“As far as I’m concerned, you don’t ever have to let go.”
She said nothing.
Decker looked around. The crowd had become tumultuous-a mass of bodies singing and dancing. Men were on each others’ shoulders. Others were spinning around in a circle, flying outward in centrifugal motion. Never had he seen such unbridled jubilation. And in the center was Moshe, held high above the others, smiling, nodding, and mumbling to himself.
“Look,” he said stroking her hair. “I’m taking a couple of days off to go camping in the mountains. God knows I can use a little peace and quiet. I know school starts in a week, so your kids are on their last leg of vacation. I’m not telling you what to do, and I’m going to go regardless of what you say, but, if you’re willing, I wouldn’t mind if the boys came along.”
“I don’t think so,” she said, still hugging him.
He kissed her head.
“Okay. Whatever you say.”
He touched her cheek and gently kissed her wounds. Closing her eyes, she ran her forefinger across his stubbled chin.
“You’ll need kosher food for them,” she whispered.
“So I’ll buy kosher food.”
“I don’t know…”
Decker didn’t push her. The last thing in the world she needed was to be talked into something. Besides, he knew that she, like he, would have to make her own decisions in her own time.
“I’ll let you know, Peter,” she said, breaking away reluctantly. “One way or the other, I promise I’ll call you.”
“Do that.”
She looked at the ambulance.
“I’ve got to go.”
“Let me walk you-”
“No. I can make it on my own.”
She cast a perfunctory glance over her shoulder, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed him lightly on the lips.
He watched her walk away and disappear inside the rear of the waiting ambulance. The doors slid shut, and she was gone. Decker sat down under the tree, pulled out a cigarette, and reached for a match, but found his pockets bare. So he stared at the crowd, holding an unlit cigarette between his thumb and middle finger.
A tall, thin figure materialized-the Rosh Yeshiva was coming his way, immaculately dressed as always and surefooted. The old man took off his homburg, revealing thick white hair, readjusted the oversized black yarmulke that had been underneath the hat, and placed the hat back atop his head. Decker started to stand as he approached, but the rabbi motioned him back down and sat down next to him under the tree.
“Need a light, detective?” Schulman asked.
“If you don’t mind.”
The Rosh Yeshiva lit two of his hand-rolled cigarettes and gave one to Decker.
“Thank you,” he said. “Some crowd, huh Rabbi?”
“We Jews have a penchant for the extremes of the emotional spectrum. We know how to mourn, we know how to rejoice. This is as much for Moshe as it is for the capture of Gilbert.”
When he mentioned the teacher’s name, the Rosh Yeshiva shook his head sadly.
“There was no way to know about Gilbert, Rabbi.”
“True, my boy. Only Hashem is omniscient, and until He decides we’re worthy of His communication via prophets or the Messiah, we mortals are forced to live in a state of ignorance. I’ve spent my whole life learning, Detective, acquiring knowledge not only from the scriptures of my belief, but from countless other sources-American law, philosophy, psychology, economics, political science: I have studied them all at great length. Yet, a madman can slip under my nose, and I realize I know nothing. I am still a meaningless speck of dust in the scheme of things. A most humbling experience.”
“I know the feeling well,” Decker said, smiling.
“It is good for the soul to be humbled,” the old man said. “It forces one to take stock.”
The detective nodded.
“Did you tell Rina Miriam about your background?” the Rosh Yeshiva asked.
“No.”
Schulman sucked on his cigarette.
“Do you intend to tell her?”
“Not until I know how I feel. I can’t call myself Jewish unless I know what that means. Otherwise, I’m not being honest with her-or myself.”
“Are you interested in learning what it means?”
“I haven’t been able to think about it until this guy was captured.”
“And now?”
The big man shrugged.
“I think I’ll take it a day at a time, Rabbi.”
“Would you care to join the men in dance, Peter?”
“No thank you, Rabbi,” he answered, self-consciously, “I’d probably step on my own toes.”
“As long as you don’t step on mine…”
The detective smiled.
“I still think I’ll pass. But thank you for the invitation. I feel honored.”
The men sat in silence and watched the crowd.
“Detective,” the Rabbi said, nudging him in the ribs, “we’ve got company.”
A horde of television and newspaper reporters were about to converge upon them, lugging tripods, video cameras, Nikons, and microphones.
“You may do as you please,” Rav Schulman said, standing up. “As for me, I’m going to dance.”
Decker rose as they approached: pencils poised, microphones thrust forward-invading Huns, ready for battle. He brushed off his pants and turned to the old man.
“Okay, Rabbi. Show me what to do.”
FAYE KELLERMAN introduced L.A. cop Peter Decker and his wife, Rina Lazarus, to the mystery world eleven years ago. Since that time she has written nine Peter Decker/Rina Lazarus novels as well as a historical novel, The Quality of Mercy. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, author Jonathan Kellerman. There are close to three million copies of her books in print.
