A blare sounded in the distance: something that was traveling because of the Doppler effect-the wave of noise advancing, then receding. A series of hoots. Owls, possibly? Then once again there was nothing, a creepy stillness that was worse than the creaks and the cracks.
And what if Donatti didn’t show?
Then that would be that.
At the moment, the option sounded all right to Decker, much better than freezing his nuts off in the middle of nowhere. Breathing in soot and grime, continuously looking over his shoulder or behind his back because any second he might get sliced up by some fifteen-year-old psycho punk with nothing better to do. One side of Decker was almost hoping that C.D. would revert to his pathological lying self and pull a tilt. Donatti was a funny bastard. He wasn’t evil for evil’s sake, but he was self-serving and amoral-an unscrupulous son of a bitch who did evil things, and that made his moves even harder to figure out. An evil man will kill and rob and rape for the thrill, for the fun and games. An amoral man like Donatti had no problems with killing and robbing, but he didn’t do it for kicks. He did the deeds, sure, but only if they were in his best interest.
Just what was in Donatti’s best interest?
Decker took out a small bottle of Chivas and took a stiff drink. For dinner, he had eaten a tasteless vegetarian sandwich made with stale bread. It was atonement for eating so much meat yesterday night. He was trying to help his stomach out. Instead, the supposedly light food was sitting like stone in his gut.
Another drink just to soothe the nerves.
He was completely disoriented: a friggin’ sitting duck. Why the hell hadn’t he taken the piece that Donatti had offered him? But even that could have been a setup.
You take the piece, and then I’ll have a reason to shoot you.
With C.D., Decker just didn’t know. Donatti had talked about Decker swallowing, just as he had for eight years. Was this meeting staged? Was it masking a final act of revenge that had lain dormant for years, turning over in a cold, cruel mind?
Eleven-fifteen.
Decker took another swig of booze.
Fifteen minutes passed, producing nothing but hard shivers down his spine and numbness to his toes.
He’d wait until the witching hour. Then… that was it.
Five minutes before midnight, Decker saw it-an approaching, silent shadow. No car in his view; Decker hadn’t even heard any faraway engine sounds. He wondered how the shadow had gotten here so quietly. Did it walk on tiptoes, or had Decker’s mind wandered so he hadn’t noticed obvious noise?
His nerves shot into overdrive as he bent down to pick up the tire jack-heavy and cold in his grip. Slowly, the shadow took shape, Donatti materializing through the mist. He was dressed in a woolen overcoat, with gloves on his hands. He was literally dragging a package behind him-a small, frail thing swathed in a baggy coat. Her hands were wrapped in knitted mittens, but there were holes at the fingertips. She appeared like a toddler next to Donatti’s massive frame. Even at a distance, Decker could tell that she was crying, sobbing to him, begging him.
“Please don’t make me go back.”
“No one is making you go back.”
“Please don’t make me talk-”
“He just wants to see you-”
“No, please, no!” She was clutching Chris’s arm, her nails digging into his coat. Strands of long, matted hair stuck to her wet face. He continued to lug her closer, and Decker took a few steps out to meet them. At that point, Decker saw that she was shaking harder, absolutely trembling with dread, barely able to support her own weight under bent knees.
Decker stopped advancing. “It’s okay. It’s okay. Stay where you are.” He studied the girl. It appeared to be Shayndie, but with it being so dark and with her face obscured, Decker just wasn’t sure. Donatti halted his footsteps and the girl immediately buried her face into Donatti’s ribs, just under his armpit.
“She’s obviously comfortable with you,” Decker remarked.
“What can I say?” Donatti answered. “Natural charm. Shayndie, just answer this man’s questions and we’ll go back-”
“He’ll tell my father.”
“I won’t tell your father,” Decker answered.
“Don’t believe him, Mr. Donatti. He’s one of them.”
“Nah.” Chris blew her off. “He couldn’t care less about Jews. He has to pretend to be Jewish, or else his wife will get mad. C’mon, Shayndie. I’m cold and I’m grumpy. Let’s get this over with.” He grabbed her by her arm and pulled her away from his body. Then he bent down and looked in her eyes. Instantly, Shayndie covered her face with her palms.
“He won’t hurt you.” Donatti pulled her hands down. “He’s actually an okay guy, all right. I promise he won’t hurt you. And if he does, I’ll kill him, all right?” A gun was pulled from his coat. It was a big one, possibly a Magnum. Donatti stood up and pointed the weapon at Decker. “See this? I have the weapon; he doesn’t. That means he’s screwed if he tries anything.”
“Please don’t make me talk to him.”
“Shayndie, answer his questions, or I’m gonna get pissed! I’m tired. I want to go home. Just do it, okay?”
She nodded, but then slapped her hands over her face again.
“And take your damn hands off your face! C’mon, girl! I’m willing to help you, but you gotta pull yourself together.” Again he bent down. He lowered his voice. “C’mon, sugar. Can you do that for me?”
She didn’t answer, but Decker noticed that the shaking was subsiding.
He kissed her forehead and pulled loose hair from her face. “Please, sugar? You want to make me happy, don’t you?”
She nodded.
“This would make me happy. Can you do it? Can you talk to him?”
Again she nodded.
“Yeah, I know you can. You’re a strong girl.” Donatti kissed her cheek, then stood up, his eyes fixed on Decker’s face. “Make it quick or we’re both gonna have problems.”
“Can you tell me what happened to your uncle, Shaynda?”
She muttered something, but Decker couldn’t make it out.
“I can’t hear her.”
Chris sighed with exasperation. He bent down a third time. “C’mon, honey. Whisper it in my ear.”
She did as told. Donatti nodded as she spoke behind a cupped hand. He said, “Someone grabbed him as they were walking to the museum. She got away.” To Shayndie, he said, “Did you see who did it?”
“Men,” she muttered.
“How many?” Decker asked.
“Two… three. They were frum. They wore kapotes.”
“Lubavitch?” Decker said.
A shake of the head told him no.
“Satmar?”
Again the answer was negative.
“Breslav.”
“No. I mean I don’t know. They wore… shtreimels.”
“Shtreimels? In the middle of the work week?”
She nodded yes.
“And they were dressed up in silk kapotes or something?”
She nodded.
Donatti said, “Can you translate this for me?”
“The men who took her uncle wore Chasidic garb. There are many different Chasidic sects. The Liebers are a certain sect, and I’m trying to find out if one of his own whacked him. She thinks it might be another sect because they wore Sabbath dress in the middle of the week. A shtreimel is a unique broad-brimmed fur hat worn only on Sabbath and special occasions.” Decker made a face. “Something’s off, Donatti. Sounds like someone was playing dress-up.”
“Any idea who?”
“I wish.” To Shayndie, Decker said, “Did you recognize any of the men?”
A quick shake of the head.
“You’re sure about that?”
“It happened very fast,” she mumbled. “I was scared.”
But Decker felt certain that the girl was holding back. “Have you talked to your parents since it happened?”