A breathless voice called to the priest from the steps: “Long life to you.” Ben-Tabia looked quickly at Sami, then dropped his eyes to the floor. Omar Yussef took a short breath and felt the muscles in his back tighten. The traditional greeting meant someone else’s life had ended. The voice came again: “Your Honor, we have to call the police.”

Sami stepped through the door. Omar Yussef followed. A tall young man with a thick mustache stood at the foot of the last flight of steps. His thin chest heaved with the effort of running from the street. He flinched when he saw Sami’s uniform.

“Who’s dead?” Sami spoke sharply.

The young man glanced at the priest, but Sami descended a few steps and leaned toward him.

“Come on, what’s happened?”

The breathless man looked over Sami’s shoulder and called to the priest. “It’s Ishaq, Your Honor. Ishaq is up on top of Mount Jerizim, at the temple.”

“Why shouldn’t he be?” The priest spoke slowly, as though his tongue were prodding through a minefield.

The young man coughed hard. “Your Honor, Ishaq has been murdered.”

Chapter 3

A shepherd in baggy Turkish pants and an old blue seer-sucker jacket drove his herd toward the scanty pasture on Mount Jerizim. He maneuvered the goats to the side of the road, making way for Sami’s patrol car. A small black kid sprang stiff-legged from a rock and landed on the shaggy brown backs of the others. Omar Yussef smiled at the little goat’s exuberance. He caught the mustiness of the herd on the cool air of the mountain, an inviting scent after the exhaust fumes and trash-can stink of Nablus. But there had been a murder on this mountain and Omar Yussef narrowed his eyes to look beyond the lively animals toward the ridge where someone lay dead.

Sami called police headquarters to report that he was en route to a murder scene. He held his walkie-talkie with his left hand, steering and changing gear with his right. The car veered toward the drop at the edge of the road when-ever he reached for the gearshift.