Читать книгу Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 18

On his plate were thin slices of rare roast beef with horseradish sauce, three steaming hot potato pancakes smothered in applesauce, a scoop of red and white cabbage salad, and a chunk of challah. On the side was a plateful of cholent—a stew chock full of beans and beef and topped with stuffed derma. A crystal goblet full of ice water stood next to a matching wine glass brimming over with semi-dry rosé.

But his stomach churned.

Part of it was fever. He should have made time for the doctor yesterday. He was out of penicillin and infection was worming its way back into his system. But mostly it was Rina. She was sitting across from him and he had never seen such physical perfection. She always looked lovely on Shabbos, but not like this. He was in awe. Her hair was tied in a formal knot, outlining her magnificent bone structure. Two feathers of gold dangled from her earlobes and brushed against her creamy cheeks whenever she turned her head. Her cerulean eyes seemed deeper, more mysterious, her lips full and red. She was dressed modestly—long sleeves and a midcalf hemline, but the rounded neck of her chemise revealed the graceful arch of her throat and the fine architecture underneath. He didn’t dare let his eyes meet hers because if he did, the others at the table would know what he was thinking.

He picked up his knife and cut the meat into bite-sized pieces, knowing it would be rude to leave so much food on his plate. Taking a forkful, he began to chew with effort.

Rabbi Marcus was giving a Dvar Torah. This time it was a discourse on the weekly biblical portion. He wore a black suit, a white shirt, black tie, and black Borsalino. From under his shirt hung tzitzis-fringes. The other married men at the table were dressed identically; all had full beards.

Smoothing his mustache, Decker rubbed his naked chin self-consciously. His lack of total facial hair wasn’t the only thing that set him apart from the others. His coloring was a sanguine splash amid a sea of brunettes and his navy suit looked more executive than rabbinical. Even his kipah, smaller and knitted, wasn’t like the large black velvet ones covering the heads of the three unmarried yeshiva students.

The women’s dress was more varied than that of the men, and although they wore no makeup, they sparkled with jewelry.

Marcus began to speak animately, his stern eyes ablaze with passion, as he brought home his point. Decker tried to listen intently, but the mixture of English and Hebrew confused him and his right arm ached. The pain increased when he noticed the cold stare of Marcus’s wife, Chana, drilling into him. She was the biggest busybody he’d ever known, and he disliked her intensely. Her stony eyes marched back and forth between him and Rina—a self-appointed watchdog making sure nothing unholy transpired.

He’d made it through half his roast beef. The meat was delicious, but it sat like a stone in his belly. He sneaked a furtive glance at Rina, who met his eyes questioningly. He knew what she was thinking. Are you okay, Peter?

After Marcus ended his sermon, Decker returned his full attention to the food. Slowly, he cut another piece of beef, and then realized he couldn’t use a knife anymore. His arm had cramped. He speared the morsel with his left hand and felt a rivulet of sweat run down his forehead. Dabbing it quickly, he pushed his plate aside. Chana noticed, but no one else did, because the children had entered the dining room from the kitchen where they’d eaten at a separate table.

Rina’s boys took seats on either side of him and the table broke into zemiros—Sabbath songs. Sarah Libba Adler rose and began to clear dishes, and Rina, Chana, and the older girls got up to help her. Decker could feel Rina standing directly behind him, see her hand reach for his plate.

“You’re not hungry?” she said softly.

He turned to look up at her and shook his head.

She piled the silverware on top of his dish and removed the plate.

“He’s not used to Jewish cooking,” Chana said acerbically to Rina once they were inside the kitchen.

Rina shrugged.

Chana’s icy eyes narrowed. She picked up a three-tiered pastry dish and took it into the dining room.

“He’s not feeling well?” Sarah Libba whispered.

“I guess he’s just tired,” Rina answered. “The meal was superb, as usual.”

Sarah Libba looked at Decker’s half-emptied plate as if it refuted Rina’s compliment, but said nothing.

“Go sit down, Rina,” she urged. “Chana, the girls, and I can handle it.”

“Don’t be silly. I know how much work it takes to prepare something like this. I want to help.”

Holding a candy-dish in one hand and a nut-bowl in the other, Rina went back into the dining room and began to clear the glasses. He looks pale, she thought. But a smile spread across her lips as she noticed her boys singing loudly, curled against him. It had been ages since she’d seen them so happy.

After twenty minutes of dessert, cleanup, and singing, everyone was called back to the table for birkas hamazon—grace after meals. Zvi led the bentching, and at its conclusion, the men adjourned to the living room for Talmud and schnapps.

Decker lagged behind and caught her alone.

“When the men leave for shiur, make an excuse and meet me at your house,” he whispered.

She nodded imperceptibly.

The children went off for the Shabbos games and activities and the women talked in the dining room while the men sat in the living room. Rina had never minded the segregation, but today it irked her. She had little patience for endless discussions of Kashruth. She didn’t care which products had recently been endorsed by Agudath Israel, signifying them strictly kosher. It bored her, it peeved her, mainly it separated her from Peter.

The hour dragged on.

Finally the men announced they were leaving for the Rosh Yeshiva’s afternoon lecture.

Rina looked around the room, wondering how long she should wait in order to make her leaving it appear unobtrusive. Chana was gossiping passionately. The woman knew about everyone and everything—a malevolent omnipresence. Finally Sarah suggested they go to chumash class.

Halfway to the study hall, Rina excused herself, claiming she had to check whether she’d locked her front door. It was feeble, she knew. She should have come up with something better and the skeptical look on Chana’s face confirmed it. But it was too late now. Let the woman’s tongue wag; this wasn’t the first time Chana had used it against her and it wouldn’t be the last.

She found him waiting by the side of her house. He looked terrible. She unhitched the deadbolt and let him inside.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I need sterile gauze, a bottle of aspirin, any leftover antibiotics you might have, and a sterile, sharp knife.”

He struggled with his coat, but gave up. “Help me with this, Rina.”

She took off his jacket.

“Where are you hurt, Peter?”

“My right arm.”

She rolled up his sleeve, unwrapped the sopping wet dressing, then brought her hand to her mouth and gasped.

The flesh had turned brown except for a protruberance of mottled green pus.

“I’m fine, just get me a knife,” Decker said.

“Peter, you must go to an emergency room.”

“Just get me a knife.”

“Forget about Shabbos, Peter. This is life threatening. I’ll even drive you if you can’t drive yourself.”

“I’m not going,” he said loudly. “Just get me a knife.”

“By not going you’re committing an avayrah. Halachically, you have to go.”

“Rina, I don’t give a damn about halacha right now. I just need some relief.”

“Wait here,” she said. A few minutes later she reentered with a knife and a bowl full of steaming towels. “Come to the table, Peter. I’ll take care of it.”

“Rina, just give me the knife and get out of here.”

“You can’t excise the wound yet. It hasn’t formed enough of a head.”

He looked at her.

“Since when do you know about lancing pus pockets?”

“Come to the table,” she repeated firmly.

He followed her and slumped down in the armchair, grateful for the help.

“Stick out your arm.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to apply heat to bring up the head.” She dipped a towel into the steaming water, then wrung out the excess. “It’s going to hurt.”

“Can’t hurt any worse than it hurts now.”

But it did. It seared his flesh.

“How’d it happen?” she asked wrapping the arm.

“I was repairing the floorboard in the barn and an old plank of jagged wood cut into my arm.”

“I saw bitemarks,” she said.

He paused.

“Okay, I was bitten by a dog.”

“What happened, Peter?”

“I was chomped on by a whore in the line of duty. Are you happy now?”

Her eyes met his, but she said nothing. She unwrapped the first cloth, palpated the swelling, and wrapped it again in a newly heated towel.

“Where did you learn to do this?” he asked.

Rina noticed his face was drenched with sweat and mopped it with a dry towel. “Yitzchak and I moved to Israel a year after we married. To Kiryat Arba—a settlement in Hebron.” She stroked his hand. “We were in hostile territory and there were no Jewish doctors handy. You learn to do things.”

“You never told me you lived in Israel.”

“For three years. It was a phase of my life that I’ve tried to forget. Except for the year of Yitzchak’s death, I don’t think I was ever more miserable. I was stuck behind barbed wire fencing with two small infants of my own, and in charge of the group’s nursery which—baruch Hashem—had forty-four kids.” She paused a moment. “All the men carried guns with them. It was open warfare out there.”

“Including Yitzchak?”

“Yes.” She took off the old towel, wrung out another, and wrapped the wound a third time.

“But you didn’t?”

“The women never left the compound. We were guarded twenty-four hours a day. What would have been the purpose of learning how to shoot? Though now I wish I had.”

“Why’d you live there?” he asked.

“Idealism.” She shook her head. “When Yitzchak announced that we were going back to the States, I cried tears of joy, then immediately felt guilty about it. I was leaving the Holy Land and ecstatic about it.”

She laughed softly.

“Then I read in the Talmud that a Jew who passes up a permissible pleasure is a fool. I was very foolish in those years.”

“Why didn’t you put your foot down and tell him you wanted to leave?”

“I didn’t make myself clear,” she said, taking off the towel. “He would have left a long time ago. I was the one who insisted we stay—always the martyr, Peter. I thought we should be religious chalutzniks—pioneers. Finally, he put his foot down. He said he couldn’t live in that kind of atmosphere. When Rav Schulman invited him to join the kollel, he quickly accepted without consulting me. I couldn’t even get mad at him. The poor guy was so miserable, and I was so oblivious to his needs because I believed in some higher purpose.

“But it all worked out in the end. Yitzchak had wanted to live and study in Jerusalem—a more beautiful and inspiring city never existed. Had we settled there, I would have never left Israel. And then I would have never met you.”

She touched his skin; it was burning and taut. She told him to hold still.

His body was soaked with perspiration. Squeezing his eyes shut, he bit his lip hard, tasting the blood as it trickled into his mouth. He could feel the knife blade slicing into the swelling. A stab of pain, then skin bursting open, exploding pus that soured the room with its fetid stench.

“Good,” he heard her say.

He felt faint, but male pride kept him conscious.

She began to bathe the arm in antiseptic. The pain was overwhelming and caused him to shiver. Tenderly, she dabbed his face while cleansing the open sore. Finally, she patted the wound dry.

“It looks clean, Peter. Keep the towel firmly pressed on the cut while I take a look in the medicine cabinet.”

She came back with two half-empty bottles of pills and a roll of gauze.

“These are penicillin tablets from when I had strep. Take two every six hours. Take a couple of aspirin, also. They’ll make you feel better and reduce the swelling and fever.”

She unfurled the gauze and began to wrap the wound.

“I love you,” Decker said.

“I love you, too, Peter. Promise me you’ll go to a doctor after Shabbos is over.”

“No argument.”

“Do you want to rest here?”

“No. It would look bad.”

“I don’t care—”

“I do. Finish wrapping this and go on to your class. They’re probably wondering what happened to you.”

She nodded and worked quickly. When she was done, she helped him on with his coat.

“You go first,” she said. “I want to clean up.”

He looked at the pus and blood splashed over the starched white Shabbos linens on her table and frowned. The odor of decay was still powerful.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said calmly. “I really wish you’d go to the hospital.”

“I’m all right.” He hugged her as tight as he could. “I feel better already. Thanks.”

“Peter, how did it happen?”

“I don’t want to get into it, honey.”

“Okay,” she said. “I won’t meddle.”

“You’re not meddling. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I just don’t want to talk about it.”

She kissed his cheek. “You’d better get going.”

He kissed her back and left without another word, sucking in mouthfuls of air. Although his balance was unsteady, his pace was good. He had no intention of sitting through a lesson he didn’t understand, so he entered the main yeshiva building and headed for a small classroom in the basement. It was his favorite learning spot, and he’d hidden all the English translations of the holy books there. Taking out his chumash, he began to learn, trying to concentrate on the text instead of his pain.

Soon he became absorbed in the material, looking up references, checking sources, attempting to translate and understand the Hebrew which still eluded him.

It seemed he’d only been at it for minutes when he found himself squinting. The daylight had turned to dusk and it wouldn’t be long before the unlit room turned pitch black. He leaned back in his chair and inhaled deeply, enjoying the solitude, feeling very calm. His arm felt much better; Rina had done an excellent job. She never ceased to surprise him—so utterly feminine yet so competent. He saw firsthand how she handled crises, and her strength and willpower were scary. Maybe it was the religion; the women in the Bible were not known for their passivity—Judith lopping off the head of Holofernes, Yael driving a tent peg through Sisera’s temples. He could picture Rina doing that. After all, didn’t she buy a gun?

He heard footsteps and saw Rabbi Schulman dressed in his formal Shabbos silks. Decker started to rise, but the old man motioned him to remain seated.

“How’s your arm?” the old man asked.

“She told you?”

“You should have gone to a hospital. Shabbos should not be preserved at risk to human life.” He sat down. “Pekuah nefesh—your life is more important. Halachically, you should have gone.”

“Let me ask you this, Rabbi Schulman. If it had been you, what would you have gone?”

The Rosh Yeshiva sighed.

“Halacha is halacha. If I were convinced it was life-threatening, I would have gone.”

“You’re hedging.”

“What you did was unwise, Peter.” The old man smiled dryly. “And on top of that, you missed my lecture.”

“What language did you give it in this time?” Decker asked grinning.

“Hebrew and Yiddish. But you’re a bright man. You would have picked up something.”

Schulman raised his eyebrows.

“You looked tired at shacharis this morning. A blind person could see your exhaustion, now. Go to my house and rest.”

“I want to go to mincha,” Decker said.

The old man nodded.

“All right. Come with me. I won’t waste an old man’s breath to try to dissuade you.”

The men rose and Decker tensed his bicep. The joint was still stiff, but there was some limited motion—progress.

It was Sammy’s and Jacob’s turn to hold the havdalah candle. They stood on top of chairs flanking Decker, at the side of the dais, and lifted the silver candle holder high in the air. The Rosh Yeshiva struck the match and held it to the wicks, and soon the multicolored strands of braided wax were aglow with bright orange flames. The light flickered over the boys’ faces, and for a moment Decker flashed to the bonfires in Hotel Hell. The faces of the young squatters had been masks of death, but these boys were vibrant with life. Decker wrapped his fingers over their hands to protect them from the hot wax drippings and Sammy smiled at him. It warmed his heart.

Rav Schulman raised the silver goblet of wine and began, intoning a mellow singsong:

“Baruch atah Adonai Elohenu, Melach Haolam borei pre hagofen.”

Blessed art Thou, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has created the fruit of the vine.

The congregation responded with a resonant “Amen.”

The rabbi put down the wine cup and lifted a two-foot sculptured tower of silver. Its roof was peaked and topped by a gilt flag; gilt bells dangled from the edge of the eaves. Three of the tower’s sides were embossed with Hebrew letters, the fourth held a miniature door. Inside were spices—cloves, frankincense, allspice, whole chunks of cinnamon. In a loud voice, the rabbi made the blessing over the aromatics, opened the door, and deeply inhaled their sweet/tart perfume. He passed the tower to Decker who held it to the boys’ noses and his own, then returned it to the rabbi.

“Amen.”

The rabbi put down the spicebox and blessed God, the creator of light, by holding his fingernails close to the flame of the candle. He then recited the rest of the havdalah, the prayer marking the conclusion of Sabbath. Soon the new secular work week would start and God’s holy day of rest would officially be over.

Mellifluously, Schulman recited the last blessing and took a sip of wine. He poured the remaining wine into a silver dish, took the candle, and quenched the flame in it. The fire crackled and sparked until it was reduced to a stream of smoke.

“Baruch atah Adonai hamavdil beyn kodesh lechol.”

Blessed art Thou, Oh Lord, who hast made a distinction between sacred and profane.