But if he did nothing, then he allowed the murdering scum to walk away. Not just any murderer, a man who had slain his own brother’s relative in cold blood and done it as easily as blowing his nose.

Pick off my family—one by one by one.

And even if Decker had the gun in his hand, could he do it? Shoot to kill in cold blood? Just put a bullet through Donatti’s brain? The world would be better off. Even Terry and the kid would be better off—especially Terry and the kid. Could he make that calculated decision to pop him without direct threat?

How did the psycho do it?

Of course, that was the answer: Donatti was a psycho.

At least, the bastard hadn’t given him that decision to make. Decker knew he wasn’t about to play heroics—not with the stench of his own fresh blood wafting over him, with this abattoir around him. He owed his family common sense. He owed his family his opting to live.

Decker yelled out, “You’re not playing fair, Chris. You know I can’t chance it.”

Donatti grinned. “The hands are the hands of Esau, but the voice is the voice of Jacob!”

What was he talking about? “I ain’t sticking a fork in it, Chris!” Decker continued. “We’re not done yet!”

Donatti gave him a thumbs-up. “Suck my cock, Lieutenant!”

He turned and broke into a jog.

And then he was gone.

36

It was recorded as Donatti predicted—Rabbi Chaim Lieber against a half-dozen drug-dealing, ecstasy-popping animals aided by a corrupt police chief and two of his lackeys. The slain Lieber had become a local saint, and Minda, his martyred wife. It made Decker sick. Days passed, and he was besieged by endless questions from the police, from the media, from lawyers, friends, and relatives. Nights passed during which he was terrorized by horrid dreams of blood and bodies. For the entire world to see, he held up well during the ordeal. But the secrets of his heart told a different story. He was plagued by his weakness, ashamed by his failure to confess the truth in all its blindfolded glory.

In the end, after several weeks had gone by, after all the inquiries and answers were typed up and filed away, after the newspapers had reduced the front-page news to a one-column article on page 26, Decker and his conscience were left alone to brood, an exclusive club of two that could not be penetrated by anyone else. Not even by Rina.

Especially not Rina.

Though she begged and pleaded with him to talk, he kept his incubi private. When things settled down, he’d see someone. In the meantime, it was all too fresh to deal with, too raw and painful. They would come, the words, but they needed time to form into cohesive deliberations, into articulated introspection.

Who would have guessed that his brother would be the one to give Decker his needed solace? Not Jonathan, who knew only part of the truth, but had sworn to take that wedge of it to his grave. Not Jonathan, who tried all the religious medicaments on himself as well as Decker, only to fail miserably. Not Jonathan, who cried, coaxed, and urged, but came up empty-handed. It was clear to Decker that Jonathan couldn’t handle him, because his brother could barely address his own demons. Admitting psychological and spiritual defeat—an especially agonizing acknowledgment for a rabbi— Jonathan sought refuge in professional counsel.