by Ted Dekker
Roth said the only thing that came to mind. “Okay.”
Father beamed his pride, a look irreversibly seared into Roth’s mind. “That’s my boy!”
11
Los Angeles
July 19, 1973
Thursday Afternoon
STEPHEN RETURNED HOME TO FIND THE RABBI GONE. YES, OF course; Chaim always spent Thursday afternoons down at the mission, serving soup and spreading good cheer. But this was good. Stephen couldn’t tell anyone about the safe, not even Chaim.
Two things had changed during his last visit to Rachel’s apartment. The first had to do with secrecy. Some things in life had to remain private. Matters of love. Matters that were deeply sacred. If Rachel was his mother, and if she had gone to the grave with some deep, dark secret, then he should pursue that secret with reverence.
The second change had to do with objective. The scales of his desire had tipped from a simple need to discover to a surprising need to possess. If Rachel, being his mother, had searched for him as the note to Gerik claimed; and if taking out a full-page advertisement in search of her son placed him—David—in terrible danger; and if, failing to find him, she’d secretly hidden something for him, then it was his right to possess this last remaining link to his mother.
The Stones are like the lost orphans. He was an orphan. The other orphans would be the other four Stones of David. Either way, he had the mark; the safe had the mark, or at least the words. The safe should be his.
Stephen left Spud on the front porch. He brought the dog a bowl of water and some lunch meat, which Spud gulped down without chewing. “Stay here.” Stephen pointed a finger. “Don’t move.”
He hurried into the bathroom and stopped in front of the mirror. He’d forgotten about the black dust. He looked like a native warrior trapped in a business suit. It was a wonder Spud hadn’t barked at him all the way home. Now that he thought about it, several drivers had peered at him quizzically on the trip home. What’s wrong, never seen a treasure hunter before? Just returning from a coal mine where I’ve found a stash of diamonds.
He stripped off his shirt and paused to trace the small scar near his left breastbone. Whatever he’d speculated about it before, he now knew the truth.
Stephen showered, dressed, and drove straight to the library with Spud in the passenger seat. “You have to stay in the car, you know. No way I can take a dog into the library.”
He parked in the shade of a jacaranda and cracked the window. “I’ll be back.”
His first challenge was to research without tipping his hand. He couldn’t very well run around conducting interviews about his mother without bringing attention to the possibility that she had hidden the other four Stones in her apartment.
A series of searches through the periodicals turned up nothing on Rachel Spritzer. As Gerik had said, she’d lived privately. She had been hiding her secret.
Who were you, Mother?
Stephen turned to the Stones of David. He flipped through library cards, found dozens of titles that contained information on the Stones, and pulled five of them. Settling in a quiet corner, he began to read.
None of them told him any more than he already knew. He’d done a research project on the Stones for a history class nearly a decade ago. But now he read the coverage in each book with renewed interest.
Although the biblical record made no mention of what happened to the five stones David chose to slay Goliath, historians’ first note of their existence cropped up in 700 BC, when they were taken to Babylon along with other treasures from the kingdom of Judah.
They next appeared in AD 400 in Alexandria. Christian folklore claimed the Stones represented the seed of David, the purest surviving symbol of Israel, which was Christ. According to Genesis, God put enmity between the serpent’s seed and the woman’s seed, and the woman’s seed would crush the head of the serpent. David had crushed the head of Goliath with a stone, and the Messiah had come to deliver the final deathblow.
Nevertheless, most Christians weren’t even aware of the relics. They’d been lost again in AD 700, and for a thousand years their very existence was in dispute. Here the record became somewhat fragmented. Various rumors surfaced and then faded, until the Knights Templars claimed to hold them for almost two hundred years before the order’s sudden demise in 1307, when the French king Philip IV drove them into obscurity. You are my little Stone of David. Why would his foster father use that particular phrase of endearment for Stephen?
Most experts valued the collection at between $75 and $150 million. The idea caused the slight tremble to return to Stephen’s fingers.
Rachel had donated a Stone of David to the Los Angeles Museum of the Holocaust. He returned to the library’s newspaper section. Virtually every major newspaper in the country had picked up the story, and several already debated the existence of such a relic. Others doubted the authenticity of Rachel’s Stone. But to think that a World War II survivor such as Rachel would lie about the Stone seemed somehow profane. It had to be genuine.
As for the Spritzers, they had immigrated to the United States sixteen years ago from Hungary. They spent their time working with orphanages around the world. Low-profile. Wealthy. That was all he could determine.
Stephen checked out three of the volumes and headed home, nerves taut. He’d learned nothing new.
The rabbi still wasn’t back. Stephen led the dog into his room and ordered her to stay in the corner. Spud jumped onto his bed, eyed him as if asking permission, and, when Stephen made no objection, curled up by the pillow.
Stephen looked at the books. Who was he trying to fool? There was only one way to do this. He had to get back into the building, find a key, and open the safe. He was just delaying the inevitable, subconsciously trying to work up the courage.
But he couldn’t just waltz up to the front door and demand they let him look for a key. The moment the owner sniffed anything remotely like a safe, he’d slap the crazy Realtor with a restraining order and take the treasure for himself.
“Stephen?”
Stephen whirled. Chaim stood in the doorway.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.” The rabbi looked at him questioningly. “You okay today?”
“Why wouldn’t I be? Sure. Why, what’s up?”
“That’s what I was just asking you. Isn’t that the dog from the apartment?”
“I’m just watching over her for a day or so.”
“So you went back?”
Stephen shrugged. “Just to collect the dog. I’m okay, Rabbi. Really.”
The rabbi shifted his gaze to his left and Stephen followed it. The books lay on his desk, one cracked open to a chapter titled “Stones of David: Fact or Fiction?”
“Maybe you should take a few days off,” Chaim said. “Your mother has died. You missed the funeral, but you should grieve in your own way.”
“Grieve what? I didn’t know my mother.”
“Then grieve the fact that you didn’t know her.”
“I’ve spent my whole life grieving that fact already.”
“I think you may be in a bit of denial.”
“That’s what you keep saying.” Maybe he should confide in Chaim. Only Chaim. Caution argued against it, but since when had he let caution guide his path?
“I want to tell you something, Rabbi. But I want you to swear to secrecy. Can you do that?”
“Have I ever broken your confidence?”
“No, you haven’t, but this you have to swear to. No matter what, you have to agree not to breathe a word. Do I have your word?”
The rabbi smiled. “Do I have to prick my finger?”
“I’m not kidding.” Stephen leaned back against the desk. “I just need your confidence on this.”
They held stares. “Then you have it.”
“You swear?” Stephen asked.
“Swear by neither heaven nor—”
“Just swear it.”
“I swear, then.”
“You won’t tel
l a soul?”
“Stephen, I won’t tell a soul that you went back to Rachel Spritzer’s apartment and discovered a floor safe in the basement.” Chaim arched an eyebrow.
“You know?”
“Simple deduction. And a few filthy clothes.” Chaim glanced at the coal-blackened blazer on the floor.
Stephen let his enthusiasm rise to the surface. He ran both hands through his hair. “Okay, you were right; it’s a safe.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. I know Jews. Especially Jews from the era. I’m going to eat. Would you like something?” The rabbi turned and walked toward the kitchen.
Stephen hurried after him, incredulous at the man’s ambivalence. “It’s a floor safe, Rabbi! My mother’s floor safe!” The dog jumped from the bed and pattered along behind him.
“I don’t mean to be insensitive, Stephen. But I don’t think you should do anything without proper legal representation. Rachel Spritzer went to great lengths to hide the Stone she donated to the museum.”
“The Stone should be mine! I could contest the will.”
“If you could prove you were her son, perhaps. But why was your mother so careful to hide it? There are those who would stop at nothing for something so valuable. Rachel was frightened. You have to be careful.”
Chaim’s wariness made Stephen pause. Telling him had been a mistake. Though the rabbi did have a point.
“Involving attorneys could take months. It’s hopeless. How could I ever prove that I’m her son?”
“That would be for the courts.” Chaim sighed. “Although you’re probably right in the long run. She’s donated everything to the museum.”
“But not”—Stephen’s mind spun—“not necessarily what is in the safe. Not if the safe wasn’t listed among her assets. I can find that out. But trust me, if it was listed, the museum would have made the claim already. They obviously haven’t.”
“Perhaps because it’s empty.” Chaim pulled out the leftover veal and set it in the oven. “I know these may be hard days for you, but you must be careful.”
Stephen decided then not to tell the rabbi about the inscription on the safe. If anything, he would have to divert attention away from the safe now.
“There might be another way,” Chaim said.
“Another way to what?”
“To take possession of whatever is left in Rachel’s apartment. Who’s handling the estate?”
“The building’s sold,” Stephen said.
“Already? We were just there yesterday.”
“A German investor.”
Chaim studied Stephen with an amused expression. “Then buy the place from this German investor.”
The suggestion hit Stephen like a bucket of ice water. Yes. He could offer the investor a quick turnaround profit. Once the building was in his name, he could open the safe.
He turned away, worried that the rabbi might note his eagerness. He had to downplay the whole thing.
“Maybe. Ah, you’re probably right. I should just forget it. What do I have to gain? I’ve seen what’s there, right?”
“I’m not suggesting that you forget it,” Chaim said. “She was your mother. You need space and time to deal with that. And your true inheritance should be yours. But you must walk very carefully.”
“You’re right.” Stephen clapped his hands and squinted at the oven. “Veal sounds great.”
“That’s my boy. Now. The reception at the Board of Realtors is formal?”
Stephen looked at him, not understanding.
“The reception you invited Sylvia and me to?” Chaim said. “Tomorrow night? It’s a formal affair, right?”
That reception. It was this weekend? “Formal, yes, I think so.”
They ate veal together.
Ten came before they retired. “Good night, Stephen. Sleep well.”
“Good night. I will.”
But he didn’t. He hardly slept a wink. The dog, on the other hand, slept like a baby nestled against his shoulder.
12
Los Angeles
July 20, 1973
Friday Morning
THE SLEEPING MIND WORKS IN STRANGE WAYS WHEN HUNG UP somewhere between out-like-a-light and bright-eyed, Stephen had always believed. In this no-man’s-land, the challenges of the next day’s plans walk about like relentless trumpeters. IRS agents and bill collectors loiter. A few hastily spoken words of a friend echo and transform themselves into vile threats.
On this night, Stephen’s no-man’s-land was populated by his mother, a faceless German crook, Chaim Leveler, and a hole in the ground filled with black air. He himself was mysteriously absent. The rabbi spent most of the night walking around inside the safe, waving his arms like a leprechaun, insisting that danger lay ahead. Rachel Spritzer spent most of the time holding her one golden Stone up to the light, asking it to lead David home. The German stood guard at the boiler room, his rocket launcher aimed at the elevator. And the hole . . .
The hole was just an empty hole, apart from the munchkin rabbi.
Stephen awoke late, at eight. He stumbled out of bed, pulled on a pair of olive-green slacks and a white shirt. No time to shower. A shave was in order, but a bit of scruff wouldn’t hurt. He had plans for this day.
The dog! Where was Spud? He ran out to the living room. The cocker spaniel sat by the front door, waiting patiently. “There you are.” The rabbi must have heard her whine and let her out. What was Stephen going to feed her? “Come on, let’s take a ride.”
Stephen hopped into the Vega after Spud and fired the engine before realizing he’d forgotten to brush his teeth. “Wait here, dog. I have to brush my teeth.” Spud eyed him smugly. “You should try it sometime.” The dog turned away.
Stephen left the car purring, ran into the house, gave his teeth a quick scrub, and returned. The prospect of the deal he was set to propose ran through his veins as hot as any he could remember. Purchasing a building that held a secret treasure trove in the basement was nothing less than the stuff of fantasies. And yet that was precisely what he was about to do.
The German had purchased Rachel Spritzer’s apartment building for four hundred ninety thousand dollars. With a little work, the building could easily go for six or seven hundred thousand. Maybe more. The bank might just finance the deal without a down payment, based on his portfolio. This would accomplish two things. One, he would still have the money he had promised to Dan. And two, he would have unfettered access to that safe.
Assuming the German would sell.
The whole plan was perhaps a tad impulsive, but really it involved little more than shifting a few funds around.
And if the German didn’t want to sell?
He would. He just would.
He pulled up to the curb in front of the apartment. It seemed as familiar to him as his own home now, even though this was only his third visit.
“Okay, dog, here’s the deal. I can either leave you here or let you out, but if you get out, no running around getting into trouble.”
Spud whined and glanced through the windshield. These were her stomping grounds. She would probably just run off, which could be a good thing. For all Stephen knew, someone else had taken the dog in and was waiting for her to return.
“Come on, let’s have a look.”
He got out and walked up to the door. Spud trotted proudly alongside. Stephen pressed the intercom buzzer. Butterflies took flight in his belly.
He pushed the call button. “Hello? Anyone home?”
Nothing.
The doorknob twisted freely in his hand. The building was open? He hadn’t locked the door behind him yesterday—maybe they hadn’t noticed. They used the garage door for access.
Stephen glanced up the street before stepping into the garage with Spud. It was empty. He scanned the room. Like a tomb. Hallowed. His pulse quickened. Where would Rachel hide a key to the safe?
“Let’s go,” he whispered. They walked toward the elevator in tandem, the son and the dog. Stephen’s shoes clacked lou
d on the concrete and he rose to his tiptoes. Next time, he would wear sneakers.
He winced when the elevator started its grinding ascent. The four-story climb took twice the time a climb up the stairs would take. When the doors finally clanged open, empty space greeted him. Silence rang in his ears.
“Hello?” A faint echo from the elevator. He poked his head into the flat. “Hello?”
Unless he was hiding to pounce on him, the German was gone. The closing, perhaps.
Spud stepped cautiously past the door, ears perked, mouth closed, testing the air with her nostrils.
“What is it?” Stephen whispered. The dog relaxed and trotted for the bedroom as she had yesterday.
The scent of licorice filled Stephen’s nose. “Hello?” Empty. If the new owner was at the closing, then the transaction hadn’t been completed, had it? The building was still technically for sale. As a Realtor, he had the right to inspect the place. Find a key, maybe. Open the safe.
He walked slowly into the living room, taken once again by the unspoken history here. He’d left the first time determined to leave this history behind him, but now, inexplicably, he felt the irresistible urge to seek it out. To embrace it. To hear his mother speak to him from beyond the grave.
He ran his fingers over a white doily and then gently picked it up. His mother had purchased this doily, perhaps in a small shop somewhere in Budapest. He set it down.
And there, that painting of a young girl smelling a rose. Why had it attracted Rachel? Had it been a careful purchase, or one made simply to fill a hole? The former, probably. Rachel struck him as a careful person.
He walked on the carpet in a daze. He looked for a brass or silver key in all the places people normally hid keys—kitchen cupboards, jars of potpourri, dresser drawers, bookcases—but really he was looking past it all to find his mother. Did she hum while she worked in the kitchen? What kind of food did she cook? Did her sweet breads and rich stews fill the apartment with their aroma? He inhaled deeply and tried to smell her over the scents of licorice and cherries.