Day of Atonement. Faye Kellerman

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      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

      Part One: Tephila—Prayer

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

Chapter 9

       Chapter 10

       Chapter 11

       Chapter 12

       Chapter 13

       Chapter 14

       Chapter 15

       Chapter 16

       Chapter 17

       Part Two: Tzedakah—Charity

       Chapter 18

       Chapter 19

       Chapter 20

       Chapter 21

       Chapter 22

       Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Part Three: Tshuvah—Repentance

      Chapter 29

      Chapter 30

       About the Author

       Also by Faye Kellerman

       Predator

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

Prologue

      He wrote down the name Hank Stewart. Stared at it for a while and decided it was a good start.

      A start.

      But not there yet.

      He wrote Dr. Hank Stewart. Then: Hank Stewart, M.D.

      But hell, doctors were nothing special. Matter of fact, they were assholes, all puffed up and full of themselves.

      So he wrote Hank Stewart, ESQ.

      Crossed that off the list. Lawyers were bigger assholes than doctors.

      How about Hank Stewart, Nuclear Physicist.

      Or Hank Stewart, Nobel Prize Winner.

      Give ’em a smile as they took his picture.

      Hell with that. That kinda fame was too short-lived. A picture in a newspaper for about a day. Big effing deal.

      Hank Stewart, CIA.

      Stewart—Superspy.

      Good ring to it.

      Ah, that was stupid. Kid stuff.

      Still, kid stuff was better than peddling fish.

      I’ll take one pound of snapper, please.

      Yeah, lady. Right up your ass.

      The old people always buying fish ’cause they didn’t got no teeth to chew meat. They came up to the counter, moving their mouths over their dentures, whistling the word “snapper,” their hands and head shakin’, looking like they wasn’t glued together very tight.

      That was the worst part. Working behind the counter.

      Now the gutting part was okay. Especially once you got the feel for it, didn’t let the suckers slip out of your hands.

      Fish were slimy little bastards, all the gook would get over your clothes and you never could get the smell out. Thing to do was just work in smelly clothes for a while, then chuck ’em in the garbage.

      Or stuff ’em in the mailbox of that jerk who was giving you a real hard time.

      Now if he was a real asshole, you’d stuff some fishheads in with the smelly clothes.

      Good old fish. Flopping in the pail, looking up at you with glazed-over eyes sayin’ “Put me out of my misery, man.”

      At first he used to do it just like the old man did. Cut the gills. But then he found a better way. He’d step on their heads.

      Stomp!

      All the brain squishing out.

      That part was okay, too. But the best part was the swim bladder. Bounce it with the tip of the knife. Careful, careful. It was delicate.