Deker raced on foot through the twisting alleys of East Jerusalem toward the Temple Mount, tears forming in his eyes as he was breathing, "No, no, no!"
By the time he reached the Western Wall Plaza, the lights of the ambulances, police cars and news crews glowed in the twilight. He slowed his pace, catching his breath as he brushed past the EMTs toward the taped-off area.
Four people were dead, a newswoman was breathlessly reporting as she stared into the lens atop her cameraman's shoulder. Six others were injured, two critically.
He scanned the crowd as he pushed his way to the police line. There were more onlookers than people praying at the wall. Knowing Rachel, she'd be the first to be offering comfort to the victims or support to the first responders.
But he couldn't see her anywhere in the chaos.
He could, however, see Stern and Elezar standing to the side with a couple of plainclothes Mossad officers conducting their inspection before any evidence was completely contaminated. They were blocking his view.
He approached them slowly, not certain if he wanted to talk to them or not. His feet felt like lead, his mouth was dry. The shouts and cries circling his head from the crowd gave him a headache, and the sight of the small ceramic shard in Stern's hand made him nauseous.
It's the explosive bowl I made to blow up the Hamas gathering. I mixed it up with the original bowl. Rachel must have found it at home. Oh, my God. I've made a tragic mistake.
Their faces said everything when they half-turned and saw him. They looked away as he pushed his way through and beheld the charred bits of limbs and flesh of the victims strewn across the plaza.
Deker collapsed to his knees, his soul swallowed up by a black void of grief and hopelessness, and wailed like a dying animal.
Rachel was gone, and with her the spark of his own life.