Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection. Faye Kellerman
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