Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection: False Prophet, Grievous Sin, Sanctuary

“Sure. Shoot.”

“Perhaps some demented mind took the biblical words ‘Don’t let a sorceress live’ literally. Perhaps some fanatical crazy she knows is hearing voices commanding him—or her—to do a terrible deed.”

Decker thought about the suspects; none impressed him as psychotic. But who knew what they’d concocted in the secrecy of their minds.

“It wouldn’t be the first time, Rabbi. I’ll think about it.”

Schulman stroked his beard and nodded gravely. “Akiva, I know you have certain responsibilities to your cases. Not that I’m saying anything against this lady, I don’t even know her. But a false prophetess is a tricky animal. Do use caution—physically and mentally.”

“I’m always cautious in my work, Rabbi.”

Schulman patted Decker’s hand. “Good.” He paused, looking perplexed. “These shmystal-crystals, Akiva. What do people do with them? Do they talk to them and wait for an answer? Do they hold them up to the sun and tan their faces? What?”

“I’m not a crystal expert, Rav Schulman, but I think they’re used to communicate with the dead.”

The old man shook his head with disapproval. “I will never understand the fascination with the dead.”

“We all die.”

“Yes, we do, but we all live as well. People should concentrate on bettering their lives, not trying to second-guess the other side. If they live righteously, they’ll have nothing to worry about. Boruch Hashem, I’ve made it this far. Now one might even say I have one foot in the grave—”

“Rabbi—”

“Not that I’m ready to die.” The old man stood and took out two shot glasses. “But if it happens, it happens. People who fear death do not fear God. Besides, Akiva, what do the sages teach us about Torah?”

“It was meant for the living not the dead.”

“Correct!” Schulman filled the glasses with whiskey and handed one to Decker. “So, my friend, let us live and learn and do mitzvot as Hashem commanded us.” He held his drinking glass aloft. “To life—l’chaim.”

“L’chaim,” Decker said.

The rabbi downed his whiskey in one gulp. Decker marveled at the way Schulman could drink rotgut without emitting fire from his nostrils. He sneaked a sidelong glance at the rav, watched him lick his lips with pleasure. What a kick to know this man—this septuagenarian chock-full of energy and spirit and humor. A relief to know the good didn’t always die young.

The sharp knock woke Decker first, but Rina sat up a moment later, hand slapping onto her chest.

“Who’s that?” she asked, breathlessly.

Decker swore under his breath and slipped on a robe. “Stay here, Rina.”

The knocking became louder. Then the dog started barking.

“Do you want your gun?” Rina whispered.

Decker pushed hair out of his eyes. “No.”

By the time he reached the living room, the banging was shaking the front door. Ginger had posted guard at the front door. Decker called out a “hold on,” quieted the setter, and peeked through the peephole. But he needn’t have bothered. His gut had already told him who it was. He tightened his robe, unlocked the deadbolt, and swung open the door.

Lilah was flushed and contorted with anger and fear, wet tracks streaming down her cheeks. Her arms were swinging wildly, trying to hit him and hold him at the same time—hysterical but she had taken time to dress. She wore rhinestone-studded jeans and a white T-shirt under a black blazer, the jacket collar trimmed with sequins. On her feet were black ostrich cowboy boots complete with spurs. Decker kept a careful eye on them.

“How dare you change your number on me especially after yesterday! How dare you! How could you!”

Ginger started growling, baring her teeth. Decker managed to shush her, but was less successful with Lilah.

“How could you, Peter! You know how much I depend on you, how much I need you!” She hit his chest. “How could you! How could you!”

Decker took another step backward. Ginger growled again. Decker held the animal by the collar and said, “Lilah, calm dow—”

She lashed out at his face with sharpened fingernails. Decker managed to get her wrist before she raked his cheek and somehow settled the dog before Ginger took a chunk out of Lilah’s leg. She struggled against his grip, wriggling and hissing like a trapped cobra.

“I hate you!” Lilah screamed. “I hate you, you son of a bitch! I hate you, I hate you!”

The woman was skinny, but she could put up a fight. Decker was working up a sweat trying to hold her at bay without hurting her. It would have felt great to haul off and slug her. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rina, her hands wrapped around her chest, stroking her arms. Dressed in white, her face pale, she might have been a phantom—or an angel—except that her eyes were alert and ready for action.

“Call the station house,” he said.

“You bastard!” Lilah shouted.

“Call the police,” Decker repeated.

“How could you—”

“Call the police, Rina,” Decker commanded.

It was as if Lilah finally comprehended his words. “Wait!” She stopped wrestling and let her arms relax. “Wait, don’t do that!”

A moment passed. A small voice called out a “Mommy?”

“It’s all right,” Rina yelled out. “Everything’s fine, I’ll be there in a minute.” Her eyes were on Peter. “What should I do?”

Lilah wheeled in on her. “Well, as long as you’re standing there, you can make us some coffee!”

Decker dropped Lilah’s wrists, his eyes, suddenly blurred with fury. “Don’t speak to her like that.”

Rina said, “Peter—”

“She is not one of your little gofers, Lilah, don’t you dare speak to her like that!”

This time it was Lilah who backed away.

“She lives here, understand, Miss Brecht?” Decker fumed as he advanced upon her. “This is her house, her living room, and you woke her up at three o’clock in the morning from her goddamn sleep!”

“Peter—”

“You want coffee, girlie, you go home and goddamn make it yourself!”

“Peter!” Rina was holding his arm. “Peter, why don’t you call Marge from the bedroom, okay?”

Panting, Decker suddenly became aware that he’d sandwiched Lilah into a corner. He took a step backward and unclenched his fists. It took him a moment to focus. Then, he turned to Rina.