Merrin gave out a heavy sigh. “I’m not giving up on her. You know that. If she’s around, we’ll find her.”

Decker hoped he was right. Because the Stones notwithstanding, time wasn’t on their side.

8

It’s my Johns Hopkins ID.”

Decker glanced at his stepson, then studied the picture. Jacob, with his smoldering light eyes and a chip of inky hair over his brow. The teen exuded appeal—matinee-idol looks with that perfect sexy sneer. “This was before you cut your hair.”

“More like before the yeshiva made me cut my hair.” Jacob straightened his tie. “I was doing my James Dean persona.”

Sammy took a peek over his stepfather’s shoulder, then regarded his brother. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“C’mon,” Jacob protested. “Don’t I have that sultry Tennessee Williams bad-boy stare?”

Again Sammy studied the photo. “Maybe then you did.” A grin. “Now you don’t.”

Jacob punched his older brother’s shoulder. Sammy was about an inch taller than Jacob, about six feet even barefoot. There was very little physical resemblance between the two boys. Sammy took after his father—sandy-colored hair, impish brown eyes, regular features, and a wise-guy smile. He was good-looking, but not pretty. Jacob was a clone of Rina: He had “the face.” However, the two boys had nearly identical voices and speech inflections. Decker couldn’t tell them apart over the phone.

Jacob said, “The picture’s for you, Dad. When I graduate from Ner Yisroel, looking gaunt and pale, remember what you and Eema did to me.”

“A little academic pallor never hurt anyone.”

Jacob frowned. Then abruptly, his face lit up. “Zeyde, Zeyde, don’t you look handsome!”

Rav Lazarus had walked into the living room with cane in hand, although he wasn’t visibly using it for support. His smile was blinding, even though the teeth had browned from years of tea drinking. He went over to his grandson, looped his arm around Jacob’s neck, pulling him down so he could plant a kiss on the forehead. He stood no taller than five-five, with a flowing white beard. In honor of Shabbat, he wore a long black coat, a wide black waist sash known as a gartl, and a beautiful black hat. His voice was raspy and high, almost as if he were choking. “Yonkeleh.”

“Zeydeleh.” Jacob kissed his grandfather’s cheek. “You can be proud of me. I now have my own black hat.” He showed him his Borsalino, then put it on his head. “What do you think?”

Rabbi Lazarus patted his cheek. “I think you’re a good boy!”

“Like my abba?” Jacob said.

“Like your abba.” The old man smiled at Decker. “Like both your abbas.”

“Shabbat shalom, Zeyde.” Sammy kissed his grandfather. “Are you ready?”

“Cain, cain,” he said, answering yes in Hebrew. “Of course, I’m ready.” He walked over to Decker. “Thank you for coming. You made my wife very happy.”

Decker smiled. Of course it was only Sora Lazarus who was happy about hosting the two grandsons who carried the Lazarus name. “I’m very glad to be here.” He ran his fingers through slightly damp hair. The shower had felt good, but by the time Jonathan had made it back to Brooklyn, Decker had been the sixth in line to step into the bathroom. The water had turned tepid. At least, it wasn’t cold.