by Stone Kiss
He started to back away, keeping the gun on Decker’s head. “I’m going to turn around. All the nearby guns have been emptied. You could make a run for the ones behind you, but you’d better be quick and you’d better shoot to kill, because if you miss… you’re dead. And then I go after your family—one by one by one. If you happen to get lucky with a direct hit, remember your promise to me. You take care of Terry and my son. I really love that little girl.”
Police sirens could be heard in the background.
Jonathan had finally gotten to a phone booth.
“I think that’s my exit song,” Donatti told him.
Thinking about the weapons, Decker watched him back away. How his body seared with pain! He was compromised. He couldn’t walk without limping, let alone run. Any attempt to seize a gun would give Donatti more than enough time to kill him.
But if he did nothing, then he allowed the murdering scum to walk away. Not just any murderer, a man who had slain his own brother’s relative in cold blood and done it as easily as blowing his nose.
Pick off my family—one by one by one.
And even if Decker had the gun in his hand, could he do it? Shoot to kill in cold blood? Just put a bullet through Donatti’s brain? The world would be better off. Even Terry and the kid would be better off—especially Terry and the kid. Could he make that calculated decision to pop him without direct threat?
How did the psycho do it?
Of course, that was the answer: Donatti was a psycho.
At least, the bastard hadn’t given him that decision to make. Decker knew he wasn’t about to play heroics—not with the stench of his own fresh blood wafting over him, with this abattoir around him. He owed his family common sense. He owed his family his opting to live.
Decker yelled out, “You’re not playing fair, Chris. You know I can’t chance it.”
Donatti grinned. “The hands are the hands of Esau, but the voice is the voice of Jacob!”
What was he talking about? “I ain’t sticking a fork in it, Chris!” Decker continued. “We’re not done yet!”
Donatti gave him a thumbs-up. “Suck my cock, Lieutenant!”
He turned and broke into a jog.
And then he was gone.
36
It was recorded as Donatti predicted—Rabbi Chaim Lieber against a half-dozen drug-dealing, ecstasy-popping animals aided by a corrupt police chief and two of his lackeys. The slain Lieber had become a local saint, and Minda, his martyred wife. It made Decker sick. Days passed, and he was besieged by endless questions from the police, from the media, from lawyers, friends, and relatives. Nights passed during which he was terrorized by horrid dreams of blood and bodies. For the entire world to see, he held up well during the ordeal. But the secrets of his heart told a different story. He was plagued by his weakness, ashamed by his failure to confess the truth in all its blindfolded glory.
In the end, after several weeks had gone by, after all the inquiries and answers were typed up and filed away, after the newspapers had reduced the front-page news to a one-column article on page 26, Decker and his conscience were left alone to brood, an exclusive club of two that could not be penetrated by anyone else. Not even by Rina.
Especially not Rina.
Though she begged and pleaded with him to talk, he kept his incubi private. When things settled down, he’d see someone. In the meantime, it was all too fresh to deal with, too raw and painful. They would come, the words, but they needed time to form into cohesive deliberations, into articulated introspection.
Who would have guessed that his brother would be the one to give Decker his needed solace? Not Jonathan, who knew only part of the truth, but had sworn to take that wedge of it to his grave. Not Jonathan, who tried all the religious medicaments on himself as well as Decker, only to fail miserably. Not Jonathan, who cried, coaxed, and urged, but came up empty-handed. It was clear to Decker that Jonathan couldn’t handle him, because his brother could barely address his own demons. Admitting psychological and spiritual defeat—an especially agonizing acknowledgment for a rabbi— Jonathan sought refuge in professional counsel.
No, it wasn’t his brother Jonathan who bestowed upon Decker the ability to pick up his head and face another day. It was Randy. Sixteen days after Decker had witnessed slaughter and destruction, he had packed up his bags for Florida: to find peace in his childhood home, to mend his wounds both physical and emotional. The first weekend of his arrival, Randy came down to visit. At six-two, 270 pounds of muscle and fat, his brother had a kick-ass attitude ideal for an undercover cop. His formidable face was slathered by a matted black beard hanging over his chin. His dark piercing eyes demanded to be told the truth.
It started out as small talk: It always worked that way, gradually segueing into Decker’s buried guilt. Randy listened without interruption. Then he laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“What’re you sweating it for, Peter? You know as well as I do, even if you had killed the scumbag, another one would have come along to take his place.”
Decker wiped his forehead. He was soaked with perspiration, even though he was wearing a lightweight, short-sleeved cotton shirt and jeans. It was in the low seventies with blue skies and clear air. “I don’t know, Randy….”
“Course you do. No shortage of pissbuckets, Peter. Don’t give it a second thought.”
“I should have done something. At the very least, I should have told the cops the truth.”
“And made everyone miserable—the old man Lieber, the widowed wife, the remaining children, your entire half brother’s family, you, Rina, your family, even me…” He shook his head. “Truth is a flexible concept, bro. Didn’t you tell me that Jewish-wise, truth means peace?”
“No.”
“Yeah, you did. You told me it was okay to lie to keep peace in the family.”
“Oh, that. Shalom bayit. It means fibbing, Randy, not letting murderers go free.”
“Donatti will get his, just like his old man did. In the meantime, you’re living to see another day. As they say in the Family, ‘fuhgeddaboutit.’” Randy leaned back in his wicker chaise lounger. The brothers were resting on the outside porch, drinking lemonade. Damn near idyllic. “You’re a friggin’ hero, Peter. You risked your life to save Chaim.”
“It didn’t work—”
“So what if it worked or not? It still happened. And you got shot in the process. That makes you a hero. Furthermore, you made me a hero. You know how long we’ve been after Weiss, Harabi, and Ibn Dod? You flushed them out for us. You broke up a major ecstasy-import ring. They’re being transported down here for arraignment next week.”
“Like you said, there’ll just be more to take their places.”
“Yeah, sure, but it’s important for us to succeed once in a while. To say to the public, we care about you. We care about your kids and your neighborhoods. And we do care.” He lightly punched Decker’s shoulder. “You made us look good here in Miami, bro. You made Novack in New York look good—all the nice things you said in the press about NYPD detectives. Everyone loves you. If you were the political type, you could parlay what you did into chief of police in one of the major cities.”
Decker didn’t answer.
Randy brought in the heavy ammunition. “Peter, you made me look especially good. I’m going to get a promotion because of you— D-three. You know how long I’ve waited for this?”
“I’m happy for you.”
“So stop sulking like a paddled schoolboy. You think Donatti used you? You used Donatti. The psycho was finally good for something other than popping wiseguys and pimping girls.”
But Decker wasn’t buying the rationalization. His expression spoke of his skepticism.
“You’re still thinking like a Homicide dick,” Randy told him. “You want Donatti, you gotta think like Vice. You need informants. You need the bad guys to get other bad guys.”
“Donatti’s a real bad guy. The bastard shot me.” Decker’s jaw became a ball of
tension. “Worse than that, he humiliated me.”
“Fucking easy for him to make you dance with a gun to your head. Peter, he didn’t humiliate you; he played a crooked game. That’s being a coward. I’d like to pit the two of you together without the Beretta in his hand.”
The image made Decker smile. “I should have turned him in.”
“Pete, he ain’t worth ruining your life for.” Randy gulped down his lemonade. “Yeah, it would have been great if you could have taken him under, but the timing wasn’t right. The main thing is you’re breathing, and that gives you plenty of time to set him up. You want to get Donatti, you need to sting him. You need informants and anonymous tips and wires and videos and surveillance and someone who’ll rat him out. That kind of setup takes time… maybe years.”
Decker nodded, still consumed with thoughts of revenge. Bastard probably figured the slate was clean for what happened eight years ago. Not so, baby. Now, there was a bigger score to settle. And Randy was right. Maybe it would take years. That was okay. Decker was mature: He was a very patient man.
“Donatti will get his,” Randy repeated. “In the meantime, look around. It’s a beautiful day. Not so bad, huh?”
“No, not so bad.” Decker finished his lemonade.
Randy laughed out loud. “Just like when we were kids, Peter. I’d screw up and try to convince you why it wasn’t all that terrible.”
“You didn’t screw up this time.”
“Neither did you.”
Decker didn’t answer.
Randy switched gears. “You’re just about healed up and you still got four weeks’ disability left. What are you going to do with it?”
“Right now, I’m mellowing out. In a few days, Rina and I thought we’d take Hannah to Epcot—”
“Oh God no!”
“What’s wrong with Epcot?”
“Why don’t you leave Hannah to me and Sheryl? We’ll take her to Epcot and Disney World. She enjoys spending time with her cousins. You go with Rina to the Caribbean.”
“No thanks. Maybe another time.”
“If not now, when? Isn’t that a Jewish proverb?”
“It means the study of Torah.”
“Well, you can’t study your holy Torah unless your mind is in a spiritual place. In the meantime, the Caribbean is nice.”
“I don’t want to go to the Caribbean. I hate beach vacations. I don’t tan; I just burn. And I can’t think of anything worse than sitting in the hot sun, sweating my ass off.”
Randy exhaled in disgust.
“Rina was also talking about going to Europe for a week to ten days. Mom said she and Dad would look after Hannah. Aunt Millie would also help out. Rates are a joke right now. No one’s traveling.”
“I wonder why,” Randy quipped.
“Gotta live your life,” Decker answered.
“Exactly, Peter. Listen to your own advice,” Randy told him. “Hey. How about if Sheryl and me and the kids come down on the weekend and give Mom and Dad an extra pair of hands?”
“Randy, you’ve been a peach.”
He smiled. “I was a pain-in-the-ass little brother, but you treated me okay. Now I’m rewarding you. Where you two going? Paris?”
“Paris and possibly Munich of all places. Rina has a close childhood friend who moved with her husband to Germany to start a yeshiva there.”
“Go figure.” Randy slapped him on the back. “Do it, Peter. Have a good time with your wife, and thank whatever God you believe in that you’ve got another day with a heartbeat.”
It came in the afternoon, the day before she and Peter were to leave for Paris, a plain white envelope with a stuck-on, pretyped label made out to MRS. RINA DECKER C/O LYLE AND IDA DECKER, followed by her in-laws’ address.
She turned it over. The return address was the same as the front label. Another flip back. The postmark told her it was mailed from New York City. Immediately, she grew suspicious, but who on earth would be sending her biological warfare in the mail. Still, she took care when she opened the envelope.
No powder of any kind.
No letter, either.
Only a small single-column newspaper article that had been neatly trimmed—razor cut rather than scissors. There wasn’t any mention of the paper’s name. Nor was there a date. Rina read the headline.
MAN SLAIN, FOUND ON STEPS OF CHURCH
On a routine patrol, Officer Willard Greaves discovered a grisly corpse sprawled across the front steps of Medford Methodist Church. The victim, sustaining a single shot to the head, was identified as Steven Gilbert, a computer teacher at the local community college.…
The article fell from Rina’s hands and fluttered down to the floor. She could feel her heart pumping blood clear up to her brain. Her voice escaped her for a moment; then she called out his name.
“Peter?”
No answer.
She picked up the article and tried to control her shaking hands. She cleared her throat and tried again, a little louder. “Peter?”
Nothing.
She went into the kitchen, the center of her in-laws’ house. Mama Ida had just baked a cinnamon apple cake, the warm air still saturated with sugar and spice. “Peter?”
“Out back.”
She took in a deep breath, exhaled, then went into the backyard. Peter was grilling their dinner, bass fillets caught from this morning’s fishing expedition. Hannah had awakened at four along with Daddy, Uncle Randy, and Papa Lyle. Her daughter was becoming an old-fashioned country girl—delighted with new adventure and the open space. It was going to be difficult to integrate her back into the confined classrooms of her religious Jewish day school. The only thing that Rina had going for her was that Hannah sorely missed her two best friends, Ariella and Esther Ruthie Chaya.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hey.” Decker kept his concentration on the grill. “What’s up, beautiful?”
Peter was wearing an apron. He looked so relaxed and homespun.
“This came in today’s mail.”
Peter looked up. “What’s wrong, Rina?”
“Wrong?”
“You’re white.” His face was filled with concern. “What happened?”
“Nothing, really. Well… nothing bad.” She secured the spatula from his hand, and offered him the article. “Trade?”
Warily, Decker took the clipping. Within seconds, he was aware of his heartbeat. “Oh my my…” Excitement soared through his veins. He couldn’t help himself. A smile worked its way to his lips. “Son of a gun. Where’d this come from?”
“I told you. It came in today’s mail. It was addressed to me care of your parents. The return address was your parents’ house.”
“Did you look at the postmark?”
“Yes. It was mailed from New York.”
“New York?”
Rina nodded.
“Not Indiana?”
“No, not Indiana. New York.” She showed him the envelope.
He stared at the envelope, a bit deflated. “It could be a hoax.”
But Rina knew it was no hoax.
“Well, there’s one way to find out.” He looked up from the article. “You’ll watch the fish?”
“I’ll watch the fish.”
“Son of a gun. If it is true, we’re going to have to tell the boys.” Decker’s smile returned. “Do you want to do it or should I?”
“I think you should do it. I’m…” Heat from the grill was baking her face. She suddenly felt faint. “I’m…”
Decker took her in his arms. “I know, honey, you must be in shock!” He couldn’t get the grin off his face. “Not an unpleasant shock. Here, sit down.” He eased her into a patio chair.
“I’m okay.” She brought her hand to her chest. “You’re going to call Medford Police?”
“Yep.” Decker slapped the article against the palm of his hand. “I hope this is legit. Because I’m feeling really good right now. Not that I’m one for blood lust… but it does have its moments.”
> That day in the park… hadn’t he used almost the exact words? That vengeance had its soothing effect? Rina was quiet, trying to breathe slowly.
“I’ll be back.” Decker laughed. “Incredible. You couldn’t make this stuff up. There must be a God in heaven.”
He left her alone and went to make his calls. Still breathing hard, she slowly got up to tend to the fish. No sense ruining dinner over what was done. Examining her feeling, she found that she wasn’t sorry about it… but she wasn’t ecstatic, either. More than anything, she just was.
Maybe the news hadn’t fully registered.
Her boys… they would be relieved. No matter how over they thought it had been, now it was really over. He was finally gone. Maybe Jacob could finally put the past behind him.
Tears welled up in her eyes.
There must be a God in heaven.
A true statement, but this wasn’t God.
God’s name was ineffable.
This wasn’t God.
Because Rina knew his name.
