Faye Kellerman - Sanctuary

“Is anyone doing anything about it?”

“Yes, of course. Some of the rabbis are putting clauses in the official Jewish marriage contract-the ketubah. They add clauses that state that if the husband refuses to give his wife a Jewish divorce after the civil divorce goes through, he must pay her enormous amounts of money daily until he relents. Unfortunately, the rabbis weren’t doing things like that when Honey got married.”

Decker said, “I don’t think money would have been a motivating factor for someone as far gone as Gershon Klein anyway.”

“So maybe the rabbis did what they thought they could do. Maybe they used what halachic means they had available.”

“It’s murder, Rina!”

“You’re judging by American jurisprudence standards.”

“Damn right, I am. They live in the U.S.A., not in Israel…do they do that in Israel?”

Rina shook her head. “They just put them in jail.”

“But they don’t starve them…beat them?”

“No, they can’t do that legally.”

“So even here, it’s murder.”

Rina didn’t speak.

Decker said, “You don’t consider it murder?”

“I consider the whole thing tragic.”

Rina navigated Decker down Jaffa Road-an old main thoroughfare cluttered with people and traffic. Decker wanted to gawk, to take in the parade, but there was work to be done. Sightseeing was for another time and occasion. By the grime collected on the buildings, Decker could tell he was in the old area of town. It wasn’t pretty but it wasn’t ugly either. Part of the reason was that all the buildings were made from the same colored limestone. The material not only lent a uniformity to the city, but was durable as well.

He and Rina weren’t talking much. Their discussion about Honey and divorce had sobered them. His mind was ablaze with images: a crazy man dunked in a bathtub, never fully understanding the gravity of his crime. A wife hopelessly trapped in a loveless, mindless marriage. Children caught in the middle…

Rina said, “I think it’s right off Machane Yehudah-the Jewish Marketplace. Turn down the next road and let me see where we’re at.”

Decker’s attention snapped to the present. “Where are we going?”

“To Or Torah. It’s one of the biggest yeshivas for newcomers. Turn here.”

Decker made a sharp right, the Subaru hugging the cobblestones quite nicely.

Rina said, “Park anywhere you can just so long as the curb is marked with blue and white stripes. They Denver-boot here. The yeshiva’s a couple of blocks. We’ll walk. It’ll be easier and nice to stretch our legs.”

“How about that solid blue curb?”

“That’s okay, too.”

Decker squeezed the car into a tight space. As per instructions from the car rental agency, he crook-locked the gear shift to the wheel and got out of the car. He sprinted around the side and opened the passenger door for Rina.

“A gentleman,” she said.

Decker smiled, helped Rina out of the car, and looked around. The cobbled street was tiny and had no sidewalks. Many of the cars were parked with their right wheels over the curb onto dirt and their left wheels still in the street. A line of cars doing wheelies.

The neighborhood held what appeared to be apartment houses-square limestone buildings punched with small windows. Laundry hung from the sides. Some of the structures had grass patches in front. Some had window boxes. A small fruit stand was perched on one corner; across the street were a bakery and post office. A background buzz of yelps and shouts permeated the air. Something Decker hadn’t heard for a long time. Children in the streets at play.

They started walking.

“You look very upset,” Decker said.

“I am,” Rina said. “This whole thing with Gershon is just horrible. What’s worse is, Honey’s probably taking the blame for the village’s mistake. The cops think she did it. And she’s not around to set the record straight.”

“Anything for the Rebbe,” Decker said. “And to tell you the truth, I’m not crying for her. Even if she didn’t murder her husband, she owns some culpability. She knew what was going to happen.”

“I’m sure Honey never dreamed they would actually kill Gershon. And I’m sure they didn’t mean to kill him. Oh, Peter, the whole thing is just sickening!”

“Yes, it is. But right now, I’ve got Dov and Gil Yalom to worry about.”

“Poor kids. Peter, how in the world do you deal with so much tragedy?”

“I compartmentalize. Come on. Let’s go.”

The cell-like stone entry to the yeshiva was cold and dim, the scant illumination provided by a small, square barred window and an uncovered light bulb dangling from the ceiling. The walls were masoned with limestone blocks; the floor was tiled with a travertine-colored crushed rock. The air was damp. Decker could almost smell the spores. He stuck his hands in his pockets and bounced on his feet, eyes darting about.

Rina lagged behind, watching her husband’s jumpiness. He was lost, depending on her to trailblaze. She stepped inside the chilly room, her hand reaching up to touch the mezuzah posted on the doorjamb. She kissed her fingertips.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“I’m with you, I’m fine.”

He waited for his pupils to dilate, then looked around. An empty desk stood along the right-hand wall; behind it was an open door leading somewhere. He called out a hello, then wondered if hello was the greeting of choice in Israel.

It took a few moments for a young man to come through the door behind the desk, his fingers touching the mezuzah, then his lips, as he came into the room. He was good-looking with solid features and a masculine bone structure, even though his cheeks and chin were hidden by a thick, black beard. He wore a black suit, white shirt, and no tie. Atop his close-cropped head was a black hat. Big brown eyes studied Rina first, then Decker, then climbed back to Rina. It was as if he instinctively knew to whom to talk.

“Yes, can I help you?”

An American accent. Decker was elated. The man spoke English. “You’re from the States.”

The man nodded.

“Whereabouts?”

“Omaha, believe it or not. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact there is. I’m Detective Sergeant Peter Decker from the Los Angeles Police Department.” Decker took out his badge and showed it to the Nebraskan. “I’m here on official business. I’m looking for two teenaged brothers-Gil and Dov Yalom. Their parents were murdered about a week ago in Los Angeles and they’ve disappeared. We’re trying to find them-just to talk to them.”

The young man studied Decker’s badge, then lifted his eyes. “And you think they’re here?”

“I know they’re in Israel. I have reason to suspect that the younger boy-Dov-might be hiding out in a yeshiva.”

“In Or Torah specifically?”

Decker said, “A frightened, young kid alone in a foreign country. A yeshiva is a perfect sanctuary.”

“What does that mean?” The man was offended.

“All my husband meant was that the boy may be in trouble. He’s probably seeking Hashem for guidance.”

“Do you know Dov Yalom?” Decker said.

“Not at all.”

Too fast a response? Decker studied the young man. “Dov Yalom’s parents were murdered. He ran away because someone scared him away. It’s imperative that we find him before someone else does.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I think the boy’s in danger. And frankly, anyone who’s keeping him might be in danger as well.”

The man stepped back and folded his arms across his chest. “Who exactly are you two?”

Decker peered into the face. “Has someone else been asking for Dov Yalom, sir?”