Day of Atonement (32 page)

Initially, it was
Peter’s physical convalescence that worried Rina. But after it became clear he was out of mortal danger and on the road to recovery, she became increasingly concerned about his psychological welfare. Immediately after he was stabilized, Peter
seemed
to be functioning pretty well. He was in obvious pain, but his arm and shoulder had a good range of mobility.

On the emotional level, Rina
knew
he was keeping it all inside—refusing to discuss
any
details of the ordeal with her, with Marge or Mike, with the doctors or even with the psychologist sent out by the department. If anybody wanted to know anything, Peter had said, just look it up in his report.

The paperwork was mountainous, the questions by his superior officers repetitive and insistent, but Peter fielded them well, wrote reports until his fingers swelled, until Rina insisted he stop.

The bulk of his labors went to securing Noam’s release—a necessary diversion. As long as Peter concentrated on Noam, he was able to forget about his own problems. And there was a slew of work to be done on that front.

Peter worked not only as a cop but as a lawyer, devising defensive strategies, then penning police reports that would support his conclusions. His contention was simple: Noam had been a victim, pure and simple. Though he might have
left New York voluntarily with Hersh Schaltz, he had never intended to engage in criminal activity. Upon their arrival in Los Angeles, Hersh now felt comfortable enough to display his true sociopathological nature because Noam was at his mercy—a minor cut off from his family and without any means of support. Noam had completely relied on Hersh for all the basics—food, clothing, and shelter. Hersh used Noam’s total dependency on him and combined it with the constant threat of death to hold the boy in a Svengalian trance. Noam had been forced to abet Hersh, acting out of fear for his own life.

There had been prior cases in the books to support the defense. But luck was with the boy and any legal defense turned out to be unnecessary. The higher-ups in the department felt the same way Peter had. Without witnesses or physical evidence to link Noam directly to the crimes, the DA felt the case was too weak to try. Charges were dropped—not even plea-bargained down. Simply dropped.

But the boy’s problems were far from over. In fact, it seemed to Rina, they were just beginning. She had stolen away for an hour and visited him before his parents came into town. Noam had become a shell, regressed to something only vaguely definable as human. Physically, he sat curled in his jail cell, shoulders to his knees, head tucked into his chest. He was unresponsive to her words, to her touch. Nothing—except constant prayer—held any interest for him.

Acting as a go-between for Peter and the police, Rina made the arrangements for the family to pick Noam up. But as the hour neared, she knew she wouldn’t come down and meet them at the station house. She told herself that it was Peter who needed her, not the Levines. And that was true. But she knew she couldn’t bear to see the look on Breina’s face once she had witnessed what her boy had become.

So Rina concentrated on Peter. On giving him pep talks, on making him as comfortable as possible. He didn’t complain much. That was just Peter.

She expected him to be slow to open up and she wasn’t
surprised by his sudden, short-lived flare-ups of temper. When he refused pain medicine, she thought that he was just being stoic.

But she knew something was
terribly
wrong when Peter started acting
illogical
. Peter was the original rational being. If it made sense, you did it. If it didn’t, you didn’t.

Weakened by loss of plasma and dehydration, he had adamantly refused any blood from the bank, ranting about AIDS and other infectious diseases. It was his body and he’d do damn well what he pleased with it. If he was meant to die now, then just get it over with. Better that than a lingering death.

The doctors reluctantly went along with his demand, figuring a man of Peter’s size would be able to recover from the loss of two pints of blood. After the primary trauma had passed, he appeared to be settling down.

All illusion.

Having rested a meager two days, knowing that Noam was back in the womb of his family, he suddenly checked himself out of the hospital AMA—against medical advice—and booked a flight back to New York.

That was insane, Rina had insisted. There was no way she was going to sit by and let him kill himself. He absolutely was
not
going anywhere.

But again Peter had shut her out. She had sat by helplessly, watching him bite back pain and throw clothes into a suitcase.

He was going to New York, he had announced. Now that Noam was out of his hair, he felt strong enough to deal with the family. Might as well get the damn thing over with, say his good-byes and never see Brooklyn or any Levines again as long as he lived. Period! Discussion ended! And while he was back east, he was going to stop by and visit his parents in Florida. If she and the boys wanted to come along, okay. If not, he’d go alone.

His entire chest had been bandaged, his wounded arm wrapped in surgical gauze and stabilized by a sling. Still, he
had insisted on doing his “
own
packing, thank you very much.” His movements had been slow and painful, every twist and turn making him wince. His face was gaunt, his coloring ashen. Any second, Rina had thought he’d keel over. But he had plodded along, using stubbornness as a shield against logic. No amount of pleading, crying, screaming, or reasoning had been able to sway his mule-headed decision.

Peter’s pathological denial finally caught up with him in New York. While riding to Brooklyn from the airport, his radial artery abruptly opened, blood gushing from the bandage, drenching him and the backseat of the cab. He was rushed to the hospital in dire need of blood, which he still refused to take from a bank.

Rina knew Peter’s blood type—B negative—was uncommon. Then she remembered that Cindy had arrived in town, a new freshman at Columbia. Rina called her and Cindy rushed over to the hospital only to discover that her blood was incompatible with Peter’s.

Fortunately, there was a nearby donor with compatible blood. At first Peter refused. But Rina
persisted
, gaining a hard-fought victory. Finally, Peter relented and accepted a pint of blood from Frieda Levine.

He was dozing when he heard a knock on the door. He checked his watch, knew it wasn’t time for Rina’s visit.

Can’t get any peace even in a friggin hospital. He’d transferred himself to a small, private place about an hour away from Brooklyn, having given Rina firm instructions that only she, Cindy, and the boys were permitted to visit. But he knew it was only a matter of time before
one
of the Levines would make overtures despite his request. Guess that was human nature. And being a civilized person, he’d probably talk to whoever it was. But deep inside he wished they’d all disappear.

Might as well get it over with. Hadn’t that been the reason for his rush to New York in the first place? And didn’t Yom
Kippur start tonight? They probably wanted to ask him for forgiveness.

There really wasn’t anything to forgive. Wasn’t their fault he’d been shot up by a maniac. Wasn’t anyone’s fault. Wasn’t even God’s fault. Bad things just happen sometimes.

And sometimes good things happen for no particular reason. Like how he met Rina, fielding a routine rape call.

Win some, lose some. No sense getting all bent out of shape. As soon as his body healed completely, as soon as the nightmares faded, he’d be just fine. So maybe there’d be a little twinge of pain now and then. He could live with that. Goddamn doctors trying to pump him up with pain-killers. What’d they think he was? A goddamn girl?

Again, the rapping at the door.

Persistent bugger.

He adjusted the tilt of his bed, trying to get himself comfortable. Truth be told, he felt as if he’d been flattened by a runaway John Deere. But hell, mending takes time. He told the caller to come in, his eyes widening when his brother opened the door and walked across the threshold.

Randy Decker was six one, his large frame pumped up to massive proportions by years of weight lifting. He was dark-complexioned, with black piercing eyes and shiny black hair, which he wore long and tied in a ponytail. His black and gray beard covered most of the keloid patch on the right side of his throat, the scar caused by a .38 slug through the neck. His left ear sported an iron-cross earring, his right forearm was tattooed with a naked lady. His universal sleazebag look—combined with his fluency in Spanish and Portuguese—allowed him to switch to any undercover detail at a moment’s notice. But his primary bailiwick was Narcotics.

Randy had dressed for the occasion. His jeans were whole and he wore sleeves—a camouflage T-shirt to be exact. On his feet were canvas loafers without socks.

“I specifically told Rina not to tell you,” Decker said.

“She didn’t tell me,” Randy said. He had a throaty smoker’s voice. He pulled up a chair next to the bed and sat,
the seat drooping under his weight. “You think I’m a dumb-fuck, Peter? Mom calls and tells me you broke your arm, you’re coming for a visit.” He shook his head. “That don’t make no sense. You don’t visit your parents when you just got married and had the good luck to break an arm. You stay at home and fuck the daylights out of your wife. You visit your parents when you’ve seen your life flashing before your eyes, know what I’m talking about?”

“I know what you’re talking about.”

“I ate it three different times and every single time I told you right away.” Randy hit Decker on his right arm—his good one. “Whatchu keeping secrets from your brother, huh?”

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

“You didn’t want to worry me, huh?” Randy hit him again. “What worried me is when Mom told me you were coming down. I didn’t know where the fucker plugged you. When Rina told me it was only your arm and your shoulder, I was
relieved
. Hey, you got your three B’s—your brain, your back, and your balls. You’ll be fine.”

“What a guy!”

“Yeah, well, I’m not making light of it or anything. I’m just saying it could have been a lot worse.”

“You’re right.”

Randy bounced his leg up and down. “Guy’s dead, huh.”

“He’s dead.”

“That’s good. Nice and clean. Otherwise, it eats you up, you know. You start thinking crazy. That don’t help anyone.”

Decker nodded.

“Where’d you plug him?” Randy said.

“Between the eyes.”

“Where else?”

“What do you mean?”

“You musta emptied the chamber in him.”

Decker raised his eyebrows. “A chamber and a clip.”

Randy laughed. “See, I know the story. Get him in the balls, Peter?”

“No,” Decker said. “I probably would have if I’d been able to aim.”

“A chamber and clip, huh?” Randy said. “Turned him into Swiss cheese. How’d you explain that to the department?”

“Department’s been okay,” Decker said.

Randy said, “That’s good. Last thing you need is the department breathing down your neck. How you really doin’?”

“I’ll be okay.”

“Department set you up with a shrink?”

“I went through Nam,” Decker said. “I don’t need a shrink.”

“Talk to the shrink, Peter. First of all, anything that you can stick to the department, you take. Second, lots of the shrinks are good-lookin’ women. Not so bad to spend an hour talking about yourself to a good-lookin’ woman, huh?”

“I’ll see.”

“Do
me
a favor, okay?” Randy said. “Do it for your
brother
.”

“I’d do anything for my brother.” Decker’s voice cracked.

“Yeah, same here.”

They embraced gently. Randy noticed Decker grimacing.

“You takin’ anything for the pain?”

“It doesn’t hurt too badly.”

“You mean, it hurts like shit, but you’re not complainin’.”

“The pain’s more of a nuisance than anything else. How’s the family, Randy?”

“You mean Mom and Dad? They’re okay. Roxanne’s a pain in the ass. Same old shit. She spends it faster than I’m makin’ it. Wondering why I’m not making as much as half my compadres. Never dawned on her that they might be on the take. All she sees is the cars, the swimming pools—” Randy knocked his head. “What am I goin’ on about? I must still be nervous. Your call to Mom really had me worried. You really doing okay?”

“I’m really doing okay. You need money, Randy? Don’t be shy.”

Randy made a sour face. “I didn’t come here to borrow money, Peter.”

“I’m not saying you did. I just asked a simple question.”

“I’m okay.” But his voice was tight.

“I’ll send you something,” Decker said.

“Nah, don’t do that. You got a family to support now, Sergeant Bro. Two little boys. You spend it on them.”

“It’s not a problem,” Decker said. “What do you need? Couple hundred tide you over?”

Randy shrugged.

“You need more?”

“No,” Randy said. “No, no, no. Couple hundred’s fine.” He smiled sheepishly. “I won’t even bother to say I’ll pay you back.”

“Good.”

Randy’s eyes began to water. He took his brother’s face in his hands. “I love you, Bro.” Salty streaks ran down his cheeks and dissolved into his beard. “You take care of yourself. Don’t fuckin’ do anything like this again.”

Decker took his brother’s hands and clasped them firmly in his own. “I’m not planning on it.”

Randy stood up, wiped his eyes. He pointed his finger at Decker and said, “That’s real good. I’ll see you at the house.”

“See you,” Decker said.

“When you coming down?”

“A major Jewish holiday starts tomorrow—”

“That the one where you eat the crackers?” Randy asked.

Decker smiled. “That’s Passover. This is the one where you fast for twenty-four hours.”

“But you don’t have to do that in your condition, right?”

“Right.”

“You’re in no condition to fast.”

“I don’t intend to fast,” Decker said. “But I’m going to do a lot of praying, I can tell you that much.”