Her heart was pounding, and she listened carefully.

“I don’t hear anything,” she whispered rapidly.

“Yeah, well I know I heard something,” he said firmly.

“What do you want to do?” She forced out the words.

“I don’t know…Uh, wait here. I’ll see if I can’t scare whatever it is off.”

“Matt, I don’t know.”

“I don’t want us walking into a trap.”

“Why don’t we just wait for the police. They’ll be here if I don’t show up at home soon.”

Hawthorne’s eyelid fluttered.

“I don’t need the police,” he said, emphatically. “Just wait here, and I’ll go by myself!”

“I don’t want to wait alone.”

“Then come with me.”

She didn’t want that, either.

“Why can’t we make a mad dash across the grounds screaming like banshees?” she asked.

“I can take care of us, Rina.” Hawthorne pulled out a knife that gleamed in the moonlight. “I wasn’t taking any chances with this pervert.”

She swallowed hard. “I’ll wait inside the mikvah,” she whispered.

“Good idea.”

“Be careful, Matthew.”

“Piece of cake, m’lady.”

She watched him disappear into the brush. A moment later, she heard noises-the crunching and snapping of leaves and twigs. It was Matt searching, she told herself. The noises became louder, intensifying, echoing against the still of the night!

Sudden silence.

She wanted to call out to him, but was afraid of giving herself away. She walked back toward the mikvah, fumbled for the key, and with a trembling hand, managed to insert it in the lock.

That was as far as she got.

He pounced on her. A panther with a ski mask. Clothing black as midnight. Before she could scream, something soft and fuzzy was crammed down her throat. He threw her down onto the baked earth and fell upon her, pinning her hands and body, belly-down, against the ground. She felt something cold and metallic against her temple. He spoke. His voice was a gravelly whisper-unnatural-as if he were talking through a voice box. He said it was a gun and he’d use it if he had to. The faces of her boys flashed through her head.

She struggled in his grip, managed to free a hand, slid it under his shirt and clawed his ribs. He swore and smacked her cheek with the butt of the gun.

Her face went wet and numb, her vision blurred, and her head burst with pain. But she didn’t stop. She went for his eyes, but he backed away and hit her again. She felt her energy ebbing. The cloth in her mouth was beginning to suffocate her. She felt her clothes being ripped, his bare hands on her flesh-her neck, her back, inside her underpants. His touch was slimy, evil. She went wild and, with renewed force, bucked upward. The sudden movement threw him off balance and knocked the gun from his hand. Pressure eased from her back.

Taking advantage of his loss of equilibrium, she yanked the gag from her throat and tried to scream, but it came out a dry croak. He tried to punch her, but she ducked aside and his fist hit the ground. Again she screamed, and this time her voice rang out like a diva’s.

He covered her mouth with one hand and pushed her stomach against the ground again, flattening her to the dirt. But she heard the noise, the rush through the bushes-she knew it had to be him. Sarah must have called.

She bit the thick flesh of the assailant’s palm and felt his blood oozing into her mouth. He swore gutturally and pulled his hand away.

“Peter!” she screamed.

The attacker heard the footsteps, too. He sprung up and tried to run, but she was too quick. She grabbed his ankle, and he went down.

“Peter!” she screamed again.

The sound of running. Louder. It was approaching her.

“Peter!” she implored.

Where was he?

She saw the figure appear.

It was Moshe.

The assailant tried to free himself from Rina’s grasp, flailing at her.

“Help me!” she screamed at the wisp of a man.

Finally, the rapist pulled free, but Moshe leaped and tackled him-his meager body an arrow shooting through the night-encircling the other man’s waist and holding him tight. Together, they tumbled into a pile of eucalyptus leaves.

The attacker was taller and heavier, but Moshe was armed with an oversized volume of the Talmud. Raising it, he blinked several times and brought it crashing down on the man’s head. The impact stunned him for a moment, but then he began to lash out at Moshe. Rina ran over and struck out at his face, trying to pull off the ski mask. He kicked her in the abdomen, she doubled over, and the man broke free.

“He’s getting away, Moshe!” she gasped.

Moshe grabbed the back of a black shirt collar and pulled him down again.

Muttering the Shema, Moshe again used the heavy book to pummel his head. Rina crawled forward and bit his ankle. The pain made him cry out and buckle, and she took another grab at the mask, missing.

“Hold him, Moshe!” she screamed.

Moshe’s response was another slam to the attacker’s head, while chanting allegiance to Hashem.

Rina searched for the gun. The moon was full, and she caught a glint of metal winking at her. Picking it up, she found it small and comfortable in her hand, almost toylike. In the distance she heard a siren.

Finally!

She slipped her index finger into the trigger.

The siren grew louder.

With a shaking hand, she cocked the gun and aimed. The man was woozy but still struggling. She didn’t dare shoot for fear of hitting Moshe.

She saw the lights of the police car.

The rapist swiveled and broke free. The gun in her hand spat fire. He slowed a split second, then took off.

But the delay was all that was needed. He ran toward the barrel of Decker’s.38 special.

“Police! Freeze!”

The attacker turned toward the hills, but Marge and Decker leaped on him, pulling him to the ground. Decker slammed the butt of his revolver into his back, then pointed it at his head.

“One move and you’re iced, fucker,” Decker said, clamping on the cuffs.

“You got him?” Marge asked, gun drawn.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll go call in.”

Decker lifted the man upright and pushed him onto the hood of the Plymouth.

“Just try anything, and you’re dead meat, asshole,” he said, slamming the masked face against the metal. “You’re fucking dead meat.”

“Take it easy, Pete,” Marge said, trying to pull him off.

“You hear me, motherfucker?” Decker spat. “Just blink the wrong way, and you’re dead meat!”

Rina watched as Decker, with one savage turn of his wrist, yanked off the mask.

It was Gilbert. His face was blanched, in stark contrast to the black clothing. His eyes were wild, puffy and glistening wet, his lips swollen from being bitten, oozing with blood.

Rina gasped and backed away. Then she thought of something.

“Oh my God!” she cried out. “Matt Hawthorne. He was walking me home. He heard something and went looking in the bushes.”

“Where is he?” Decker pressed his knee into the small of Gilbert’s back.

“Near the oaks,” Gilbert mumbled. “Where those kids killed the black woman.”

“Did you kill him?”

Decker saw that creepy half smile spread across his lips. A sudden burst of blood poured out of his nose down to his chin.

“If I did, it was unintentional,” he said, giggling.

Decker smashed his face against the car.

Marge pulled Gilbert from Decker’s grasp and shoved him to the ground. She bent down, cuffed his feet, turned him over onto his stomach, and pointed her gun at his head.

“Go look for Hawthorne,” she told her partner.

Go cool off was the message.

Decker rubbed his hands over his face and looked at Rina. Her clothes were in shreds. The beautiful face was mangled, bruised, and scraped-her forehead, nose, lips, and chin were bleeding, her left jaw already swollen to three times its normal size. Marge saw the look on his face, noticed his hand inch toward his holster.