Dead Sea: A Novel

Dead Sea: A Novel

by Lynne Baab

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 Lynne M. Baab

Smashwords Edition, License Notes


This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

Http://www.lynnebaab.com.

Cover art: Copyright 2012 Dave Baab

Cover design: Copyright 2012 Jonathan Baab

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Letter from the Author

Dead Sea: A Novel

Questions for Book Groups or for Personal Reflection

Books by Lynne M. Baab

Dear Reader,

My husband and I lived in Tel Aviv, Israel, for eighteen months in 1979 and 1980. That experience was formative for us in many ways. Fourteen years after we moved back to our home city, Seattle, I decided to write a murder mystery and situate it in Israel and Jordan. I wanted to visit some of my favorite places, including the Sea of Galilee, Jerusalem, Ein Gedi, Masada, Jerash and Petra.

This book sat in storage (in paper form in a file cabinet and in electronic form on a computer diskette) until last year. As I read it, almost two decades after I wrote it, I found myself enjoying the characters and the descriptions of the locations. So I decided to put some work into polishing it so I could publish it electronically and share it with others. I hope you enjoy visiting Israel and Jordan with me.

Every place I’ve described in the book exists in the real world, except Beit Calla and Tel Calla. Those two places, and of course all the characters, came entirely out of my imagination.

Blessings,

Lynne M. Baab

May 2012

Dunedin, New Zealand

http://www.lynnebaab.com

Dead Sea

Chapter 1

1994, Israel

Thursday morning

The sun peeped above the horizon as I wound my way through the western suburbs of Jerusalem. I had finally gotten used to driving the huge nine-passenger van, so when the road curved and offered a vista of the city, I could take in the magnificent Holy City without worrying I would drive off the road.

On that bright March morning, the stone buildings of the city, sprawled across a dozen hills, were washed with pink. From my vantage point at the curve of the highway, Jerusalem was a fairyland mosaic, a three-dimensional quilt of diverse rosy shapes. The ultramodern apartment buildings, the garish new hotels, the staid government buildings and the medieval walls of the old city looked as if they’d been carefully planned to provide a variety of patterns for the quilt.

As I drove through the city, I marveled at the wisdom of some long-ago city bureaucrat who decreed that everything in Jerusalem must be built of the local white stone. The buildings of Jerusalem coexist harmoniously because they are all constructed of the same stone that comes from those rocky hills.

With a little difficulty, I found the road toward the Dead Sea. It heads down to Jericho, dropping down more than three thousand feet in twenty miles, curving between oddly rounded, dun-colored hills with deep ravines. Jesus set the parable of the Good Samaritan on this road. The rocky, secluded valleys would shelter robbers very nicely.

The turns of the road gave me occasional glimpses of the Dead Sea, shining silver in the early morning sunlight. To the southeast, behind the Dead Sea, the mountains of southern Jordan were silhouetted without definition against the glowing sky. Later today, we would head for those mountains to see the magnificent Nabatean ruins at Petra.

Two nights earlier I had watched the sunset from the shores of the Dead Sea, and the mountains in Jordan turned every shade of purple as the light changed. That evening the Dead Sea had started off deep blue, then turned turquoise and almost green before fading into the gray of twilight. The colors of Israel had surprised me more than anything else. I guess I had expected a desert in shades of beige.

Maybe part of the allure of water in the Middle East is the sheer color relief it provides. The azure of the Mediterranean at Tel Aviv and Caesarea is almost garish. The Sea of Galilee, with waves just as big as those in the Mediterranean, is an opaque aqua gem nestled between hills with emerald fields. I was surprised to find parts of Galilee as green as Seattle. During a brief drive through Nazareth, the whitewashed buildings and green palm fronds had reminded me of pictures of the Caribbean.

I came down out of the hills and turned the van south on the road hugging the side of the Dead Sea. Now the glittering water was on my left, with rugged, rocky hills on my right. Up in those hills, we’d been told yesterday, the Dead Sea Scrolls had been found by a wandering bedouin.

The brightness of the morning and the sheer beauty of the water and mountains were exercising a kind of magic on me. The fatigue of the last hours faded away, and the dazzling morning light gave me renewed serenity and joy. I could feel myself relax. My customary serenity was returning, and, for the first time in a week, I felt both optimistic and peaceful.

I had been up all night, taking Brian Williams and his wife, Joy, to the hospital in Jerusalem to have Brian’s leg set. After endless hours at the hospital, I drove them to the airport in Tel Aviv so they could fly home to Seattle. They decided they had seen enough of Israel, and the pain in Brian’s leg made him think longingly of home. I was sorry they would give up the rest of the tour, and I would miss Brian’s even-tempered good humor and Joy’s warmth. Too many broken legs . . .

It was a broken leg that brought me on the tour. Ten days earlier, I had been at home, grateful that my mother’s estate had finally been settled after months of hard work selling her house and sorting through her belongings. I was looking forward to returning to the routine of my job, catching up on sleep, maybe even reading a novel or watching a little TV, when I was asked — no, urged and strongly encouraged — to help lead a tour to Israel in place of our senior minister, who had broken his leg. Me, lead a tour to a place I’d never been? Me, spend two weeks with a group of people I’d never met?

*****

I like being a fifty-five-year-old widow. I was a shy child and a dependent wife, but my husband’s death many years ago helped me discover hidden strength and self-direction. I enjoy life — most of the time — and am deeply grateful for precious gifts like my health, my daughter’s friendship, and my interesting job.

I tried to explain the Israel tour to my daughter, Vanessa, before I left. It’s sort of a church tour, but only one member of the tour attends church. I’m supposed to be one of the tour leaders, but I really won’t have to do much.

Weird, Vanessa replied.

On that sunrise-drenched morning, as I turned onto the road that paralleled the shore of the Dead Sea, I acknowledged to myself for the first time that the tour had been very weird. I needed every bit of the confidence that has come with age, every tiny shred of positive attitude I’ve cultivated over the years. That first week in Israel had been overwhelming and exhausting, brief moments of transcendent joy sandwiched between long periods of confusion and fatigue. The jet lag alone was brutal, I was uncertain of my role, and my travel companions baffled me most of the time.

I could see Beit Calla, my destination, a long way in the distance. Maybe now, after my body had finally adjusted to Israel’s time zone and I had become acquainted with my fellow travelers . . . maybe now I could begin to enjoy this trip. After all, I’d always wanted to see the sites of the biblical stories. Maybe now, this trip would begin to feel like fun.

Beit Calla’s whitewashed walls stood out against its blue and beige surroundings, a serene beacon in the midst of my confused thoughts. I felt like I was coming home, even though I’d only spent one night there before Brian broke his leg. I had fallen in love with Beit Calla’s Arab-style architecture — the heavy stucco walls, the deep windowsills, the central open-air courtyard with a tiled fountain and brilliant purple bougainvillea and the ancient Persian carpets that lined the halls and rooms. Too bad I would arrive there only to pack up and leave for Jordan. Maybe I could sneak in a short nap before we left, dropping into a deep well of sleep in that peaceful place.

As I turned off the main road onto the long driveway, I could see a white van parked in front of the guesthouse. Halfway down the drive, I could tell that the blue blur on the side of the van was the Star of David. Having spent most of the night in an Israeli hospital, I knew that blue symbol was used in Israel as the equivalent to our Red Cross.

The white van must be an ambulance, I realized.

I parked in the small lot on the side of Beit Calla, then hurried to the front door. Eliot Bellamy met me in the front entrance.

I saw you turn into the driveway, so I waited for you, he said in greeting. He looked pale and worried, in definite contrast to his habitual easygoing lightheartedness.

What happened?

Come in. Sit down. He led me to a bench in the dim hallway and sat beside me on the bench.

I said gently, when he showed no sign of speaking, Eliot, tell me. What’s going on?

He nodded, as if to make himself speak. We were all at breakfast, talking about poor Brian and Joy. Several people said that the tour would feel small and changed without them. Then we realized Reed wasn’t there. At first we thought he was sleeping in, and we shouldn’t disturb him. After a while I went up and pounded on his door. When there was no answer, and his door to the hall was locked, I went through the door between our rooms. My room connects with his.

Again he paused. I said, Is he sick?

A shadow passed over his face. No, he’s dead.

He’s dead? That’s unbelievable. How in the world did it happen? Reed, dead? The whole conversation seemed unreal. I felt like a phantom trying to hold drawing room talk.

We have no idea. The ambulance team is up there now, checking him out. We called for an ambulance because we thought there might be a chance to revive him. I did CPR for ages before they came. There was no response.

Eliot was the only church attender on the trip, a member of View Ridge Church, where I serve as coordinator of the children’s programs. Eliot owns a computer software company called Questin Graphics. He arranged this tour of Israel for some of his employees as a reward for their recent success, and as a way of providing hands-on research for an upcoming game on archaeology. Reed Jefferson was Eliot’s top software designer.

Eliot went on. For ages, I thought he would revive. I just couldn’t imagine that he was really dead! It seemed like a nightmare. I kept thinking I would wake up and find Reed there, laughing, giving one of his speeches on some trivial thing he was worked up about.

It didn’t seem real to me either. Reed was so vital, so very present in every situation, talking with animation, arguing with conviction. It was hard to imagine his vivid personality stilled forever.

I’ve known him for seven or eight years, Eliot reflected. He came to work for me right after I founded my own firm. He wrote all the code for our first two games and most of the code for Quasar Quest. His mouth twisted. I’ll have to call his parents. They’ll be devastated. He’s their only child, and his success has been a great joy to them.

You know them pretty well?

I don’t always get acquainted with the families of my employees, but I try to when I can. Reed’s parents liked to come to the office and take him out for lunch. They said Reed was chained to his computer so much that they never saw him unless they came and kidnapped him. They were good humored about it — I could see they had a good relationship with him. They were so proud when Quasar Quest became such a success. . . . Oh, I dread calling them.

We both looked up when we heard footsteps on the stairs. Pippa Oakley rushed into the hallway, her long braid flying behind her. Eliot, the emergency technicians want to talk with you. They said to ask you to come up to Reed’s room.

Eliot stood up and looked at me. Samantha, I want you there, too. Come with me. Please.

Eliot ran up the stairs two at a time, and I followed more slowly with Pippa. How’s everyone doing? I asked.

In shock, as you’d expect, she answered.

As we rounded the corner of the upstairs hall, a cluster of blank faces turned toward us. Don Traylor, the firm’s artist, had his arm around his wife, Fujiko. Helen Gray, Eliot’s sales agent, screwed up her face into an uncomfortable expression when she saw me, and shook her head slowly. Cora Milford, the accountant, had no expression at all on her face. Pippa’s husband, Kevin, stood a little apart from the group, staring into space.

Pippa joined her husband, sliding close beside him. No one said anything. Eliot and I entered Reed’s room.

I was deeply grateful to find Reed’s body completely covered by a sheet. The details of his charming room — the whitewashed walls, the bright carpets, the blue shutters on his windows only partially covering an extraordinary view of the Dead Sea — faded into the background as my attention was focused on the lump under the white sheet.

Two men and one woman in white jackets stood at the foot of the bed. One of the men, tall with light brown hair, spoke to Eliot in heavily accented English. As far as we can tell, he died because his heart stopped. That’s how most people die. Do you know of any heart conditions?

Eliot shook his head. No. He was healthy as a horse. Never sick.

The tall man answered, Then further examinations will have to be made because he is so young, and there are apparently no medical reasons why his heart would stop.

Eliot nodded. Where will you take his body?

To Jerusalem, to the police mortuary. They should be finished in a few days, and you can arrange for his body to be returned to the United States. You will furnish me with your itinerary, so we can contact you if we need to. And we need information about him. Maybe you could find his passport for us.

Eliot looked at me, and I nodded. I had dreaded many of the responsibilities of leading a tour, but this was the worst. I opened Reed’s suitcase, black with wheels on one end, and rummaged gently through shorts, tee shirts, underwear. I tried the side pockets, found several books, a few letters, a small notebook and finally his passport.

I handed it to the white-coated man. He opened it and said to Eliot, You said you thought he was thirty-two. Here’s his date of birth. He did mental calculations for a minute. He would have turned thirty-three next month. This will not be a pleasant birthday present for his family.

It was the first note of warmth I’d heard since I entered Reed’s room, and I looked at the man’s face. He returned my gaze with sadness in his light brown eyes. I could feel my eyes fill with tears at the gentleness of his expression. I turned away to look out the window.

We’ll take the body away now, the man said. We’ll get the stretcher from the van.

I’ll get you a copy of our itinerary, Eliot said. Come on, Samantha. Let’s leave them alone and sit in my room for a few minutes. We need to talk before we return to the crowd.

I turned from the window to see Eliot opening a door in the side wall of Reed’s room. Eliot held it open for me, and together we went into his room, cheerfully cluttered with his clothes and a raft of magazines and books.

Here, sit down. He cleared a stack of papers off the only chair in the room, a comfortable armchair upholstered in a deep red geometric pattern. The Persian carpet in his room featured the same deep red. He plopped the stack of papers on the bureau, then began sorting through them. He found what he was looking for, walked back through the door to Reed’s room. I could hear him saying, Here’s our itinerary. Please keep in touch. Now, where can I reach you if I have questions?

I heard the murmuring of voices in response, and soon Eliot appeared back in his room. He sat on the edge of the bed and said, Let’s make plans. The group will cope a whole lot better if we tell them what we’ve decided to do.

Sounds good, I answered.

"I’ll call Reed’s parents and suggest that they stand by. They may want to come to Israel to