Stone Kiss

33

He had about fifteen minutes to kill before Angela from Tattlers was done with her “massage” client. Stepping outside into the bracing air, Decker tried to clear his mind. The slashing rain had turned to steady globules of water, the woodland foliage melding into a thick curd of grays and browns as the daylight dimmed. He tightened the scarf around his neck and dug his hands into his pockets, feeling the jolt of iced steel on his fingers. He had forgotten about the snub-nose. He took it out, opened the chamber, and peeked inside. Four bullets. He snapped it shut, then secured the safety latch.

It would have been a perfect time for a smoke and a shot of scotch. He was cold and thirsty and could have used a kick to the system. He was sure that the place had a stash of stag toys, and with Rina absent, he didn’t have to worry about his breath or his bad behavior. That was the attraction of whorehouses. Guys could be swine and that was not only acceptable but also expected. Donatti was a down-and-dirty psycho, but the bastard understood married men. It wasn’t just a sex issue-though that played a big part-it was a control issue. Men prized freedom. Married men got tired of dealing with their wives because wives were constant reminders of their lost liberty.

In this seedy house of ill repute, he wasn’t as alienated as he should have been. In ’Nam, he had frequented brothels, but once he returned to the States, he didn’t need to pay for it. It was the 1960s and he was working in a college town. Free love was plentiful, although he frequently lied about his job when he went to bars. Cops were part of the military-industrial complex (whatever that was), pariahs with the flower-power generation. So instead of telling the girls that he was a vet and a cop-hence the short hair-he told them that his hair was short because of lice he had picked up in the Amazon jungle. They bought it hook, line, and sinker.

Sometimes, after he screwed them, if he was feeling particularly mean-and back then he often felt very mean-he told them what he really was. Far from being turned off, the women were excited by his profession, as if they were cavorting with the enemy. Jan had been one of those types. He had arrested her at an antiwar demonstration. Two nights later, they were humping like rabbits. Three months later, they were married. Six months later, Cindy was born.

Yadda, yadda, yadda.

Then there was that interim period after the divorce. Five years of being single before he had met Rina. The first couple of years were heaven-lots of sex with no emotional entanglements. The years that followed were absolutely dreadful-lots of sex with no emotional entanglements. Somewhere between the job and the sheets, he realized that the good life wasn’t endless sexual encounters and a fourteen-hour workday. He knew he was in serious trouble when he preferred his horses to his dates.

Thank God for Rina.

He suddenly missed her terribly, missed her and Hannah Rosie and his routine back in L.A. He wanted to go home. Instead, he was out here, freezing his balls off, trying to help a family that despised his intrusion. But it was too late for him to backtrack. He thought of the Liebers, of the hell they were going through. He wondered if Jonathan could be objective enough to give them pastoral comfort…

Jonathan…

He’d been out of contact with him for the past hour. Maybe it would be a good idea to touch base. He turned on his phone but couldn’t bring up a dial tone. He walked back inside, shaking the cold from his bones.

Jen looked up, then at her watch. “Shouldn’t be too long now, Lieutenant.”

“Could I borrow your phone?”

She pushed it toward him, her chest stretching over the desk, giving him a full view of cleavage. Maybe Donatti had instructed her to give it one more try.

Decker averted his eyes. “Thanks.” He dialed up Jonathan’s cell phone. It connected but was full of static. “Jon! Can you hear me?”

“Where the hell are you?”

Through the electronic noise, Decker could tell his brother was yelling. “Is something wrong?”

“Is something wrong? Everything is wrong! I’ve been trying to get hold of you for the past half hour! I’m driving through the woods here, getting lost-”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Akiva!” he said sharply. “Where… are you?”

He turned to Jen. “Could you give my brother directions to the place?”

“It’s off the highway between Quinton and Bainberry.”

“I know that. What street does he take?”

“I don’t think it has a name.”

“Well, can he look for a landmark?”

She shrugged her shoulders helplessly.

Decker was miffed. “How do you know how to get here?”

“I just know it.”

His irritation turned to frustration. “Jon, where are you?”

“I’m about a mile before the Bainberry Mall.”

“You’re too far.”

“Far from what!”

“From the access road.”

“What access road? I didn’t find any access road.” The tension cut through the line. “We have an emergency situation, Akiva. I need to find you now!”

Decker felt his pulse rising. “What emergency?”

“Chaim’s missing-” Crackle bit through the line. “I’m losing you!” Jonathan screamed. “It’s raining, the visibility is poor, and it’s getting dark. Give me something to go on!”

“Hold on.” He put his palm over the receiver. “Jen, can someone drive me down to the highway?”

“Not now. Everyone’s busy.”

“How about Angela? You said she’d be done in a few minutes.”

“She doesn’t have a car. She gets picked up.”

“What about you?”

“I don’t have a car. I usually get picked up also.”

She wasn’t being helpful. Decker wondered if that wasn’t the idea. “Jon, I’m going to walk down to the highway. I’m closer to Quinton than to Bainberry, but I don’t know how much closer-”

“You can’t walk down!” Jen interrupted.

Decker ignored her. “It’ll probably take me a good twenty minutes or so-”

“You can’t walk down in the dark!” Jen reiterated. “One wrong turn and you’re lost.”

“It’s not completely dark yet.”

“I’ll look for you,” Jonathan said.

“Bye.” Decker hung up.

“You can’t walk down the road,” Jen insisted. “I’m telling you, you’ll get lost.”

“I don’t have any choice.”

“What about Angela? Didn’t you want to see her?”

“She’ll have to wait.”

“You’re going to get lost-”

“You’re repeating yourself.” He started toward the door.

“Wait!” She kneaded her hands several times, then opened a drawer and pulled out a storage-size flashlight, a battery-size square with a strong white beam on one end and a blinking red flare on the other. “Take this. Maybe it’ll help.”

“Thanks.”

She bit her lower lip and nodded. She wasn’t happy about this turn of events. Maybe she was enjoying his company. He smiled at the ridiculous thought. “Bye, Jen. Good luck.”

“Same to you, only more of it.”

He laughed but took her words to heart. He walked into the stormy dusk, umbrella in one hand, flashlight in the other, and began to descend the steep pathway that led to the highway. The road was a swirl of rain and mud, which immediately drenched his shoes, the muck rising to the cuffs of his pants. Because of the acute incline, he found that he had to crab-walk across the fluid earth, sidestepping one soaked foot against the other, mud squishing out from under his soles. His toes and fingers tingled with cold.

It was growing darker by the moment, but Decker kept the light off, wanting his eyes to adjust to the dusky conditions. Wasn’t much around him to use for landmarks, just endless arms of foreboding copses. A couple of years ago, he had read a Stephen King novel about a little girl alone in the woods. At least, she had the good fortune to get lost in the summertime.

No big deal, he assured himself, just follow the road. Which was quickly turning into a rapid downhill whoosh of silt and slush. He had to walk along the rim, his feet snapping branches and twigs and sliding across the wet detritus that lined the forest floor. As the road became even steeper, he lost his footing and fell unceremoniously on his butt. The good news was he missed landing on the gun.

“Jesus!” He tried to stand up, but the slick soles of his shoes slid out from under his weight. “Goddammit.”

Dimmer and dimmer.

“Oh Lord!” He took hold of a wet tree trunk and hoisted himself upward, his head missing a low branch by inches.

The road had become washed out, just a stream of thick coffee pouring down the hillside.

Weighing the options, he decided he needed his hands. He folded the umbrella, sticking it into his rear pants pocket, and was immediately assaulted by chilled water oozing down his face. He held the flashlight with his left ring and pinkie fingers and opted to play Tarzan. Grabbing hold of thick branches-whatever would hold his weight-he used them as a purchase to scale down the hill. Arms above his head, hands gripping one limb after another, he oscillated downward as if he were swinging on monkey bars. His movements were slow and deliberate and painful because his fingers were as flexible as frozen carrots. Several times, he conked himself with the flashlight. His language was foul and loud.

Now it wasn’t even getting darker: Decker decided it was officially dark. He couldn’t see beyond his nose and he could see his nose only because it was good-sized. He turned on the flashlight, arcing its beam through the thicket. In front of him was an endless tangle of denuded brush.

There was no way for him to orient himself except by using the roadway. He’d have to wade through the mud to keep himself from getting lost. Carefully, while still holding on to a tree branch, he stuck his foot into the moving muck-colder and deeper than he thought. It grabbed him by the ankle and threatened to propel him forward while rocks and pebbles pelted his leg. He slid his foot about the ground-as greased as an oil slick. To keep his balance upright, he needed a wide surface area and traction.

It was going to be a breech delivery-legs and butt first. He opened the umbrella and laid it onto the rushing rill. Grimacing, he lowered his butt onto the canopy of nylon. Using the handle to steer and his feet for brakes, he prayed, then pushed off.

Decker was never big on sledding, probably because he grew up without snow, but he found out really quick that he had a good sense of balance. Once he moved beyond the “cold and wet factor,” he was able to concentrate on the mechanics of getting down without getting lost or hurt. It was stop and go as he forded the stream, not exactly Washington crossing the Delaware, but it did bring out Decker’s more rugged side.

It took around a half hour, and though his backside felt sandpaper sore, he made it to the highway without so much as a stubbed toe. The umbrella was lunched, about half the spokes broken and the nylon ripped beyond repair, but the flashlight still worked. He waved the flare end with enthusiasm when he saw an approaching set of headlights. The vehicle slowed. A Chevy truck.

The driver, covered by a caveman beard, lowered the passenger window. “Hop in.”

“It’s okay,” Decker said. “I’m waiting for someone.”

Several moments ticked away.

“Not a lotta cars, buddy.” He looked Decker up and down. “You sure?”

Decker smiled like the village idiot. “Yeah. I’m fine.” Nodding to convince him. No doubt it made him look even more ludicrous. “Just fine.”

The driver shook his head, rolled up the window, and left.

It seemed like an eternity, but it was probably only ten minutes before headlights came from the other side of the roadway. It had to be Jonathan because the illumination was creeping over the asphalt. Decker arced the blinking red light across the roadway. The van slowed, then pulled a U-turn, easing over onto what was once the shoulder of the road. Now it was a gurgling flow of mud.

Decker yanked the door open and hoisted himself inside. The two men looked at one another, water pouring down Decker’s face. He smiled. “Can I kiss your lips?”

Jonathan stared at him, his mouth agape.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a change of clothes back there? Maybe a towel? I’d take a grease rag at this point.”

“Let’s go find you something dry,” Jonathan said.

“First tell me about the emergency. What do you mean by ‘Chaim’s missing’?”

Jonathan inched the van back onto the road. “Exactly that.”

“He took off?”

“Appears that way.” Jonathan sneaked in a glimpse at his brother. “Are you all right?”

“I’m drenched and my ass is sore, but otherwise fine. Tell me about Chaim. Details.”

“When I got to Quinton, he was already gone. Apparently, right after Sha’chris, he claimed he wasn’t feeling well and needed to lie down. But when Minda went to check on him, the room was empty.”

“Any ideas?”

Jonathan had reduced the van’s speed to almost nothing. He was still struggling to keep within the lines of the roadway. It was as black as pitch outside with no street lighting. “About twenty minutes after I arrived at shiva, we received a phone call from Leon Hershfield. I took it.”

“What’s going on?”

“Hershfield had just gotten off the phone with JFK airport police and the local FBI.”

“Oh my God!”

“You can see what’s coming.”

“He was trying to skip.”

“Those guys you were telling me about… the ones Randy mentioned.”

“Weiss, Harabi, and Ibn Dod. They were with him?”

“This was per Hershfield… who was sketchy with the facts. Anyway, he told me that they were all set to board an international flight to Israel. Security stopped Harabi and Ibn Dod because apparently something was wrong with their passports or maybe they looked too jumpy or didn’t look Chasidic enough-”

“They were dressed as Chasids?”

“Yes, I suppose.” A big sigh. “You know how tight things are now. Especially El Al. As soon as security was called in, they took off-scattered.”

“Really stupid of them to travel together.”

“Last-minute flights to Israel are always a problem. Airlines have cut their dailies to Israel after the attacks.”

“Did security nab anyone?”

“I don’t know, because no one’s talking.” Jonathan tapped the wheel. “Airport police haven’t told us a damn thing. FBI hasn’t told us a damn thing. The Feds arrived at Minda’s house and at the shiva about the same time as the phone call. Hershfield was supposedly on his way to the airport to sort it all out, but… but I have the feeling that they don’t have Chaim in custody.”

“Why not?”

“By Hershfield’s questions.”

“What did he ask?”

“The gist? Where would Chaim go if he wanted to hide out? But he was subtler than that. And the Feds basically asked me the same thing.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I decided that after the debacle with Shayndie, I’d talk to you first. So I haven’t opened my mouth to anyone. Things are frantic over there. When no one was looking, I took off. My question to you is… where do we go from here?”

“Not back to Quinton,” Decker told him.

“No, not unless you want to be detained for hours.”

“Do you know where Chaim would be hiding, Jon?”

“No idea. My first thoughts were maybe one of his stores-in Manhattan or in Brooklyn. I’m sure both places are swarming with Feds right now.”

“So that would be useless.”

“I think so,” Jonathan agreed. “Maybe we should meet Hershfield down at the airport.”

“Did he ask you to come meet him?”

“No.”

No one spoke.

“Well, what the hey!” Decker slapped his wet thigh. “Sure, let’s try the airport.”

“Think they’ll tell us anything?”

“No. But if they have Weiss, Harabi, or Ibn Dod in custody, I’ll call up my brother. Those guys are wanted big time in Miami. If I get him on the phone, and he starts in with official extradition processes, it’ll give us some credibility.” Decker regarded his sodden lap. “Before we do anything, I need dry clothing. Since Quinton by now is Fedland, how about the Bainberry mall? Something over there should still be open.”

Jonathan turned the van around.

They rode a few moments in silence. Decker leaned forward and stared out the windshield.

“Your brother will be happy then,” Jonathan said. “That the police captured these guys… if they did capture them.”

Decker didn’t answer.

“But Chaim wasn’t a part of their Miami ecstasy ring, so far as your brother knew, right?”

Still no response.

“Akiva-”

“Yeah, yeah…”

Silence.

“Akiva, did you hear what I-”

“Just a minute…”

“What is it?”

“Hold on…” Decker’s eyes swept from the windshield to the rearview mirror, to the side mirror, then out the windshield again.

“Akiva, what’s going on?” Jonathan asked.

“I’m not sure…” Decker’s mind was reeling. “There were headlights behind us before you made a U-turn. One headlight, not a pair… which I thought was peculiar because it’s pouring outside.” Without thinking, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the snub-nose.

“Wha… when did you get that?”

“It’s a long story, but right now I’m glad I have it. Can I dry the grip off on your jacket?”

“Hold on, I’ll take it off.”

“Don’t bother, I just need the hem.” He wiped moisture off the gun. “Since the vehicle was in the distance, I thought maybe it was a car with a busted headlight. Now you just turned around, so it should be facing us. But it’s not there.”

Outside, the world was shades of charcoal and black. Even the sky failed to bring forth any illumination, the cloud cover blocking out the stars and the moon.

“Jonathan, cut your lights. Then coast a minute or two and pull over.”

The rabbi killed the beams. They were encased in total darkness. Decker turned on the flashlight and shone it out the windshield. It wasn’t much, but it was better than a blackout. “Coast a few minutes, then pull over.”

A warm flush swept through Jonathan’s body. His hands were shaking. “Here goes nothing…”

The van bumped and dipped and finally stopped, askew in the mud, just inches from a tree trunk.

“Switch places with me,” Decker told him.

Jonathan started for the door, then stopped himself. “You mean I should crawl over you.”

“Yes, of course. Stay down.”

Falling over one another, they switched places. Decker was on the floor of the driver’s seat; Jonathan had hunkered down on the passenger’s side. Decker could hear his brother breathing hard… or maybe he was hearing his own exhalations. A moment ago, he had been exhausted, completely spent. In a few seconds’ time, adrenaline had put speed and force into his heartbeat.

“What-”

“Shhh…” A pause. “Hear that?”

“What?”

“Listen!”

Finally, Jonathan heard it, the low growl of an engine grumbling through the rain. Decker peered over the dashboard, but nothing came into his field of vision. He lowered the driver’s window halfway down, more than enough to liberate the barrel of the snub-nose. Then he looked over the dashboard again.

The motorized whir grew a bit louder, then abruptly all was silent except for the rain.

“Uh-oh… this doesn’t look good…”

“Wha-!”

“Shhh…”

Jonathan would have thrown up his hands had there been room. His armpits were soaked through.

“Okay, okay… Where’s the flashlight?”

Jonathan gave it to him. “What are you going to do?”

“I gotta see him first.” Decker was talking to himself. He patted the battery pack. “Let’s hope this motherfucker’s strong.”

“Who do you think it is?”

“Don’t know.” He put the driver’s window all the way up, then unlocked the doors. Again he peeked over the dash. He couldn’t really see anything, but the darkness in front of him seemed to shift, as if the air molecules were rearranging themselves. Could be his imagination playing games. But then something shifted again. “Get way down, Jonathan. Tuck your head between your legs and your hands over your neck.”

The rabbi did as told. Decker noticed that his brother was moving his lips, but no sounds were coming out-silent prayer. He hoped Jon was saying one for him, too. “I see something. Hold on, baby… C’mon, you mother…”

The shape-presumably a human and most probably a male-was nearing the van, walking with a bowlegged gait as if he were about to draw a gun in an old-fashioned Western. Then Decker realized that the legs were straddling a seat. The motorcycle was a small one. Looked to be a Honda… something nimble. He was approaching them from the driver’s side, most likely because the van’s passenger wheels were stuck in a rut of mud right next to the woods.

“C’mon, c’mon…,” Decker urged.

Inching closer.

“Just a little more, baby…”

“Oh God!” Jonathan moaned.

“Hold on.” Decker swallowed hard. “He’s almost here.”

The seconds ticked by.

One… two… three.

He peeked out again. “C’mon, motherfucker. Move a little closer to the door…”

Four… five… six.

The Honda was at the front bumper on the driver’s side. A figure looking through the window… to the dash. Even though Decker couldn’t see out that well, he knew there was no way that the biker could see in.

“Keep going…”

The figure was moving toward the driver’s window.

“A little closer…”

Springing into action, Decker hurled the door, clipping the front wheel of the motorcycle, spinning the entire ensemble off balance. Then he aimed the light’s beam on the driver’s face, features hidden behind a ski mask. “Freeze!”

Abruptly, something sped past Decker’s head.

“Shit!” He dropped the flashlight and ducked behind the safety of the metal door. Vaulting out a second time, he shot from the hip, discharging a bullet at the bike, but a volley of flying metal forced him to retreat another time. The biker’s bullets hit the front of the van, sending a deafening clatter throughout its interior, some of the ammo ricocheting off, spitting fire into the wet, raven night. Decker covered his head as hot lead flew past him.

“Fuck!” he screamed. “Fuck, fuck!”

He leaped out, returning fire: two rapid shots that took off a section of the cycle’s back fender. Still, the biker had kicked the motor into gear and sped away, screeching tires that burned rubber even though the asphalt was wet. Decker decided not to waste his last bullet on a fleeing target.

Panting heavily, he would have felt the wetness of sweat throughout his entire body except that he was soaked from the rain. He picked up the flashlight, which had survived the battle without injury, then dragged his body into the driver’s seat. “Are you okay, Jon?”

“I think so…,” the rabbi whispered. “Other than uncontrollable shaking, I think I’m fine.”

Decker lowered his head on the wheel, fatigue covering him as oppressively as a sodden blanket. “I’m shaking, too.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m whole, and that’s all that counts right now.” Decker was trying to steady his heartbeat. He lifted his head up and turned the key in the ignition. The motor coughed lazily, then decided to fire up. “Well, that’s a good start.”

Jonathan uncoiled from the fetal position and slithered into the passenger’s seat. He belted himself in.

“Here goes nothing.” Decker strapped on the seat belt, then put the van into drive and coaxed it out of the embankment. Once he got it onto the asphalt, he depressed the gas pedal slowly. The car bucked, then limped noisily for about twenty feet before Decker applied the brakes.

“We’ve got a flat,” Decker said. “Hopefully, only a flat… as in one tire. Do you have a spare?”

“I have a spare,” Jonathan said. “I’ve never changed a tire, but I’m assuming that you have.”

“You assume correctly.” Again Decker pulled the vehicle to the side of the road. He went out and inspected the damage-a Swiss-cheese hood and one flat tire. Decker didn’t bother looking under the hood. At this point, it was probably best if he didn’t know. Jonathan had gotten out, staring at his newly ventilated van.

“I’ll change the tire,” Decker told his brother. “No sense in both of us getting wet.”

“Nonsense. At the very least, I can hold the flashlight.” Jonathan paused. “Although I’m still trembling. Think of it as a strobe.”

Decker laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder. He was as rigid as a stone post. “You’re holding up great.”

“Thank you.” He turned to Decker. “Who do you think it was?”

“Don’t know.”

“Donatti?”

“Maybe.”

“Merrin?”

“Quite possibly.” He exhaled. “I also borrowed… well, more like swiped the gun from an obnoxious taxicab driver. It could have been him, too.” He brushed rainwater from his eyes. “I would even say maybe it was Chaim, but I think your brother-in-law has other things on his mind right now.”

Together they pulled out the spare tire and the kit. An hour later, on four inflated tires, they made their way into the Bainberry Mall parking lot. They settled upon the first store that looked promising, a unit that specialized in athletic gear that was GOING OUT OF BUSINESS. They rooted through the deeply discounted items, stocking up on sweats, T-shirts, lightweight waterproof jackets, socks, sneakers, and an umbrella. By seven in the evening, they were back on the highway in dry clothes, wolfing down bagels and sipping hot coffee from paper cups. Warmth on the skin, warmth in the belly: Heaven had many forms and shapes.

Jonathan was driving. “Where to?”

Decker thought a moment. “With the van in such poor shape, it makes sense for us to go back to Quinton. Maybe I can squeeze something from the Feds.”

Jonathan blew out air. “So JFK is out?”

“I doubt if Hershfield’s still there,” Decker told him.

“True, true.” Jonathan tapped the steering wheel. “If we go back to Quinton, we’ll be stuck there for hours.”

“I know.”

“Also, you said this could be Merrin’s doing.”

“Possibly.”

“So maybe it’s not too safe for us to be there now.”

“Jonathan, if Chaim’s house is crawling with Feds, I think we’re okay for a while.”

His brother was silent. Decker said, “What’s on your mind, Jon? You have a look on your face.”

“The Liebers have a warehouse. It’s in the middle of nowhere-an old converted barn-about twenty miles north of Quinton. So maybe around fifteen miles from where we are. You wouldn’t know how to get there unless you’ve been there before.”

“And you’ve been there before.”

“Raisie and I get our TVs, VCRs, computers, cameras, et cetera, et cetera from the overstock-last year’s models. Sometimes it’s cheaper to get rid of items than to ship them back. We’ve always gone down after hours.”

“You have a plan.”

“Well, I have a location.” Jonathan finished his bagel. “I also know where the back door is. I’m sure it’s locked and alarmed if no one’s there. But if Chaim is there, we can talk to him through the intercom.”

“And what are we supposed to say to him?” Decker asked.

“I don’t know,” Jonathan answered. “Convince him to give himself up.”

Decker laughed. “A man who set up his brother-and possibly his daughter-”

“Nonsense.”

“Fine. Be delusional. But I will tell you this. Chaim’s scared, wanted, and probably irrational. I don’t see him just… giving up.”

“Well, then, maybe we can convince him that we’re a better bet than the police.”

Decker sipped coffee as thoughts tumbled in his brain. “I suppose we can check it out. Think the van can make it?”

“You’re the mechanical one,” Jonathan answered. “I’m a rabbi.”

“Who said rabbis couldn’t be mechanical?”

“Well, I’m not.”

“Fifteen miles one way,” Decker said. “Then, if we don’t find anything, we’ve got to make it back to Quinton. That’s forty miles in a van with a shot-out hood and driving on a spare in the rain.”

No one spoke.

Jonathan said, “I’m willing to try it.”

“Well, we have rain slickers now…” Decker ran his fingers through his damp hair. “All right. Let’s give it a whirl.” They drove several miles without speaking. “And what do we do, Jon, if he resists? What do we do when he starts shooting at us?”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know psychos.” Reaching into the glove compartment, Decker took out the snub-nose. “I have one bullet left. If it’s him or me, I go for the kill. Can you accept that?”

“Better he be shot by you than by the police. At least, that way I’ll know that the shooting was justified.”

“Maybe better for you, Jon.” Decker felt his jaw tighten. “Not necessarily better for me.”