“Oh?”
“Do you have it, Erin?”
Again, she didn’t answer.
“Why don’t you level with me?” Decker said gently.
“Yeah, I have it,” she said. “I took it when it was clear Lindsey wasn’t coming back. I didn’t want my mother to find it. Are you gonna tell her?”
“I’m afraid I have to,” Decker said.
The girl angrily squashed her cigarette into an ashtray and clenched her jaw.
“Oh shit! Grounded for weeks. I mean, Mom asked me if I knew where it was and I out and lied to her. But my motivation was altruistic, you know?”
“How so?”
“I knew what was in there—her and Chris. I mean, she read passages to me, the lovemaking passages. It was pretty graphic. I didn’t want my mom to be mad at Lindsey, you know? ’Cause she was really a nice sister. And I kept on thinking Lindsey would come back home, so why have Mom on her case as well as my own? Also, I didn’t want Lindsey to think I was a snitch and a snoop and be disappointed in me. Shit, I can’t believe she’s really…gone. I keep thinking she’s away at summer camp and’ll be home any day now.”
She sniffed back tears.
“But she won’t, will she?”
Decker shook his head.
She threw the pack of cigarettes across the room.
“Friggin’ awful,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry.”
“What are you going to do with the diary?” she asked.
“We hope it’ll help us out in our investigation.”
“It won’t. I know what’s in there. Just a lot of very personal stuff.”
“Sometimes something very minor turns out to be very important.”
The girl went over to one of her books, pulled out a false spine and extracted a pink vinyl-covered pocket book trimmed in gold.
“Here,” she said, giving it to Decker. “She wrote a couple of nasty things about Mom and Dad and me. But she wasn’t really like that at all. They were written in anger and I’ve forgiven her. I mean really, I know I’m not beautiful, but I’m no bag-lady either.” She looked to Decker for confirmation.
“You’re a very pretty teenager, Erin,” he said calmly.
She blushed. “No, really…What do you really think?”
“I think you’re a very pretty teenager,” he repeated.
“Mom’s always bugging me to do more with myself. Like Lindsey. I mean Lindsey was just much more into the superficials than I am.” The girl grew pensive. “She was also flesh and blood, not just private thoughts scrawled on a piece of paper. Remember that when you read this, Sergeant,” she said, tapping her finger on the diary.
“I will, Erin.”
“I’m gonna miss her,” Erin said to herself. At last the tears came pouring out. “Oh God, I miss her so much already.”
A toss of the coin put Decker in the driver’s seat as Marge delved into the diary. After ten minutes of reading, she chuckled out loud.
“The kid had a sense of humor,” she said. “Listen to this. It’s dated about a year ago. ‘We made love again last night.’ She’s referring to Chris. ‘I did something I’ve never done before. I opened my eyes and looked at him while he was doing it. He looked like he was going to sneeze but it never came out so I guess that’s just how he looks when he’s into it. I like to make love, I like the closeness to Chris, but I kept wanting to offer him a tissue when I watched him. From now on, I think I’ll keep my eyes closed.’”
Decker smiled, but it was edged with sadness. Marge caught the melancholy in his eyes.
“This is very ghoulish,” she said, flipping the page.
“At least we’re on the side of truth and justice.”
“You forgot the American way.”
The Plymouth hooked onto the 210 Freeway, the major thoroughfare that linked the Foothill pocket communities with intercity urban sprawl. Dusk coated the mountains, obscuring their hard edges. Marge took out a penlight to augment the dwindling light.
“Did she write about boys other than Chris?” Decker asked.
“Nope. At least not so far.” She read a few more pages to herself. “Lindsey was wild about Chris. Gushing. True love.”
“Get a feel for him?”
“He liked sex.”
“That’s the majority of the diary?”
“Oh no, not at all. Most of it is very mundane—one-sentence entries. She didn’t even write every day. Here—the whole weekend is summed up as ‘I bought a pink blouse.’ Two days later she writes, ‘I got a new pair of sandals.’ The next weekend it’s, ‘I gotta get to a beach. My tan’s fading. I look like Ghostwoman.’”
Marge went back to reading. The police radio spat out calls that concerned neither of them. Decker lit a cigarette to break the monotony of the ride.
“Listen to this,” Marge said. “Dated around six months ago. ‘Erin came home dressed in her bag-lady getup.’”
“Aha.”
“‘Honestly, she’s just hopeless! And she could do so much more with herself if she’d just try. God, I’m sounding like Mom. How gross!’”
Decker laughed. “Insight at fifteen.”
“Hey, some never achieve it in a lifetime.”
“That’s true. Did she write about posing for Chris in the nude?”
“Yeah. Let me find the entries…Ah, here’s one. ‘Cris took more nude pictures of me. Like always, we made love afterwards, this time doggie style. Man, he’s big, I like it the best when I’m on top.’” Marge smiled. “Adventurous little thing, wasn’t she.”
“Can’t hold back raging hormones.”
She looked at him. “Is it hard being the father of a teenaged daughter?”
“It has its moments.” He definitely didn’t like the tenor of this conversation. “Is there anything to suggest that Chris coerced her into posing nude?”
“Not that I can tell.”
Decker checked his watch and floored the accelerator. Even at high speeds, he wasn’t going to make it in time for the start of the Sabbath. He wondered if Rabbi Schulman would say anything. Probably not.
“She was sensitive, Pete,” Marge said. “She got her feelings hurt a lot.”
“Such as?”
She skimmed a few of the back pages. “Like Heather didn’t notice her new dress…Chris didn’t call when he said he would…Erin was her usual sharp-tongued witch. I can sure believe that. Here’s another—Brian embarrassed her in front of her English teacher.”
“Brian’s a jerk.”
“Yeah, she knew that too. Wait a minute, let me find…” She turned to the back pages. “Here it is. She writes, ‘Brian got drunk and threw up in his dad’s car again. I know he’s a loser, but I feel sorry for him. His dad is completely disgusting, always trying to put the make on girls Bri brings home. It’s no wonder he scams all the time.’”
“Did she mention the dad coming on to her?”
“Not specifically.”
Marge read further.
“She has her share of catty digs in here. It really pissed her off when someone looked better than her. She was vain.”
“Never met a teenager who wasn’t self-absorbed in some way,” Decker said.
Ten minutes later Decker shot the amber light at the end of the freeway off-ramp and sped toward the station house.
“In a hurry?” Marge asked.
“A little.”
She closed the diary and handed it to him.
“You take a look at it and tell me what you think,” she said. “I don’t find anything unusual in here. Nothing that spells an unhappy kid about to run away. And nothing to suggest that Truscott was weird. She was gaga over him—wrote about following him to the end of the universe.”
Decker felt a burst of anger. Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour, or his growling stomach, or his arm beginning to awaken from its analgesic dormancy. Whatever the reason was, the case suddenly infuriated him. The waste of a young girl’s life.
Through c
lenched teeth he said, “It’s a damn shame that she fell so short of her destination.”
9
On his plate were thin slices of rare roast beef with horseradish sauce, three steaming hot potato pancakes smothered in applesauce, a scoop of red and white cabbage salad, and a chunk of challah. On the side was a plateful of cholent—a stew chock full of beans and beef and topped with stuffed derma. A crystal goblet full of ice water stood next to a matching wine glass brimming over with semi-dry rosé.
But his stomach churned.
Part of it was fever. He should have made time for the doctor yesterday. He was out of penicillin and infection was worming its way back into his system. But mostly it was Rina. She was sitting across from him and he had never seen such physical perfection. She always looked lovely on Shabbos, but not like this. He was in awe. Her hair was tied in a formal knot, outlining her magnificent bone structure. Two feathers of gold dangled from her earlobes and brushed against her creamy cheeks whenever she turned her head. Her cerulean eyes seemed deeper, more mysterious, her lips full and red. She was dressed modestly—long sleeves and a midcalf hemline, but the rounded neck of her chemise revealed the graceful arch of her throat and the fine architecture underneath. He didn’t dare let his eyes meet hers because if he did, the others at the table would know what he was thinking.
He picked up his knife and cut the meat into bite-sized pieces, knowing it would be rude to leave so much food on his plate. Taking a forkful, he began to chew with effort.
Rabbi Marcus was giving a Dvar Torah. This time it was a discourse on the weekly biblical portion. He wore a black suit, a white shirt, black tie, and black Borsalino. From under his shirt hung tzitzis-fringes. The other married men at the table were dressed identically; all had full beards.
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 he
ad.”
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 was chomped on by a whore in the line of duty. Are you happy now?”
Her eyes met his, but she said nothing. She unwrapped the first cloth, palpated the swelling, and wrapped it again in a newly heated towel.
“Where did you learn to do this?” he asked.
Rina noticed his face was drenched with sweat and mopped it with a dry towel. “Yitzchak and I moved to Israel a year after we married. To Kiryat Arba—a settlement in Hebron.” She stroked his hand. “We were in hostile territory and there were no Jewish doctors handy. You learn to do things.”
“You never told me you lived in Israel.”
“For three years. It was a phase of my life that I’ve tried to forget. Except for the year of Yitzchak’s death, I don’t think I was ever more miserable. I was stuck behind barbed wire fencing with two small infants of my own, and in charge of the group’s nursery which—baruch Hashem—had forty-four kids.” She paused a moment. “All the men carried guns with them. It was open warfare out there.”
“Including Yitzchak?”
“Yes.” She took off the old towel, wrung out another, and wrapped the wound a third time.
“But you didn’t?”
“The women never left the compound. We were guarded twenty-four hours a day. What would have been the purpose of learning how to shoot? Though now I wish I had.”
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