The Samson Effect Chapter 16

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THOMAS GREW NUMB from sitting on the iron bench he was shackled to. For an hour he watched policemen pass by, none even glancing his way. His fervent requests to speak with someone, anyone, were ignored.

A door opened down the hall, and the detective, the man in the suit who had brought him in, stepped out of an office, followed by Arnold's son. The young pastor's eyes met his, and his stomach tightened as he felt the pain hidden behind those young eyes.

Two small children, a boy and a girl, rushed past Thomas and threw their arms around the pastor, who knelt to receive them into his arms. The children's wails echoed through the hall. A woman rushed past and joined the grieving trio.

"Dr. Hamilton."

Thomas roused from his thoughts and looked over his shoulder. "Pastor Willingham has convinced me you're not the one who killed his father."

Thomas sighed. "No, I—"

"Silence! You may not have done it, but we both believe you are involved. I've agreed to let him sit in while I ask you a couple of questions. If I don't like what I hear, well, let's just say you'll be able to witness Israeli justice. If your words satisfy me, I'll arrange to turn you over to the American consulate."

"Please, if you'll call Ambassador Ben Hur—"

"Dr. Hamilton, I will not ask you again to remain silent." The detective nodded to a man who knelt and unlocked the shackles from the bench. "Bring him to me."

The policeman escorted Thomas down the hall to the interrogation room. He stopped before entering and looked at each member of the Willingham family, who stared back silently, except for a sniffle from the girl. When Thomas's eyes met the pastor's, he saw the moisture dammed behind the lids, ready to burst forth. His escort pushed him forward and led him to a chair in the room. A few clicks later, his shackles were firmly secured to an iron ring protruding from the wall. The detective and pastor followed and sat at the table across from him. The policeman left and shut the door behind him.

"Now's your chance to speak, Dr. Hamilton. Help me understand who you are, and what you're doing in my country illegally, while evading U.S. authorities for murder." He arched his eyebrows and turned to the pastor. "That's about it for me. Anything you want to add?"

The pastor's gentle spirit tugged at Thomas's heart. "I just want to know why my father died."

Thomas could not look at the pastor. Instead, he looked at the detective. "Please, just contact the ambassador. One call to him will clear everything up."

"What kind of fool do you take me for, Dr. Hamilton? Do you really expect me to go to my supervisors and say, 'a wanted murderer from the U.S., with a false passport and traveling under an assumed name, is asking me to contact the ambassador to the U.S. to clear up everything for him?'" The detective leaned back in his seat and folded his arms over his chest. The smirk returned to his face. "Let's stop this charade. Why don't you tell me what happened?"

Thomas snapped. He lunged forward, but the shackles held him firmly in place. Every muscle fought against the chains, fueled by the detective's calm smile. "You're making a mistake!" Thomas snapped. He lunged forward, but the shackles held him firmly in place. Every muscle fought against the chains, fueled by the detective's calm smile. "You're making a mistake!"

The detective eased from his chair and shook his head. "It's not me who's making the mistake." Thomas collapsed into his chair. "We'll talk again when you're more in the mood to cooperate."

The detective and pastor filed out of the room, leaving Thomas shackled and alone. Thomas tugged on the chain and quickly realized there was no way in the world he'd be able to break free. He slumped in the chair and did the only thing he could do: wait.

It seemed an hour had passed before the door opened again. The detective stood in the doorway and shook his head. "You have a visitor."

The words brought Thomas to full attention. "Who?"

Ambassador Ben Hur slipped into the room and thanked the detective, who nodded and left. He then turned to Thomas and said, "Before you say anything, remember our relationship affects Israel's national security. This room is being monitored, so be judicious with what you say. Understand?"

Thomas nodded.

"Good." The ambassador took off his gloves and sat at the table. "Dr. Hamilton, I'm sorry to get you involved in this. If it's any consolation, you'll be leaving with me."

"You don't know how glad I am to hear that." He tugged at the shackles. "Can you get me out of these?"

"I'm working on that as we speak. It should only be a few more minutes." The ambassador looked at the mirror and then to Thomas. "Have you told them about the nature of our relationship, or about the reason you're in Israel?"

"No, but I was about to spill everything. They threatened to either deport me or convict me."

"I'm glad you hung on." The ambassador picked up one of his gloves and slapped it a couple of times in his palm. "So, did you get a chance to read the file I had delivered to you?"

"File? Oh, the one on Delia. Not yet."

"Why not? You've no idea how dangerous she is. She's a Jezebel who's somehow managed to entice an otherwise brilliant man."

"Ambassador, isn't it conceivable she's been looking for an opportunity to escape her brother? I really think she loves your nephew."

The ambassador leaned back in his chair and shook his head. "She's good. She has even managed to beguile you. I'll tell you this, Dr. Hamilton, it'll be over my dead body before she has a chance to betray Michael. Just promise me you'll be vigilant and keep an open mind."

Thomas nodded, realizing it would be futile to ask the ambassador to do the same. He turned toward the door as a man dressed in full military uniform stepped into the room.

The ambassador stood to shake his hand. "Colonel Yarconi, thank you for coming."

Thomas strained his arm against the shackles as he attempted to extend his hand in greeting. Colonel Yarconi beckoned with his hand before the mirror and, in a few seconds, the detective appeared. "Please remove his restraints."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Detective, you'll find all papers signed and in order for me to take this man into my custody. Now, please remove his restraints."

The detective peered at Thomas through squinted eyes, but followed the colonel's orders. Thomas rose to his feet and rubbed his wrists, relieved for his newfound freedom.

"May I ask, Colonel, why this man is so important to our military?"

The colonel's face remained void of emotion. "No you may not, Detective."

After a few moments of thoughtful silence, the detective stepped up to Thomas until Thomas could smell the lunch on his breath. His eyes coldly bore into Thomas's eyes. "If you so much as spit on my streets, I'll pick you up and hand you over to the American consulate before you can blink." He turned his icy contempt to the colonel. "I'm sure you'll want to know I plan on turning in a complete report to the Americans about their fugitive."

The ambassador rose to his feet and in an even tone admonished, "Do not forget who you're talking to, Detective."

"I assure you, he won't forget." All eyes turned to the white-haired man who entered the room. "You'll have no problems from my unit, Ambassador. We're happy to assist the military in whatever way we can, aren't we, Detective Hazan?"

Hazan's face reddened. "Yes, Lieutenant."

"Good. And that report you are going to file, have it on my desk tonight. I'll make the decision if it should be forwarded to anyone." Detective Hazan nodded curtly and stormed out of the room.

"Well, gentlemen, if you'll kindly vacate my station, I'm sure things will settle down soon."

The ambassador smiled and extended his hand. "Thanks, Jonas."

"No problem, my friend." The lieutenant turned to leave, but stopped and turned back to Thomas. Keeping his eyes on Thomas, he directed his comment to the ambassador. "Try to keep this man away from dead people. If another murder victim turns up around him, I doubt even our friendship can prevent a more thorough inquiry."

"Of course."

The lieutenant's eyes warned Thomas not to press his luck. He left, and the ambassador motioned for the colonel and Thomas to follow. A few moments later, they were outside and heading down the steps toward the limo parked out front.

"Dr. Hamilton, there's someone who's anxious to speak with you."

The chauffeur opened the door for the men and Thomas entered, but froze when he saw Hanna seated facing him. Her smile paralyzed him with joy, and the colonel had to tap his shoulder to urge him into the car. He slid to the other side of the limo, followed by the other two men.

"Hello, Thomas."

Thomas's eyes traveled over Hanna; his words lodged in his throat. He wanted to reach out to touch her and pull her into his arms. Her smile melted his heart. Words finally escaped his lips. "You look wonderful."

She blushed and turned her smiling face away. Thomas snapped from his trance and looked at the ambassador and the colonel. They returned his look with raised eyebrows, both fidgeting in mild discomfort.

Thomas turned back to Hanna and smiled. "I mean, you look like you've made it through your ordeal unscathed."

"Well, maybe physically unscathed. Actually, I was treated better than I expected. I hear Michael wasn't as lucky." She tenderly reached a finger to the scars on Thomas's face left from his tumble down the cave. "These look new."

"Don't ask," Thomas said. "The war story on these is rather embarrassing."

The limo began pulling away from the curb when Thomas tensed and yelled for the driver to stop. The driver's eyes peered back at him from the rearview mirror, and then shifted toward the ambassador. Thomas turned, wide-eyed, to the ambassador. "For heaven's sake, stop now!"

The ambassador nodded. "Driver, stop." He turned to Thomas. "What is it?"

"The notebook. I didn't get the notebook back."

The ambassador slid to the edge of his seat. "What notebook, Thomas?"

Thomas described the notebook Arnold had given him. Before he finished, the ambassador was on the phone to his lieutenant friend. A few seconds later, he set the phone down. "Since it belonged to Arnold, they released it to his son."

Thomas felt the knot tighten in his stomach. "If the assassins return to find that family with it, they'll massacre them all to protect the secret."

The ambassador instructed the driver to attach the diplomatic flags to the limo and race toward the parsonage next to the church. As they pulled into the parking lot, Thomas's dread deepened when he saw smoke billowing from the parsonage. He frantically scanned the property for help, but he found only a vacated crime scene. The ambassador was on the phone, reporting the fire, when Thomas opened the door and dashed toward the burning house.

"Thomas," Hanna cried. "No!"

Thomas quickened his pace. When he arrived at the front door, he pounded on it and immediately reached for the doorknob. It was locked, yet cool to the touch.

"Thomas!"

Thomas turned to the limo, seeing the ambassador jogging toward him, followed by the colonel and Hanna. He leaned down and took off one of his hiking boots. Then, standing and facing the window next to the door, he reared back and threw the boot through the window.

Thomas heard sirens in the background growing louder. He paid little attention to the jagged glass teeth around the window and found a place to put his hands so he could hoist himself through the window. As he was about to jump, a hand on his shoulders restrained him.

The colonel pushed him aside and used the heel of his dress shoes to chip away the jagged glass. He then took off his jacket and flung it over the windowsill. Thomas nodded his appreciation, and then pulled himself into the burning house.

"Pastor!"

A quick sweep of the rooms at the front of the house yielded no people. He opened the front door for the others, and then set his sights on the hall where the thick gray smoke grew intense and fire licked the walls and ceiling.

"Thomas, don't do it. The firefighters will be here any moment."

"We may not have a moment, Ambassador." Before another word could be spoken, Thomas dashed into the hall, feeling the heat increase upon his face with each step.

"Pastor!"

He flung open the first door to the right but saw no one. He looked through the open bathroom door across the hall, finding that room also empty. He fought through the heat to the next door on the right. He reached for the doorknob and yanked his hand away when pain melted through his palm and fingers.

He pounded on the door.

"Pastor!"

He steeled himself, took the doorknob into his hand again, and opened the door. The flames leapt at him with a force of their own and pushed him backward through an open door across the hall.

Thomas fell onto his back and stared up at the swirling flames which covered the ceiling. Then black smoke rolled in from both sides and covered him.

He rose to his knees, feeling the needle pinpricks of heat stab his entire body. His eyes burned from the smoke, and everywhere he turned he saw blackness. He knew the door was somewhere, but he felt as though he was locked in a cube with no way out.

"Thomas!" He turned toward the direction he thought the sound came from. He opened his mouth to call back, but smoke filled his lungs, suffocating him and allowing only coughs and heaves to escape his lips.

He gasped for air, but his lungs were again filled with the soupy smoke. His starvation for oxygen overrode the heat's pain upon his skin. He dropped to his hands and began crawling toward what he hoped was the door. The crackling fire roared in his ears as he crawled forward. He felt his chest heaving, but a strange calmness overcame his numb body.

His head bumped into something, and he felt up the surface until his hand reached a tabletop. He tried to pull himself up, but his hands landed on sheets of paper and slipped off the desk. He fell down and rolled onto his stomach.

His gasps turned into uncontrolled hacking, and he felt himself slipping into unconsciousness.

With his cheek against the carpet, he could see through the wisps of smoke hovering above the floor. He craned his neck, struggling to find the bottom of the door before unconsciousness claimed him, but the last thing he saw made him forget about everything else. As he gave up his fight, his eyes closed over the sight of the parchment Michael had discovered.





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The Samson Effect Chapter 15

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MICHAEL ROLLED OFF his hospital bed and stepped gingerly to the closet. As he passed by the mirror, he glanced at his reflection, staring at the bruises created by the morning's oral surgery procedure. He groaned and turned his head away. He did look as bad as he felt.

When he reached the closet, he pulled out a dress shirt and struggled to force his arm through the sleeve. The bandages around his ribs were tight and did little to keep the pain at bay. He finally swallowed his pride enough to look at Delia, who sat chiseled in her chair with her face turned away from his.

"The least you could do is help me get dressed."

Delia remained silent for a few moments before she whipped her head toward him. "I told you, you're being foolish! You're in no condition to leave your room, let alone join Thomas and me in Hebron."

"If you think I'm going to just lie in this hospital room while you two search for the Samson Effect, you're nuts."

Delia opened her mouth, but closed it and looked away. "Thomas was right; I should never have told you."

Michael started buttoning his shirt and then let out a quiet groan. Every movement sent fire through his ribs. "Well, it's good you did. I would never have forgiven you if you hadn't."

Delia turned to him and shook her head. "You've got to be the most stubborn man I know." She rose from her chair and stepped up to him. She gently reached out her hand and started buttoning his shirt. "You can't even dress yourself. How do you think you'll be able to handle things in Hebron?"

Michael leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. "Because I'll have you there to protect me."

Delia rolled her eyes and lightly punched his side. The fire from his ribs ignited every synapse around his injury and nearly brought him to his knees. "Take it easy, will you?"

"If you can't handle a love tap, then you're in trouble."

Michael bit his tongue and stepped back into the closet for his pants. Behind him, Delia asked, "Do you need help with your trousers?" He stepped out of the closet, slid into a padded chair, and glared at her. "I think I can manage myself."

He fought to show no signs of pain as he bent one leg up and slid his foot through the pant leg. As nonchalantly as he could muster, he looked at Delia and nodded curtly. When she giggled, he felt the fire spread through his cheeks; but before he had a chance to say a word, she slinked toward him and slid to her knees. Without saying a word, she leaned forward and touched her lips lightly to his side.

"I'm sorry. I know you're in pain." She rolled her eyes to his and moistened her full lips. In a whisper, she asked, "Forgive me?"

Michael looked down at her and ran his fingers through her hair. He knew beyond any doubt he'd always love her. He closed his eyes and nodded. She laid her head into his lap and kissed his thigh.

"Good gracious! What's going on here?"

Michael opened his eyes to find his uncle standing in the doorway. His uncle's wide eyes and stunned expression were too much for him to handle. He burst out laughing as Delia sprang to her feet and smoothed her blouse and skirt with her hand.

He alternated between laughter and groaning before he finally caught his breath. "Uncle Ben, haven't you heard of knocking?" Delia punched his side before he saw it coming. The pain chased away any humor he found in the situation. He glared at Delia, but when he saw the stern warning etched on her face, he silently sucked in the pain.

He looked at his uncle and shook his head. "Nothing's going on. Delia is helping me get dressed."

The ambassador stepped over to Michael and looked down at him. "And exactly why are you getting dressed?"

Michael managed to lift himself from the chair. "I'm going to Hebron with Delia and Thomas, and don't you start in with me. There's nothing you can say that Delia hasn't already said. Bottom line, I'm going. End of discussion."

The ambassador stood silently as Michael prepared to go toe-to-toe with the best negotiator he'd ever known. He fastened his belt and waited for his uncle to make his move. What the ambassador said caught him off guard and threw up his defenses for a covert attack.

"I suppose you're right." His uncle sighed and shook his head. "If you're set on getting yourself killed, then who am I to try to stop you?"

Michael nodded cautiously. He had never known his uncle to give in this easily. He had the overwhelming feeling he was about to step into a trap. He reached to the table and picked up his wallet. As he slid it into his pocket, he kept his uncle in sight through the corner of his eye. "I appreciate your support."

"Oh, you certainly do not have my support. How someone so intelligent could be so stupid is beyond comprehension. I just know how important the Samson Effect is to you."

Delia locked her arms through Michael's and smiled. "You don't have to worry about anything. I'll keep an eye on him." The ambassador never looked away from Michael. "I'll arrange security for you. Just promise me you'll not do anything stupid and you'll stay with the men I'll send with you."

Michael allowed a small smile to give his thanks. "I promise." He turned to Delia. "Perhaps the three of us can have lunch before we meet up with Thomas."

Delia looked toward the ambassador with raised eyebrows. Again, he did not acknowledge her presence. "Sorry, but my schedule is tight today. I'll call you to arrange a time when you and I can get together." He turned curtly and stepped out of the room.

Michael released his hold on Delia and started after his uncle, but she grabbed his arm. "Please, let him go."

"He may not approve of our relationship, but I'm not going to stand by while he treats you like a dog."

"I appreciate that, but give him time. I'll win him over quicker if we don't antagonize him. After all, I'm starting to win Thomas over, and I have faith I'll also win your uncle over too."

Michael shook his head. "Thomas's heart wasn't corrupted with prejudice."

* * * *

After spending two hours poring through the phone records of everyone associated with him, Azim found his traitor. The damning evidence sat face up on his desk. After futilely trying to rationalize away what the phone records told him, he finally succumbed to the truth and melted into his chair.

Rajah seemed equally stunned. He waited silently for Azim to come to terms with the traitor's identity.

Azim took in a deep breath and closed his eyes. "You know what must be done."

Rajah cocked his head to one side. "Forgive me, but I'm not sure I fully understand your intentions."

"My intentions?" Azim could feel every muscle in his face and neck tighten as fire pulsed through his veins. "She's responsible for Umar's death, and she has betrayed me. I will not forgive her. She must die."

"Perhaps there's an explanation. Delia may have been—"

"Do not mention her name in my presence again! How could there be any other explanation for her calling the Israelis from her room the night before the attack? Answer me!"

"Azim, I don't know—"

"You don't know because there's only one explanation." Azim grabbed the phone records in his fist. "Bring her to me alive. I want her to see my face before she feels the cold hand of my justice."

Azim clenched his teeth and squeezed the paper until his knuckles grew pale. He felt every muscle tense, and a slight tremor spread through him. The tension grew until it was focused so tightly that his body couldn't stand it. His fist exploded on the desk, accompanied by the guttural command. "Go!"

Rajah jumped to his feet and bowed as he shuffled backward and quickly slipped out the door. When it closed, Azim felt the tension fall like chains dropping from his body. His strength drained from his body, and he poured like water into the chair.

* * * *

Aaron descended the stairs with a dagger gripped in his fist. Thomas and Arnold froze as they watched the two men until they all stood facing each other in the tiny living room. Tobin reached out and gently took the notebook from the pastor and slipped it next to his envelope.

"What's the meaning of this, Tobin?

Tobin's anger burned in his eyes. "If you weren't the rabbi's friend, you'd be dead right now." His eyes flashed to Thomas. "Who is this man, and what does he know about what we're sworn to protect?"

Neither Arnold nor Thomas answered. Aaron lifted the tip of the dagger under Thomas's chin and pressed until Thomas could feel a drop of warm liquid run down his neck.

"Thomas Hamilton. My name's Thomas Hamilton."

Tobin nodded to Aaron, and Aaron withdrew the blade. Thomas reached to his neck and pressed his thumb on the puncture. The pastor fished a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to him.

"Mr. Hamilton, what do you know of the Lord's Strength?" Tobin walked to the table and glanced over the papers spread over its surface. "Oh, it's Doctor Hamilton, I see." He walked back to Aaron and took the dagger from him. He then stepped to Thomas and placed the tip against his chest. "Well, Dr. Hamilton, what's your business with the secret?"

Thomas tried to swallow the lump in his throat but nothing went down. The sting of the dagger tip pulled the words from his lips. "I've been following archaeological clues of the Samson Effect for over a year now."

"The what?"

Everyone turned their heads toward the door at the top of the stairs when someone knocked and then cracked it open. "Father, may I come down?"

Thomas felt the pressure from the dagger ease. Before he had a chance to think, he grabbed Tobin's wrist and hyper extended his arm at the elbow. Tobin cried out in pain and released the dagger. Thomas kicked it away and landed his fist across Tobin's jaw, knocking him through the tiny living room and into the kitchen.

Arnold grabbed a coffee table book and swung like a major-league slugger, knocking Aaron to his knees. He then jogged to a stunned Tobin, yanked the envelope and notebook from his arms, and tossed them to Thomas. "Run!"

Thomas looked up the stairs at the confused face of the younger pastor and then started up the stairs, calling for Arnold to follow. He glanced behind him when he was halfway up the steps, relieved to see the old pastor at the foot of the stairs. He froze when Arnold abruptly stopped on the second step, and his eyes grew wide.

A gentle whisper escaped the old man's lips. "Run." Thomas watched him topple from the stairs and saw the dagger handle sticking from his back.

Arnold's son thrust Thomas against the rail as he tried to squeeze by and get to his father. Thomas watched Tobin pull the dagger from the old man and look up at them. He snapped from his shock and grabbed the man's forearm as he rushed past him.

"Come on!"

Thomas felt like he was pulling dead weight. He was about to release his grip on the man when he felt the resistance ease. He hurdled the top step and flew through the door. The moment the young pastor cleared the door, Thomas slammed it shut and leaned his weight against it.

"Find something to secure the door."

The young pastor didn't make a move. His eyes fixed upon the door. Thomas feared the pastor had heard nothing as he struggled to take in what he had just witnessed. Thomas couldn't reach out and shake the man without the assassins bursting through the door.

He could feel the door rattle behind him. The doorknob turned and the door drew open, pushing his feet across the tile floor. Thomas leaned back and dug the heels of his hiking boots into the floor. The door stopped opening, but the men on the other side matched Thomas's resistance.

Thomas felt fire burn through his thighs and calves. He had no more strength to give, and what he was giving began to slip away. It was nearly imperceptible, but he felt the door slightly nudge open more. His clenched teeth began to throb.

He held the door until his strength was spent. He bowed his head and let up. As soon as he did, the door swung freely. Thomas staggered backward until the closed door stopped him. He opened his eyes to see Arnold's son digging his shoulders into the door.

"The hammer and spike!"

Thomas followed the man's gaze to a simple wooden mallet and a thick iron nail set in a crucifixion display. His mind immediately connected with the pastor's as he reached for the items and turned to the door. Almost miraculously, he felt his strength return. He placed the nail point on the tiled floor and brought the hammer down full force. The first swing cracked the tile and the second embedded the spike an inch into the floor. After three more swings, the spike's head extended just high enough to prevent the door from opening further.

The pastor stepped away, and they both stared at the door. It rattled open an inch, but the spike held firm. Thomas grabbed the pastor's arm and pulled him away. "The door won't hold long. We need to call the police."

"My office is this way."

Thomas followed, casting glances behind at the violently rattling door. When they reached the other end of the sanctuary, the pastor ran into his office and picked up the phone. Thomas stopped at the office door and turned toward the back of the sanctuary. To his horror, he watched the top and middle hinges break from the door jamb. The door folded forward, and the two men climbed out of the stairwell. He turned to the pastor. "We've got to go now!"

The pastor placed a hand on the mouthpiece. "I'm being connected now." "They're out!"

The pastor dropped the phone and ran to Thomas. The two assassins stared at them and then charged.

"This way."

Before he could turn to follow, Thomas felt as though Samson himself had slugged his left shoulder. The force knocked him against the wall. One of the assassins was charging toward him with the dagger drawn. The other had stopped and was pointing a gun at him.

"Come on!"

Thomas turned to see the pastor standing at a side exit with the door wide open. He began running as another shot rang out. When he reached the door, he jumped the three steps to the parking lot and the pastor slammed the door closed. They turned toward the busy street out front and ran.

The door behind them burst open, and the two assassins ran full speed at them. Thomas and the pastor ran into the crowd and quickly caught the attention of three armed patrolmen. The soldiers pointed their guns at them and barked out a command Thomas didn't understand. By instinct, however, he held his hands behind his head and dropped to his knees.

The pastor, also on his knees, was speaking furiously to the soldiers, who glanced past Thomas. One soldier nodded, and the other two took off toward the assassins. Out of nowhere, countless soldiers poured into the parking lot. A soldier approached Thomas and demanded, in English, for him to produce his papers. Thomas pulled out the papers Ambassador Ben Hur had given him the night before. The soldier took the papers and ran a check on them. He returned and ordered the soldiers to stand down.

He escorted Thomas to an ambulance, where a medic removed the bullet from his shoulder and dressed his wound. Another police car skidded to a stop in front of the church. A man in a suit stepped out and, without introduction, demanded to know what was going on.

"My father was killed just now in the church." The pastor nodded at the church.

Other cars arrived, and the police were already in the process of securing the area. The man in the suit looked down at the papers handed to him and then looked at Thomas. "Mr. Derrick White, I see you're visiting from Canada. If you'll please come with me, I have some questions for you." The man turned to the pastor. "You, go with this man."

Thomas wracked his brain for some way to avoid the interrogation, but everything he thought of would only cast suspicion upon him. With resignation, he nodded, knowing he could always invoke the ambassador's name if he found himself in serious trouble.

The man gestured to the backseat door of his car, and Thomas began walking toward it. An officer approached, handed the man a sheet of paper, and whispered something into his ear. They both looked at Thomas, and then down to the paper.

The man in the suit barked out something. Before Thomas could react, two men pinned him to the ground, closed cuffs around his wrists, and then yanked him to his feet.

Thomas shook his head. "What's going on? Why are you doing this?"

The man in the suit stepped up to Thomas with a smirk on his face. "It seems you're a very popular man in the United States, Dr. Hamilton."






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The Samson Effect Chapter 14

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THE NEXT MORNING, Thomas took a taxi to the Christian quarter of Jerusalem. The driver stopped in front of a small Protestant church. He turned to Thomas and smiled, pointing to the meter. "Fare, please."

Thomas unfolded the address and held it before the driver. "Are you sure we're here?"

The driver pointed at the address on the paper and then at the church. "Yes, yes, yes. Fare, please."

Thomas shook his head and pulled out his wallet. When he paid his fare and stepped out of the taxi, the driver sped away. He looked around at the buildings and the heavy traffic along the street. He then looked at the church, trying to find a street number. Certainly, a church would not have an unlisted number, he thought.

"Dr. Hamilton?"

Thomas looked to his right to see an elderly man approach. "Yes. You must be Arnold Willingham." He reached out to shake the old man's hand. "Name doesn't sound Jewish to me."

"Oh, it's not." Arnold smiled. "Born and raised in Las Vegas."

"An American? What made you leave Sodom for the holy city?"

"It's a long story. The short version is that I left home in the sixties and eventually founded this church."

"You're a pastor?"

"Was; retired now. My son has taken over the reins. I'm just around as an adviser, more or less." Arnold nodded to the church. "Care to come in?"

"Sure."

Thomas followed the old man into the church. He opened a door off to the side of the sanctuary, and they went down a flight of stairs. Thomas looked around at what appeared to be an apartment under the church. "You live here?"

"Yes. Hard to pass up free rent." He waved his hand around the room. "Only thing I don't like about it: no windows."

Sure enough, the only things Thomas saw on the walls were bright landscape paintings and mirrors. He looked at a picture on an end table of a younger Arnold Willingham, a woman, and a boy in his teens.

"That's my wife and son. He's much older now. The picture is over twenty years old. My wife, rest her soul, is with the Lord."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Willingham."

The old man smiled and casually waved off the sympathy. "Oh, don't be. She died years ago. I'm confident and comforted we'll one day be together eternally."

"I'm sure."

Thomas was about to bring up Ambassador Ben Hur when Arnold preempted him. "So, you wish to discuss the Lord's Strength, or Samson Effect, as you call it." He chuckled. "Samson Effect. That's good; creative."

Thomas was flabbergasted. He wasn't quite sure what to say or believe. Before him stood a Christian pastor from Las Vegas who spoke casually about what he thought was one of the greatest mysteries of antiquity. He leaned in and whispered, "You know about the Samson Effect?"

This time, Arnold's chuckle caused his solid girth to jiggle. "Oh my, yes. And no need to whisper. We can speak freely down here."

Thomas felt the same excitement he felt when he unearthed an ancient artifact. "What exactly do you know about it? Do you know what happened to it?"

Arnold held out a hand. "Slow down; first things first. Let me tell you how I know about the Samson Effect." He chuckled again when Thomas's title for the Lord's Strength slipped from his lips. Thomas nodded and patted his pockets. Arnold shook his head. "Don't worry about writing it down. Just listen."

Thomas reluctantly agreed and sat on the couch across from Arnold, who stroked his trim silver beard. "I suppose it was forty-some years ago when I first visited the newly created state of Israel. I was awestruck visiting the places I read about in the Bible. I was young, about twenty, and traveling alone. I met a rabbi who agreed to show me around, and we quickly became friends. I ended up staying in Israel a month longer than I had planned, and he invited me to his home in Hebron."

At the mention of Hebron, Thomas felt himself grow rigid. He literally had to remind himself to breathe.

"He introduced me to his teacher, a strange old recluse who had very little to do with me. They shared a home, but I rarely saw the old man. One day, my friend told me I had to spend the evening in Jerusalem. He didn't offer any reasons, and I didn't ask. When I came back the next day, he seemed different."

"What do you mean, different?"

"I couldn't put my finger on it then, so I shrugged it off; but three nights before I was to return to the States, I went to the kitchen for a late-night snack. My friend was sound asleep at the table, and a notebook was open before him. I poured a glass of milk, sliced some bread, and sat at the table. Without thinking, I pulled over the notebook and began reading it."

Arnold abruptly stopped his story. "I'm sorry, Dr. Hamilton. Speaking of bread, may I offer you something to eat or drink?"

Thomas didn't try to hide his impatience. "No, no. Please, continue."

"Very well, then. The notebook contained the history of what you call the Samson Effect and the responsibility of its Protector. As I finished, my friend awoke. When he saw me reading his notebook, well, let's just say he wasn't too thrilled. I honestly thought he was going to throw me out on the street then and there.

"Then, I began laughing. I told him that it was the best piece of fiction I'd ever read and that he ought to get it published. At first I thought he was going to take a swing at me, but then he sat back in his chair and began laughing too. I guess we got carried away, because his teacher yelled from his bedroom for us to be quiet. He took the notebook and went to his room.

"Neither of us mentioned it again; and when the day came for me to leave, he drove me to Jerusalem. He denied it, but to this day, I'm convinced he ran into the ditch on purpose. We got out and looked at the car. There was no way we were going anywhere without a tow truck, but he just looked at me and smiled. Then, before my eyes, he grabbed the bumper and pulled the car to the road as though it were a cardboard cutout."

Thomas slowly smiled and tried not to insult the pastor. "Do you want me to believe someone already has the Samson Effect, the Lord's Strength, if you will? That goes against everything we found written on the subject."

"Then how do you explain, Dr. Hamilton, my knowledge of it?"

"Now there's where I'm stumped. I know you're friends with the ambassador. Everything you told me could've come from him."

The old man laughed pleasantly. "Ah yes, Benjamin." He shook his head. "Isn't it strange how, in the most divided city on earth, a Christian pastor could become friends with an Orthodox Jew and an Israeli politician?"

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand," Thomas admitted.

"My family and I returned to Israel in the eighties and founded this church. I rekindled my friendship with the Jewish rabbi and met Benjamin when he was a major in the Israeli Air Force. Now that he's an ambassador, we don't see each other quite as often, but he manages to swing by for coffee every now and then."

Thomas fidgeted in his seat. He began to wonder how much truth was behind the pastor's words. The man seemed sincere, but Thomas still had trouble believing someone had the Samson Effect when all manuscripts claimed it had been lost to history. "Tell me, Mr. Willingham, how did you and the ambassador begin discussing the Samson Effect?"

Thomas could swear the pastor had a glint in his eye. "Why, because of you, Dr. Hamilton."

"Me?"

Arnold stood and motioned for Thomas to follow. "Yes. Let me show you what I mean."

Thomas followed him to a small office. It actually looked like a walk-in closet, framed with shelves, floor to ceiling, and packed with books. A card table, which served as a desk, and a chair sat in the center, leaving just enough space for one man to walk around it to retrieve books from the shelves.

Arnold walked directly to a shelf in the back corner and pulled out a binder with the name "Dr. Thomas Hamilton" written on the spine. Thomas watched in anticipation, wondering what the folder contained.

Arnold turned toward the door. "Let's move to the kitchen, where we'll have more room."

A few moments later, the two men sat at the table with the binder open. Thomas immediately recognized the photocopied cover on the first page as the issue of The Journal of Biblical Archaeology in which he and Ellen had copublished an article.

Arnold flipped through a few pages of handwritten notes until he came to Thomas's article. The title blazed across the top of the page in block letters: "Mental Illnesses and the Old Testament Characters."

Thomas pulled the binder to himself. "Ah yes, it received mediocre interest."

"Oh, not by me, Dr. Hamilton. Based on what you wrote and what I read in the rabbi's journal, I formed a supposition that linked the Samson Effect to the behavior exhibited by those great men in the Old Testament."

"You mean to tell me you believe all the great men in the Old Testament used the Samson Effect, and it was responsible for their mental illnesses?"

"Yes. Well, not all the men, of course. The notebook claimed Moses was the first to be given the Samson Effect. Last year, I was casually discussing your article with Benjamin over dinner one night, and eventually we both realized the other knew of the Samson Effect. He's continually pressed me to reveal my sources; but because of my word to the rabbi over forty years ago, I could not."

"Then why tell me?"

The glint faded from Arnold's eyes. "Because my friend was killed yesterday, and I'm worried sick the secret will fall into the wrong hands."

Thomas intuitively knew Arnold was speaking of Azim. "But you said the Samson Effect wasn't lost; your friend had possession of it. Everyone I'm aware of who knows about it assumes it's lost and is looking for it."

"But it is lost. My friend was the protector of the secret and of the very small sample that has been guarded by centuries of protectors." Arnold sat back in his chair and folded his arms over his belly. "Did you, by chance, hear about the incident in Hebron where a Jew reportedly bent the barrel of a gun barehanded?"

"Ambassador Ben Hur mentioned something to me about it last night."

Well, last night I figured out the man was my friend's student. Now he's the new Protector."

"How did you learn all this?"

"Because two of his students came to me last night. They knew their teacher and I were friends, and they needed a place to stay for a couple of weeks. They told me about the rabbi's death, and Benjamin told me about the man who bent the gun. From that, it was easy to figure out the rest."

This was as close to the ancient secret as Thomas had ever been. His muscles tensed as he realized he was about to take a giant leap forward toward the object of his two-year quest. "Where are they? May I talk with them?"

"They're at the Wailing Wall. They should be back soon. But, Dr. Hamilton, we dare not admit knowledge of the secret to them."

Thomas leaped to his feet. "Why not? Together, we can find the Samson Effect before Azim does." He shuddered at the thought of that madman finding it first.

"We can't. They have no idea about the details of the Samson Effect; only the protectors have the full knowledge. Neither do they know me like the rabbi did. They're serious about their responsibility, and they wouldn't hesitate to kill either one of us if they felt we were a threat to their duty."

Thomas dropped into the chair. "Then I'm back to square one. It seems every time the Samson Effect is within reach, someone picks it up and moves it further from my grasp."

"Patience, Dr. Hamilton. If the Lord has meant for you to find it after it's been lost for three thousand years, you'll find it. If not, then there's nothing you can do."

Thomas held his tongue, not wanting to offend the pastor. He knew if some powerful miracle drug existed, probability and chance could care less if it was him or Azim who found it.

Arnold folded his hands on the table and narrowed his eyes. "Dr. Hamilton, may I pose a theological question to you?"

"About the Samson Effect, sure."

"Let's assume you find it and let's also assume it gives you great power, but it costs you your mental health—drives you to depression, thoughts of suicide, paranoia—what would you do with it?"

Thomas considered the question. It cast his theories of the mental health of the Old Testament characters in a new light. As unlikely as he thought the correlation between the Samson Effect and degenerative mental health was, he had to admit it was, indeed, a possibility.

"I thought you said this was a theological question. Sounds more like an ethical one to me."

"Ethics is based in theology. I believe the Lord used the substance to fulfill his will and guarded it through the protectors to preserve its purpose. Now if the Lord no longer wishes to use it and removes his protection from it, do you really believe you should step into his shoes and determine who uses it and for what purposes?"

"I still don't think it's a theological issue. You said yourself if the Lord wants me to find it, I will. Besides, and please don't take offense, I don't quite know if there is a God. For all we know, the substance is a product of nature, one with amazing side effects, albeit, but a product of nature, nonetheless."

The old pastor rested his chin on his hand, and it appeared to Thomas the glint was back in his eyes. Thomas sighed, thankful his comment had not angered the pastor. "I believe, Dr. Hamilton, based on everything I've read about you, that you're a good, moral man. I also believe, whether you do or not, that the Lord may be working through you to find this because he knows your heart. He knows you'll do the right thing if you find it."

"And what would be the right thing?"

The pastor's smile grew even broader. "I really don't know. But if given the opportunity, I'm sure you'll figure it out. I just want to make sure you take into consideration all the consequences."

The two stared at each other for a moment until Arnold slapped both hands on his lap. "Well, I suppose you'd like to see my old rabbi friend's notebook, wouldn't you?"

Thomas felt a chill grip his body. "You have the notebook?"

"Not the original, but I do have one I've recreated as best I could from memory. It doesn't contain everything, but you'd be surprised at what's in there."

"You don't know how much I'd appreciate seeing it."

Arnold rose from his chair and walked toward the office. "Wait right there while I get it." He stopped and turned to Thomas. "Before I give it to you, you must promise that if you find the Effect, you'll bring it here for me to see."

"If the notebook leads me to it, you have my word."

A grin spread across Arnold's face as he turned and disappeared into the office.

He returned with a blue spiral notebook. Thomas stood before him and received the notebook as ceremonially as a mayor bestowing an award to an honored citizen. He felt a lump in his throat as he reverently pulled the notebook to himself.

The solemn atmosphere shattered as both men turned their head to the squeaking stair steps. Two men stared back at them with angry eyes. One man had a manila envelope tucked under his arm; the other knelt down, pulled up his left pant leg, and drew the six-inch dagger strapped to his leg.




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The Samson Effect Chapter 13

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"IF IT'S A jihad the Israelis want, I say let's bring it to them!"

Barhim added his agreement with Sofian, emphasizing it by pounding his four-fingered fist on Azim's desk.

Azim's expression did not change. He stared at each man one at a time until his eyes rested on Rajah. "And what do you say?"

Rajah didn't hesitate. "A jihad would be foolish. It's taken more than a decade for Israel to give our people the control we now have over Hebron. We'd give up everything we now have if we act rashly."

"Allah will be with us!" Barhim cried.

"Yes, Allah is always with us, praise be his name. But a jihad must be to his glory, not to satisfy our own egos." Barhim rolled his eyes and looked away, but Rajah continued without missing a beat. "Azim, what they did to you deserves punishment. You'll look weak in the eyes of the city leaders if you don't do something, and that may be tough to overcome. My counsel is that you take care of this matter quietly, not by calling our brothers together through a jihad."

Azim drew in a breath and exhaled. "A jihad doesn't make sense now, but I will avenge my uncle and sister." He again looked at each man and then narrowed his eyes. "And if Delia is not returned safely to me, the one responsible for her death will taste my wrath." He nodded to Sofian. "Take Barhim and finish your work with the rabbi. Before you kill them, use whatever means are needed to have them tell you everything they know about the Samson Effect."

Sofian spread his hands apart, palms up, and curtly bowed. When Azim gestured for him to leave, he and Barhim slipped through the door, leaving Azim and Rajah alone.

Azim slammed his fist on the desk. "How could this happen? Tell me that; how could our security have been so lax that the Israelis could walk in and take everything from us? Answer me!"

"Our security wasn't lax. I lost four men in the raid, and Palestinian security lost three. It happened so quickly, we had no time to call for reinforcements."

"How did they find out where Sieff was? And why was my uncle not protected?"

"Azim, we placed extra guards on them. I'm at a loss. It's almost as if …"

Azim narrowed his eyes. "As if what?"

Rajah closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against his forehead. "Someone's been passing information to the Israelis."

Azim's eyes drilled into Rajah. He said nothing for a full thirty seconds. Never once was there a traitor among his men. People had died for his cause rather than sell out to infidels. It had to be something else.

"The computer; Sieff or Hamilton must have sent a message through it."

"No, we monitored everything they did on it. It wasn't the computer or any other means of communication."

"Then who?"

Rajah eased back into his chair and placed his interlocked fingers into his lap. "I have one idea."

Azim's heart began racing. He leaned forward and in a controlled voice asked, "Who?"

"Sofian told me one of his men was terrified to go against the rabbi's student. In fact, he was forced at gunpoint to carry out your orders against the rabbi. He may have done anything if he thought it would keep him from confronting the Jew."

Azim nodded. Barhim's missing finger would be nothing compared to what he would do to someone who had betrayed him.

"Would you like to speak with the man?"

"Not yet. Have Sofian watch him. I want you to pull all phone records on any line he had access to. If he acted out of fear, he may have done something stupid."

"As you wish."

The idea that someone could betray him kept lingering in his mind. What if it was Barhim, taking vengeance for his finger; or Sofian, or even Rajah, his most trusted adviser? The city leaders respected Rajah. Perhaps corrupt men had influenced him.

"And have the records for the last three days from every phone associated with you, me, Sofian, Barhim, Umar, and anyone associated with us delivered to my office. You and I will go over them personally. Perhaps, as I said, the traitor may have done something stupid."

"I'll have them tomorrow."

"Good. I also want you to find someone to continue with Dr. Sieff's work. We must find the Samson Effect."

Rajah bowed his head, stood, and left the room. A few seconds later, Azim buzzed his chief bodyguard. The man immediately entered and stood before Azim with his gun drawn and four men following behind.

Azim dismissed the four men. "I want you to heighten your alert for the next three days. Be wary of everyone, even those closest to me."

* * * *

When darkness fell, Judas insisted on digging the two graves alone. Tobin and Aaron watched through the narrow slits in the blinds. Judas finished the first grave in a little over fifteen minutes and started on the next immediately. It felt like he was using a child's toy shovel on the beach.

He slowed his pace on the second grave, not from exhaustion, but to give himself time to think about Simon and the rabbi. He also thought of his fleeting strength. He knew the other two men would be digging his grave right now if it were not for the mixture.

Then he thought of the attack. As powerful as he was, his hesitation cost the rabbi his life. He thrust the shovel into the earth. If he were a split second quicker, the rabbi would be alive. Before he knew it, he was tossing the dirt over his head. This grave was at least eight feet deep.

He jumped flatfooted and landed on the ground next to the grave. He looked through the open blinds at the two gawking men. Judas nodded and they stepped onto the porch, where two plywood caskets sat next to each other.

Aaron's eyes were still wide when he stepped forward. "Judas, I mean rabbi, how—"

Judas held up a hand and shook his head. "Please understand, I'm bound by an oath not to reveal to anyone the secret we're protecting."

"But you dug those graves quicker than I could have if I used a bulldozer." He stepped behind Judas and tugged on his shirt. "And there are at least six bullet holes here, yet you have no wounds."

"Let it be enough that you've been allowed to witness the awesome, powerful gift the Lord has entrusted us to protect." His eyes shifted to the other man. "Not many men have witnessed what you two have witnessed."

Judas stepped up to the caskets, signifying he wasn't answering any more questions. Tobin ran his fingertips over the rough homemade caskets and sighed. Without a word, he and Aaron stooped to pick up Simon's casket. Judas shook his head and waved them away. "I'll get them."

He bent down and effortlessly picked up Simon's casket and set it on the rabbi's. He then stooped and placed a hand on both sides of the casket by the rabbi's head and lifted. He led the two men to the graves and lowered the caskets into their holes.

Judas let the men mourn in silence for a few minutes before sending them back into the house. He then filled the graves and raked the excess dirt into the surrounding soil. When he finished, only two flat stepping-stones marked the head of each grave.

He returned to the house and stepped into the rabbi's bedroom, where he picked up the notebook and pulled the metal foot from the rabbi's cane. He then went into the rabbi's office and rummaged around the desk until he found a legal-size manila envelope. He placed the two items into the envelope and sealed it, reinforcing the seal with staples.

When he came back to the kitchen, Aaron and Tobin ended their hushed conversation. After a short silence, Tobin said, "Rabbi, Aaron and I were talking about Azim." He looked toward Aaron who nodded. "His security will make it nearly impossible for us to touch him. We both want nothing more than for him to pay for what he's done, but we're afraid if we act so quickly after their deaths, we'll end up acting foolishly."

"I agree. That's why I want you in Jerusalem tonight."

"Why?" Tobin asked. "Without you?"

"I'll meet you at the old synagogue in two weeks." He handed the envelope to Tobin. "If I'm not there in two weeks, I want you to open this."

Tobin took the envelope with his free hand and tucked it under the arm in the sling. "Rabbi, we don't want to leave you, we just—"

"I need you two to be safe. The envelope contains everything you need to know about the great honor the Lord has given us. Tobin, should something happen to me, what's in the envelope is for your eyes only."

"But what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to carry out my role as Protector of the Lord's Strength."

"But Rabbi—"

"Tobin, the matter's settled. You're to follow my instructions in full."

"Yes, Rabbi."

"Good. I want you two to leave within the hour." They looked at their watches and nodded. "And I don't want you to draw attention to yourselves. Just wait for me, and above all, don't let anyone have that envelope. Anyone. You're to destroy it before that happens."

* * * *

Thomas slipped between the two guards and entered the hospital room he and Delia had been given for the evening. She was seated in a chair next to the window, but stood when he entered. "How's Michael?"

"Resting." He kicked off his shoes and sat at the foot of the bed. "Why don't you try to get some sleep and we'll check on him in the morning."

"I'd rather spend the night at his side."

Thomas reached out and grabbed Delia's forearm as she passed. "I don't know how safe it'd be for you to roam the hallways alone."

Delia stared at him with a questioning look. She gently pulled her arm from his grasp. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Thomas avoided her eyes, answering in a noncommittal tone. "I don't know. I mean, you're a Palestinian in the middle of an Israeli military hospital."

Delia stared at him for a moment before continuing to the door. "I'll take my chances."

"Delia, wait."

She let go of the doorknob and faced Thomas. "What's going on, Thomas? The truth."

He still couldn't look her in the eyes. "It's Ambassador Ben Hur. I don't think he likes you very much."

Delia smiled and rolled her eyes. "No kidding. What did you expect? My family is not on the best terms with the Israeli government."

"I know, but I think it's personal with him. He doesn't exactly approve of your and Michael's relationship, and I don't think he'd think twice about using his power to see to it you and Michael are permanently apart."

"He told you this?"

"Not in as many words." He finally found the fortitude to look her in the eyes. "He thinks you're waiting for the perfect time to betray us."

He couldn't stop his eyes from dropping away. He felt ashamed that the ambassador planted the seeds of doubt now taking root, resurrecting his past suspicions. Her quiet, gentle voice pained him.

"You believe him, don't you?"

It would be much easier if she responded harshly, in anger, but she didn't. He knew his delay in answering her cast a shadow of doubt on his sincerity. "No, I don't believe him. In fact, I insisted you and I…"

"You and I what?"

Thomas sighed. "Sit down."

He told her what the ambassador had said about him continuing the search for the Samson Effect and how he had no intentions of meeting her. The only thing he kept back was the damning dossier the ambassador promised to produce. He finished by asking, "You do agree it's best we not tell Michael about the Hebron trip until he regains his strength?"

She stared past him out the window as she nodded. She then looked at him and placed her hand on his. "I'm afraid the whole Israeli army couldn't protect me from my brother if I went with you to Hebron. In fact, I really don't know where I can be safe." She squeezed Thomas's hand. "Thank you for standing up for me."

"Listen, why don't you just stick with me or Michael until these people get comfortable with you being around? You can go with me tomorrow to meet a guy I'm supposed to see."

Delia shook her head. "I'll stay with Michael tomorrow. In fact, I'd appreciate it if you'd walk me to his room right now."

Thomas slipped from the bed and walked with her as the soldier escorted them to Michael's room. Michael was awake, flipping through television channels when they entered. He endured the pain, and against Delia's insistence for him to lie down, embraced her. Thomas took a few steps back, feeling more confident about her as he watched their embrace. Neither noticed when he left the room.

On his way back to his room, he took out the name and address of the man he was going to visit tomorrow. A phone number, marked "Taxi," and a street address were at the bottom of the paper. He turned it over but found nothing else written on the paper.

When he arrived at his room, he called the operator to get the number for the address on the paper. The operator told him the number was unlisted. He hung up and crawled into bed. Exhaustion came out of nowhere and devoured him. He closed his eyes without taking off his clothes or turning out the light. Just as he was about to fall asleep, he heard a scratching sound at the door. One eye opened, and he reluctantly turned toward the door.

Someone had slipped a white eight-by-ten envelope under the door. Curiosity beat out exhaustion, and he rolled out of bed and picked up the envelope. The only thing on it was the word "Interpol" stamped on the front. Obviously, the ambassador was in a hurry for him to read up on Delia.

He took the envelope back to his bed and lay down. It was heavy; there must be a lot in there on her, he thought. He slipped his finger into the opening above the seal, but paused before ripping it open. Did he really want what was in there to cloud further his judgment about Delia? If there was anything with even the slightest bit of evidence, he knew she wouldn't be walking around as freely as she was now. He then removed his finger, placed the envelope in the nightstand drawer, and turned off the light.



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