ezra knew that Kimberly had dreamt her whole life of saying things like that—and when she’d snared his father, her dream had come true. Now, even though she was just a few years older than her stepson, she could keep right on doing it—just as long as she was able to keep the old man happy.

  Ezra started down the hallway toward his old rooms, the cardboard tube still tucked under his arm.

  “Ezra, if you could put on a blazer, and maybe a fresh white shirt, that would be super. You can skip the tie—we’re all being very casual tonight.”

  If this was casual, Ezra thought, he’d hate to see what she wore for a dressy occasion. But he nodded his head without turning around, and kept on going. His own rooms were at the other end of the penthouse, and he let out his breath again only when he was able to close the door behind him and flip the lock.

  Leaning back against the door, with his precious cargo cradled in his arms, he thought, Home. Now his work could begin, in earnest, again.

  THREE

  After Beth took a quick shower and left for the party at the art gallery, Carter just lay in the bed, idly watching the local news—an impending bus strike, a Broadway opening, a young honeymooner returning to Long Island from some tragedy in foreign parts. Then he got hungry, and went scavenging.

  In the fridge, he found the usual fare—a dozen cellophane bags of fresh fruit and produce, all neatly tied; a stack of Dannon yogurts (in all flavors); a six-pack of bottled Pellegrino. Beth did almost all their food shopping, and nothing passed her lips that wasn’t healthy, unadulterated, and organically grown. Carter did his best to get with the program, but whenever Beth wasn’t actually there to monitor him, he did some serious backsliding. And she knew it.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was scarfing down a burger and fries on Sixth Avenue. There just wasn’t anything like grease and protein to rev him up, and with Beth at the gallery reception, there was no particular reason to go back home afterward. The night was cool and clear, and Carter was eager to get back to work on some small fossils that had been donated to the university, then passed along to him for identification. They were waiting for him in the lab he shared with several other members of the department, in the basement of the biology building.

  The building itself was open, which didn’t surprise him, but he was surprised to see, as he approached the faculty lab, that the lights were on inside; most nights, he could count on having the place all to himself. When he heard Eminem playing on the laboratory boombox, he knew whom to expect.

  Carter entered quietly, and for a second or two observed Bill Mitchell, perched on a stool, bent low over a specimen, rapping along under his breath. Mitchell was an assistant professor, and this was the make-or-break year for him; either he got on the tenure track or he didn’t. Privately, Carter knew he didn’t have much of a chance; his work just wasn’t good enough, his papers went unpublished, and he had a tendency to rub people the wrong way. But the guy was working overtime in a last-ditch effort to do something, anything, to make his name and reputation, and Carter couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

  “You’re working late tonight,” Carter said, and Mitchell jumped.

  “Man, I didn’t hear you come in,” he said, pushing his glasses back on his nose. His long black hair, which always looked like it had enough oil in it to lubricate an engine, hung down over his forehead. For some reason, he looked even more nervous than usual. “I thought you taught a seminar on Wednesday nights.”

  “That was last semester.”

  “So how come you’re not home with your beautiful wife?”

  “My beautiful wife is working tonight,” Carter said, hanging his leather jacket on the back of the door. “I thought I’d just come in and catch up on some stuff.”

  Mitchell glanced down, as if unsure what to do, at the materials in front of him.

  “What’s that you’re working on?” Carter asked, but even as he moved closer, he could see for himself—and it didn’t make him happy. Mitchell had unsealed one of the glassine envelopes and was busy examining under the tensor lamp one of the fossil specimens that had
been donated to the university.

  “Couldn’t resist,” Mitchell said, with a sickly smile. “I thought I might see something that could save you some time.”

  Carter didn’t say anything.

  “This one here, for instance,” Mitchell said, taking a breath, “looks like a fragment of a jawbone. I’m thinking Smilodon, but I’m really not sure. What do you make of it?”

  Carter didn’t know what to say. This was a pretty big breach of lab etiquette—not to mention professional ethics—and if he wanted to, he could get Mitchell into some fairly serious trouble over it. Mitchell, no doubt, knew that, too, which was why he was sweating bullets now. Carter reached over and punched the Stop button on the boombox.

  “Is that the first specimen you’ve opened?” Carter asked.

  “Oh, yeah, definitely. I mean, I was working on some other stuff, but I just kept seeing these bags out of the corner of my eye, and well, you know how it is—if you’re a paleontologist, how are you going to keep your hands off material this tempting?”

  “Yeah,” Carter said, dryly, “I know how that is.” He also knew how it was to be this desperate, this hard up for the kind of breakthrough work that would get you tenure somewhere. But that still wasn’t any excuse. “I think it’d be best if you let me do all the initial work on these; that’s what they pay me for.”

  “Absolutely,” Mitchell confirmed, switching off the tensor lamp.

  “And if I need some backup, I’ll let you know.”

  “Cool. No problem,” Mitchell said, slipping the specimen back into its envelope and handing it to Carter.

  Carter turned and went back to his own corner of the lab. What a foul-up. And although he’d already made up his mind to say nothing of what had happened to anyone inside or outside the department, Mitchell said, “Hey, Carter—”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry if I crossed a line here. It won’t go any further, will it?”

  Carter shook his head. “No.”

  He could almost hear Mitchell’s sigh of relief.

  “Carter?”

  “Yes?”

  “One more thing?”

  Carter wondered if he’d be able to get any work at all done with Mitchell in the lab.