Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 07

by Sanctuary

  Decker said, “I’m studying B’rachos. I could use some reference material.”

  “Fine, I’ll take you to the bais midrash. Who am I to deny a scholar?” Bernstein glanced at Rina, then averted his eyes. “It would be better if you waited here. You might be kind of distracting—”

  “I know, I know. I’ll wait here.”

  Bernstein’s eyes fell on Decker’s face. “You don’t have a black hat, do you?”

  “No. Do I look too goyishe?”

  “More like a secular Jew, and that’s just as noticeable. You’re going to draw attention. Do you want that?”

  Decker said, “It would be better if I blended in.”

  Bernstein studied Decker and gave a hopeless shrug. “You won’t blend in. But maybe I can help so you won’t stand out so much. Wait here. I’ll find you a hat.”

  Again, Rina checked her watch, amazed to discover that only ten minutes had passed. She now knew the secret of Einstein’s theory of relativity. Endless time had nothing to do with the speed of light or the mass of the object. It had everything to do with standing in a cold room on a bone-chilling floor with nothing to do. Ten minutes translated into ten hours in Comfortable Earth Time.

  Nobody had passed through the portals. It was as if the entry was the weigh station of purgatory. Suddenly, the concept of indulgences made sense.

  The solitude did give her an unwelcome chance to reflect upon Peter’s assessment of Honey Klein and her village, to think about Jewish divorce.

  It wasn’t that Judaism had an innate antifemale bias. As a matter of fact, the original laws of marriage and divorce were laws of protection for both parties. While it was true that men could file for divorce for reasons as trivial as bad cooking, it was equally true that women could file for many reasons—if the man was unattractive to her, if he didn’t fulfill her sexually. Wasn’t that the case with Gershon?

  The law was on Honey’s side. Gershon should have granted her a divorce. And when he didn’t, the rabbis did what was in their Jewish legal right to do.

  Yet, no matter how she thought about it, Peter was right. It was still murder. She wondered how far Peter would pursue what he suspected.

  A little old man walked through the open doors, his overcoat dragging on the floor, his black hat too large and slightly askew. His demeanor suggested disorganization. He had a long white beard and spoke to Rina in a high-pitched voice. His Hebrew was thick with a Moroccan accent.

  “No one is here?”

  Rina shrugged.

  The old man rubbed his hands together. “You haven’t seen anyone?”

  Again, Rina shrugged innocence.

  “You are waiting for someone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your son?”

  “My husband.”

  The old man took out a card. “Maybe he would like to give us a small donation.”

  The card told Rina he was working for Yeshiva Rev Yosef Caro. He was a meshulach—someone who goes around collecting money for an institution or a poor family, then takes a cut of whatever he collects. Most Jews called them shnorrers.

  The man said, “You can make a donation, too.”

  Rina smiled wearily. “I have your card. Thank you.”

  The man said, “I go inside. Check the bait midrash.”

  Bait instead of bais. Sephardic pronunciation. Rita told him to go check. The man left.

  Another ten minutes crept by. Again, Rina thought about Honey Klein, about Arik and Dalia Yalom. Two boys suddenly orphaned, four other children without a father. Her mind drifted with faraway thoughts, her emotions sinking into a whirlpool of tragedy. Tears had formed in her eyes.

  No, this wouldn’t do at all.

  She went behind the desk, through the door, kissing the mezuzah as she went into a hallway.

  Lots of doors muffling noise. The air here was warmer, but a great deal more stale. Gravel-voiced men speaking of the intricacies of Jewish civil law. Rina put her ear to one door, then opened it. Empty—devoid of people but filled with folding chairs, the space inside not much bigger than a walk-in closet. A window had been opened, allowing a tiny draft of fresh air to percolate.

  At the end of the hallway was a staircase with tiny stone steps worn smooth by traffic. Rina held the wrought-iron handrail and walked down a flight.

  The basement held a communal kitchen and dining hall. Wafting through the air was the smell of onions and garlic sweating with grease. The lunchroom was empty, the doors locked. But heat came through the walls and warmed the bottom layer of air a couple of degrees. That was good, Rina thought. The boys could eat in comfort during the winter months.

  She climbed back up two stories. The bais midrash was the biggest room on the floor. Even at a distance, Rina could hear the shouting and arguing of boys engaged in learning. The bais haknesset—the yeshiva’s sanctuary—no doubt occupied the other big room. Rina didn’t go inside in case there was a prayer minyan going on. She didn’t want to disturb anyone. Checking her watch, she saw that only five minutes had passed. She decided to explore the two floors above.

  The upstairs levels were just dorm rooms spilling over with piles of dirty clothes and sweat. Each floor had a small private kitchen and a laundry room—three washers and one dryer each. All of the machines were in use.

  Rina climbed back down two flights, debating whether to go inside the bais midrash. Maybe Peter would need her help. She knew rationally that Moti Bernstein could translate anything Peter needed to know. Plus a lot of the boys here were American and English-speaking. Still, what if Bernstein chose to misrepresent something? Or there was a snatch of conversation in Hebrew that might be relevant to Peter’s case? Only Rina would recognize that.

  She went inside.

  The din was deafening, the sweat and heat given off by the hundred or so boys hitting her face. The walls were taken up by bookshelves, high dormer windows struggling to let in natural light. The room was made bright by the parallel lines of fluorescent tubing on the ceiling. Through a thick fog of black, Rina could spot Peter across the room, a too-small derby perched over his carrot-colored hair. The hat looked like a candlesnuffer trying to extinguish a flame.

  On the left side of the room was a big conference table occupied by a group of twenty boys. The rabbi was giving them a lecture, his deep voice managing to project over the noise. The rest of the room was filled with lecterns and desks. Most of the boys had paired off with their chavrusas—their learning partners. The boys shouted at each other, locked in verbal combat. What looked like a hostile interchange was, in fact, just a routine method of learning Talmud.

  Rina looked about, sensing that more than a few of the boys were aware of her presence. Some stared hungrily, others gripped their payis, as if holding their side curls would ward off their lust.

  Decker spotted her and waved. She squeezed her way through black coats and desks, and found her husband.

  “Any luck?”

  “A blank so far. At least, I haven’t seen him. How many other yeshivas are there like this one?”

  “In Jerusalem there are two others,” Bernstein answered.

  Rina felt eyes upon her. The gravel-voiced rabbi who was giving the lecture was glaring at her. “Maybe I should leave.”

  Bernstein nodded vigorously.

  “I won’t be more than a few minutes, Rina,” Decker said.

  Rina took a final glance around the room, espying the little old unkempt man. “I see the meshulach found you, Moti. Boy, are those guys persistent.”

  “What meshulach?” Bernstein said.

  “That little old man who’s walking out the door—” Rina’s hand suddenly flew to her chest. “Peter, catch up with that guy. He doesn’t belong.”

  Reacting as a professional—actions first, questions later—Decker took off immediately, breaking through the wall of black clothing, just in time to see the little old man enter the stairwell.

  “Hey!” Decker shouted out loud. “Hey! You!”

  The ma
n bolted like a jackrabbit, scaling down the steps in allegro tempo. He hit the door, then fastballed his overcoat into Decker’s face. Cursing, Decker peeled it off his eyes and sprinted after him, both of them running into the glare of a blinding, setting sun. Squinting, Decker took off in what he hoped was the right direction, praying that strong rays had slowed the guy’s pace.

  Through bleached vision, he managed to spot the intruder darting through the streets, into the path of oncoming cars. For just a moment, he froze—a deer caught in the headlights. Then he sped forward, causing several vehicles to screech and swerve on sudden stops.

  The moment’s hesitation was all Decker needed. He leaped with full stride across the street, narrowing the distance between him and his prey. The man was faster but shorter. Decker used every inch of his long legs to close in. Another few seconds and he knew he’d be in striking distance. Taking a giant step forward, he extended his gorilla arms and shoved the man hard in the back, breaking his rhythm, causing him to trip over his own feet.

  Decker leaped to the side as the man fell forward, running past him for several paces. Then he backtracked and jumped on top of the man, his knee pressed into the small of the intruder’s back. The man was young, his flailing arms striking wildly. Decker pulled them behind his back.

  “Take it easy, buddy. I just want to talk to you.”

  The guy was small and slight, his pasted beard falling off his face. Without it, he appeared no older than twenty-five. He was talking rapidly and in gibberish. It took Decker a few moments to realize that, in fact, the man was speaking in a foreign language. People had gathered around, all of them talking to him at the same time.

  Well, this was swell, Decker thought. He had literally tackled a man without knowing why and couldn’t explain himself to anyone around.

  Get yourself out of this one, Deck.

  When in doubt, don’t talk. Just look official. He flashed his badge and, in a deep, authoritative voice, told everyone to move back.

  Not a soul budged. In fact, the crowd began to close the circle around him, people shouting, probably demanding explanations. The man broke into bloodcurdling screams. The crowd moved closer. Sweat began to pour down Decker’s face. All he could remember were Rina’s words—that they were in a Levantine country. Which at the moment conjured up images of mob rule or, just as bad, a Levantine jail.

  Then, like the angel Gabriel, Rina appeared, breathless and wet with perspiration. Moti Bernstein was at her side. She stammered out. “This guy said he was a meshulach, which he isn’t. Find out who he is, Peter.”

  “I don’t think we speak the same language, Rina. First, get the crowd off my back.”

  Rina shouted something in Hebrew. It took several orders and a little pushing by Moti Bernstein before the crowd retreated an inch. Then she focused her attention on the man, demanding answers to her questions. The man remained silent.

  Decker held the man tightly, “Moti, search his pockets.”

  A quick trip through his garment revealed nothing. In Hebrew, Rina asked him his name.

  “Kus amak!” he replied.

  And then he spat at Rina’s face.

  Decker felt his head explode. He pushed upward on the man’s restrained arm and gripped it hard. “You got ten seconds before I snap the sucker in two—”

  “Noooooo!” The man began to struggle violently. “No break!”

  “Well, look who talks English.” Decker thought quickly. It was only a matter of minutes before the police arrived and the guy would be lost to him. Calmly, he said, “Rina, ask him what he was doing at the yeshiva? And tell him if I don’t like the answer, he’s dead meat.”

  Rina translated the question. The man turned white but said nothing. Decker knew it was useless questioning him among the masses. He jerked him like a rag doll. “Let’s take a walk back to the yeshiva—”

  “No yeshiva!” the man cried out. “Is bomb there! No yeshiva!”

  “You fuck!” Decker screamed. “Moti, run back and evacuate the yeshiva immediately.” Decker gripped the bomber’s arms and pushed him forward, dragging him as he went limp. “Now you’re going to show me and the police where you put the bomb, you understand!”

  “No good! Fife minoots!”

  “It’s going to go off in five minutes?”

  The man nodded. “Fife minoots.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Decker grabbed the first male he saw—a man in his forties who appeared fit. “Hold him.”

  Decker took off, raced in the direction of the yeshiva, his only concern now saving the boys. Moti had just finished rounding up the boys when Decker stormed into the bais midrash. Moti was trying to keep order among panicked boys, but was losing control. Everyone was running toward the stairwell. Moti saw Decker and started shaking.

  “Someone has to go upstairs to get the boys in the dorm!”

  “Got it!” Decker screamed. “Single file everyone.” He began pushing boys in an orderly line. “Move it, but watch your feet. I don’t want anyone trampled on. Moti, is there another staircase—”

  “No.”

  “Then we’ll make do with this.” Decker bounded up a flight of steps, then went running down the hallway, shouting the word “bomb” as he pounded on doors. He fished out about twenty boys and led them to the staircase. He checked his watch.

  If the motherfucker was right, he had two and a half minutes to go.

  Up the final flight of stairs. Again, shouting to be heard. Three boys emerged from the front rooms. Then to the last room down the hallway. Out came a teenaged boy dressed in yeshiva garb, a small mole under his eye.

  Gil Yalom.

  Victory, but a pyrrhic one if they all blew to smithereens. Decker grabbed the teenager’s hand and led him and the remaining boys to the bottleneck of human flesh, disorganization, and panic slowing things down. Decker knew he was going to have to direct traffic if they were all going to get out of here alive.

  Two minutes to go.

  To Gil, Decker said, “I’m police, Gil. I’m here to help. If you run from me, you’ll be dead in a week. So wait for me outside!”

  Decker broke loose of Gil and pushed his way to the front, using his wide arms to unclog the drain. He pushed boys, rearranged them, forcing order upon the horror-stricken. Rapidly and orderly—two at a time out the door. He looked up.

  The staircase was still half full.

  One minute to go.

  “Run! Run! Run!” Decker shouted as he and Moti shoved the boys out the door. “Far away from the building! Run!”

  Decker looked up at the staircase again. At the top, behind all the boys, were a dozen rabbis holding Torah scrolls—four large scrolls, two men to a Torah. Decker prayed they wouldn’t drop one of them in his sight. That would mean forty days of daylight fasting…providing he made it in one piece.

  Decker looked beyond them, at the empty space at the top of the steps.

  Thirty seconds.

  More and more boys filing into the streets. Moti shouting at them to go farther back. At last, Decker could see Gil Yalom approaching the exit.

  The last of the boys!

  Behind him a parade of long-coated rabbis. Slowly, the Torahs began to descend the last flight of steps, rabbis walking carefully so they wouldn’t drop the holy writings.

  Twenty seconds.

  Three steps down, another three steps down.

  “C’mon! C’mon!” Decker shouted.

  Ten seconds.

  Another step down.

  Five.

  And another.

  Four.

  Another.

  Three.

  To the front door.

  Two.

  Decker grabbed the last of the holy scrolls and fled to the streets.

  One.

  And then nothing.

  A huge crowd had gathered. They waited.

  Fifteen seconds passed.

  And waited.

  A minute.

  And waited.

  Decker shifted the
Torah onto his right shoulder and looked at his watch. Another thirty seconds had passed.

  A false alarm.

  The police arrived, two cars, then another two. They pushed the crowds back. One gentleman was moving toward Decker, who was still holding the Torah. He spoke, Decker didn’t understand. Then the man started talking English.

  He was with the police, around five-ten, one-eighty with well-developed arms. His complexion was dark, his face was round with fleshy cheeks, and he had a head full of black curls. He was wearing a yarmulke. His English was accented but understandable.

  “Who are you?” he repeated.

  “You want the long version or the short one?” He looked around. Gil Yalom was standing by himself, wiping his eyes. “Someone planted a bomb in the yeshiva.”

  “Who?” the cop asked.

  “I don’t know who he is. He’s back a couple of blocks. They’re holding him for you. I ran back here to get the boys out.”

  Three minutes had passed. The yeshiva remained whole.

  Decker shifted his weight, realizing he was still holding the Torah. He called a rabbi over and passed him the holy scroll. Once liberated of the heavy article, he rolled his shoulders and looked at the cop. The face was round and he looked to be around thirty-five, with intelligent black eyes.

  The man lit a cigarette and blew smoke in Decker’s face. “I hear on my radio. There is no bomber—”

  “What!”

  “He escape. Where he say he put bomb?”

  “I think it’s in the bais midrash.”

  “You think? You don’t know?”

  “He never said where he put it.”

  “He never said! A quiet man, this escape bomber.”

  Decker stared at the cop, aware that he had zip credibility. “I gave the bomber over to someone in the crowd, then came back here to help. I told the man to hold him until the police came!”

  Moti broke into the conversation. He and the cop spoke for a few moments in Hebrew. The cop turned his attention back to Decker. “You have some identification on you?”