by Ted Dekker
“Get out of here!”
At first Roth thought that Father was yelling at Martha. Leave the baby for my son to kill and get out of here!
But then he saw that Gerhard was glaring at him. Why was he so angry? And in front of the Jew!
Gerhard stretched his arm toward the stairs behind him. “Get out of here!”
“Father—”
“Now!”
Roth felt himself blush.
“You can’t let them live,” he said. “If you do, they’ll be the only ones who escape you. They have to die. Why can’t I kill one?”
“Out!” his father screamed.
Roth stared at him, stunned by the anger. Surely his father understood that they had to die.
“I said out,” Gerhard snapped.
Roth hurried past his father and ran up the stairs. A pile of wood sat by the stove. Maybe it had already been cut. He walked to the window overlooking the camp and stared into the darkness.
He decided then that he hated his father.
If Martha and her child lived, he would hunt them down and kill them. He had to. They had been sentenced by the scarf.
34
Los Angeles
July 25, 1973
Wednesday Morning
CHAIM WASN’T SURE WHY THE BLACK CAR HAD ALARMED HIM so much. Perhaps because of those three words spoken by Stephen two days ago: Be careful, Rabbi.
What if there really was danger? What if someone else was after what Stephen was after? And what if he, Chaim Leveler, was about to be squeezed in the middle?
And what if there was someone in that black car, watching him? Or watching to see if Stephen came home?
He’d called Sylvia at eight in the morning. No answer. He’d called her office. She was likely running late and on her way to work.
It was time to put an end to this craziness. If he couldn’t find Stephen himself, he would go to the police.
Chaim approached Rachel Spritzer’s old apartment complex, whispering prayers for Stephen’s safety. Chaim had no indication that the lad was anywhere near here, but his fixation on the place made perfect sense. It was, after all, his mother’s home. And Stephen had found a safe.
He drove from the north, toward the front of the building. A repair crew was working on the corner today. One man with a yellow hard hat wielded a gas-powered jackhammer in an area cordoned off with orange caution signs. What a racket that thing made.
He crept past the house—no sign of life. For all he knew, Stephen was actually in some trouble. Kidnapped, or worse. He couldn’t ignore the possibility any longer.
The construction worker looked at him as he passed, smiled, and returned a wave. A bit odd to see that these days.
The building adjacent to Rachel Spritzer’s was another abandoned apartment building. Was it remotely possible that Stephen was in there, watching him drive by at this very moment? He’d said that he was in a hotel, but Chaim wouldn’t put this past him.
Chaim humphed and parked the car by the alley behind the building. He climbed out and headed for a back door on the off chance it was open. Even here, the jackhammer rattled his ears.
The door stood ajar. He stepped in and let his eyes adjust to the dim light.
“Stephen?”
No answer.
“Stephen!”
His voiced bounced around with the jackhammer. A quick look upstairs wouldn’t hurt—he’d come this far. He mounted the steps and made his way up through the floors, calling out Stephen’s name at each stop.
Last floor. He poked up his head, saw that it was stripped and vacant, and started back down. What was that across the room there? A picture on the wall next to the window. Someone had been here, maybe not so long ago. The window overlooked Rachel’s apartment.
Curious, Chaim climbed up and walked across the room. What he saw stopped him. The photograph was of Ruth, the picture Stephen left in his room for a day before breaking in through his window. A bed lay in the corner, and next to it cans of food—half opened, half still sealed. Beans, corn, cranberry sauce. The area was cordoned off with tires and sections of broken wall.
Chaim had found Stephen’s . . . place.
“My, my,” he muttered. “My, my, my, my. What have you gone and done, my boy?”
What had come over his Stephen? The boy was obsessed with this treasure.
He turned and called out loudly. “Stephen?”
Still no answer. Wherever Stephen was, it looked as though he intended to return. Chaim walked into the space and turned around in a slow circle, imagining what it would be like to sleep here for a few days. Whatever had taken hold of Stephen, he’d lost himself in this thing. And so quickly!
Chaim looked out the window at Rachel’s apartment. Was it possible that the Stones of David really were hidden in there?
“Hello?”
He jerked around. A young woman looked at him from the stairs.
“May I help you?”
“Yes, hello. Yes. Do you know Stephen?”
“Stephen?” She was a petite girl, pretty, with bright eyes and dark braided hair heavy with beads. “There’s a lot of Stephens around.”
He walked out of the square. “I’m looking for a Stephen who is tall. Thin. Dark hair. A Realtor.” He pointed back at the shrine. “This is his place. I am his friend.”
She glanced at the picture of Ruth. “Is that so? For all I now you’re an old kook looking for a scam.”
“Really?” He cocked his right eyebrow. “I strike you as an old kook. Funny, but I’ve never actually been called that before. I just want to talk to him. He lives with me, you see. If I can’t find him, I will have to report him missing to the police. They’ll want to search this building.”
She stared at him evenly, expression now flat.
“Can you at least tell me if he’s okay?”
“He’s fine. What’s your name?”
“Chaim Leveler. Stephen calls me Rabbi, even though I’m not.”
“You only want to talk?”
She knew where he was! “Definitely. Just to know that he’s safe.”
“You swear not to tell anybody about this place?”
“Of course not.”
“Swear it.”
For the second time in a week, he broke his vow not to swear. “I swear it.”
“Follow me. He isn’t going to like this.”
“THERE IT is again,” Lars said. “The sound is different. Faster.”
Except for Roth, they all stood with ears pressed against the bared apartment wall, listening intently to the sound of a strange thumping that didn’t match the racket outside.
Lars straightened. “He’s digging under us.”
They’d heard the hum through most of the night, but it was morning before Lars suggested that it might not be traffic. Then the thumping in the street had broken the silence—a lone worker breaking up the sidewalk. After an hour, the worker had made no progress, and they knew that something was wrong.
Roth crossed to the window and peered down at the construction worker again. It did make sense—what better way to cover up a jackhammer underneath the building than to run a second jackhammer on the street.
If so, the Realtor’s gall was unprecedented. Roth grinned. Come to me, Stephen. I’ve been waiting so long. So very, very long.
Roth descended the stairs. His men followed. He shoved the basement door open and stepped into the concrete room. A steady thumping echoed softly through the entire structure. He faced the east wall, then the west. It was impossible to pinpoint the source of the sound.
Lars ran his fingers along one wall, listening. “It could be from the street, but I don’t think so. It’s too loud. I think he’s actually planning to break in through the floor.”
“Idiot!” Claude said. “He’ll come up to a rifle in his mouth.”
“No,” Roth said. “We can’t be sure where he’ll come up. Even if we could, he’ll drop back down and be gone if he sees us. I want him, and I w
ant him alive.”
He walked to the doors lining the basement and opened them one by one. He could feel the vibration run through his feet—stronger on the east side away from the boiler room, if his imagination wasn’t playing tricks on him.
The worker on the street was a cover-up. Unless the wrong person happened by, no one would know he wasn’t who he seemed to be.
Who would have imagined this, tunneling of all things? Then again, if Roth was in his position, he might have done the same. There must be an old sewer or something below the foundation.
“It is critical that we allow him to enter,” he said, turning back. “One man stays in the stairwell—Claude. The rest of you, finish upstairs. The moment he breaks through, key your radio three times. Watch him. Take no other action.” Roth frowned and then grunted. “Let the mole dig.”
35
“IN THERE?” CHAIM SHOUTED. A HORRENDOUS CLAMOR RANG FROM the hole in the ground.
“It’s wet down there, Rabbi. You sure you want to do this?” the girl asked.
“Stephen’s down in that hole? Is he a prisoner?”
She laughed. “I suppose that’s a matter of perspective. Come on.”
The dog that had come home with Stephen last week braved the noise to lick his hand. It whined and backed up several steps.
“It’s okay, puppy,” the girl said. “We’re almost done.”
The dog retreated out the door, tail between her legs.
The girl lowered herself into the hole and disappeared.
Chaim took a deep breath and swung his legs into the sewer. “My, my, my. What have you done?”
The tunnel glowed under a string of lights. Muddy water covered his leather shoes. Chaim covered his ears and waded toward the pounding.
At first all he saw was a rear end and legs protruding from a hole in the tunnel’s wall. The person was operating a jackhammer or something inside the hole, up at an angle. A strange contraption dangled free from the ceiling.
The girl slapped the person’s backside. The hammering stopped.
Chaim didn’t recognize the man who pulled himself out of the hole. White dust covered a mask and glasses. He looked freshly buttered and rolled in flour. The man saw Chaim, rubbed the lenses, and then pushed them to his forehead.
“Rabbi?”
He heard the voice and knew immediately. “Stephen! I didn’t recognize you. What on earth are you doing down here?”
Stephen looked at the girl.
“He said he was going to call the police if I didn’t bring him down,” she said.
Stephen looked back into the hole, stricken.
“You’re tunneling up?” Chaim asked.
Stephen didn’t answer.
“Isn’t this city property you’re tearing up?”
“We’re going to fix it,” Stephen said.
Looking at the boy now, Chaim knew that he could not hope to stop him. He wasn’t even sure he should try. In fact, he probably would do more service to Stephen if he helped him, as Gerik had suggested.
“That’s Rachel Spritzer’s basement up there, isn’t it?”
“Um . . . yes.”
“The Stones of David? They really are inside?”
“Well . . . I think so.”
“And the front door is no longer open to you?”
“No.”
“My, my, my.” Chaim shook his head. “I do love your spirit. Could you get arrested for doing this?”
“I . . . I don’t think we will. The new owners don’t want anything to do with the police. They’re after the Stones too.”
“I see.”
“How . . . how did you find me?”
“Detective work.” Chaim tapped his head. “My powers of deduction. I think to myself, where would Stephen seek love and happiness, and I narrow it down to two possibilities. One, in Sylvia’s arms, or two, the sewer under Rachel Spritzer’s apartment. I checked with Sylvia, and her arms were empty, so I rushed here.”
The girl chuckled. A crooked grin twisted Stephen’s mouth.
“How can I help?” Chaim asked.
“You’re serious?”
“This is about a girl named Esther, isn’t it? Love. And about your inheritance. I’m not sure I can operate that monster, but anything else, you name it.”
A thought seemed to flip a light switch behind Stephen’s eyes. No longer concerned with any threat presented by Chaim’s sudden appearance, he stuck his head in the hole and pulled out a large jackhammer. The handle thumped to the ground, and Melissa helped him lean it against the wall. He grabbed a flashlight and dived back into the hole, all but disappearing this time.
“My name’s Melissa,” the girl said, hand extended.
“Pleased to know you, Melissa. How deep is the hole?”
“Seven feet, about.”
“How far to go?”
“I’m surprised he hasn’t broken through yet.”
Stephen slid out, ignoring the dirt that encrusted his stomach. “I’m eight inches through the floor. If Sweeney’s right, that leaves four inches.” His eyes darted around. “The drill. Hand me the drill.”
Chaim stood back and watched them. Melissa unhooked a large red drill from the ceiling and handed it to Stephen. “How long is this bit?” the boy asked. “Six inches? That should work, right?” His frantic pace would impair his judgment.
He virtually threw himself back into the hole and wiggled up till only his muddy tennis shoes stuck out. His voice echoed back after a moment.
“What’s he saying?” Melissa asked.
Chaim stuck his head in. “What?”
“Plug it in,” Stephen said. “Power!”
“He says to plug it in,” Chaim told Melissa.
“Oh. Suppose that would help.” She switched the jackhammer’s cord for the drill’s and then swatted his shoe.
“What’s he doing?” Chaim asked.
“Playing it safe. Despite the distraction, there’s a possibility that whoever’s in there has heard us. He’s drilling a small hole to check it out before he breaks in.”
Stephen’s feet suddenly wiggled in farther. For a moment they remained still.
“I think he’s in.” Melissa looked into the hole. “Stephen?”
He suddenly scrambled backward, as if he’d met a brood of vipers. He piled out and stripped off his glasses.
“We got a problem. They’re in the basement!”
“They’re inside? How do you know?” Melissa demanded.
Stephen took two splashing steps through the water and wheeled back. “Oh, man. Oh, man, this isn’t good.”
“How do you know?”
“I heard someone cough, that’s how I know. And the light’s on. You have to get Sweeney.”
“You want him to stop?”
“We have to figure this out.” He paced, desperate. Chaim felt his own pulse quicken. “Get him!” Stephen snapped.
Melissa ran down the tunnel and up the ladder.
Stephen flexed his jaw and slowly beat his head against the concrete wall. “They heard us. They’re in the basement.”
“There has to be something you can do,” Chaim said.
“They probably have it already.”
“Can I go in? The front door?”
Stephen ignored him. He dived back into the hole, pulled himself way in, lay still for a moment, and then slid back out.
“They’re definitely in there.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Please.” Stephen held up a hand and closed his eyes. “Just let me think.”
THEY STOOD in silence, feet planted in six inches of water. Sweeney, Stephen, Melissa, and the rabbi. Stephen clenched his teeth, furious. He fought a terrible urge to run across the street and slam through the front door. Maybe the dogs were dead; maybe he could bluff his way in; maybe he could race down the stairs, grab the box, and lock himself in the coal room while Sweeney finished the digging. Another five minutes of hard hammering would surely crack open the hole.
“We have to get them out of the basement,” Sweeney said.
“Smoke ’em out,” Melissa said.
Stephen glared at her. “Well, sure, that’s just brilliant. We could build a fire down here and let the smoke seep through the little hole I drilled.”
“Lighten up.”
He lowered his head and kneaded his skull.
“There’s got to be a way,” Sweeney insisted. “Why don’t we burn down the building?” They looked at him. “Strike that.”
“You need to get them out of that building, correct?” Chaim asked.
“Yes. At least out of the basement.”
“For how long?”
“There’s about four inches of concrete, but without any support behind, it’s going to crack pretty quickly. Maybe fifteen minutes.”
“Plus time to repair the damage?” Chaim pressed.
“Forget that—”
“No, hear him out,” Sweeney said. “What’s on your mind, old man?”
“Maybe nothing, but it might start you thinking. The city has very specific evacuation policies for fires. If a fire breaks out in any building, they immediately evacuate not only that building, but any building next to it. It’s the law. They have to verify safety before allowing the occupants back into their homes.”
“So what are you saying?” Sweeney asked. “We start a fire?”
“No, we could never do that. But I know the fire department, and I know that if this building were to catch fire, the city would force the evacuation of all the buildings—”
“That’s it!” Stephen said. “That’s it! Right?” His eyes were like saucers.
Sweeney smiled. “Actually . . .”
Stephen broke for the manhole.
“Stephen? Where are you going?” the rabbi demanded.
“To start a fire,” he yelled. “Come on!”
36
“GET THE GUNS,” ROTH SAID. “EVERYTHING, IN THE CAR. NOW!” Claude ran for the stairs. Three fire engines had screeched to a halt in front of the building across the street. Thick black smoke boiled out of the windows on the upper floor. He could see no flames, only smoke.
The construction worker had run out to the street, heaved the jackhammer and the signs into the back of a car with the help of an older man, and then careened around the corner.
