by Ted Dekker
“It’s going to rain again,” Martha said.
“Hmm. Look at the flowers out there,” Ruth said, gazing at the field.
“They’ve painted the guard towers,” Martha said. “Why would they paint the guard towers?”
“Perhaps they want to brighten the guards’ mood.”
Her optimism was incorrigible. Martha nearly laughed, but the gray skies held her back.
“Little David’s been kicking me silly today,” Ruth said. She put her hand on Martha’s belly. “Yours?”
“Quiet. I think he has the days and nights mixed up. I could hardly sleep last night. Anyway, how do you know yours is a David?”
“Then she’s an Esther, and yours is a David. Or they are both Esthers.”
“Or both Davids.”
“But it would be better if one is a David and one is an Esther.”
“Why?”
Ruth smiled wide. “So they can fall in love and be married, of course. Wouldn’t that be something?”
Martha had to chuckle. “You’re impossible. Women are being hung from the gate, and your mind is skipping through the daisies, planning weddings.”
Ruth’s smile faded. She reached up and swept a strand of hair from Martha’s cheek. “If you have a daughter, she will be very beautiful, like you. She’ll run through fields of daisies and marry my beautiful David.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“That dead babies can’t grow up to be married men and women?”
“Yes.”
Ruth looked out at the field, shifting to one of her rare, somber moods. “You’re right. That’s the problem with this world. But do David and Esther know that? They’re warm and snug in our bellies, jumping for joy, oblivious to the trains and the camps. We should take a lesson from them.”
“We’re not oblivious to the stink of death, though.”
“No. But we aren’t oblivious to the joy that awaits us either.”
“Joy? You mean the possibility of a noose around our necks? Or a train ride back to Auschwitz?”
“No, I mean what awaits us when we are born into the next life.”
Martha sighed. “Yes, of course, how silly of me. The next life. After we’ve been killed.”
“Or after we have lived long and full lives. Death is the one thing that happens to every person. So what if our passing is a little strenuous? What awaits will be no less delightful.”
Ruth had never spoken so frankly about death, and Martha wasn’t sure she liked it much.
A guard approached them from the commandant’s hill. Ruth looked his way, silenced for a moment. Braun had asked both of them to his house only once since that first meeting—a ridiculous social affair during which they sat on his couch and talked nonsense. Ruth had been called up on three other occasions, by herself.
“He likes you,” Martha said, still watching the guard.
“I’m not sure I can go again.” Emotion crowded Ruth’s voice.
“You have to. But please tell me you won’t let him touch you.”
“There’s a letter opener on his desk. I would stab him in the heart before I let him touch me.”
“Maybe you should do it anyway.”
“I’ve been tempted.”
Ruth turned to Martha. “I would like to ask you something. If anything were to happen to me after my child is born, will you take him as your own?”
“Of course. I would think of nothing else.”
“And if anything happens to you, I will care for your child.” Ruth’s eyes searched hers, concerned, which alarmed Martha.
“What is it, Ruth? Do you know something?”
“No. No, of course not. I swear it, Martha. I will care for your child as if it were my own.”
Martha nodded. “And I will take care of yours.”
“At all costs. Forever. Swear it.”
“At all costs, forever. I swear it.”
“As do I,” Ruth said.
The guard stopped twenty feet away. “You. The short one. The commandant wants to see you.”
Ruth squeezed Martha’s hand. “Thank you.”
“Be strong,” Martha whispered.
The admonition was more for herself than her friend.
14
Los Angeles
July 20, 1973
Friday Evening
CHAIM LEVELER SCANNED THE RECEPTION HALL AGAIN, BUT Stephen was nowhere to be seen. He hadn’t seen or heard from the boy since they’d retired last evening. The Realtors’ semiannual reception had started an hour ago, and still no sign. This wasn’t entirely unlike Stephen, but given the circumstances of the last two days, Chaim worried.
Three hundred voices of realty professionals and their significant others filled the room with a steady murmur. Guests dressed in black jackets and trendy maxis surrounded a few dozen tables, each decorated with miniature homes—whether edible or not, the rabbi wasn’t sure. The crab cakes and truffles certainly were edible, and quite good too.
“Hello, Rabbi.”
He turned to see Sylvia, dressed in a long black gown and smiling softly. “My, you look stunning, dear.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Have you seen Stephen?”
“No. He’s not here yet?”
“Not that I’ve seen. He’s distracted. I think this discovery of his mother is getting to him.” He’d given his word not to breathe a word about the safe, not even to Sylvia. “Not that I blame him.”
“He’s not doing anything stupid, is he?”
Chaim looked at her, surprised. She’d touched on his fear exactly, but to say it so plainly seemed insensitive. “No, no. Why would you say that?”
“Stephen is unpredictable and impulsive. I wouldn’t put anything past him. You talk to Gerik again?”
“Yes,” Chaim said.
“And he’s worried about Stephen’s safety?”
“You know Gerik. Sure he’s concerned, but he also sees this as a private matter. And he thinks Stephen should follow his heart to whatever resolution awaits him.”
“Well, if any danger does exist, Stephen is the type to find it.”
“Listen to us. It’s probably nothing.” Chaim smiled. “We’re seeing ghosts. Stephen is a grown man, not a child. Maybe Gerik is right—let him follow his heart.”
Sylvia sighed. “Probably right. I’m a bit uptight. All this talk about a serial killer has the office in knots.”
“Serial killer? What are you talking about?”
“You should turn on the television more often, Rabbi. Two women killed in two nights, each found with their wrists slit.”
“That’s reason to assume it was a serial killer?” Chaim asked. “It’s a big city—”
“Both women were Jewish. Both were left in identical states. A red scarf was draped over the face of both women. These are deliberate killings.”
“My, my.” The rabbi shook his head slowly.
“The mayor isn’t too thrilled that the information was leaked to the press. Last thing we need is panic among Jewish women.”
“Does it concern you?” he asked.
“What? That I’m Jewish?” She scanned the floor. “Honestly, I hadn’t thought about it.”
“Well, I’m sure a good party is just what you need to get your mind off work.”
Chaim patted her hand and took a step before stopping short. She followed his gaze. Stephen angled toward them from the main entrance. He wore a white shirt without a jacket. No tie. His dark, thinning hair had been hastily slicked back.
Sylvia watched him approach. “Distracted, you said?”
Stephen zigzagged his way around curious stares, mounted the steps into the hall, and hurried to them, winded. A light sheen of sweat coated his unshaved face.
He cracked a boyish grin. “Hey. Boy. Sorry I’m late. I’ve been tied up doing some”—he paused and shifted his eyes—“research.”
Chaim stared.
“I feel a bit underdressed,” Stephen said. “It was either that or m
iss the whole thing.” He looked around. “Whole gang’s here.”
“Daniel Stiller is looking for you,” Chaim said. “Something about the Santa Monica property. Where have you been?”
“Stiller . . .” Stephen stared off in a daze.
“You okay?” Sylvia asked.
“Right. Fine. I just lost track of time. Do I look okay? I tried to freshen up a bit in the restroom.”
“A jacket wouldn’t hurt,” Sylvia said. “But hey, who’s looking? Nothing wrong with the . . . earthy look.”
“You think someone has a jacket I could borrow?” He attempted to smooth his rumpled shirt.
“I doubt it,” Chaim said. They stood in silence for a moment. He’d never seen the lad so frazzled. It was hardly his business, but Chaim felt compelled to ask the question again. “So, where were you?”
Stephen looked from him to Sylvia and then back. He glanced around, bright-eyed now. He took them both by their arms and eased them around so their backs were to the main hall.
“Did Chaim tell you, Sylvia?”
“Tell me what?”
“About the safe. That’s good, Rabbi. I knew you were a man of your word. Promise me you won’t tell a soul, Sylvia.” He glanced over his shoulder. Evidently, the coast was still clear.
“How can I promise you what—”
“Just promise me.”
“Fine. I promise,” Sylvia said.
“It is a safe. And she has a room in her house filled with pictures of the camps. She had to be a camp survivor. I found a note on a picture— there’s a girl she referred to as a Stone of David. Her name’s Esther. I think she may still be alive. My foster father used to call me his Stone of David.”
He looked at them as if expecting this information dump to fill their minds with amazement. Chaim heard it all, but he’d been so distracted by Stephen’s near-rabid performance that he’d missed the point. He caught Sylvia’s eye. She took Stephen by the arm.
“Stephen, I don’t have a clue what you just said, but I think you need some rest. Maybe we should go.”
“What do you mean, you don’t have a clue? Aren’t you listening?” Another quick look over his shoulder. He whispered harshly. “It’s a safe! And I swear the people who bought the building know something’s there. Don’t you see? I’m an orphan from the war. The orphans will find each other. She wants me to find the safe. For all we know, it just might have the other four Stones.”
He stopped midgesture, looked from Sylvia to Chaim, and lowered his arms. “You don’t see it, do you?”
Chaim finally found his voice. “We see that you are quite taken with this thing, my boy. But this is neither the time nor the place to show the world your interest.”
“You’re right. You’re right. I don’t know what came over me. Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Sylvia said.
He closed his eyes. “I must look like a fool.”
“Don’t be silly. A crazed maniac, maybe, but not a fool.” She smiled.
Stephen grinned. “Okay. Sorry. Not another word about it tonight. I swear.”
“Honestly, you have to be careful,” Chaim said.
“Not to worry, Rabbi.” He patted Chaim on the shoulder. “How’s the food?”
“The crab cakes are among the best I’ve tasted.”
“You’ve both had a chance to meet some new people?”
“Not yet,” Sylvia said. “But I’m sure there are plenty of Realtors who’ll willingly serve an attorney her drink. Would you mind?”
“Not at all,” Stephen said.
But Stephen didn’t move to get Sylvia her drink.
“Listen.” Stephen stroked his chin and glanced around furtively. “I’m not sure this was a good idea. I shouldn’t have come in the first place, and the thought of having to mingle is giving me the shivers.”
“Please, Stephen, we didn’t mean to suggest that—”
“No, Rabbi.” He held up his hands. “I really, really think I need to go. I’m not dressed right.” He winked and put a hand on Chaim’s shoulder. “Do me a favor, will you? If you run into Dan Stiller again, tell him I’ll get in touch with him in the morning.”
“Actually, I was thinking of leaving myself. It—”
“No. Absolutely not. I forbid it! You will stay and enjoy yourself. I have a few errands to run, and then I’ll be home.”
“Errands? It’s nine o’clock.”
Stephen grinned deliberately. “Exactly. Need to buy some shampoo and a razor. Thank you for coming, Sylvia. I would love to stay and chat, but the shower is bellowing my name. Stay and have some fun.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m just getting started.”
He cocked his finger at her like a gun. “That’s the spirit. Show the rabbi how an attorney parties, will you?” He began to back away. “Good night.”
He turned and hurried toward a side door, leaving Chaim and Sylvia staring after him with raised brows.
STEPHEN RAN out of the building, more relieved than he could remember feeling in a long time. He hadn’t been roped into a conversation with a single one of his peers—luck was definitely on his side. It was going to be a good night. Even the dog seemed eager, perched on the edge of the passenger’s seat.
“Don’t worry, Rabbi,” Stephen muttered. “If you knew what I know . . .”
Which was? That he had indeed done some research, if stalking Rachel Spritzer’s apartment building from every conceivable angle and setting every last cell in his brain to the task of getting at that safe could be classified as research. As a result, he’d stumbled upon information only a fool could ignore: the contents of the safe did not belong to the museum.
At least that’s the way he read the provision buried in the will.
He’d left the apartment and visited Caldwell Realty, where he’d persuaded a secretary named Sally to let him take a peek at the documents. No harm—they would soon be part of the public record in a transaction like this anyway. He found the portions of Rachel Spritzer’s will that dealt with the apartment. According to the document, in addition to the building itself, Rachel Spritzer had donated to the museum all of her earthly possessions “currently located in the fourth-floor apartment of #5 Thirty-second Street . . . including but not limited to . . .” The document contained an inventory of her most valuable possessions.
The contents of the safe weren’t in the fourth-floor apartment. They were in the basement. And they weren’t technically part of the building. The safe itself was, but not the contents.
True, the specific mention of her residence may have simply been intended to address her living quarters in general, but as far as Stephen was concerned, that was open to debate. Which could mean there was something in that safe Rachel Spritzer didn’t want the museum to possess. He was no attorney, but considering everything else, the implications read like absolute fact to Stephen.
He’d also taken the time to flesh out the man who’d bought the building on such short notice. Roth Braun. A German investor with no ties to the United States that he could find. Not one. He had a name in Germany, owned a bunch of businesses that read like Mafia cover-ups to Stephen, especially in light of his earlier exchange with Braun’s henchmen. Still, the man looked clean on paper. Maybe he really had purchased the building as a legitimate investment.
Not a chance. Braun knew something. Specifically, something about Rachel Spritzer. It struck Stephen that the man could be the very danger his mother alluded to in her note. All the more reason to get into that safe.
Stephen had spent three hours thinking through a dozen ways to get into the building. He watched as a woman, apparently someone from the city, approached the front door, spoke briefly to the dark-haired German, had him sign something, and then left. An inspector, maybe, getting a waiver.
His challenge was to get in without them knowing he was in. No matter how he broke down the problem, this meant the front door was out of the question. A dozen times he told himself that he was charting da
nger- ous waters. And a dozen times the photograph of Ruth reached into his soul, demanding he liberate the Stones of David. The authorities were out, absolutely out. He had no claim against the Germans. Retaining an attorney was even more impossible. If Braun learned about the safe, he and the treasure would be long gone before any court could even hear a case.
Stephen’s only option was to move alone, and quickly. He felt sick— or was it giddy?—with the impossibilities of the situation.
And then one thought healed his sickness.
A plan.
An improbable, highly creative plan that no one would suspect of anyone but a fool. Improbable enough to actually work.
He returned to the apartment building, drove around it three times, each time gathering his resolve, and finally settled on his course. A visit to the hardware store ate up the remaining daylight and the first hour of darkness. But the time proved invaluable. He refined options and details by careful calculation until the plan was perfect.
Skipping out of the reception without talking to Dan Stiller may not have been wise, but they still had ample time to submit their proposal to the city. Next Wednesday was still a long ways off. He had to get this small matter of history and destiny and several hundred million dollars off his chest before he could really concentrate on the Santa Monica property anyway.
Chaim and Sylvia no doubt believed him a tad whacked-out, but he’d covered well enough. They couldn’t possibly understand the true significance of the safe.
Stephen glanced at his watch. A little over two hours before midnight. Perfect.
15
Los Angeles
July 20, 1973
Friday Night
SURPRISINGLY, LA BREA AVENUE SEEMED TO HAVE MORE TRAFFIC near midnight than midday. Stephen parked the Vega on a side street two blocks south of his mother’s apartment. He pulled a backpack from the back seat, checked to see that no one was watching, and hefted the bag over his shoulders. Natural. Look natural. Just an ordinary Joe taking a midnight stroll with a pack strapped to his back.
“You stay put, Spud. I’ll be back before you know it.”