Day of Atonement
The fourth book in the hugely popular Peter Decker and Rina Lazarus series from New York Times bestselling author Faye KellermanPeter Decker of the LAPD never dreamed he'd be spending his honeymoon with his new wife, Rina Lazarus, in an Orthodox Jewish enclave in Brooklyn, New York—or that a terrible event would end it so abruptly. But a boy has vanished from the midst of this close-knit religious community, a troubled youth fleeing the tight bonds and strictures he felt were strangling him.The runaway, Noam, is not travelling alone. A killer has taken him under his wing to introduce Noam to a savage world of blood and terror. And now Decker must find them both somewhere in America before a psychopath ends the life of a confused and frightened youngster whose only sin was to want something more.
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Faye Kellerman
Day of Atonement
A Peter Decker/Rina Lazarus Novel
Contents
Part One: TephilaâPrayer
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Part Two: TzedakahâCharity
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Part Three: TshuvahâRepentance
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
He wrote down the name Hank Stewart. Stared at it for a while and decided it was a good start.
A start.
But not there yet.
He wrote Dr. Hank Stewart. Then: Hank Stewart, M.D.
But hell, doctors were nothing special. Matter of fact, they were assholes, all puffed up and full of themselves.
So he wrote Hank Stewart, ESQ.
Crossed that off the list. Lawyers were bigger assholes than doctors.
How about Hank Stewart, Nuclear Physicist.
Or Hank Stewart, Nobel Prize Winner.
Give âem a smile as they took his picture.
Hell with that. That kinda fame was too short-lived. A picture in a newspaper for about a day. Big effing deal.
Hank Stewart, CIA.
StewartâSuperspy.
Good ring to it.
Ah, that was stupid. Kid stuff.
Still, kid stuff was better than peddling fish.
Iâll take one pound of snapper, please.
Yeah, lady. Right up your ass.
The old people always buying fish âcause they didnât got no teeth to chew meat. They came up to the counter, moving their mouths over their dentures, whistling the word âsnapper,â their hands and head shakinâ, looking like they wasnât glued together very tight.
That was the worst part. Working behind the counter.
Now the gutting part was okay. Especially once you got the feel for it, didnât let the suckers slip out of your hands.
Fish were slimy little bastards, all the gook would get over your clothes and you never could get the smell out. Thing to do was just work in smelly clothes for a while, then chuck âem in the garbage.
Or stuff âem in the mailbox of that jerk who was giving you a real hard time.
Now if he was a real asshole, youâd stuff some fishheads in with the smelly clothes.
Good old fish. Flopping in the pail, looking up at you with glazed-over eyes sayinâ âPut me out of my misery, man.â
At first he used to do it just like the old man did. Cut the gills. But then he found a better way. Heâd step on their heads.
Stomp!
All the brain squishing out.
That part was okay, too. But the best part was the swim bladder. Bounce it with the tip of the knife. Careful, careful. It was delicate.
Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy.
Then if you were quick enough, youâd jam the tip all of a sudden and itâd pop.
But that was kid stuff, too. Old stuff. Heâd moved on to better stuff than popping swim bladders. And things were going real good until he got caught.
Hell with that shit. No sense moaning about the past. Better to make something of the future.
After all, he was young.
He wrote Hank Stewart, Real Estate Developer.
Like that guy who owned all those casinos in Atlantic City. Man, he could have his pick of chicks âcause he had bread.
Hank Stewart, millionaire.
Hank Stewart, billionaire.
Hank Stewart, trillionaire.
Ah, that was stupid, too. Money wasnât everything. It didnât show what you got in your pants.
Hank Stewart, stud.
Ah-hah!
Hank Stewart, rock star. Hair down to his ass, wearing nothing but a pair of tight jeans, sweat streaming down his hard, lean body. Girls coming after him, screaming their little heads off, waiting for him to give it to them.
Hank Stewart, King of Rock and Roll.
He paused a moment, then wrote: Hank Stewart, King.
King Stewart.
Emperor Stewart.
Lord Stewart.
God Stewart.
Or just plain God would do.
Brooklyn.
Not the honeymoon Decker had imagined.
Twelve grueling months before heâd rack up another two weeksâ vacation time and here he was, alone in a tiny guest bedroom, his long legs cramped from having slept on too small a bed, his back sore from lying on a wafer-thin thing that somebody had mislabeled as a mattress. Heâd bunked up in foxholes that had been bigger than this place. Most of the floor space was taken up by the pullout sofa bed. The rest of the furnishings were worn pieces old enough to be antiques, but not good enough to qualify. A scarred wooden nightstand was at his right, the digital clock upon it reading out ten-forty-two. The suitcases had been piled atop an old yellowed pine bureau adorned with teddy-bear appliqués. The sofa pillows had been stuffed into the roomâs only free corner. On the east wall, two wee windows framed a gray sky.
The honeymoon suite.
Très charmant.
Two days ago, heâd danced blisters on his feet, whooping his voice raw, carrying his stepsons around on his shoulders. It had been a wild affairâthe drinking and dancing lasting until midnight. Now his body was paying overtime for his exuberance.
