Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection. Faye Kellerman
“Yeah.”
“C’mon,” she chirped. “Let’s get outta here before you burn the place down.”
“I’m going home,” he said disgustedly. “Maybe some other time, okay?”
The girl stopped laughing.
“C’mon,” she said, tugging at his jacket sleeve. He jerked away violently, and she stepped backward, frightened. Without a word, he slapped some bills on the countertop, turned around, and left.
As he drove home, the images grew stronger. The smoky stench of his jacket polluted the car, made it stifling. He threw open the windows and allowed a blast of cold air to hit his face, but still he sweated profusely. The images became real—fire, the stink of rotting flesh. Long-buried memories surfaced. Nam. Tracers lighting up the sky. Blood and bursts of rocket fire. Dismembered bodies. Stop the bleeding treat em for shock get em to a chopper. He shook his head fiercely. His mind segued to the ravaged young faces at Hotel Hell. And to Lindsey, her flesh darkening, oozing, cooking in the flames. He closed his eyes for a moment, but the nightmare stayed.
A horn honked, reminding him that the car was drifting into oncoming traffic. He jerked the wheel around and nearly sideswiped the vehicle on his right. Flooring the gas pedal, he raced over to the yeshiva, managing to get there unharmed.
It was nearly midnight, the place calm and peaceful. He banged loudly on her door, the knocks echoing in the quiet.
“Who’s there?” he heard her say, startled.
He had scared her.
“Peter,” he whispered. But she didn’t hear him and repeated her question, her voice small and frightened.
“It’s Peter,” he said again.
She unbolted the door.
“You scared—What’s wrong?”
He stepped inside and began to pace.
“I burned it,” he said, wiping off sweat with a jacket sleeve.
“It’s all right,” she soothed him. “Calm down and tell me what happened.”
He grabbed at his hair and pulled it.
“You don’t understand. I burned it with my goddam cigarette.” He took out the siddur and threw it on the floor.
She bent down and picked it up. An angel, he thought. Under her open robe he could see a diaphanous white nightgown. He could make out the outline of her body, but nothing more.
“Sit down, honey,” she said quietly. “Let me get dressed. Then we can talk.”
He grabbed her arm.
“You’ve got to believe me! It was an accident! I didn’t mean it!”
She leaned over to stroke his clenched hand and recoiled involuntarily. His breath.
“I know you didn’t. It’s okay, Peter. You’re okay.”
“I didn’t fucking mean to do it! It was an accident! I didn’t mean to burn it or her or anyone!” The sweat began to drop off of his forehead and nose. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“It’s okay.” She brought him to her breast and embraced him. He threw his arms around her neck and nuzzled against her ear.
“Hold me, Rina,” he said, kissing her cheek, her neck. He pulled her nightgown off her shoulder and exposed the delicate white skin, kissing it, licking it, gently biting the sweet-smelling flesh.
“Love me, baby,” he said softly. “Please love me tonight.”
17
Even before he was fully awake, he knew he was going to be sick. His main concern was making it to the bathroom. Upon opening his eyes, he realized to his horror that he wasn’t in his bedroom. He looked around without moving his head. The room was faintly familiar, but her fragrance was pervasive. Rina’s bedroom.
He had no memory of how he got there.
He was stripped down to his underwear, tucked under smooth soft sheets that urged him to go back to sleep. But his stomach lurched, letting him know that if he didn’t find a toilet soon, he’d upchuck in the bed. The house was quiet. Hopefully, no one was home and he could make a dash for the bathroom without being seen.
Forcing his body upright, his head spinning, he stood on his feet, buckled, but didn’t fall. On the second try, his feet were able to hold his weight and he staggered to the bathroom and knelt over the toilet. His guts caved in and afterwards he felt much better. On the bathroom counter were a hand towel, an electric shaver, and a bottle of aspirin. After downing two tablets and rinsing out his mouth, he washed his face and neck and shaved. Back in the bedroom, he found a set of tefillin and a siddur resting on the dresser. His clothes had been neatly draped over the back of an easy chair. On top of them were his gun and holster, and a note from Rina.
Coffee’s on the stove. Juice is in the refrigerator. Key’s in the door. Lock up and leave it in the mailbox when you leave.
He picked up the phylacteries but put them back down. Empty words. No sense being a hypocrite.
He poured himself a cup of coffee. What the hell had happened between them last night? He remembered the feel of her skin, remembered that he’d kissed her, but beyond that it was a blank. Not even a blur—a blank.
He had wanted her so much. And now to think they might have made love and he had no memory of it.
Life wasn’t fucking fair!
He checked his watch. It was close to ten. Morrison had told him to take a day off, but he was too keyed up. Might as well proceed.
Clementine had disappeared, no one Decker talked to had ever heard of the Blade, he couldn’t find Kiki, and nobody recognized the painted dude in the red robe.
A total bust.
He slumped in his chair and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. Marge approached him.
“Not going too well, Rabbi?”
“It’s going shitty, Marge.”
“Well, I’ve got some good news.”
Decker perked up.
“It has nothing to do with the case,” she said. “Marriot and Bartholomew have returned to their posts. We’re back in Juvey and Sex Crimes.”
Decker tossed her a dirty look.
“Well, at least our victims can talk,” she pointed out.
“This case is eating at me.”
“No one’s stealing it from you, Pete. No one wants it. Stop being so hard on yourself. You took two bags of bones, identified them, and solved the Bates murder—”
“I don’t know who killed the Countess.”
“You know how Lindsey Bates was killed. Who gives a damn how the Countess bit it? She deserved to die.”
“I have to find out who’s behind it all. We can’t let this happen again.”
Marge sighed. “You’re right. So what’s your next step?”
“Damned if I know.” He snapped a pencil in two.
“By the way, Pete. Dr. Hennon called. She says Armbruster and the Countess are a match, just as we thought.”
Decker bolted out of his chair. “I just had a brainstorm. I’ve got to go down to the morgue and borrow a skull.”
“Who do the teeth belong to?” Hennon asked over the phone.
“I’m betting it’s the guy in the snuff film I told you about,” Decker said.
“But you don’t know the