“All right!” Cameron screamed. “You dogs have two minutes to clear out before I do something desperate.” He fired into the air. “I mean it!”
The commander was a man named Pearson, tall and thin, with a hard mouth, penetrating dark eyes, and a leathery face full of creases. He crept along the floor over to Decker.
“No time for SWAT. I’ve heard you’re a crack shot.” He handed him an FAL-Paratrooper. “Take him out.”
Decker took the rifle.
The man deserved to die.
It was up to him.
Arlington would be lost.
But the fucker deserved to die.
Suddenly Decker felt the enormity of playing judge, jury, and executioner. With a steady hand and a clear eye, he brought Smithson’s skull into sight. His index finger gripped the trigger and began to exert pressure while his hand drifted a fraction of an inch.
The blast.
Cameron Smithson stared at the gushing stump that had once been his right hand. Within moments he was down on the floor being read his rights while cops tried frantically to staunch the flow of blood. Decker wondered if he’d bleed to death. He looked at the hostage. She was splattered with blood, screaming hysterically, limbs jerking spastically. Marge gripped her shoulders and the woman slumped into her arms.
Getting up from the floor, Decker brushed off his knees.
“Everything all right?” he yelled.
“She’s okay,” Marge shouted back.
Pearson walked over and Decker handed him back the rifle. The commander was rigid with fury.
“Did you miss or was that on purpose, Sergeant?”
Decker didn’t answer. Pearson repeated the question.
“I aimed for his head, Commander,” Decker said.
Pearson stared at him. “You aimed for his head, but managed to blow off his hand?”
“I aimed for his head,” Decker repeated.
“You have a rep as an ace with a gun. What the hell happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know,” Pearson muttered. “You don’t know, huh?”
Decker was silent.
“Were you in ’Nam, Sergeant?”
“Yes.”
“How many gooks did you kill?”
“Point blank, three.”
“Three gooks?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And when you blasted them, did you ask if they were good gooks or bad gooks?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you try to incapacitate them before you wasted them?”
“No, sir.”
“You just blew their fucking heads off, right?”
“Right.”
“And why was that?”
“Because if I didn’t kill them, they would have killed me.”
“Very good, Sergeant,” Pearson mocked. “Very good. You know, Decker, we fought a fucking war out there and we’re fighting a fucking war here. You didn’t incapacitate the enemy out there; you don’t do it here. If you don’t believe me, look up the procedure on how to handle a hostage situation.”
“I aimed for his head,” Decker reiterated.
“I bet you did.” Pearson poked Decker’s chest. “Your captain will hear about this. In the meantime, do some target practice.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pearson walked away and Decker exhaled out loud. Marge came over to him.
“How’s the old lady?” Decker asked her.
“So far, so good. Tough gal. No signs of shock or heart attack. Paramedics will take good care of her.”
“That’s good.”
“Are you in deep shit?” she asked.
“Nah, I don’t think so. Hell, I shot him. My aim was just a little off.”
“Pete, if you’d have aimed for his head, he would have been ready for the meat wagon.”
“If I missed, it was an unconscious thing.”
Marge chuckled.
“Just who do you think you’re shittin’, big buddy?”
Decker shrugged. “Let’s just say I passed the buck to a Higher Source. Besides, I want Arlington and all the other fuckers like him. Can’t get any names from a dead man.”
“Go out and get a breath of fresh air, Pete. You’re white.”
Suddenly feeling dizzy, he knew she was right.
27
He’d closed a lot of cases, but this one had all the ingredients for sensationalism—pornography, murder, and big names.
From his hospital bed, Cameron Smithson accused Arlington, providing proof of his involvement in the snuff films. Arlington, surrounded by loving wife and children looking teary-eyed into the cameras, maintained his innocence and pointed his finger at others. Prominent people were brought in for questioning, prominent people were arrested.
With every new accusation, out swarmed a new flock of vultures pestering him at the station house or, worse, at his ranch. The ubiquitous microphones shoved in his face. It made him weary, he told Rina. They spoke daily, mostly in the late hours of the evening when both households were quiet.
The more attention he got, the more he retreated. He took to sneaking into the station through the back door. He avoided going home to the ranch at dinnertime, opting instead for long walks in the hills that surrounded the yeshiva. In the beginning Rabbi Schulman had joined him, but as the furor faded, Decker found himself hiking greater distances in solitude.
Sometimes he’d take a book with him as he walked, sometimes a camera, more often than not he’d explore empty-handed and talk to himself. Maybe he was talking to Someone Else.
Mrs. Bates greeted Decker warmly. It was late afternoon and the day had been gorgeous—spring temperatures that had begun to climb into summer heat. He suggested they take a walk. She thought that was a fine idea.
They began their journey in silence, inhaling clean air, taking in sunshine. He heard her breathing, and it sounded a little winded. He slowed his pace, and she smiled at him and said thank you. Their trek took them past two rows of well-tended houses to La Canada Boulevard. Ten minutes later they were in front of a convenience store. She declined Decker’s offer of a drink, so he bought a pint of orange juice for himself. Another five minutes and they were at the edge of a municipal park. Mrs. Bates suggested they sit on a bench under an elm.
Decker drank half his juice and wiped his mouth with a napkin. He said: “County Hospital called me this morning. Smithson’s dead.”
She said nothing at first, then asked, “How’d he die?”
“Pneumonia.” He took another swallow of juice.
“I thought he had blood poisoning or something like hat,” she said without emotion.
“He did. Apparently the infection from the hand wound wasn’t responding to any of the safer antibiotics, so they gave him a real strong one. It killed the infection, but it also wiped out his immune system. He contracted pneumonia about a week ago and died late last evening.”
“Good. I hope he suffered.”
“I think he did.” Decker looked up at the sky, then down at his lap. “How’s your husband doing?”
“We’ve separated,” she answered.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She shrugged.
“We have little tolerance for each other’s faults now,” she said.
Decker nodded.
“Financially, it won’t be easy for either one of us.” She hesitated, then said, “He lost his job, you know.”
“I didn’t,” Decker said.
“Yes.” She shook her head sadly. “In a way, he has it much worse than I. A woman is allowed to grieve—although no one wants to be with her while she’s doing it. A man has to pull himself together. Snap himself out of it.” She sighed. “We’re both living on savings—exhausting them. It’s a good thing Erin is bright. She’s going to need scholarships.” She faced Decker. “I told her that, and you know what she said?”
“What?”
“‘Don’t worry about it, Mom.’ I do believe that’s th
e first time we talked civilly since she’s reached her teens.”
“That’s nice.”
“Yes, it is.” She took a deep breath. “I know I have to look for work eventually. But most employers don’t think a museum docent has marketable skills. I suppose they’re right.”
“I’m sure you’ll find something.”
“I feel a little tired, Sergeant. Perhaps it would be best if we headed back.”
When they reached her doorstep, Decker held out his hand. She took it and squeezed it tightly.
“Thank you for everything,” she said. “Thank Detective Dunn, also. She was out here the other week. It seems very strange that I should find comfort from the police.”
“Call me from time to time,” Decker said. “Let me know how you’re doing.”
“I will.”
He left the house and drove to his ranch. The sun was beginning to set—striations of pinks and rusts cutting into a darkening expanse of teal sky. Standing on his back porch, he faced east, peering into the advancing dimness. Feeling at peace, he took out a siddur and said his evening prayers.
About the Author
FAYE KELLERMAN is best known for her New York Times bestselling mystery series featuring L.A. cop Peter Decker and his wife, Rina Lazarus, the most recent of which was the critically acclaimed Moon Music. She is also the author of a historical novel, The Quality of Mercy. There are approximately four million copies of her books in print worldwide. Ms. Kellerman lives in Los Angeles with her husband, author Jonathan Kellerman.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
PRAISE FOR FAYE KELLERMAN
and her
PETER DECKER AND
RINA LAZARUS NOVELS
“ELOQUENT ON THE TOPICS OF SOCIAL AND RELIGIOUS TOLERANCE…WITH SUCH A KNACK FOR INTIMATE CONVERSATION, THE AUTHOR HAS NO TROUBLE TAPPING INTO THOSE DOMESTIC TENSIONS THAT CAN TURN UGLY AND CRUEL, EVEN MURDEROUS”
The New York Times Book Review
“FAYE KELLERMAN DOES NOT LET US DOWN!”
Omaha World Herald
“HANDS DOWN, THE MOST REFRESHING MYSTERY COUPLE AROUND.”
People
THE RITUAL BATH
“PHENOMENAL!”
Murder Inc.
“ENGAGING”
Los Angeles Times Book Review
“EXCEPTIONALLY FINE SUSPENSE”
San Diego Union-Tribune
PRAYERS FOR THE DEAD
“FIRST RATE…FASCINATING!”
Los Angeles Times Book Review
“BRILLIANT…STUNNING…FAST-PACED AND WELL-WRITTEN. KELLERMAN PROVES ONCE AGAIN THAT SHE IS A MASTER STORYTELLER.”
Chattanooga Free Press
“NO ONE WORKING IN THE CRIME GENRE IS BETTER.”
Baltimore Sun
“POWERFUL, ASSURED AND ABSORBING”
Publishers Weekly (*Starred Review*)
SANCTUARY
“A VIRTUOSO”
Sue Grafton
“FAYE KELLERMAN CONTINUES HER RUN OF EXCELLENT PETER DECKER/RINA LAZARUS MYSTERIES.”
Washington Times
JUSTICE
“A PAGE-TURNER!”
Cleveland Plain Dealer
“A GRIPPING READ!”
Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
“CHILLING…INTRIGUING AND SATISFYING”
Orange County Register
“GRITTY…ABSORBING…AN AMERICAN DREAM GONE NIGHTMARISH”
Mostly Murder
“KELLERMAN’S EASY STYLE, DEFT PLOTTING AND SOLID CHARACTERS MAKE JUSTICE YET ANOTHER SUCCESS IN HER SERIES.”
Associated Press
SERPENT’S TOOTH
“READERS WILL BE FRANTICALLY FLIPPING PAGES”
People
“ONE OF THE BEST IN THE SERIES”
San Francisco Examiner
“A SHOCKER…ANOTHER SURE WINNER.”
Booklist
Other Books by
Faye Kellerman
FALSE PROPHET
THE RITUAL BATH
DAY OF ATONEMENT
MILK AND HONEY
THE FORGOTTEN
THE QUALITY OF MERCY
STALKER
JUPITER’S BONES
SACRED AND PROFANE
MOON MUSIC
SERPENT’S TOOTH
PRAYERS FOR THE DEAD
JUSTICE
SANCTUARY
Copyright
SACRED AND PROFANE. Copyright © 1987 by Faye Kellerman. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © JULY 2007 ISBN: 9780061827891
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