For a moment, Donatti debated telling Decker that the same motherfuckers who took out Shayndie had also tried to pop his wife. That if he hadn’t been there, the lieutenant would be a widower today. But he decided against it. It would give Decker a rationale for letting him go. That’s not what he wanted. He wanted to make Decker suffer, humiliated by his own actions and his resulting failure… because Decker had humiliated him in Terry’s eyes eight years ago.

He started to back away, keeping the gun on Decker’s head. “I’m going to turn around. All the nearby guns have been emptied. You could make a run for the ones behind you, but you’d better be quick and you’d better shoot to kill, because if you miss… you’re dead. And then I go after your family-one by one by one. If you happen to get lucky with a direct hit, remember your promise to me. You take care of Terry and my son. I really love that little girl.”

Police sirens could be heard in the background.

Jonathan had finally gotten to a phone booth.

“I think that’s my exit song,” Donatti told him.

Thinking about the weapons, Decker watched him back away. How his body seared with pain! He was compromised. He couldn’t walk without limping, let alone run. Any attempt to seize a gun would give Donatti more than enough time to kill him.

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.

No, it wasn’t his brother Jonathan who bestowed upon Decker the ability to pick up his head and face another day. It was Randy. Sixteen days after Decker had witnessed slaughter and destruction, he had packed up his bags for Florida: to find peace in his childhood home, to mend his wounds both physical and emotional. The first weekend of his arrival, Randy came down to visit. At six-two, 270 pounds of muscle and fat, his brother had a kick-ass attitude ideal for an undercover cop. His formidable face was slathered by a matted black beard hanging over his chin. His dark piercing eyes demanded to be told the truth.

It started out as small talk: It always worked that way, gradually segueing into Decker’s buried guilt. Randy listened without interruption. Then he laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“What’re you sweating it for, Peter? You know as well as I do, even if you had killed the scumbag, another one would have come along to take his place.”

Decker wiped his forehead. He was soaked with perspiration, even though he was wearing a lightweight, short-sleeved cotton shirt and jeans. It was in the low seventies with blue skies and clear air. “I don’t know, Randy…”

“Course you do. No shortage of pissbuckets, Peter. Don’t give it a second thought.”

“I should have done something. At the very least, I should have told the cops the truth.”

“And made everyone miserable-the old man Lieber, the widowed wife, the remaining children, your entire half brother’s family, you, Rina, your family, even me…” He shook his head. “Truth is a flexible concept, bro. Didn’t you tell me that Jewish-wise, truth means peace?”

“No.”

“Yeah, you did. You told me it was okay to lie to keep peace in the family.”

“Oh, that. Shalom bayit. It means fibbing, Randy, not letting murderers go free.”

“Donatti will get his, just like his old man did. In the meantime, you’re living to see another day. As they say in the Family, ‘fuhged-daboutit.’ ” Randy leaned back in his wicker chaise lounger. The brothers were resting on the outside porch, drinking lemonade. Damn near idyllic. “You’re a friggin’ hero, Peter. You risked your life to save Chaim.”

“It didn’t work-”

“So what if it worked or not? It still happened. And you got shot in the process. That makes you a hero. Furthermore, you made me a hero. You know how long we’ve been after Weiss, Harabi, and Ibn Dod? You flushed them out for us. You broke up a major ecstasy-import ring. They’re being transported down here for arraignment next week.”

“Like you said, there’ll just be more to take their places.”

“Yeah, sure, but it’s important for us to succeed once in a while. To say to the public, we care about you. We care about your kids and your neighborhoods. And we do care.” He lightly punched Decker’s shoulder. “You made us look good here in Miami, bro. You made Novack in New York look good-all the nice things you said in the press about NYPD detectives. Everyone loves you. If you were the political type, you could parlay what you did into chief of police in one of the major cities.”