Authors: Faye Kellerman
“Caught him in the act?” Walsh asked grimly.
“More or less,” Marge answered. “You take over. I want to talk to the victim.”
“Who’s he?” Folstrom asked, pointing to Moshe.
“The hero.”
“Should I get a statement?” Folstrom asked.
“You can try, but he’s a little…” Marge made a circle with her index finger around the side of her head.
Rina was huddled under an elm tree. Her knees were drawn tightly to her chin, arms
clasped around her shins, as if embracing herself.
Marge walked over and sat down beside her.
“I called an ambulance.”
Rina nodded.
Marge placed her arm around her shoulder.
“It looks like it’s over.”
The tears began to fall down Rina’s cheeks, stinging her wounds. When she spoke it was barely above a whisper.
“How can you work with someone day after day, for five years, and be so oblivious to what goes on in his head?”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Marge comforted. “A lot of crazies maintain. They hold jobs, have families, and slip by the police, the shrinks—all the so-called experts who should know better. I’ve had a couple of real foolers myself.”
She shrugged, then patted Rina’s shoulder.
“You did terrific, kiddo. I couldn’t have done better myself.”
Rina didn’t respond.
Marge knew she was still in shock. She saw Decker walking down the hillside, helping a limping man. Another black-and-white pulled up, then a transport. They threw Gilbert into the back. The boys from the yeshiva began to drift over, and she saw she had a job to do. She excused herself politely and walked over to Decker and Hawthorne.
“Are you okay, sir?” she asked Hawthorne.
Matt glared at Gilbert in the backseat of the transport.
“I can’t believe it,” Hawthorne said. “I just can’t believe it. There must be a logical explanation. There must be some mistake.”
“There’s no mistake,” Marge said.
“Shit,” Hawthorne muttered, rubbing his head. His forehead was raised and red, sporting a bluish lump. “Rina! Is she okay?”
“She’ll live,” said Marge.
Luis Ramirez pulled up and got out of his patrol car. Decker motioned him over.
“Mr. Hawthorne, this is Officer Ramirez,” he said. “If you’re up to it, you can give him a statement while you’re waiting for the ambulance to come.”
Hawthorne nodded, still stunned.
“Why don’t you come with me, sir?” said Ramirez. “You can sit down in the backseat of the patrol car. You’ll be more comfortable.”
Hawthorne acquiesced. A moment later the transport vehicle, with Gilbert inside, sped away.
Decker stared at the throng that had assembled.
“Where’s Rina?” he asked Marge.
“Over there,” she said pointing to the tree. “She’s bruised, but she’ll be okay. She’s a tough lady, Pete.”
He walked over and sat down beside her, but she didn’t acknowledge him. He was suddenly tongue-tied, thinking only of how much he wanted to hold her, how he wanted to make it all go away.
Finally, she spoke: “Help me up.”
He lifted her in his arms and held her for a moment. Her face…what the bastard had done to her beautiful face…
He let her down on her feet as gently as he could.
“What should I do with this?” she asked, holding up the gun. “It belongs to
him
.”
Decker pulled out a handkerchief, took the gun from her, emptied the barrel, and wrapped it up.
“I fired at him, so it’s minus a bullet.”
He nodded.
“I missed him.”
“I’m surprised you did.”
“So am I,” she said.
Decker saw Zvi Adler approaching, looked at Rina, and realized suddenly that she was half naked. He slipped off his jacket and gave it to her.
She smiled weakly.
Zvi stopped ten feet in front of them. His face bore a painful look of déjà vu.
“Oh, my God,” he said softly, tears in his eyes.
“I’m okay.”
He looked as if he wanted to say more.
“Can I do anything?” he asked her after a moment.
“My boys!” she gasped. “They can’t see me like this!”
“We’ll keep them for as long as it takes,” Zvi said softly.
“Tell them the truth—that I had to go to the hospital for a check-up. I’ll call as soon as I get there.” She swallowed back tears. “They mustn’t worry about me. They’ve gone through enough already.”
“They won’t, Rina. I promise you.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you sure I can’t—”
“No. Nothing else. Just take care of my boys.”
“Rina,” he whispered gently. “Come over for Shabbos.”
“Okay,” she said, her voice breaking.
Zvi turned to Decker and offered him his hand.
“Thank you, Detective. How did you do it?”
“I didn’t,” Decker said. “It was Rina and Moshe—”
“
Moshe?
” said Zvi. “Moshe caught the
mamzer
?”
“Rina and Moshe,” Decker corrected.
But Zvi was off. Running over to the rocking man, he embraced him warmly, hefted him onto his shoulders, and began to sing in a rich baritone. Soon others joined in and a circle formed around the two of them. The dance began, and within minutes the woods were filled with deep male voices and loud stomping.
“They seem to have forgotten about you,” said Decker.
“It’s okay.” She was weeping and laughing at the same time. “It’s easier for Zvi to deal with Moshe than me. My face must have frightened him off.”
She tried to smile at him, but instead her lips quivered, turned downward, and her face fell. He took her in his arms and pulled her to his breast.
“It hurts,” she sobbed. “My head feels as if it’s going to explode.”
“We’re going to fix you up, honey,” Decker said, embracing her. “You’re going to be fine.”
“I’ll never be fine,” she wailed.
“Yes, you will. I promise, Rina, you’ll be fine.”
“Oh, God!” she cried out in pain. She lifted her head and looked at him. “I’m going to miss you so!”
She sobbed on his chest while hugging him tightly.
“That hurts most of all,” she wept in anguish.
Decker pushed her hair off her forehead.
“Hey, come on now,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She buried her head in his arms and clung to him tightly, finding security in his touch.
She felt a hand on her shoulder, looked up, and saw Chana.
“Come on, Rina,” the woman said firmly. “The ambulance is here. I’ll help you.”
“In a minute,” Rina said, wiping her tears on Decker’s shirt.
“Mr. Hawthorne is waiting—”
“I said in a minute,” Rina snapped at the woman.
“
Ze lo yafeh
,” Chana said.
“
Yafeh lo shayach po
.”
Chana threw up her hands and walked away.
Rina leaned her head on Peter’s chest.
“She disapproves of my hugging you,” she explained to him. “She said it wasn’t
nice
.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her
nice
wasn’t important now.” She brought his hand to her lips and kissed his fingers, one by one.
“I want to ride with you to the hospital,” Decker said.
She shook her head.
“But I want to go.”
“No,” Rina answered. “I need to be alone. I need time to think. I just don’t want to let go of you. Not just yet.”
“As far as I’m concerned, you don’t ever have to let go.”
She said nothing.
Decker looked around. The crowd had become tumultuous—a mass of bodies singing and dancing. Men were on each others’ shoulders. Others were spinning around in a circle, flying outward in centrifugal motion. Never had he seen such unbridled jubilation. And in the center was Moshe, held high above the others, smiling, nodding, and mumbling to himself.
“Look,” he said stroking her hair. “I’m taking a couple of days off to go camping in the mountains. God knows I can use a little peace and quiet. I know school starts in a week, so your kids are on their last leg of vacation. I’m not telling you what to do, and I’m going to
go regardless of what you say, but, if you’re willing, I wouldn’t mind if the boys came along.”
“I don’t think so,” she said, still hugging him.
He kissed her head.
“Okay. Whatever you say.”
He touched her cheek and gently kissed her wounds. Closing her eyes, she ran her forefinger across his stubbled chin.
“You’ll need kosher food for them,” she whispered.
“So I’ll buy kosher food.”
“I don’t know…”
Decker didn’t push her. The last thing in the world she needed was to be talked into something. Besides, he knew that she, like he, would have to make her own decisions in her own time.
“I’ll let you know, Peter,” she said, breaking away reluctantly. “One way or the other, I promise I’ll call you.”
“Do that.”
She looked at the ambulance.
“I’ve got to go.”
“Let me walk you—”
“No. I can make it on my own.”
She cast a perfunctory glance over her shoulder, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed him lightly on the lips.
He watched her walk away and disappear inside the rear of the waiting ambulance. The doors slid shut, and she was gone. Decker sat down under the tree, pulled out a cigarette,
and reached for a match, but found his pockets bare. So he stared at the crowd, holding an unlit cigarette between his thumb and middle finger.
A tall, thin figure materialized—the Rosh Yeshiva was coming his way, immaculately dressed as always and surefooted. The old man took off his homburg, revealing thick white hair, readjusted the oversized black yarmulke that had been underneath the hat, and placed the hat back atop his head. Decker started to stand as he approached, but the rabbi motioned him back down and sat down next to him under the tree.
“Need a light, detective?” Schulman asked.
“If you don’t mind.”
The Rosh Yeshiva lit two of his hand-rolled cigarettes and gave one to Decker.
“Thank you,” he said. “Some crowd, huh Rabbi?”
“We Jews have a penchant for the extremes of the emotional spectrum. We know how to mourn, we know how to rejoice. This is as much for Moshe as it is for the capture of Gilbert.”
When he mentioned the teacher’s name, the Rosh Yeshiva shook his head sadly.
“There was no way to know about Gilbert, Rabbi.”
“True, my boy. Only
Hashem
is omniscient, and until He decides we’re worthy of His communication via prophets or the Messiah, we mortals are forced to live in a state of ignorance. I’ve spent my whole life learning, De
tective, acquiring knowledge not only from the scriptures of my belief, but from countless other sources—American law, philosophy, psychology, economics, political science: I have studied them all at great length. Yet, a madman can slip under my nose, and I realize I know nothing. I am still a meaningless speck of dust in the scheme of things. A most humbling experience.”
“I know the feeling well,” Decker said, smiling.
“It is good for the soul to be humbled,” the old man said. “It forces one to take stock.”
The detective nodded.
“Did you tell Rina Miriam about your background?” the Rosh Yeshiva asked.
“No.”
Schulman sucked on his cigarette.
“Do you intend to tell her?”
“Not until I know how I feel. I can’t call myself Jewish unless I know what that means. Otherwise, I’m not being honest with her—or myself.”
“Are you interested in learning what it means?”
“I haven’t been able to think about it until this guy was captured.”
“And now?”
The big man shrugged.
“I think I’ll take it a day at a time, Rabbi.”
“Would you care to join the men in dance, Peter?”
“No thank you, Rabbi,” he answered, self-
consciously, “I’d probably step on my own toes.”
“As long as you don’t step on mine…”
The detective smiled.
“I still think I’ll pass. But thank you for the invitation. I feel honored.”
The men sat in silence and watched the crowd.
“Detective,” the Rabbi said, nudging him in the ribs, “we’ve got company.”
A horde of television and newspaper reporters were about to converge upon them, lugging tripods, video cameras, Nikons, and microphones.
“You may do as you please,” Rav Schulman said, standing up. “As for me, I’m going to dance.”
Decker rose as they approached: pencils poised, microphones thrust forward—invading Huns, ready for battle. He brushed off his pants and turned to the old man.
“Okay, Rabbi. Show me what to do.”
It was the stuff of nightmares, starting with the slow walk down the courtroom aisle: as if his stall tactics had the power to stop the inevitable. Seven hours of testimony, but it wasn’t the length of time that was horrific. Gabe had practice marathons on the piano twice as long as that. But he had always used his music to zone out and that was impossible to do when being grilled on the witness stand. It had required concentration on things he was trying so hard to forget: how
that day
had started out so normal and within minutes had turned to something almost deadly.
By four in the afternoon, the trial had finally recessed and the prosecution was essentially done, although Gabe knew the lawyers would have more questions on redirect. He walked out of the courtroom with his foster mother, Rina Decker, on one side and his foster dad, the lieutenant, on the other. They guided him into a waiting car. Sergeant Marge Dunn was behind the wheel.
She maneuvered the silent group through the streets of the San Fernando Valley—a suburb of LA—until they reached the driveway of the Decker house. Once inside the door, Gabe collapsed on the living room couch, took off his glasses, and closed his eyes.
Rina took off her tam, liberating a sheet of black, shoulder-length hair, and regarded the boy. He was nearly bald—courtesy of an indie film he had starred in—and his complexion was pale and pasty. Little red bumps covered his forehead.
She said, “I’m going to change and get dinner ready.” At the sound of her voice, Gabe opened his eyes. “You must be starving.”