Authors: Faye Kellerman
He leaped out, returning fire: two rapid shots that took off a section of the cycle’s back fender. Still, the biker had kicked
the motor into gear and sped away, screeching tires that burned rubber even though the asphalt was wet. Decker decided not
to waste his last bullet on a fleeing target.
Panting heavily, he would have felt the wetness of sweat throughout his entire body except that he was soaked from the rain.
He picked up the flashlight, which had survived the battle without injury, then dragged his body into the driver’s seat. “Are
you okay, Jon?”
“I think so… ,” the rabbi whispered. “Other than uncontrollable shaking, I think I’m fine.”
Decker lowered his head on the wheel, fatigue covering him as oppressively as a sodden blanket. “I’m shaking, too.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m whole, and that’s all that counts right now.” Decker was trying to steady his heartbeat. He lifted his head up and turned
the key in the ignition. The motor coughed lazily, then decided to fire up. “Well, that’s a good start.”
Jonathan uncoiled from the fetal position and slithered into the passenger’s seat. He belted himself in.
“Here goes nothing.” Decker strapped on the seat belt, then put the van into drive and coaxed it out of the embankment. Once
he got it onto the asphalt, he depressed the gas pedal slowly. The car bucked, then limped noisily for about twenty feet before
Decker applied the brakes.
“We’ve got a flat,” Decker said. “Hopefully, only
a
flat… as in one tire. Do you have a spare?”
“I have a spare,” Jonathan said. “I’ve never changed a tire, but I’m assuming that you have.”
“You assume correctly.” Again Decker pulled the vehicle to the side of the road. He went out and inspected the damage—a Swiss-cheese
hood and one flat tire. Decker didn’t bother looking
under
the hood. At this point, it was probably best if he didn’t know. Jonathan had gotten out, staring at his newly ventilated
van.
“I’ll change the tire,” Decker told his brother. “No sense in both of us getting wet.”
“Nonsense. At the very least, I can hold the flashlight.” Jonathan paused. “Although I’m still trembling. Think of it as a
strobe.”
Decker laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder. He was as rigid as a stone post. “You’re holding up great.”
“Thank you.” He turned to Decker. “Who do you think it was?”
“Don’t know.”
“Donatti?”
“Maybe.”
“Merrin?”
“Quite possibly.” He exhaled. “I also borrowed… well, more like swiped the gun from an obnoxious taxicab driver. It could
have been him, too.” He brushed rainwater from his eyes. “I would even say maybe it was Chaim, but I think your brother-in-law
has other things on his mind right now.”
Together they pulled out the spare tire and the kit. An hour later, on four inflated tires, they made their way into the Bainberry
Mall parking lot. They settled upon the first store that looked promising, a unit that specialized in athletic gear that was
GOING OUT OF BUSINESS
. They rooted through the deeply discounted items, stocking up on sweats, T-shirts, lightweight waterproof jackets, socks,
sneakers, and an umbrella. By seven in the evening, they were back on the highway in dry clothes, wolfing down bagels and
sipping hot coffee from paper cups. Warmth on the skin, warmth in the belly: Heaven had many forms and shapes.
Jonathan was driving. “Where to?”
Decker thought a moment. “With the van in such poor shape, it makes sense for us to go back to Quinton. Maybe I can squeeze
something from the Feds.”
Jonathan blew out air. “So JFK is out?”
“I doubt if Hershfield’s still there,” Decker told him.
“True, true.” Jonathan tapped the steering wheel. “If we go back to Quinton, we’ll be stuck there for hours.”
“I know.”
“Also, you said this could be Merrin’s doing.”
“Possibly.”
“So maybe it’s not too safe for us to be there now.”
“Jonathan, if Chaim’s house is crawling with Feds, I think we’re okay for a while.”
His brother was silent. Decker said, “What’s on your mind, Jon? You have a look on your face.”
“The Liebers have a warehouse. It’s in the middle of nowhere—an old converted barn—about twenty miles north of Quinton. So
maybe around fifteen miles from where we are. You wouldn’t know how to get there unless you’ve been there before.”
“And you’ve been there before.”
“Raisie and I get our TVs, VCRs, computers, cameras, etcetera, etcetera from the overstock—last year’s models. Sometimes it’s
cheaper to get rid of items than to ship them back. We’ve always gone down after hours.”
“You have a plan.”
“Well, I have a location.” Jonathan finished his bagel. “I also know where the back door is. I’m sure it’s locked and alarmed
if no one’s there. But if Chaim is there, we can talk to him through the intercom.”
“And what are we supposed to say to him?” Decker asked.
“I don’t know,” Jonathan answered. “Convince him to give himself up.”
Decker laughed. “A man who set up his brother—and possibly his daughter—”
“Nonsense.”
“Fine. Be delusional. But I will tell you this. Chaim’s scared, wanted, and probably irrational. I don’t see him just… giving
up.”
“Well, then, maybe we can convince him that we’re a better bet than the police.”
Decker sipped coffee as thoughts tumbled in his brain. “I suppose we can check it out. Think the van can make it?”
“You’re the mechanical one,” Jonathan answered. “I’m a rabbi.”
“Who said rabbis couldn’t be mechanical?”
“Well, I’m not.”
“Fifteen miles one way,” Decker said. “Then, if we don’t find anything, we’ve got to make it
back
to Quinton. That’s forty miles in a van with a shot-out hood and driving on a spare in the rain.”
No one spoke.
Jonathan said, “I’m willing to try it.”
“Well, we have rain slickers now.…” Decker ran his fingers through his damp hair. “All right. Let’s give it a whirl.” They
drove several miles without speaking. “And what do we do, Jon, if he resists? What do we do when he starts shooting at us?”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know psychos.” Reaching into the glove compartment, Decker took out the snub-nose. “I have one bullet left. If it’s him
or me, I go for the kill. Can you accept that?”
“Better he be shot by you than by the police. At least, that way I’ll know that the shooting was justified.”
“Maybe better for you, Jon.” Decker felt his jaw tighten. “Not necessarily better for me.”
E
verything was stacked against them.
The van was straining at thirty, bouncing on a compromised set of tires, each bump and grind sending shock waves up their
spines. On top of that, the road was oil slicked, and it was as dark as sin outside. So Jonathan wasn’t
sure
if it was the right way. He summed up the situation perfectly.
“This was a terrible idea.” The van landed with a thud as it took a jump over a pothole. The engine stalled for a moment,
then continued to chug along. “I just want to reach Chaim before the police. Maybe less chance of his getting hurt.”
“If he doesn’t hurt us first.”
“Akiva, I asked you no less than a dozen times if you wanted to turn back—”
“I know you have. I’m conflicted.”
“So am I.” Jonathan gripped the wheel. “I want to help Chaim. He’s my wife’s brother. The family has been through hell. I’ve
been through hell. But I don’t want to get killed.”
“Succinctly put.” Decker tightened his coat around his body.
“Do you want to go back?” Jonathan asked him. “Your call.”
“Now there’s a switch. The rabbi daring the cop.”
“Not strange at all. Haven’t you read the Kemelman series?”
Decker smiled. The rain had abated to sprinkles, leaving the asphalt as shiny as polished onyx. Because one of the biker’s
bullets had
knocked out the heating fan, the windows were kept open to prevent the windshield from fogging up. Arctic cold, but at least
Jonathan could see. Since the windows were rolled down, Decker could hear the strong whoosh of water roiling downstream as
it cut deep ruts into the roadside mud.
To Decker, New York had always been synonymous with Manhattan. But the state was big and wide and full of open space. Long
stretches of glens and valleys sided rolling mountains and dense forest. Because it was dark, the terrain showed only shapes
and shadows, but occasionally he could make out a New England clapboard house lit from the inside, or even a small brick structure
that sat on the edge of the highway. Once he saw a barn illuminated by several exterior lights, in front of it a hand-painted
sign boasting antiques as well as fresh farm products. He could see the mist falling in the light’s beam, the sign streaked
with water. In the background, he caught glimpses of fields, but nothing appeared to be growing.
Jonathan caught his brother staring out the window. “It’s New York’s Corn Belt.”
“I didn’t realize it was so rural.”
“Very rural. You should feel right at home.”
Decker laid on the accent. “Yeah, that there city is too durn big for my blood.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I’m teasing. Mellow out.”
“I’m edgy.” Jonathan clutched the steering wheel with his gloved hands, shivering as he drove. “I’ve never been shot at.”
“No one’s shooting at us now.”
“
Baruch Hashem
,” Jonathan intoned as he thanked God.
“Good thing, too, with only one bullet.” Decker held the snub-nose. “That’s all right. Guns can give you a false sense of
security. Lack of ammo will make us think.”
“Any new theories?”
“No, I’m not holding back. Want me to drive for a little, Jon?”
“No, I’ll do it because at least I have some idea of where I’m going.”
Decker tried the cell again. Whereas before he got a momentary dial tone, this time he got nothing.
“The farther upstate, the less likely we are to get a connection,” Jonathan said.
“How far away are we in terms of time?”
“I’d say maybe twenty minutes.”
“How’s the gas gauge?”
“Steady. He didn’t hit the tank. And I filled up right when I got into Quinton. Gas isn’t the problem. We finished those bagels
pretty quickly. Are you still hungry?”
Decker was stunned. “You have
food
?”
“Raisie packed me Danish before I left shiva. She figured that maybe I could use a nosh.”
“She figured right.”
“It’s all the way in the back.”
Decker unbuckled his belt. “Don’t get into an accident.”
“As long as no one snipes at us, that won’t be a problem.”
Climbing over the backseat, Decker went headfirst into the back of the van and extracted a large paper grocery bag. Sitting
in the backseat, he pulled out an aluminum-wrapped bundle. Inside were a dozen assorted Danish. There were also several cans
of Diet Coke, as if the sugar lacking in the soda compensated for the pounds of sugar in the baked goods. Using contortion
and great skill, he wedged himself back into the front passenger’s seat. “I’ve got cheese, apple, chocolate, cherry… what
is this?” He smelled it. “I think it’s
mun
—”
“Cheese.”
Decker handed him a pastry. He chose an apple turnover and downed it in three bites. “Should I pop the top on this soda can
for you? This vehicle certainly has enough cup holders.”
“Please.”
He opened two cans of Diet Coke. “Your wife is very smart.”
“All Jewish women are smart when it comes to food.”
“Yeah, I can see Rina doing something like that.”
“Did you talk to her today?”
“Just in the morning. She’s probably worried about me. Turns out for good reason.”
They rode in contemplative quiet, Decker trying to figure out
Chaim’s role in what appeared to be a sophisticated ecstasy ring. Mastermind? Unwitting abettor? Dupe?
“There it is,” Jonathan told him.
“I don’t see anything.”
“The turnoff. We’re about ten minutes away.”
As they drove, Decker felt a prickling on the back of his neck. Over the years, he had learned not to ignore intuitive pulses.
“Almost there,” Jonathan told him.
Jittery, Decker swept his eyes across the terrain. First he studied what was directly in front of him, then to the right,
glancing at the side mirror. He turned around and scanned over his shoulder, along with a check in the rearview mirror, then
left for the side mirror.
“We should be right on top of it,” Jonathan announced.
Off the roadway, Decker spotted several glints of chrome, but there were no lights up ahead. “Jon, pull over and stop.”
“What? Why?” But Jonathan followed instructions, rolling the van over a mud-coated field. “What’s wrong now?”
“Does Chaim’s warehouse have a parking lot?”
“Of course.”
“So why are these vehicles parked here, in a muddy field?” Decker pointed to a Jeep Cherokee and a Mitsubishi Montero.
“Maybe the lot was flooded.”
“Why don’t I think that’s the case?” Decker reached into the middle section of the van and dragged over the bags of clothing
resting on the seats. There was a rain slicker for him and one for his brother. Then came the gloves. Lastly, he placed plastic
bags around his shoes and tied them over his ankles, instructing Jonathan to do the same. When they were finished, he took
the flashlight and opened the door. Not anxious to fall, he took his time getting over to the Cherokee. He tried the door,
but it was locked. He shone the light through the side windows, his eyes meticulously observing what was inside.
Jonathan had caught up with him. “Anything interesting?”
“Young person’s car… at least the taste in music is young—my son’s age. I can tell by the CD covers on the floor.” Another
pass of the beam through the interior. “Pills on the seat. See how they’re
stamped—the hearts, that one with a ’toon on it? It’s ecstasy. Trash on the floor—beer bottles, cigarette butts…” He looked
at his brother. “A couple of Quinton kids got arrested for bad behavior with ecstasy down in Miami—Philip Caldwell and Ryan
Anderson. Betcha this baby belongs to one of them.”