Milk and Honey (34 page)

Schulman sipped his drink. “I tried to locate them after the war. I was unsuccessful.”

He was silent for a moment.

“Their son’s visit made me realize what a danger I was to these people. Without them asking, I went on my way. I lived—survived—eating berries and leaves, drinking water from streams. And I found a gun, several, in fact. Being kosher, I never attempted to hunt for meat. I don’t have a
shochet
’s mentality, though theoretically I know how to ritually slaughter an animal. And I was able to sustain myself on the fruit of the forest. After such a
ness
, I was not able to transgress the laws of
kashruth
even if I had the excuse of
pekuah nefesh
—saving a life.”

“I wish I had your faith,” Decker said.

“You experience a
ness
like that, the faith just comes, Akiva,” Schulman said.

He paused a moment, then went on. “Toward the end of the war—I didn’t know it was the end of the war back then—I came across one of Hitler’s elite wandering the forest. He was a young man—around eighteen, nineteen—dressed in a dirty uniform—and was roaming about half-dazed, his eyes glazed over. He must have become separated from his regiment. He saw me, snarled, and fired out one word at me.
Juden
. That triggered some…primal anger deep within me.”

Schulman’s eyes hardened.

“I became enraged, reached for my gun. Suddenly, I saw
fear
in the boy’s eyes, Akiva. Imagine how that felt. A scrawny beaten-down Jew instilling a Nazi with terror. He started begging me for mercy, crying out his mother’s name. I remained unmoved, thinking,
Gornish mein helfin
. Nothing would help him now. I knew if I let him go and he should be saved, I would be hunted down and shot. Or he’d just go on to murder other Jews. For my sake and the sake of
klal Yisrael
—the Jewish people—I…shot him.”

He shrugged and looked Decker in the eye.

“Never any question as to the morality of what I did,” Schulman said. “I knew I was correct. It didn’t bother me then, it doesn’t
really
bother me now. But every few years, I dream about that boy. I see the terror in his eyes. I wake up, say a
bracha
to God for delivering me. But then I ask myself…” He pointed his finger in the air and his voice took on a singsong cadence. “If I was so right, why does God allow me to see this child’s terror as clearly as the day I shot him?”

“Do you have an answer?” Decker asked.

“I have postulations only,” Schulman said. “My primary thought is that
Hashem
wanted me to experience the fragility of life. As that boy’s life was in my hands, so am I in
Hakodosh Boroch Hu’s
hands. That was the purpose of the biblical sacrifices. Do you think that
Hashem
needed us to give Him a goat or a ram for His ego?” The old man stuck his finger in the air. “Of course not!”

Decker smiled.

“
Hashem
wanted us to know how precarious is our hold on the thread of life. One minute that animal was alive, full of strength and vigor. A second later, it was dead. So it was with that boy. Those dreams come to keep me humble, Akiva. To make me understand that we are
mortal
creatures.”

“Nothing like a war to make you feel mortal,” Decker said.

Schulman patted his shoulder. “If I may interpret your pain, I’d say what you saw in that young girl’s death was your own mortality. And it scared you. Witnessing death firsthand, taking a life—horrifying, frightful. You don’t even realize how scared you are until after it’s all over. First you’re relieved to be out of that situation…then you become angry. Like discovering a practical joke had been played on you. The more scared you were, the more angry you are afterward. And the anger can stay with you a long time.”

“You were angry?” Decker asked.

“Furious! Enraged! Crazed with vengeance!”

“So how did you get rid of it?” Decker asked.

“Who said I did?” the old man cried out. “I’m still an angry man! Sometimes I’ll be reading an article in the paper about those
mamzers
from the
Historical Review
—the Nazi
mamzers
who say the Holocaust never happened. I read about the skinheads. I want to
kill
them. Ah, but I
don’t
. And you may get angry, start shooting at the barn, but you don’t murder, do you?”

“No,” Decker said.

“Ask God for forgiveness, Akiva,” Schulman said. “
Hakodosh Boroch Hu
is the only one who can give you solace. I’ve told you that before.” He stood up, motioned Decker to do the same thing. The old man embraced him tightly, then looked him in the eye. Still holding him, he said, “Then, my boy, have the courage to forgive yourself.” He broke away. “Enough of the past. Let’s learn a little Talmud.”

A weekend of
dreaming in red, the images so realistic that even after Decker had awoken, he was disoriented. His heart raced, his skin was damp and sticky, his gut knotted with raw fear. Monday morning was especially bad, because he had to leave the confines of his bedroom and face the world. It took him a long time to shower and shave, to dress and say his morning prayers. He felt inanimate, removed from his flesh—a series of circuits programmed to follow a routine. It was as though he’d lost proprioception—his sense of self. He left for work without eating.

He knew the job would jolt him back to the present. With familiar people in familiar surroundings, he’d be okay, able to function. But the freeway ride over the mountains seemed surreal, the steamy hills melting into the asphalt, the cars’ blurs of steel—futuristic cockroaches speeding away from burgeoning sunlight. Even the station house seemed an oddity—a dirty white stucco building planted in the middle of a burned-out field. A gag gift from some alien architect.

What brought Decker back to earth was the odor of Hollander’s pipe.

“What tractor ran you over this morning?” Hollander asked.

Decker glanced at the clock—quarter to nine. “I think I’ll call Marge.”

“I just spoke to her, Pete. She sounds a lot better than you.”

“She’s okay?”

“Due to be released at ten. Her current flame is picking her up, and she sounded very pleased about that. You know, I think it was real lucky that she’s dating a shrink. I mean, he’s probably pretty good for her at a time like this.”

“Probably.”

“Building up her confidence,” Hollander said. “That’s the worst part. When you lose the confidence, start doubting yourself. Then things start looking pretty iffy out there.”

Decker didn’t answer.

“Something major happen to you, Rabbi?” Hollander said.

“I’m all right,” Decker said. And at that moment, he decided he was. His memories were like old photo albums, to be stashed away in an attic trunk, opened only on the rainiest of days. “Really, I’m fine, Mike.”

Hollander took a puff on his briar and blew out fruit-scented smoke. “Then you won’t mind hearing that an hour ago they sprang our buddy Earl Darcy on his own recognizance.”

Decker snapped to attention. “Who picked him up?”

“Sue Beth Litton,” Hollander answered. “I didn’t talk to her directly, but the jailer said she was pretty shaken by the whole thing.”

“Sue Beth didn’t have the foggiest notion of what she was in for when her brother confessed.”

“That was the jailer’s impression.”

The two men looked at each other, Hollander fidgeting with his pipe, Decker smoothing his mustache. With all that had happened with Rina and Abel, Decker had put his cases on hold. Time to bury the personal life and take out the professional one. Time to work!

“Think they’ll run?” Hollander asked.

“The thought crossed my mind,” Decker said. “Honey farmers could live a long time in the wilds, raise bees almost anywhere there’s cloverfield.”

“They seemed attached to their land.”

“I think they could reattach if they had to.”

“Yeah,” Hollander said. The stem of his pipe bobbed in his mouth. “Lots of cheap land outside of California, especially if they have Manfred money. Pick out some small town in Idaho or Montana. Continue where they left off. No one would ever be the wiser.”

They were silent for a moment.

“Pay them a visit?” Hollander said.

“Absolutely,” Decker said.

Hollander took the pipe out of his mouth and tamped down the tobacco. “You look better, Pete. Work agrees with you.”

A mile into the ride, Decker realized how much he missed Marge. Hollander operated the unmarked as if it were an adversary, oversteering each turn, jamming on the brakes whenever he stopped. He grunted as he drove, sang snatches of tunes over the dispatchers’ voices, making up lyrics as he went along. He had the decency not to smoke with the windows rolled up, but the pipe still leaked plumes of cheap tobacco. Decker sat rigid in his seat, his jaw so tightly clamped his teeth started to hurt.

Hollander started belting out off-key torch songs. Decker cranked up the police radio, hoping Mike could take a hint.

“Jesus!” Hollander said. He lowered the volume. “You trying to make us deaf, aiming for disability or something? What’s
with
you today?”

“I’m on edge.”

“I can see that.”

“Exit here,” Decker said, pointing to the ascending mountain road.

“Kinda steep,” Hollander remarked.

“Want me to drive?”

“Yeah, why don’t you?” Hollander pulled over onto the shoulder of the street. “You know the way.”

Decker gunned the motor and burned rubber as he pulled out. He heard Hollander suck in his breath, but ignored him and kept accelerating the car.

A minute later, he said, “You take Granny Darcy, Mike. I’ll take Pappy.”

“Okay.”

“Keep the questions light. After all, we don’t have anything to hold them on. Forensics hasn’t released the bodies yet, so something still may come up. But as of right now, we’ve got zip—nothing to tie them to the crime scene. But they don’t know that.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t smoke your pipe in front of her,” Decker said. “From what I understand, she’s a real fundamentalist. Probably thinks tobacco is an invention of the Devil.” He inhaled a whiff of the odor in the car, then said, “Not far from the truth.”

Hollander stuck his pipe in his jacket, leaned the passenger seat as far back as it would go, and closed his eyes. Decker shifted into low gear as he descended into the canyon, slowed as he hit the winding canyon road. Tawny grain fields glinted specks of sunlight, livestock grazed in the distance. An idyllic slice of Americana, discounting the butchery that had taken place. Sudden rage. It happened all the time….

Abel’s voice telling him: Who was he to judge?

Good point, Old Honest Abe. Very good point.

Decker heard Hollander snore. He’d known Mike for six years, never seen the man riled. Hollander was a good cop, not hard-driven, but his pacing had given him longevity in a job reknowned for burnout.

He passed Hell’s Heaven, saw the rows of choppers, the
bikers armored with leather and denim. The same snapshot as a week ago. No doubt the same three weeks ago.

If four people died in the forest and no one noticed…

Decker shook Hollander’s shoulder a mile before the Darcy farm. Hollander grunted, then woke. Decker slowed, turned right onto the gravel road that led to the house. The yellow crime-scene ribbon had been broken, but an end was still tied to the porch post. It lay lifeless on the ground like a used party streamer. Decker killed the motor, and he and Hollander exited the car. The air was warm and still, perfumed with hay and clover.

“Where’s the welcoming party?” Hollander said.

“I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting.” Decker knocked on the door. Knocked again a minute later.

“We’re too late,” Hollander said.

Decker walked around back, Hollander followed. A fifties two-tone aqua-and-white Dodge was parked in the weed-choked lot. The windows were rolled down; stuffing leaked out of the tuck and roll. Decker tried the barn door—locked. He hooded his eyes with his hand and scanned the field. In the distance were the pine boxes—the beehives. A patch of blue gingham was moving between them. Decker walked about fifty feet forward, saw the outline of a stoop-shouldered woman wearing a veil and gloves. He continued forward.

Hollander said, “We should have brought some insect repellent.”

Decker didn’t answer.

Hollander struggled to keep up with Decker. “Think there’s any merit to ‘They won’t bother you if you don’t bother them’?”

“Not when there’re thousands of the suckers,” Decker said.

“Great.”

The woman didn’t raise her head as they approached. She was large-boned and big-bosomed. Her features were
obscured by the veil, but Decker could see the ruddiness of her complexion. Her hair was straight and gray, cut to one length like the little Dutch boy. It fell to the nape of her neck and sparkled silver at the ends. Decker stopped when they were within speaking range.

“Mrs. Darcy?” he said.

There was no response. Decker spoke louder—maybe the old woman was hard of hearing, because she continued to ignore them.

Decker shouted, “We’re police, ma’am! I want to tell you from the bottom of my heart how sorry we are for your loss.”

No answer.

“I heard from all your neighbors what a fine boy Luke was. How much he loved you and his pappy. You must have done a right fine job of raising him.”

She muttered something.

Decker said, “Excuse me, ma’am?”

The woman didn’t respond.

“I know you raised him with the fear of God and the love of Jesus. A fine Christian soldier—”

“Not fine enough,” Granny Darcy said.

“It wasn’t Luke’s fault,” Decker said. “It was that she-devil.”

Granny Darcy suddenly stiffened. She remained silent for a moment, then said, “You preach the word of the Gospel, but you ain’t to be trusted.” She faced them, then raised her veil. “Get off of my property.”

Hollander shifted his weight. Decker said, “We need to talk, Granny—”

“I said, get off of my property!”

With surprising agility, she leaped from box to box, banging on the hives, liberating swarms of agitated bees. As the dark funnels coalesced, merged into a droning black cloud, she began to laugh.

Hollander and Decker started running, but the cloud was quicker. Soon they were enveloped, hard nodules of fuzzy sleet pelting their face and skin. Hollander swore, tried to bat them away, but it only riled the bees further. Decker felt one sting, then another, and another, His brain fired into overdrive, trying to find a way out.

Think like Byron Howard.

Smoke!

Decker found his cigarettes and began lighting them. He screamed to Hollander to light his pipe, explaining that smoke confused bees. Hollander reached into his pocket and held a match to the bowl of his briar. Immediately, a thick cloud of tobacco swirled around their faces. A minute later, the bees were still upon them, still surrounded them, obscuring their vision, but had slowed their attacks.

“Now what?” Hollander asked, puffing out smoke. He had to shout to be heard over the one-note dirge of the bees.

Decker coughed, dragging on five cigarettes at once, blowing out without inhaling. He yelled back, “We could try walking away…slowly.” He heard more laughter in the background—Granny’s laughter, he thought. But another voice was screaming as well. Words he couldn’t understand. A moment later, a distinctly male voice shouted for them to stay in their tracks!

“I can’t see a fucking thing!” Hollander screamed.

Decker reached for his snub nose, and told Hollander to draw his weapon. A bee flew in his mouth. Decker spat it out.

“I can’t aim, if I can’t see,” Hollander cried out.

“Relax!” Decker yelled. But he was anything but calm.

Hollander quickly refilled his bowl and began puffing out steamy, scented smoke. He gripped his pipe and said, “I get out of this one, I’m gonna enshrine this sucker.”

“Stay right there,” the deep voice said. Less menacing tone this time. “I’ll come fetch yeh.”

The air suddenly thickened until they were engulfed by pillows of soot. Their eyes burned, overflowed tears, their throats were desiccated from smoke and heat. They coughed and sputtered, stoned by flying insects. Bees in their hair, under their clothes, on their hands, up their pant legs. Not biting now, just exploring, thready legs pricking skin as they crawled. The seconds dragged on as they stood choking in the inferno. Finally, two strong arms led them into open air and brushed them free of their live dust. Decker sucked in several deep breaths, coughing, clearing his lungs and mouth of the foul taste of ashy residue. Behind him were humming bellows of smoke rising and, thinning in the breeze, a cackle of crazed laughter.

The male voice said, “You men wait right here while I take care of them bees. And put away them guns. You won’t need ’em here.”

Through fuzzy vision, Decker made out the speaker. Not a large man, physically, but there was something about the way he carried himself. Independent. Straight back aligned perpendicular to a broad set of shoulders. A confident walk. He wore gloves but no veil. The hair atop his head was jet black.

Decker wiped his eyes. His neck was burning from bee stings. Despite the heat, he wore a jacket. So did Hollander. Thank God for long sleeves. He noticed thick welts on the back of Hollander’s neck and hands. “You okay, Mike?”

“Yeah.” Hollander winced with pain. “I’ll live. They got you bad?”

“Back of my neck.”

“Who’s the savior? Pappy Darcy himself?”

“Probably.” Decker watched the old man guide the bees back into the hives. Unlike Byron Howard, he worked quickly, effortlessly, ordering the old lady around as he needed her. The woman had transformed once again. No longer was she a possessed spirit. Now, she acted the per
fect obedient wife, following her husband’s commands with slavish duty.

The old man directed the bees onto wood-framed wire matrices filled with honeycomb. Once the insects latched on to their food, he dropped the frames one at a time lengthwise into one of the pine boxes. The man worked nonstop for a half hour. It took six frames to fill one of the pine boxes. There were enough bees to replenish four hives.

When he was finally done, he brushed off his pant legs, shot a quick glance at Decker, then stared at the ground. There had been surrender in the old man’s eyes, a look that said nothing could hurt him anymore. He looped his arm around Granny Darcy’s shoulders, guided her forward. Then, almost as an afterthought, waved for Decker and Hollander to follow him.