The Ritual Bath

25

The printer clicked rhythmically while spewing out a white stream of computer paper. When the machine finished its obbligato, Decker detached the printout from the remaining roll of blank paper and took the pile over to his desk.

He sat down, gulped lukewarm coffee, and stared at the columns in front of him, noticing that the print had become very light. It was the third ribbon he’d gone through in the last twenty-four hours. He squinted in an attempt to bring the words into sharper focus, but his eyes were too damn tired. Pushing aside stacks of papers, he rubbed them hard and stretched. His back and neck were stiff, his shoulders ached, and his head throbbed. Opening the desk drawer, he pulled out the aspirin bottle only to find it empty, and tossed it disgustedly in the trash.

Placing his hands behind his neck, he leaned back into the chair, propped his feet on the desk, and gazed upward, hoping that the ceiling would provide a burst of sudden insight. When nothing came, he figured it best to clear his mind and start over, get a fresh perspective. He rested a few more moments, enjoying the blank view, then sat back upright.

He studied the printout again. Hundreds of thousands of bytes of data had revealed nothing. He’d started with his original suspects and the M.O. of the crime. When nothing immediate panned out, he’d punched in the names of known local anti-Semites, then sex offenders now on parole, followed by yeshiva boys whom Rina had taught and men she’d gone to college with, throwing in people like a chef tossing in ingredients to revive a failed recipe. In the end he was no closer to the culprit. It boiled down to the same people. He picked up a pencil and scribbled the first name.

Shlomo Stein.

A son of a bitch. He fit his former image far better than his latter. The man had made no attempt to hide his contempt for the detective, and the police in general. Furthermore, he’d been preachy and condescending-nothing worse than a reformed felon. But his answers had been straightforward and on the level. Even more important was the fact that, on the night of the Adler rape, he’d been attending a Talmudic discourse with thirty other men.

Decker crossed his name off.

Shraga Mendelsohn.

Quieter than Stein, but still spooky. Spoke in a mumble. Inappropriate smiles and never made eye contact. If a case against Stein could have been made, Mendelsohn would have been great for the accomplice. But on his own, there was nothing. Besides, his alibi the night of the rape had been the same as Stein’s. They were both at the lecture.

Scratch Mendelsohn.

Moshe Feldman.

Decker wrote a big question mark after his name.

Matt Hawthorne.

His alibi the night of the Marley murder had checked out. His friend had verified his presence at the movies. Furthermore, the candy counter girl remembered Hawthorne because he had made a weak attempt to flirt with her. The picture had ended at nine thirty-eight. It was possible time-wise that Hawthorne could have driven straight to the yeshiva, noticed Marley was dead, and attempted a break-in, but the scenario didn’t make much sense. First, he’d have had to move very quickly and precisely to make the timing fit, and second, how would Hawthorne have known that Marley had been killed?

Hawthorne didn’t have an alibi for his whereabouts the night of the rape, claiming he was home alone, reading a book. But Decker figured the filled bookcase in his apartment was more than just a prop. Hawthorne was an English teacher and probably did read a lot. The bottom line was that he failed to arouse genuine suspicion. His agitation had seemed to result more from nerves than guilt.

Decker gave him a small question mark.

Steve Gilbert.

He was the most interesting. Not made a bit nervous by the presence of the police. Detached, almost amused by the whole thing. Not the spacey, schizoid physics major Decker had imagined. And he’d done a two-year hitch in the army, including ten months in Nam as a clerk. Unfortunately, the guy’s personal records were sealed. Decker wondered why he hadn’t been assigned to frontline combat. Maybe the army knew there was something kinky about him. Maybe he was trigger-happy. The asshole who shot at him had sure known how to use a piece.

Gilbert was on campus every Thursday with the Computer Club until ten P.M. The night of the rape had been a Thursday. The night that Decker was shot at had been a Thursday. Both incidents had happened around ten: Rina had placed the first call to the police at 10:08, and she had called him the second time at 10:15. That would have given Gilbert ample time to dismiss the club and perpetrate an attack.

But the night of the murder didn’t fit. The time was off-Rina had called him at 10:45. More important, the Marley killing had taken place on a Wednesday, and on every Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday night for the last five years, Gilbert had eaten dinner with his fiancée’s family thirty miles away, usually leaving around eleven. His presence had been confirmed by the prospective in-laws.

Decker walked over to the coffeepot, poured himself a refill and sat back down. He picked up a half-eaten corned beef sandwich, the remnant of his dinner, and stared at the curly, pink strips of meat. The sandwich had laid heavily in his gut the first time, and after a couple of hours of sitting on his desk, what was left hadn’t aged well. He tossed it in the garbage, sipped his coffee, and thought.

Dinner with your to-be in-laws three times a week for the last five years? No man who had anything in his crotch would put up with such shit. Dinner with the folks had been a constant sore spot between him and Jan. Once a month had been more than enough for him; Jan had preferred it closer to once a week. But even she would never have expected three times a week. Maybe Gilbert would get more assertive after the marriage-if the nuptials ever took place. That was strange, too. Who the hell stays engaged for five years unless there are lots of big problems? Maybe he was a wimp with women and was holding in a lot of rage toward them. Maybe he’d redirected his anger.

But how could he explain Gilbert as the mikvah rapist when, on the night of the Marley murder and mikvah break-in, he was having dinner thirty miles away?

Decker took another swig of coffee.

Unless…Unless, he happened to not be at his in-laws that night. If the dinners had been so codified, so routine, so frequent, the in-laws might have ignored occasional absences.

But Gilbert couldn’t have known in advance that Florence was going to be killed. So what was he doing on campus?

Picking up a pencil, Decker tapped it against the desktop.

Maybe Computer Club couldn’t meet that Thursday. Could be, the week of the murder, they had decided to meet on Wednesday.

A stab in the dark.

He picked up the phone and dialed Rina’s number. Her boys might remember if the club had had a change of schedule that week.

No one answered. Immediately, his sensors were up.

Where the hell would she be?

Maybe he dialed the wrong number. He tried again.

Nothing.

“Shit,” he said, slamming down the receiver. He’d told her to call him if she had to go out at night. She’d promised she would.

He decided to phone Sarah Libba Adler. Probably she’d know something. He dialed information and was told the number wasn’t listed. Decker gave the operator his name and badge number and after a few minutes obtained the listing. She answered on the fourth ring. Children’s laughter and horseplay could be heard in the background.

“This is Detective Decker, Mrs. Adler. I don’t mean to alarm you, but do you know where Mrs. Lazarus is?”

A long pause.

“She’s out.”

“Where?”

Another long pause.

“Mrs. Adler?” he asked.

“At the mikvah.”

“The mikvah?”

“Something came up.”

“I thought it was shut down.”

“Not exactly. I tried to talk her out of it, but she can be very determined sometimes.”

“That’s certainly true,” he mumbled. “Where are her boys?”

“I have them. She’s due to pick them up at ten. If she’s not back by then, she had instructed me to call you.”

Swell!

“Anyone with her?” he asked, hoping it was Zvi.

“Matt Hawthorne.”

Damn, he thought to himself.

“Detective, what’s wrong?” Sarah asked, suddenly panicked.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Look, Mrs. Adler, I’m going to drive down there now just to ease my own peace of mind.”

“I think that’s a very good idea.”

“You just take care of the boys.”

“All right.”

“Bye,” he said. “Oh, call your husband and tell him to stop by there-”

The line had disconnected.

He called her back, but the line was busy.

He called the operator and placed an emergency interruption.

She reported that no one was on the line. The phone was out of order.

Accidentally, Sarah must not have put the receiver fully back on the hook.

He slammed down the phone and dialed the mikvah number.

The line was dead.

They’d never bothered restoring the service after the line was cut.

He tried the Rosh Yeshiva’s office number and came up empty. He tried the rabbi’s home number. No one was there. Then he called the yeshiva’s answering service. The only numbers they had were office listings. No one answered any of them.

“Shit!” he bellowed. Grabbing his coat, he tapped Marge on the shoulder and stormed out of the building.

Marge picked up her purse and caught up with him in the parking lot. He threw himself into the driver’s seat, gunned the ignition, and once she was inside, peeled rubber out to the street before she could close her door.

“Would you mind cluing me in?” Marge asked, placing a blinking red light on the roof of the car.

“Rina’s at the mikvah.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I forgot to ask. Hawthorne is supposed to be protecting her.” Decker slammed his fist against the dashboard. “Goddam! I can’t believe she did that!”

Marge was confused.

“Did she call in and say she was in trouble?”

Decker shook his head grimly.

“I’m trying to get to her before something happens.”

“Don’t you think this is a little impetuous, Pete? After all, we really don’t have a case against-”

“It was stupid for her to go there, Marge. She knew I hadn’t written him off as a suspect.” He pounded the wheel. “Fuck!”

“Take it easy, Pete,” Marge said, thinking he was due for some vacation time. “He’s walked her home safely before. There’s no reason to think that this time is going to be any different.”

“Yeah, yeah. Let me concentrate on my driving.”

He was angry at himself. He should have told Sarah right away to send Zvi down to the mikvah, to wait there until he arrived. He shouldn’t have left it as an afterthought. If only Sarah hadn’t hung up. If only she hadn’t left the phone off the hook. If only he could have gotten through to someone. He floored the accelerator until the car was pushing ninety-five, rattling like a diamondback. A bump on the freeway and they were hamburger. But Marge didn’t say a thing.

Rina mopped up the last bit of water off the floor and turned off the heat. The mikvah had needed a good cleaning, and she was glad she’d decided to come.

Ruthie Zipperstein had begged her. The family car had been in the shop for a week, and she was three days past her mikvah date. Her husband, Yisroel, hadn’t been able to scrounge up an auto to take her to the other mikvah, and they were going nuts. So Ruthie had asked if she couldn’t surreptitiously help them out. Rina had agreed, provided that Yisroel would walk her home. But in the early afternoon he’d tripped and twisted his ankle. On doctor’s orders, he was forced to keep off the foot for twenty-four hours.

Rina was about to call the whole thing off until it hit her. She was being terrorized by a ghoul who not only threatened her physical safety, but held her spiritually imprisoned. She was sick of it all-sick of looking over her shoulder, of compulsively and repeatedly checking the locks on her doors and bolts on her windows, of the paranoia that was crippling her daily existence. The invisible shackles of fear had to be broken.

But she had common sense, so she worked out a feasible compromise. She’d have Peter walk them home.

He wasn’t in the first time she’d called, and she didn’t leave a message, figuring she’d just call back later. Then she began to think: Remember how it was when Yitzchak died? How dependent you were on him? How he always had taken care of everything? How you felt you’d never be able to function without him? Do you want to feel that way again? If you do, just keep running to Peter every time there’s a crisis. He’ll take care of you, too. And once again, you’ll sink back into being a helpless Hannah-the way you were as a daughter, the way you were as a wife.

Time to use your own resources.

She had called Steve Gilbert. He wasn’t home, so she had left a message on his answering machine and then called Matt. He had been nice enough to agree.

She was proud of the way she’d taken care of her own business. It was important that she break her dependence on Peter. Now she was here without his help, and that was a psychological and spiritual victory. No longer would she allow the rapist to hold her hostage. There was only one Hashem-Hakodosh Boruch Hu-and He alone was omnipotent. She would put her trust in Him, where it always should have been, and let Ruthie perform the mitzvah of mikvah. After all, wasn’t it perverse to deny a mitzvah when the very fate of one’s existence was solely in the hands of the Almighty?

She rinsed out the mop and smiled. The routine was coming back, returning order to her life. She checked her watch and flicked off the lights. Matt should be back from walking Ruthie home any minute.

She went into the reception area and dusted the table tops for the third time. Her cleaning was mindless, and she knew it. The place was as sterile as an operating room. Triumphantly, she put down the dust rag and sat down to wait for Matt.

But the silence had become eerie-palpable. She tried not to think about it. The room was sweltering because she hadn’t bothered to turn on the air conditioner. Sudden anxiety flowed through her veins and nervous energy propelled her upright. Her hands had taken on a slight tremble, her legs felt weak.

She hoped Matt would be back soon.

Opening the linen closet, she began compulsively to rearrange the towels, then stopped. She had ten minutes to go before ten. At least she’d left Peter’s number with Sarah. If worst came to worst, she’d just turn out the lights and wait for him in the dark.

Finally, there were footsteps and a gentle rap at the door.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“It’s Matt, Rina.”

She unbolted the lock and let him in.

“I was getting a little worried,” she told him.

Hawthorne smiled.

“I ran into one of the kids on the way back here. You know these boys. Once they start talking sports, there’s no stopping them. Sorry I’m late. Are you all done?”

“I’m waiting for the timer to go off in the dryer. Do you mind staying an extra minute?”

“No. Not at all.” Hawthorne glanced around. “So this is the inner sanctum. I’ve always wanted to sneak inside a convent.”

Rina smiled uneasily.

“I could see where this would be an easy target for a rapist,” he said more to himself than to her.

The hell with the towels.

“Let’s go,” she said.

“What about the towels?”

“I just remembered that Sarah Adler is expecting me momentarily. If I don’t get there soon, she’s been instructed to call the police.”

Hawthorne looked perturbed.

“That wasn’t necessary.”

“Just in case, Matt. It was for your protection as well as mine-”

“I don’t need protection.”

“I’m sure you don’t-”

“You do trust me, Rina, don’t you?”

“Of course!” she exclaimed, too adamantly. “Why would I have called you if I didn’t trust you implicitly?”

Hawthorne’s eye began to spasm. He ran his hands through his mop of thick curls and looked at her.

“We’d better go,” he said coldly.

She turned off the lights and locked the door behind them.

“I’m kind of offended,” he said when they were outside.

“I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Jesus. First, that redheaded giant gets on my case, and now you’re giving me spooky looks. Do I look like a rapist?”

She stared at him, feeling suddenly light-headed.

“Matthew, please understand what I’ve been going through. I meant no offense to you at all.”

The man’s eye twitched again, then he lowered his head.

“It just burns me, Rina, that this creep has all the women here suspecting everything in pants. But I guess it’s natural. It must be tough to be a woman, huh?”

She nodded and walked a couple of steps.

“Wait a second,” Hawthorne said, bending over.

“What is it?” Rina asked nervously.

“I dropped my watch. Damn it, the wrist band keeps coming loose.”

Hawthorne hunted around in the dark.

“Do you need help?” she asked.

“Nah, found it.” He stood up, brushed specks of dirt from the digital face, and put the timepiece to his ear.

“It’s still working.”

“That’s good,” Rina answered, starting to get shaky. She walked a couple of more steps, then felt a firm tug on her arm. Instinctively, she yanked away.

“Take it easy, Rina,” Matt said softly. “I didn’t mean anything. I think I heard something.”

Her heart was pounding, and she listened carefully.

“I don’t hear anything,” she whispered rapidly.

“Yeah, well I know I heard something,” he said firmly.

“What do you want to do?” She forced out the words.

“I don’t know…Uh, wait here. I’ll see if I can’t scare whatever it is off.”

“Matt, I don’t know.”

“I don’t want us walking into a trap.”

“Why don’t we just wait for the police. They’ll be here if I don’t show up at home soon.”

Hawthorne’s eyelid fluttered.

“I don’t need the police,” he said, emphatically. “Just wait here, and I’ll go by myself!”

“I don’t want to wait alone.”

“Then come with me.”

She didn’t want that, either.

“Why can’t we make a mad dash across the grounds screaming like banshees?” she asked.

“I can take care of us, Rina.” Hawthorne pulled out a knife that gleamed in the moonlight. “I wasn’t taking any chances with this pervert.”

She swallowed hard. “I’ll wait inside the mikvah,” she whispered.

“Good idea.”

“Be careful, Matthew.”

“Piece of cake, m’lady.”

She watched him disappear into the brush. A moment later, she heard noises-the crunching and snapping of leaves and twigs. It was Matt searching, she told herself. The noises became louder, intensifying, echoing against the still of the night!

Sudden silence.

She wanted to call out to him, but was afraid of giving herself away. She walked back toward the mikvah, fumbled for the key, and with a trembling hand, managed to insert it in the lock.

That was as far as she got.

He pounced on her. A panther with a ski mask. Clothing black as midnight. Before she could scream, something soft and fuzzy was crammed down her throat. He threw her down onto the baked earth and fell upon her, pinning her hands and body, belly-down, against the ground. She felt something cold and metallic against her temple. He spoke. His voice was a gravelly whisper-unnatural-as if he were talking through a voice box. He said it was a gun and he’d use it if he had to. The faces of her boys flashed through her head.

She struggled in his grip, managed to free a hand, slid it under his shirt and clawed his ribs. He swore and smacked her cheek with the butt of the gun.

Her face went wet and numb, her vision blurred, and her head burst with pain. But she didn’t stop. She went for his eyes, but he backed away and hit her again. She felt her energy ebbing. The cloth in her mouth was beginning to suffocate her. She felt her clothes being ripped, his bare hands on her flesh-her neck, her back, inside her underpants. His touch was slimy, evil. She went wild and, with renewed force, bucked upward. The sudden movement threw him off balance and knocked the gun from his hand. Pressure eased from her back.

Taking advantage of his loss of equilibrium, she yanked the gag from her throat and tried to scream, but it came out a dry croak. He tried to punch her, but she ducked aside and his fist hit the ground. Again she screamed, and this time her voice rang out like a diva’s.

He covered her mouth with one hand and pushed her stomach against the ground again, flattening her to the dirt. But she heard the noise, the rush through the bushes-she knew it had to be him. Sarah must have called.

She bit the thick flesh of the assailant’s palm and felt his blood oozing into her mouth. He swore gutturally and pulled his hand away.

“Peter!” she screamed.

The attacker heard the footsteps, too. He sprung up and tried to run, but she was too quick. She grabbed his ankle, and he went down.

“Peter!” she screamed again.

The sound of running. Louder. It was approaching her.

“Peter!” she implored.

Where was he?

She saw the figure appear.

It was Moshe.

The assailant tried to free himself from Rina’s grasp, flailing at her.

“Help me!” she screamed at the wisp of a man.

Finally, the rapist pulled free, but Moshe leaped and tackled him-his meager body an arrow shooting through the night-encircling the other man’s waist and holding him tight. Together, they tumbled into a pile of eucalyptus leaves.

The attacker was taller and heavier, but Moshe was armed with an oversized volume of the Talmud. Raising it, he blinked several times and brought it crashing down on the man’s head. The impact stunned him for a moment, but then he began to lash out at Moshe. Rina ran over and struck out at his face, trying to pull off the ski mask. He kicked her in the abdomen, she doubled over, and the man broke free.

“He’s getting away, Moshe!” she gasped.

Moshe grabbed the back of a black shirt collar and pulled him down again.

Muttering the Shema, Moshe again used the heavy book to pummel his head. Rina crawled forward and bit his ankle. The pain made him cry out and buckle, and she took another grab at the mask, missing.

“Hold him, Moshe!” she screamed.

Moshe’s response was another slam to the attacker’s head, while chanting allegiance to Hashem.

Rina searched for the gun. The moon was full, and she caught a glint of metal winking at her. Picking it up, she found it small and comfortable in her hand, almost toylike. In the distance she heard a siren.

Finally!

She slipped her index finger into the trigger.

The siren grew louder.

With a shaking hand, she cocked the gun and aimed. The man was woozy but still struggling. She didn’t dare shoot for fear of hitting Moshe.

She saw the lights of the police car.

The rapist swiveled and broke free. The gun in her hand spat fire. He slowed a split second, then took off.

But the delay was all that was needed. He ran toward the barrel of Decker’s.38 special.

“Police! Freeze!”

The attacker turned toward the hills, but Marge and Decker leaped on him, pulling him to the ground. Decker slammed the butt of his revolver into his back, then pointed it at his head.

“One move and you’re iced, fucker,” Decker said, clamping on the cuffs.

“You got him?” Marge asked, gun drawn.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll go call in.”

Decker lifted the man upright and pushed him onto the hood of the Plymouth.

“Just try anything, and you’re dead meat, asshole,” he said, slamming the masked face against the metal. “You’re fucking dead meat.”

“Take it easy, Pete,” Marge said, trying to pull him off.

“You hear me, motherfucker?” Decker spat. “Just blink the wrong way, and you’re dead meat!”

Rina watched as Decker, with one savage turn of his wrist, yanked off the mask.

It was Gilbert. His face was blanched, in stark contrast to the black clothing. His eyes were wild, puffy and glistening wet, his lips swollen from being bitten, oozing with blood.

Rina gasped and backed away. Then she thought of something.

“Oh my God!” she cried out. “Matt Hawthorne. He was walking me home. He heard something and went looking in the bushes.”

“Where is he?” Decker pressed his knee into the small of Gilbert’s back.

“Near the oaks,” Gilbert mumbled. “Where those kids killed the black woman.”

“Did you kill him?”

Decker saw that creepy half smile spread across his lips. A sudden burst of blood poured out of his nose down to his chin.

“If I did, it was unintentional,” he said, giggling.

Decker smashed his face against the car.

Marge pulled Gilbert from Decker’s grasp and shoved him to the ground. She bent down, cuffed his feet, turned him over onto his stomach, and pointed her gun at his head.

“Go look for Hawthorne,” she told her partner.

Go cool off was the message.

Decker rubbed his hands over his face and looked at Rina. Her clothes were in shreds. The beautiful face was mangled, bruised, and scraped-her forehead, nose, lips, and chin were bleeding, her left jaw already swollen to three times its normal size. Marge saw the look on his face, noticed his hand inch toward his holster.

“Don’t even think about it, Pete,” she said firmly. “Go look for Hawthorne.”

He nodded and walked away.

“You are one lucky fucker,” she said when Decker was out of earshot. “He almost blew you away, and I almost didn’t stop him.”

Marge read him his rights and asked if he understood what she had said.

Gilbert laughed, then cried, then shoved his face into the dirt.

“From dust we came!” he cried out, spitting dirt. His mouth drooled a muddy trail.

“You don’t understand. It was her fault!” he screamed suddenly, face purple with rage. The veins on his neck bulged and pulsated. “She did it to me. She had this power over me! She could have helped, but she didn’t. She rejected me, just like all the rest of them. She said it was because I wasn’t Jewish, but I knew the truth. She was laughing behind my back at me. I know she was. She made me unable to function. They all did. They all laughed at me.”

He broke into tears.

“I’m so sorry, Rina. If you would have just given me a chance…If someone would have given me a chance. But the goddam bitches won’t give an inch.”

He struggled violently against the restraints.

“Do you understand that she has the power!” he screamed. “She could have used it for my benefit. A daughter of Judeah! The daughter of Zion! She is the magician and knows the art of healing, just as her ancestors before her. She is the daughter of Miriam, the great healer. Even her name is Miriam. But instead of helping me, she zapped me. She made me useless as a man. They all did. But I’d show her. If she wasn’t going to give it to me, I was going to take it. If she hadn’t laughed behind my back, telling me bull…” He began to stutter. “It’s b-b-bullshit! She was using her Jewishness as an excuse. The truth was she was laughing at me. But I saw through it. The b-b-bitch. If she wouldn’t have given me b-b-bullshit, I wouldn’t have gotten mad. B-b-but she did. S-s-so I was going to get it. I was going to get it whether she liked it or not.”

His face grew distorted, and he started to sob.

“Oh, God! Oh, my God, I’m so, so sorry!”

A wacko, Marge thought and turned away in disgust. She heard chanting, looked up, and saw Moshe fifteen feet away. The thin, ghostlike man had come through. Yet here he was, head buried in a book, chanting to himself while swaying back and forth, acting as if nothing had happened.

Another wacko, she thought.

The good wacko and the bad wacko.

A moment later a black-and-white pulled up. Folstrom and Walsh got out.

“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, Detective, 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.”