An Apple for the Creature

What the students couldn’t have guessed was this: Abrams already knew the good news Professor Mossler had come to tell him.

That their friends Cynthia and Jason had been keeping an eye on Robert Ramsey’s house.

That the day before, they’d noticed the front door open for hours.

That Ramsey’s car and U-Haul were gone from the driveway.

That when they risked a peek inside, they found the house cleared out, deserted.

That Robert Ramsey had apparently changed his mind about moving back in.

That Robert Ramsey was gone.

Professor Abrams was wrapping up an animated talk about the ibbur—a benevolent spirit, the flip side of a dybbuk—when one of his students raised her hand and asked about Jewish views of the afterlife. Her roommate, a Reform Jew, had told her that she didn’t believe in heaven or hell or immortality of any kind. How could Jews believe in ghosts if they didn’t believe in life after death?

“Things change,” Professor Abrams said with a shrug. “Jiminy Cricket, do they change.”

Well, when did that happen? another student wanted to know. They’d discussed all kinds of immortal creatures from Jewish folklore. Not just spirits like ibburim and dybbukim but angels, the demon-goddess Lilith, the Wandering Jew . . .

“Let me stop you right there,” Professor Abrams said. “Yes, Lilith and the angels and cherubim we’ve discussed. Maimonides, Mendelssohn, Kant, Cohen and the long debate over the soul—all that we’re getting to. The Wandering Jew, on the other hand, we haven’t talked about nor will we. Anyone know why?”

Professor Abrams looked around the room. No one raised a hand.

“‘The Wandering Jew,’” he said, “is the story of a Jewish man who supposedly taunted Jesus when he was on his way to be crucified. As punishment, the man was subjected to a peculiar curse: He couldn’t die. He would roam the earth until Christ returned. He would be immortal . . . if you can be said to be immortal when you’ve got an expiration date.”

The professor paused to see if he’d get a chuckle. Only Professor Mossler obliged him.

“Thank you,” he told her with another grin. “Now. There are two reasons the Wandering Jew isn’t relevant to a class on Jewish myths. First off, it’s not a Jewish story. It’s a story Christians tell about a Jew. Second—”

Abrams stopped and checked his wristwatch.

“Oh, my. Where does the time go? I’ll see you all on Wednesday.”

He headed for the back of the room, still smiling, as his students gathered up their things and left.

He never did say what the second reason was.

VSI NANCY HOLDER

Nancy Holder is a New York Times bestselling and multiple Bram Stoker Award–winning author, and a short story, essay, and comic book writer. She is the author of the Wicked, Crusade, and Wolf Springs Chronicles series. Vanquished, in the Crusade series, is out now; Hot Blooded, the second book in the Wolf Springs Chronicles, will be out soon. She has written a lot of tie-in material for “universes” such as Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Teen Wolf, and many others, and recently won the Scribe Award for Saving Grace: Tough Love, based on the show by the same name. She lives in San Diego.

Birds trilled through Boston, and jocund dawn was on its way. Claire and Jackson had already been well into overtime when their informant placed their fugitive here, now; and in the grab-game, it was arrest while the iron was hot or give the glory to someone else. And so.

“I have her at the door. She’s A and D. She’s going upstairs; she’s out the back door; I am in pursuit!” Jackson told Claire via earpiece. He was laughing.

“What the hell?” Claire shouted into her mic. He’s telling me she’s armed and dangerous and he’s laughing?

Positioned behind a dead apple tree in the weed-choked yard of the duplex, she stepped on a dollop of dog poop—nice—with her service weapon out just as a completely naked woman of a certain age (and size) soared over the balcony railing, which was decorated with a set of jumbo Christmas lights, and landed ten feet away from Claire.

Bingo. Claire would have to thank the police sketch artist who had provided them with Linda Hannover’s likeness. He had captured every nook and cranny of her tired, doughy face.