by Roger Herst
BOOK III:
RABBI GABRIELLE'S DEFIANCE
Roger E. Herst
The Rabbi Gabrielle Series
Book I: Rabbi Gabrielle’s Scandal
Book II: A Kiss for Rabbi Gabrielle
Book III: Rabbi Gabrielle’s Defiance
Book IV: Rabbi Gabrielle Commits a Felony
Book V: Rabbi Gabrielle Ignites a Tempest
See the end of this book for teasers!
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
80 Fifth Avenue, Suite 1101
New York, New York 10011
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 2011 by Roger Herst
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
For more information, email [email protected].
First Diversion Books edition June 2011.
ISBN: 978-0-9838395-2-1(ebook)
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
The Rabbi Gabrielle Series
CHAPTER ONE
GREENBRIER HOTEL
White Sulfur Springs, West Virginia
December 17 (25 Kislev, 57)
Snowflakes dusted the trail before her like confectioners' sugar. The steady clip-clap of footsteps on the fire-road leading from the hotel alerted Rabbi Gabrielle Lewyn that she was not alone. Before the first light of dawn, a distant pounding of feet on the perimeter of the golf course meant little. But when these steps continued through a low-lying valley into the flanking hills, her indifference turned to worry. She shifted from a relaxed jog to a moderate run by arching from the flat of her feet onto her toes and increasing speed. In the inchoate light before sunrise, her imagination brooded over several possibilities – none good. It wasn't likely her pursuer was a meshuganah jogger like herself, one foolish enough to risk bad footing in poor light on an Appalachian mountain trail, or someone like herself who just enjoyed the nip of chilled morning air on her face. Why, she asked, had she unnecessarily placed herself into harm's way with retreat to the safety of the hotel blocked?
To escape, she contemplated plunging into thick foliage bordering the road, but rejected the idea. In the pre-dawn gray, vines and branches were certain to impede her flight. And how might she expect to avoid fallen trees barring her path? Despite the fact that every step took her further from safety, she decided to outdistance the pursuer by plunging deeper into the unknown. Would exhaustion slow her legs before his? Lungs that were already feeling the additional strain could not be expected to provide an unlimited supply of oxygen. How different this was from the relaxed jogs beside the Potomac River near her new Bethesda townhouse in suburban Washington, D.C.
Frozen air chipped at her cheeks and snaked around the edge of her gloves to attack the flesh beneath. As her lungs pumped vapor into the air, she could hear their gasps for oxygen, echoing from what appeared to be a thick wall of sycamore trees lining the fire road. Aware that the race was just beginning, she resisted a temptation to accelerate into a full sprint. Sure, she could put on more speed, but only at the expense of her endurance. If she couldn't outrun her pursuer she'd have to out-distance him. This was no time for panic, yet she sensed her brain losing control and her limbs running on autopilot. A pale light from the sun now peeking through the lower tier of the leafless winter forest momentarily lifted her spirits. Blessed be the dawn! She muttered a short petition to feel the sun's warmth on her chilled cheeks just once more.
The sudden appearance of a small creature on the roadbed, a hundred feet ahead, presented a new challenge. She expected it to be as alarmed as she and scamper back to the security of the forest. But as the intervening space decreased exponentially, it appeared to be on a collision course with her! There was no time or room for evasion. In the last few feet, she was relieved to see that what she thought to be a wild animal was, in fact, a housedog with short, powerful legs.
Her first impression associated it with her pursuer. In a moment of confusion, she eased rather than increased her pace. The dog thrust its tail high and commenced barking. Gabby slowed still more, prepared to avert collision. The animal took no evasive action and darted between her feet, obliging her to skip sideways in order to avoid stumbling. She re-established her balance while identifying the white and tan markings of the beagle family. The creature's tail wagged with what appeared to be an invitation to play. Her dancing steps seemed to encourage rather than dissuade it.
By the time she recovered momentum to press on, it was too late. She had managed only to take several forward strides when hit from the rear by a massive body. Impact swept her from her feet and eliminated the ability to resist. A moment later her right hip crashed onto the roadbed, with the attacker splayed over her like a quilted afghan. Freezing rocks encrusted with ice gouged her cheek and right nostril. Her arms, trapped tightly under her torso, were useless to wedge breathing space. Wiggling was all she could manage as the attacker shifted his weight to keep her pinned down. His mass made it impossible to replace air expelled from her lungs during the fall. She had read numerous accounts of rape and heard many personal testimonies. An attack under her clothing was certain to happen. Capitulation was not her style and, as long as resistance was possible, she would kick and squirm. In a rare moment of self-pity, she berated herself for having agreed to come to White Sulfur Springs and participate in the Democratic National Committee's annual retreat. When she accepted the invitation, she had a queasy feeling it was a bad choice. This would teach her to listen more carefully to her instincts – that is, if she got a second chance!
Rabbi Gabrielle Lewyn's role in one of the most celebrated rape trials of the decade along with her help in breaking up a gunrunning syndicate in the District of Columbia attracted the attention of Washington's political establishment. Women's groups requested her to speak at their conferences and rallies. Radio and television talk-show hosts hounded her to comment on the Jewish view of everything from capital punishment to, what she liked to joke, sewage problems in Buenos Aires, about which she was the first to admit she knew absolutely nothing. Political organizations bombarded her with invitations to an endless array of receptions and convocations. Few realized that her rabbinical duties as senior rabbi at Congregation Ohav Shalom consumed nearly every moment of her day, leaving little time for activities outside the synagogue. Fortunately, her dedicated secretary, Charles Browner, was masterful at graciously declining invitations, except when an event caught her fancy, such as the Democratic National Committee's annual retreat in West Virginia.
When the DNC Director personally asked her to conduct Chanukah and Shabbat services on Friday evening, how could she say no? Despite an inclination to dismiss modern politics as a gutter sport, she welcomed an opportunity to meet influential politicos. Still, the same invitation to a conference at the Orlando or Las Vegas Convention Centers would have produced a different response. But not the Greenbrier Hotel, which she believed to be a national treasure. Operated almost continuously as a spa and resort since the nation's colonial beginning, its palatial public rooms, massive stone hearths, and kitchen specializing in all-American cuisine from the Allegheny Mountains, wreaked with history and tradition. To a sports minded person like herself, the hotel's pools and spas, in-door tennis courts, and an ice rink, its matrix of riding, jogging, and hiking trails
zigzagging through outlying foothills were irresistible.
"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" her attacker bellowed. It took a moment for her to appreciate that he wasn't yelling at her. Apparently, there were other people nearby, perhaps someone rushing to rescue her! "Homo sapiens! Don't fire! Don't fire!" her attacker continued.
"What the hell was he yelling about?" she asked herself, still gasping for air. And to whom? And this business about Homo sapiens? Was he an Appalachian mountain man, nutty as a fruitcake? Mention of shooting confused her further. She didn't hear any shots.
"Hey… down there," her attacker howled. "You've got people here. Careful, fellows!"
For the first time she became aware that the body pinning her down was lean and muscular. It felt as though he were waving a free arm. As his weight shifted, she ratcheted one arm free to press against the ground and create space for her lungs to expand.
"Okay… Okay, watch it down here!" he continued.
An instant later, he rolled sideways providing blessed relief, his right knee angled on the roadbed beside her. "Sorry, sorry, lady," he said, shifting his weight. In the act of scrambling to his feet he appeared to be extremely nimble. She gathered herself onto her knees to observe him jumping vertically in place and waving his arms like a cheerleader at a basketball game. From this vantage point, his Adidas shoes were soiled and worn and a knee poked through a hole in his baggy cotton sweatpants. The beagle continued to circle them, darting forward then back in an effort to reenter a tangle of bodies and entice newfound friends into a game.
Gabby was testing her legs to stand as the dog's wet snout greeted her. And instant later, she saw two men in camouflage dungarees emerge from the trees fifty yards away.
"Hunters," her attacker announced while his arms remained in motion. A faded red sweatshirt covered his chest and a Yankee's baseball cap shadowed most of his face. A hand in a knitted-woolen mitten reached down to help her onto her feet. She wasn't certain she wanted assistance from someone who had just tackled her. Besides, she needed a moment to evaluate her injuries. Her wrists and cheek burned from abrasions. Blood oozed from her right nostril and stained the back of her glove. No doubt there were cuts elsewhere. More disconcerting, a deadening ache pulsed through her hip.
High cheekbones, dark eyes, and a flat but symmetrical nose identified her attacker as Asian. As a native Californian who grew up near a large Oriental community, Gabby could usually distinguish different ethnic groups. By the broad shape of his head, she guessed Korean.
"Where were your brains, lady?" he snapped at her. "Don't you know it's deer season in these parts? You've got the wrong colors on. If you must jog during the season you don't wear beige. The only thing that would make you look more like a buck is a rack of antlers. Trigger-happy hunters would love to blast off a few rounds at you and, believe me, they're all trigger-happy at the beginning of the season. The motto in these parts is: 'If it looks like a buck, shoot it. If it doesn't look like a buck, shoot it anyway. If it's a whitetail doe, kill it and claim you were sure you saw a rack. And, lady, the way you're dressed, you fit all categories."
The dog resisted it's master's whistle to return. Why resume hunting when there were new friends to play with? They called her name, Cindy, four times, then one blew a high-pitched taxicab whistle through his teeth.
"Sorry about frightening you," the attacker apologized a second time. He invaded her space to use the cotton arm of his sweatshirt for swabbing blood from her nostril and examined her face for additional injuries, uncertain whether to console or reprimand her further. "We're too far from the hotel for a stray dog. When I saw this critter dart from the trees, I figured there had to be hunters nearby. In thick woods they usually work close to their dogs. Knocking you down was the only way to get you out of their gun sights quick."
The rising sun, now flickering through a tangle of forest, highlighted the hunters, rifles in hand, and still unaware of what transpired a moment before they emerged onto the fire road. From their view, there was no need for anyone to yell at the top of his lungs and spook game in the area.
Gabby was uncertain she wanted to emulate the Asian's greeting, yet she conceded to good manners and waved back unenthusiastically. Meanwhile, Cindy scampered along the road, eventually returning to her master.
"I hurt you," the Asian declared.
"My hip feels like it was hit with a pile driver, but I don't think anything's broken. Bruises in several places. I won't know the full catastrophe until I get my clothes off. I'd be surprised if I'm not black-and-blue, you know where."
He stood a head taller than she, with dark eyes examining her. "Yep. Looks like I also gave you a neat gouge on the cheek. Also banged your nose. If I had more time to think, I probably would have devised something less drastic. My fault entirely."
She wrestled with confusion about what had happened. "I don't know whether to thank or vilify you. But I'm still here and not on some marble slab in a morgue or strapped over the hood of a pickup truck like a deer carcass – so I guess you deserve my gratitude." She thrust out her wounded hand to shake. "This is the last thing I'd expect to do with a man who just tackled me."
"Name's Kye Naah," his grin was long and infectious as he reached forward. His cheeks were puffy, rounding his head like a basketball.
"Gabrielle Lewyn," she replied, aware that his name possessed a familiar ring. How many Kye Naahs did she know? Her memory for faces was excellent but the rim of the baseball cap obscured a good portion of his. "I'll think of you next Halloween when I wear my deer costume."
He stripped off a glove to place a cold hand near the abrasion on her cheek, then, with a finger, whisked away a small pebble lodged in the wound. "Staying at the hotel?"
"Yeah. I'm conducting a religious ceremony at the DNC meeting tonight. I'll probably look like a villain in an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie. Are you with the DNC, too?"
"They've got me scheduled for a show-and-tell at today's lunch."
"On politics?"
"Isn't everything politics with the DNC? But I'm no politician, if that's what you're thinking. I'm a tech-guy and run a political website. Unfortunately, my work has given Democratic candidates a rough time. I help non-affiliated, independent candidates get elected, so I'm persona non-grata with both Democrats and Republicans, who believe I'm responsible for stealing their voters… which is exactly what I do. They call me the son of Mephistopheles. I came running this morning to see my last sunrise before crucifixion at noon."
Mention of a website jogged her memory. Of course, she knew Kye Naah, the flamboyant owner of the most controversial political website on the Internet, and currently under investigation by the Department of Justice for multiple campaign violations. She recalled a TV commentator in a piece about Kye Naah quoting Cicero, ancient Rome's senior political referee who once remarked of Augustus Caesar, "Now here is a man with many enemies, but also with much honor."
"I wouldn't advise jogging further in those clothes, Gabrielle. If you're not in a mood to decapitate me, I'll take you back to the hotel where the only hunting they do is head-hunting for website developers."
She tested her legs and immediately determined that her jogging was over for the day. "Have I an alternative? It would be helpful if you would go slow and give me support," she said. A sharp pain pounded her right hip. He took her arm to relieve weight from the wounded paw.
"If we sing," he said, "we'll scare the deer away. Hunters won't stick around when they hear my voice."
"Babba lou," she belted out, feeling more comfortable with him, but stopping immediately to ease the pain in her hip. "If the truth be known, I was trying to put distance between us. I couldn't have kept that pace much longer."
He laughed. "I was trying to keep up with you; a couple hundred yards more and you would have left me in the dust."
The road to the hotel snaked through thickly forested lowlands flanking a stream that meandered through a thirty-six-hole golf course on the valley floor. At a footbrid
ge spanning it, he said, "I'm really sorry. I'll be happy to cover your medical expenses. That's the least I can do. The DNC knows my email address."
"You must get a lot of email."
"If you include electronic hate mail, then you're right. In cyberspace, my enemies don't have to invest in a postage stamp. Fortunately, the beauty of the Net is you don't have to read the insults."
"I'll try to be less combative, but I'll need a plausible explanation for this tonight when I make my debut before the public. Maybe I'll tell people I had a collision with a beagle and leave it at that."
"Blame it on me. There had to be a better way than knocking you down."
***
In a city where who you know is more important than what you know, Washingtonians prefer association with successful people and Gabby's fame bordered on celebrity status. It was no mystery why membership at Ohav Shalom increased annually. Her father often remarked how success breeds success and failure, failure. The more members, the more revenue from memberships. The more revenue from membership subscriptions, the more programs. The more programs, the more people served. The more service rendered, the more members. Many attributed the congregation's popularity to Gabby, but she continuously reminded everyone that the dedicated and talented staff played the most significant role. Two California and two Texas congregations attempted to recruit her by offering outrageous salaries. But she enjoyed her community of friends and associations in the nation's capital. She calculated her modest financial needs and declared herself to be satisfied. If she had wanted wealth, she would have chosen medicine or the law or business, not the rabbinate. Changing jobs for more compensation, even a substantial sum, had little appeal.
Now in her fourth year as senior rabbi at Congregation Ohav Shalom, she had settled into a professional routine. She knew what to expect from the congregation's members and, generally, they understood where she was coming from. The Jewish calendar, marked by an inexorable cycle of obligatory worship services, dictated the schedule of both her private and her professional lives – and they were different. Between these public events it was necessary to be available for counseling, teaching and communal work. Her phone rang continuously with members and non-members asking to promote a cause or assist in a personal problem. She often jested that being a rabbi in a large metropolitan city was analogous to operating a restaurant. Serve breakfast, then clean up and prepare for lunch. The moment lunch is over, clean up and get ready for dinner. And after dinner, clean up again and set up for breakfast. No way to get off this merry-go-round without closing the doors and going out of business. Fortunately, her latest associate, Rabbi Asa Folkman, willingly shared the daily burden, and on occasion provided her with time to re-charge her batteries at beautiful places like the Greenbrier Hotel.
