Obsessed

by Ted Dekker

  “Hello, Chaim! So pleased you called.”

  “Hello, Gerik. Have you heard from Stephen lately?”

  “Not since last Friday. He’s missing?”

  “You saw him Friday?”

  Gerik relayed his encounter with Stephen and the photograph without the slightest hint of concern.

  “This doesn’t worry you?” Chaim asked.

  “What? That a young Jew has discovered something worth throwing his life into? Not in the least.”

  “The something is a picture—”

  “Hardly, Chaim. That something is a girl named Esther who may or may not have survived the death camps. His passion is for Esther and everything she represents. Grace in the face of horrible suffering. Love. Let him run. Let him redeem her. Let him obsess. God knows, we could use a few hundred thousand more like him.”

  “Yes, of course, let him obsess. Have you ever considered the dangers of obsession? Just because you love someone doesn’t mean you have the right to break the law in their name.”

  “I don’t think Stephen is planning on breaking the law, do you?”

  “I truly can’t say. But I’m worried. He has a tendency for this, Gerik. He’s done it before.”

  “He’s gone after his mother’s inheritance before?”

  “No. But there’s more here. He’s a war child, an abandoned orphan, an immigrant without a true home. He compensates for his loneliness with some of his antics. But at times like this, I fear he retreats into isolation, searching for meaning. For belonging. Family. He becomes the lost child again, and he doesn’t follow reason.”

  “Maybe becoming a child again isn’t so bad,” Gerik said. “He needs time to work through this, Chaim. Let him search for his identity. Let him feel his need to belong to someone. We all might consider the same with God.”

  Chaim took a deep breath and nodded. “I think he may be after more than his identity. There are the Stones of David.”

  “If he is so fortunate to have stumbled on information leading to the other Stones, he should go after them. Especially if they are his rightful inheritance.”

  Chaim didn’t necessarily disagree. “Rachel’s note mentioned danger. I’m thinking of calling the police.”

  “The police would put an end to whatever hope Stephen has for finding what he’s searching for. Surely you know that.”

  “The police could save his life.”

  “How many times have you told me your Christ taught that man should abandon this kingdom for the next?”

  “These are Stones, not the kingdom of God. The passionate dedication that Christ requires of his followers can destroy a man if misdirected.”

  “But this isn’t really about the Stones,” Gerik said. “It’s about love. Isn’t the kingdom of God about love?”

  “Yes.”

  “There you go, then.”

  “I’m still worried.”

  “Then you don’t trust him,” Gerik said.

  “Exactly. I don’t trust him. Passion has a way of making people do stupid things. Especially people like Stephen.”

  There was kindness in Gerik’s laughter. “Yes, passion is dangerous, but it’s also a requirement for good living.”

  “This isn’t God he’s pursuing, Gerik.”

  The antique dealer turned somber. “Then help him, Chaim. Be with him to keep him from falling over himself. But don’t kill his passion.”

  Chaim let the man’s suggestion settle in. “Maybe.”

  “Perhaps we should all be so obsessive of love.”

  Chaim didn’t answer.

  27

  Los Angeles

  July 23, 1973

  Monday Night

  STEPHEN MET FIVE OF SPARKS’S THUGS IN THE ALLEY AT NINE AND led the black-clad men to the fourth floor of Building B as agreed. The leader, Bert, was a burly man with a pitted face who looked as though he’d grown up on a diet of thumbtacks.

  The other four were no more congenial. Three had each survived a tour in Vietnam. This pleased Stephen more than he would ever admit. They were his salvation, and he welcomed them with a giddiness he didn’t know he was capable of.

  “What’s this?” Bert asked, motioning to Stephen’s makeshift hiding place.

  “This place? I don’t know. Looks like a . . . hangout. I found it here.”

  “Someone lives here. What if they come back?”

  “No one lives here,” Stephen said. “It’s been abandoned.”

  “Doesn’t look abandoned to me. Picture on the wall, food cans in the corner. No way.” Bert eyed Stephen. “You do this?”

  “You take me for an idiot? Why would I do this? Forget it. Doesn’t matter anyway. You do your thing, and I watch from here like we planned. If someone comes, it’s my problem, not yours.”

  “I don’t like it,” one of the others said. “You should wait somewhere else.”

  “Fine. I’ll find another window.” He had no intention of doing any such thing. The fact that these thugs were tromping all through his place was annoying enough without them ordering him around in his own home. Who did they think they were?

  “Let’s get going,” he said.

  Bert lifted his binoculars and peered across the street. “Top floor’s lit, the rest are dark. Looks simple enough. You’re sure there’s only two dogs?”

  “Does it make a difference? You’re using a stun grenade—that should knock them all out.”

  “Everything matters. Joey, you think you could get the gas canister through one of those windows from here?”

  Joey eyed the top floor. “Should be easy enough. But a ground-level shot will be just as easy. That puts me in position when we go in.”

  Bert nodded and lowered the glasses. “Okay, everyone follows the plan. We gas the top floor, knock out the dogs in the garage, and hold the stairwell and the elevator for seven minutes from the all-clear. That means you”—he jabbed a finger at Stephen—“have exactly seven minutes from the time we signal three short flashes to get your butt across the street, into the basement, collect these . . . heirlooms of yours, and get out. Two long flashes, and we abort. Clear? You see two, and we’re out of here, no questions, no refunds.”

  “What if I fall or get delayed somehow? I know we agreed on seven minutes, but—”

  “Seven means seven. What you do in those seven minutes is up to you. Any longer and we’ll have cops swarming the place, especially if whoever’s in there starts firing off unsilenced rounds.”

  They’d been over this several times already. Their entry would be relatively painless, but there was no telling what the Germans would do if they got off the fourth floor before the gas knocked them out. If one of the neighbors called in gunshots, it would take the nearest precinct seven minutes to show, less if a squad car happened to be nearby—a risk they would have to accept. If a cop did show before the seven minutes were up, they would blow a hole in the back of the garage and vanish into the night. Stephen would be on his own.

  That was the plan, and Stephen thought it was stupendous. The way he figured it, three minutes would be all he really needed to drop into the basement, move the barrel, scoop up the tin box, and do his own vanishing act.

  “Let’s do this,” Bert said. He caught Stephen’s attention, brought two fingers to his eyes, and then pointed them at the building. “Don’t take your eyes off the target.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Seven minutes.”

  “Seven minutes.”

  They pounded down the stairs, and Stephen took up his position at the window. He lifted the binoculars and strained to see shapes beyond the drawn curtains. Nothing. If someone pulled back a curtain and saw a man staring at them through binoculars from across the street . . .

  He lowered the glasses and edged to his left. A dark shadow crossed the street to the right—that would be Joey with the grenade launcher. Stephen’s pulse pounded. He scanned the neighborhood for pedestrians. All clear.

  Could this actually work? What if the
gas canister from Joey’s launcher bounced off the window? No, these guys knew what they were doing. They were in the zone, man. They would crash the party and put Braun out of business.

  The other four men broke for the side of the building and slid into the shadows below one of the ground-floor windows. He could hardly believe this was happening. Should’ve done this three days ago.

  The curtains suddenly parted at one of the fourth-floor windows. Stephen jerked back. They’d been spotted!

  No, not necessarily. Maybe the Germans had only heard something. Stephen sneaked another peek. A man stood at the window, studying the street. Come on, Joey! Light them up! Do it, do it now!

  But Joey was out of sight, and the south side of the building remained dark. The man in the window didn’t seem satisfied. Stephen dismissed a sudden temptation to stick his head out the window and direct their attack.

  A dull thump sounded, followed by a crashing window. Joey had fired. And hit.

  The curtain dropped shut. Stephen leaped to the center of the window and strained for a view of the attack. Another crash, this one from ground level. A definite whump! Maybe more than definite. Maybe thundering. The stun grenade. The cops were probably already on their way.

  Stephen watched five men hoist themselves into the window and disappear. Still no sign of anything from the top floor. Maybe they were all unconscious. Or racing down the stairwell bearing arms.

  “Come on,” he growled. “Come on!”

  “What’s up, Groovy?”

  Stephen spun. Sweeney and Melissa!

  “Lotsa commotion out there tonight,” Sweeney said. “You in on it?”

  “What are you doing here?” Stephen demanded.

  “I asked first.”

  Stephen whirled back to the window. What had he missed? He had to watch for the flashes! Nothing seemed to be happening.

  The bohemians had walked up beside him and peered out. “You looking at anything in particular or just gazing at that missed opportunity over there?” Sweeney asked.

  Stephen turned sideways, keeping the building in his peripheral. He could feel sweat snake past his right temple.

  “I need some privacy right now.”

  Melissa looked at his flimsy walls. “You want us to knock before entering, is that it? Come on, dude, let’s knock.” She led Sweeney out of Stephen’s square with a straight face and lifted her fist to knock. “Oops, no door, Groovy. I would knock on the wall, but it might fall if I do.”

  This could not be happening.

  ROTH BRAUN was seated on what was left of Rachel Spritzer’s leather sofa when the canister crashed through the dining-room window, rolled to a stop under the table, and hissed white gas.

  A sliver of fear immobilized him momentarily before his training took over, returning to him his full power of control.

  The Jew had returned. This was good.

  He bolted from the couch. “Gas!”

  The effects were surprisingly quick—three men seated at the table were on their knees already, gasping for air. Roth was far enough away to escape its initial effects. Surely it wasn’t lethal. Or had he misjudged the man?

  A dull thump shook the floors below them.

  Lars ran from the master bedroom, stared at the scene with wide eyes, and stepped aside just in time to avoid Roth’s rush.

  “A blanket!” Roth said. “Hurry!”

  They’d shredded the bed to its springs. Lars grabbed a blanket from the floor and threw it at Roth, who quickly stuffed it into the crack at the bottom of the door.

  “It’ll seep around the door,” Lars said.

  “Give me an ax.” Braun shoved the closet doors leaning against the wall to the floor. “The stairwell’s behind this wall.”

  Axes were one thing they weren’t short on, and they’d already taken the plaster off the bedroom side of the wall. They wouldn’t find anything by tearing down the walls—the treasure was in the basement. But Stephen had to believe that he was in a race against time to retrieve the treasure. So Roth would keep up the charade. He would play the game until Stephen found his own way in. There was no point in crushing the Jew’s hopes until they had been elevated to a point of fanaticism.

  Roth caught the ax with his left hand and broke a two-by-four with his first swing.

  “They will be coming up the stairs.” He cursed himself for leaving the masks on the third floor and swung again. The ax shattered two timbers this time.

  Roth grinned and swung again. This time, the entire wall sagged. Nothing was so satisfying as the game. They were coming to the finish line, neck and neck.

  “Come on, Jew!” Roth bellowed, swinging again. “Come on!”

  Another three quick chops, and a three-foot portion splintered off and fell out.

  Roth dropped the ax, shoved his head into the stairwell, saw a clear path, and crawled out. He dropped to the third-floor landing, followed by Lars. The attackers were still below, waiting for the gas to complete its work. He slammed through the door and ran for a cache of supplies in the first bedroom.

  “The ventilation system. Flood the building with tear gas.”

  Lars tore through a large black duffle bag, yanked out two gas masks, and tossed one to Roth. Gas masks secure, they each grabbed three small canisters. Lars snatched up a rifle.

  “Gas first,” Roth snapped. He shoved a crowbar at Lars. “Use the return vents.” He ran into the hall, turned the thermostat to manual vent, dropped the canisters, and crammed his crowbar under a large return vent above his head. The grill popped off in two attempts. He could hear Lars doing the same in the adjacent hall.

  Roth popped the tabs on all three canisters and dropped them into the vent. Perhaps the men below already had gas masks in place, but with any luck they would wait to don the gear until they secured the stairwell. Masks limited field of vision.

  It would take no more than a minute for the gas to work its way through the building. Without another word, they collected their weapons and reentered the stairwell.

  Roth motioned Lars to cover. The blond German swung his rifle over the rail. “Clear.”

  So, they were still in the garage? Or was this the work of a lone fool, firing off a canister of gas with the intent to crawl up after half an hour to collect his treasure?

  “No killing,” he ordered. “Not now.”

  He descended the stairs to the second-floor landing and covered for Lars. They took up positions on the first landing, weapons trained on the door to the garage. If anyone cracked that door, Roth would put a bullet in his gut.

  THE FIRST clunk came while Melissa’s hand was still raised, and for a moment Stephen thought she’d stomped her foot to imitate a knocking sound. The noise came again, distant.

  All three of them looked out the window together. The sound was hardly more than a knock, but there it came again. Stephen froze. Someone was taking a hammer or an ax to one of the walls in Rachel Spritzer’s apartment.

  “What’s that?” Sweeney asked.

  They’d entered his hiding place without knocking again.

  “I . . . I don’t know.” Stephen was desperate. He turned and held up both hands to ward them off. “Please! I have to do something here.”

  “What’s up, man? Something’s going down and—”

  “Just leave!” Stephen shouted.

  They flinched.

  He flung his arm toward the door. “Can’t you take a hint? Leave!”

  “Now you’ve gone and hurt my feelings, man,” Sweeney said. “What gives you the right? And after we extended our hospitality to you?”

  “Is that what you call this? Hospitality? You’re hurting my feelings by being here. I’m telling you, I have something real important to do, and you can’t be here!”

  “Then maybe you should apologize,” Melissa said, crossing her arms.

  Stephen stared at her, mouth open. The whole scene felt surreal. He glanced back at the building. No flashes, right? He would have seen the light from the corner of his
eye. Nothing but black on the garage level. What was keeping Bert? They should have given the all-clear by now. He swung back.

  “I’m sorry!” He was frantic, and he knew that they knew he was frantic. “Believe me, I’m so sorry.”

  “For kicking us out of your little shrine here.”

  “Yes! For kicking you out of—”

  “What was that?” Sweeney asked.

  Stephen turned back to the window. “What?”

  “I thought I just saw some flashes.”

  “You did? How many?”

  “I don’t know. Two, I think. Maybe it was three.”

  “Well, was it two or three?” Stephen demanded.

  “I don’t know. Lighten up.”

  Stephen turned on Sweeney. “It was either two or three, it couldn’t be both! And they were either long flashes or short flashes. Two long flashes or three short ones. Tell me!” he yelled.

  Sweeney stared back, shocked.

  “Sorry. I’m sorry for that. Look, I just need to know exactly what you saw. You have no idea how important it is to me.”

  “That your signal?” Melissa asked. “That’s why you’re looking over there. You’re waiting for a signal from someone inside. You’ve been holding out on us.”

  “You’re right, I have. And I’m sorry, okay. Just tell me what—”

  “I think it was three short,” Sweeney said. “But I saw only two.”

  “Then why is it three?”

  “Because the two flashes I saw were short. You said three short or two long right? These were short, so there must have been three. I just saw the last two.”

  He had seven minutes! He’d already wasted at least one. Stephen bolted for the stairs.

  “Hey, someone’s climbing out the window down there,” Sweeney said.

  Stephen slid to a stop. “What?”

  “No, two! Check that, make it three . . . five! Five people dressed in black just dived out that window down there.”

  Stephen ran for the window. Sure enough, Bert and gang were out of the building, along the wall, bent over.

  Two long flashes blazed from one of their flashlights.

  “What?”

  “Are they okay?” Melissa asked.

  “What happened?” Stephen asked, disbelieving. “What are they doing?”