The Lord is My Shepherd

  “The story is told four different times, in four different ways,” Jeremiah explained.

  Cindy's stomach growled again. She smiled faintly. Apparently, she didn't need to worry about a serial killer. It was more likely that she would die of hunger first.

  Greta stood up, her tiny face solemn. “The youngest child asks the four questions,” Jeremiah explained.

  “Mah nishtanah ha-lahylah ha-zeh mi-kol ha-layloht, mi-kol ha-layloht,” Greta said.

  “How different is this night from all other nights!” Jeremiah translated in a whisper.

  “She-b'khol ha-layloht anu okhlin chameytz u-matzah, chameytz u-matzah. Ha-lahylah ha-zeh, ha-lahylah ha-zeh, kooloh matzah?” Greta asked.

  “Why is it that on all other nights during the year we eat either bread or matzah, but on this night we eat only matzah?” Jeremiah whispered. “The answers are found in the Haggadah,” Jeremiah said, indicating a book sitting next to Eric. “He will read from it.”

  Cindy struggled to pay attention as each of the child's four questions was answered. Finally Greta sat down and Cindy wanted to applaud her for being able to make it all the way through. A quick glance around the table convinced her, however, that it would not be appreciated.

  “Now do we eat?” she whispered to Jeremiah as quietly as she could.

  He smiled. “Not for a long, long time.”

  Mark raced into Harold Grey's home, gun drawn, expecting the worst. Instead, he saw Harold and his wife, laden down with grocery bags, heading toward the kitchen.

  He quickly holstered his weapon as they turned to look at him. Sweat poured off of him, and his heart still pounded.

  “I'm sorry, Detective,” Harold said. “My wife forgot her key. It was her at the door. I was planning on calling back as soon as I finished helping her carry everything in.”

  “It's okay,” Mark said, struggling to compose himself. He had thought for sure that he was going to find the couple dead and the killer gone. He wiped at the sweat that trickled into his eyes.

  “The church directory's on the couch there if you want to look at it,” Harold said.

  “Thank you, I will,” Mark said. He flipped open his phone and called in the false alarm. He sank down onto the couch and snatched up the directory. Just because the Greys were alive didn't mean everyone else was safe. He tried to go quickly, but he read every entry, afraid of missing the one that he would need.

  When his phone rang, he grabbed it.

  “They're still pulling up records at the paper, but it's looking less and less likely that there are any other Olivers to be found there,” Paul said without preamble.

  “I've got my hands on the church directory right now. I'll call you back as soon as I have something,” Mark said.

  The first telling of the Passover story was over, and the second one was just beginning. Jeremiah smiled encouragingly at Cindy, realizing that the distress she felt was his fault. He should have warned her to eat something before they came.

  For the second telling, four “sons” were chosen to ask, each in a different way, about the meaning of the Seder. Josiah played the role of the wise son and had asked in length about the Seder and been given a response detailed enough and long enough that Jeremiah's stomach was also starting to growl. Erica then had the responsibility of asking as the simple son, a role that he could tell from the look on her face she did not appreciate.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  “With a strong hand the Almighty led us out from Egypt, from the house of bondage,” her father answered.

  Jeremiah had taken upon himself the task of asking as the evil son. “What is this cult of yours?”

  Asking the question demonstrated isolation from the Jewish people and prompted the response, “It is because God acted for my sake when I left Egypt.”

  Finally, Greta was tasked as the son who was too young to ask. To her Eric responded, “It is because of what the Almighty did for me when I left Egypt.”

  He turned to Cindy. “The third telling will probably be most familiar to you as it is the story from the book of Exodus.”

  She smiled and sat up straighter, and he did his best not to laugh.

  “And then comes the fourth telling?” she asked.

  “Not exactly. Before we get to the fourth telling we will sing some praise songs including one called Dayeinu. It says that if Adonai had performed only one of the many deeds that it would have been enough.”

  “And then the fourth telling?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  Mark made it through the directory and felt sick. He couldn't find anyone else who might have a name similar to Oliver. That meant there was no way of telling where the killer would strike in the next few hours. Reluctantly, he called Paul.

  “I've got nothing,” Mark said after Paul had answered. “You?”

  “More of the same.”

  Mark took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He was so tired. All he wanted to do was go home and go to bed, but somewhere not far from where he sat people could be dying at that very moment. He took a ragged breath.

  “Then I guess we wait,” he said.

  “Yeah. Mark?”

  “What?”

  “Go home. I've had more sleep than you. I'll call you when something happens.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  Cindy felt bad about it, but her mind drifted during the fourth telling, which consisted of questions and answers about the customs of the Seder. The hungrier she became the more she felt uneasy. The outside world began to creep in again, and she couldn't help but wonder what the killer was doing while she sat there trying not to disrespect her hosts by going after the food early.

  There was an invitation to see herself as being liberated from slavery and instead of being a beautiful moment, it angered her. She knew she was a slave to her own fears, but if she had to wait much longer she was going to be a slave to the needs of her body as well. The small amount of wine from her first glass was sitting in her stomach with only the parsley to keep it company. She felt slightly nauseous.

  “And now we have completed the four tellings,” Jeremiah said suddenly, turning to smile at her.

  “Oh thank heavens,” she said.

  Eric raised his second cup and the others followed suit. “With the second cup of wine we celebrate our redemption!”

  He drank it, and Cindy thought she might cry. She tipped the glass back and tried not to focus on the burning sensation in her throat.

  She put the glass down and realized it was time for another ceremonial washing of the hands.

  “Food next,” Jeremiah whispered.

  Thankfully, the blessing over the bread was shorter than she had imagined. Before they could eat it, though, they first had to eat some of the bitter herbs. Then they combined the herbs with the matzah to form a sandwich.

  Cindy was pretty sure she had entered into her own personal nightmare. At least she was getting to eat, though. After that was finished they ate the rest of the meal. As the food hit her stomach she began to relax considerably.

  When the time came for dessert she was enjoying herself again and laughed as she watched the children searching for the piece of matzah that Marie had hidden quite a while earlier. When it had been found and eaten, a blessing was said for the food they had consumed. Then Eric led them in the drinking of the third glass of wine.

  “I had no idea Jewish children partook at such a young age,” she confided to Jeremiah.

  He began to laugh. Then Eric and the children did too. Marie just rolled her eyes.

  “What?” Cindy asked.

  “The children are drinking grape juice,” Jeremiah said at last. “Although, whether they drink wine or grape juice is a choice left up to the parents.”

  “Grape juice? You mean I could have had grape juice instead?” Cindy asked.

  “Only if you wanted to be treated as a child,” Marie said. Cindy decided right then and there that being friends with the other woman was never
going to happen. Eric threw his wife a sharp glance, and Cindy bit her tongue and took a deep breath.

  “Now we sing to welcome the prophet Elijah to the table whose coming would signify the coming of the Messiah,” Jeremiah said.

  “That's pointless,” Cindy said, still glaring at Marie.

  Silence.

  Horrified, she realized what she had said. “I'm sorry,” she blurted out, “I didn't mean that.”

  Eric smiled at her. “Of course you did. In your eyes, Messiah has already come, so what we are doing now is hollow for you. But, don't worry. I don't think you are used to the wine.”

  “I'm not,” Cindy admitted, blushing furiously. “I did not mean to insult you or your traditions.”

  “We know that,” Eric said. “Don't worry. After this song we then sing hymns of praise to Adonai.”

  “I can certainly get behind that,” Cindy said, still feeling like a complete idiot.

  “And then songs about freedom,” Jeremiah said quietly.

  “Wonderful,” Cindy said.

  “And then we drink the last cup of wine,” Marie said, one eyebrow raised.

  Cindy groaned.

  When the call finally came it was close to midnight. Mark stood on the front steps, reluctant to enter the house. He knew what he was going to see inside, he had already been warned. Several officers on sight looked like they were going to be sick. One, barely more than a kid, sat on the curb, head in his hands with his body shaking. Five feet from him medical personnel administered care to a young woman who was clearly in shock.

  Mark took a deep breath. He had seen his share of pain and horror. He knew the things people were capable of doing to each other. He stepped inside, turned toward the dining room and knew that everything he had seen could never have prepared him for that moment.

  His stomach twisted, and he heard blood roaring in his ears. A casual glance around the table might have revealed a dinner party in full swing. But it took only a second to realize how horribly wrong it was.

  The first thing he noticed was that everyone was seated on one side of the long table. The second thing that he noticed was they were all dead. There were twelve in total. Six sat on the right and six on the left with the seat in the exact center vacant.

  The bodies had been posed to resemble the famous Last Supper painting. The young woman outside had been stuck in traffic or else she would have been the one in the center chair playing the part of Jesus.

  15

  MARK CONTINUED TO STARE AT THE DEAD MAN'S VERSION OF THE LAST Supper. The people were clustered perfectly, if his memory served. Some were looking toward the center of the table; others were looking toward the ends. Unlike the other murders, though, the bodies were unmarked.

  The table was set for Passover. The plates in front of each person were untouched.

  “It looks like it was poison. They drank their first cup of wine, or grape juice in the case of the five kids, and it was over in minutes,” Paul said.

  “Then he just walked in and took his own sweet time.”

  “Except he was missing his centerpiece,” Paul noted.

  “What's the girl's name?”

  “Olivia.”

  Mark nodded. He had been right, but he still had no way of knowing about these families. It was little comfort, though.

  “Tell me everything we know about them,” he said.

  “Mom, Dad, two kids. Mom's sister, her husband, and their son were over. The other five are neighbors, Protestants.”

  “Jews and Christians sharing the Last Supper. Just like the first time, only it was the same people in each group,” Mark said.

  Paul stared at him hard. “I think you need to get more sleep.”

  “You're right, but this needs attention now. Go on.”

  “Timing of everything rules out Oliver as a suspect.”

  “I kind of figured that,” Mark said. “If it turns out differently, though, I'd love to hear.”

  “As in, what if this Oliver guy is the killer but was clever enough to throw suspicion completely off himself with a fake confession?”

  “Something like that,” Mark said.

  “Would love that. Unfortunately, I'm not buying it.”

  “Yeah, me either.”

  “Like before, we're not finding so much as a fingerprint from this guy.”

  “I'd be surprised if we did.”

  “So, what are we looking at next?” Paul asked.

  “That's a good question,” Mark said. “I'm not entirely sure. He might try to portray the whole trial thing or since it's technically now Friday he might just skip straight to the main point.”

  “The crucifixion?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I don't want to be there for that one.”

  “I don't want to be here for this one,” Mark said fervently. “But let's do everything we can to make this one the last one.”

  He waited in the shadows, like he always did. And he watched, like he always did. He saw Oliver come home. It had been a mistake, having the Last Supper while Oliver was in jail. But how could he have guessed that after so many years the devil would confess to anything? It wasn't part of the plan, and he had already spoiled far too many perfect plans. This time, the show would go on, and the final act would be performed. The curtain would fall, and Oliver would be there. And so would he.

  He watched, unseen, while Oliver grabbed a suitcase and frantically threw a few possessions into it. He thought he was going to run again. Just like he always did. This time he was wrong. There was no running, not any more.

  Jeremiah was uneasy in his bones. He couldn't shake the feeling, and so at three in the morning he got up. He and Cindy had successfully retrieved her car from the parking lot at the newspaper a few hours earlier. That meant he was off the hook for the morning as far as providing transportation. He was glad Cindy had managed to avoid the press of reporters, especially in light of Oliver's release.

  The rest of the Seder had gone well with no more outbursts from Cindy. He didn't blame her. Marie had pushed her buttons from the start. He should have known better. Eric, at least, had maintained a sense of humor about the whole thing.

  He realized there was no way he was going to get any sleep.

  He decided to go for a jog and clear his head. He pulled on a T-shirt and sweat pants and twenty minutes later was in the park in the center of downtown.

  Jogging there during the day was enjoyable, but at night it was almost magical. The city kept lights on all night, which gave just enough illumination to see by but not enough to ruin the beauty and serenity of the dark.

  He started out at a nice easy jog, breathing in deeply of the cool night air, allowing it to fill up his lungs. As his muscles loosened, though, he lengthened his stride and began to run. Faster he went, enjoying the freedom, and the release from the physical effort. He ran completely around the perimeter of the park and then turned toward the interior, zigzagging around trees and hurdling benches. His pulse pounded, and the wind whistled by his ears.

  He turned to take another bench, realized there were people sitting on it, swerved, and came to a halt as he saw the glint of a sword in the one man's hand. He spun to face them and realized that they were dead. Even in the dim glow from the nearest street light he could see them clearly. The shorter of the two men held a sword, and the taller of the two men had his right ear cut off.

  Fifteen minutes later Mark arrived. He looked exhausted. His clothes were crumpled, and his hands shook from fatigue.

  “I told you I didn't want to see you again at a crime scene. You know, for a rabbi you sure spend a lot of time at them,” he said by way of greeting.

  “Sorry to wake you.” Jeremiah suppressed the urge to return the jab.

  “I wasn't asleep.” Given how bad the detective looked Jeremiah was pretty sure Mark hadn't slept in quite a while. The detective stifled a yawn and swayed slightly on his feet.

  “And you saved me the trouble of having to wake you,” Mark
added after a moment.

  Alarm bells went off in Jeremiah's mind. His first thought was for Cindy. He had checked her house out the night before when he dropped her off and had seen no sign of anything wrong. He shook his head. It couldn't be Cindy. He had not been on Mark's call list when she had been in trouble before, and it seemed unlikely that anything would have changed that in the last few hours. “I don't understand. Why were you going to wake me?”

  “I just came from another crime scene. It was a party. The oldest daughter had car trouble, called home, and no one answered. When she was finally able to get home she found everyone murdered, seated around the dinner table posed just like in that da Vinci painting everyone makes such a fuss over.”

  “The Last Supper?”

  “That's the one. A perfect tableau, except for one person. We figure the car trouble saved her life.”

  It was horrific news, yet did not explain why Mark would have called him in the middle of the night. A terrible suspicion dawned on him. “Last night was a Seder,” he said.

  “Yeah. The guests were neighbors, Protestants. But the hosts were Jewish. Rabbi, they were from your synagogue.”

  “Who?”

  “Family's name was Schuller.”

  “Samuel Schuller?”

  “Yeah, I hope you didn't know the family too well.”

  “I did know them well,” Jeremiah admitted.

  Inside him a fire began to burn. It was the same rage that had always filled him when he heard of the senseless death of someone he knew. In America it was easy to forget that such things happened every day. In America people died of cancer or in car accidents; they weren't brutally slaughtered.

  He closed his eyes and for a moment he was back in Israel where everyone died and no one was ever safe. Images that always haunted him floated to the surface: a grandmother shot at the Wailing Wall, a six-year-old killed by a car bomb. Safe.

  Cindy craved safety, and he had seen enough to know that no matter what she did, how hard she tried, she could never be completely safe. Some people could live with that truth and some couldn't.