The old guy with the broom had disappeared. Instead, there were two men waiting for me. One was young, with a red skullcap that looked too small for his head and a head that looked too small for his shoulders. He wore a dark shirt and black jeans and, judging by his expression, wasn't one of the people of kindness. The man beside him was older, with thinning gray hair and a thick beard. He was dressed more traditionally than his friend-white shirt and black tie beneath a black suit and overcoat-but didn't look significantly kinder.
“Are you the rabbi?” I asked him.
“No, we are not connected with the Orensanz Center,” he replied, before adding: “You think everyone who dresses in black is a rabbi?”
“Does that make me anti-Semitic?”
“No, but carrying a gun into a synagogue might.”
“It's nothing personal, or even religious.”
The older man nodded. “I'm sure it's not, but it pays to be careful-with such matters. I understand you are a private detective. May I see some form of identification, please?”
I raised my hand and slowly reached into my inside pocket for my wallet. I gave it to the young guy, who handed it in turn to the older man. He examined it for a good minute, then folded it and handed it back to me.
“And why is a private detective from Maine asking about the death of a New York rabbi?”
“I think Rabbi Epstein's death may be connected to a case I'm investigating. I hoped that somebody might be able to tell me a little more about him.”
“He's dead, Mr. Parker. What more do you need to know?”
“Who killed him would be a start, or doesn't that concern you?”
“It concerns me a great deal, Mr. Parker.” He turned to the younger man, nodded, and we watched as he walked from the hall, closing the door softly behind him. “What is this case you are investigating?”
“The death of a young woman. She was a friend of mine, once.”
“Then investigate her death and leave us to do our own work.”
“If her death is connected to that of the rabbi, it might be in both of our interests for you to help me. I can find the man who did this.”
“The man,” he repeated, emphasizing the second word. “You seem very certain that it was a man.”
“I know who he is,” I said simply.
“Then we both know,” he replied. “The matter is in hand. Steps have been taken to deal with it.”
“What steps?”
“An eye for an eye, Mr. Parker. He will be found.” He drew closer to me, and his eyes softened slightly. “This is not your concern. Not every unlawful death is fuel for your anger.”
He knew who I was. I could see it in his face, my past reflected back upon me in the mirrors of his eyes. There had been so much newspaper coverage of the deaths of Susan and Jennifer, and the final violent end of the Traveling Man, that there would always be those who remembered me. Now, in this old synagogue, I felt my personal loss exposed once again, like a mote of dust caught in the sunlight pouring through the windows above.
“The woman is my concern,” I said. “If the rabbi's death is connected, then that becomes my concern too.”
He shook his head and gripped my shoulder lightly.
“Do you know what tashlikh is, Mr. Parker? It is a symbolic act, the casting of bread crumbs onto the water, symbolizing the sins of the past, a burden with which one no longer chooses to live. I think you must find it in yourself to lay aside your burdens before they kill you.”
He began to walk away, and was almost at the door when I spoke.
“ ‘This was said by my father, and I am the atonement for where he rests.’ ”
The old man stopped and stared back to me.
“It's from the Talmud,” I said.
“I know what it is,” he almost whispered.
“This isn't about revenge.”
“Then what is it about?”
“Reparation.”
“For your father's sins, or your own?”
“Both.”
He seemed to lose himself in thought for a few moments, and when the light returned to his eyes a decision had been made.
“There is a legend told of the Golem, Mr. Parker,” he began, “an artificial man made of clay. The Rabbi Loew created the first Golem, in Prague, in fifty-three forty. The rabbi formed him from mud and placed the shem, the parchment bearing the name of God, in his mouth. The rabbi is justified in legend for creating a creature capable of defending Jews against the pogroms, against the wrath of their enemies. Do you believe that such a creature can exist, that justice can be served by its creation?”
“I believe that men like him can exist,” I replied. “But I don't think justice always plays a part in their creation, or is served by their actions.”
“Yes, perhaps a man,” said the old Jew softly. “And perhaps justice, if it is divinely inspired. We have dispatched our Golem. Let the will of God be done.” In his eyes I could see the ambivalence of his response to what had been set in train; they had sent one killer to track another, unleashing violence against violence, with all of the risks that such an act entailed.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“My name is Ben Epstein,” he answered, “and I am the atonement for where my son rests.”
The door closed gently behind him, its sound in the empty synagogue like a breath exhaled from the mouth of God.
Lester Bargus is alone behind the counter of the store on the day he dies, the same day on which I meet Yossi Epstein's father. Jim Gould, who works for Bargus part-time, is out back fieldstripping a pair of stolen H amp;K semiautomatics, so there is nobody in the rear storeroom, where a pair of TV screens show the interior of the store from two angles, one from a visible camera above the door, the other from a lens hidden inside the shell of a portable stereo kept on a shelf behind the register. Lester Bargus is a careful man, but not careful enough. His store is miked, but Lester Bargus doesn't know that. The only people who know are the ATF agents who have been monitoring Bargus's illegal gun operation for the best part of eleven days.
But on this particular day business is slow, and Bargus is idly feeding crickets to his pet mantid when the door opens. Even on the oddly angled black-and-white recordings made by the cameras, the new arrival seems strangely out of place. He is dressed in a black suit, shiny black shoes, and a thin black tie over a white shirt. On his head he wears a black hat, and a long black coat hangs to the middle of his calves. He is tall and well built. His age is hard to gauge; he could be anything from forty to seventy.
But it is only when the few clear images obtained by the cameras are frozen and enhanced that his strangeness becomes truly apparent. The skin is stretched taut on his face and he appears to be almost entirely without flesh, the striations of the tendons in his jaw and neck clearly visible through his skin, his cheekbones like shards of glass below dark eyes. He has no eyebrows. The ATF agents who later examine the tape suspect at first that he may simply be so fair that his hair does not show up, but when the images are enlarged they reveal only slightly roughened skin above his eyes, like old scar tissue.
His appearance obviously shocks Lester Bargus. On the tape, he can be seen taking a step back in surprise. He is wearing a white T-shirt with a Smith amp; Wesson logo on the back, and blue jeans with a lot of room around the crotch and the ass. Maybe he is hoping to grow into them.
“Help you?” His voice on the recording is cautious but hopeful. Especially on a slow day, a sale is a sale, even if it does come from a freak.