Black Cross. Greg Iles
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waited to cover the gleaming silver caskets. They seemed in no particular hurry; both had been patients of my grandfather at one time or another. One—a wiry fellow named Crenshaw—had even been brought into the world by him, or so he said.
“They don’t make docs like your grandpa anymore, Mark,” he declared. “Or Doctor, I should say,” he added, smiling. “I can’t quite get used to that title. No offense, but I still remember catching you out here at midnight with that Clark girl.”
I smiled back. That was a good memory. I can’t quite get used to the title either, as a matter of fact. Doctor McConnell. I know I am a doctor—a damn good one—but when I stand, or stood, beside my grandfather, I always felt more like an apprentice, a bright but inexperienced student in the shadow of a master. That was what I was thinking when someone tugged at my jacket sleeve from behind.
“Afternoon, Rabbi,” said the gravedigger, nodding past me.
“Shalom, Mr. Crenshaw,” said a deep, much-traveled voice.
I turned. Behind me stooped an avuncular old man with snow-white hair and a yarmulke. His twinkling eyes settled on me and gave me a thorough going-over. “The spitting image,” he said quietly. “Though you’re a little heavier-boned than Mac was.”
“My grandmother’s genes,” I said, a little embarrassed to be at a disadvantage.
“Quite right,” said the old man. “Quite right. And a beautiful woman she was, too.”
Suddenly I placed him. “Rabbi Leibovitz, isn’t it?”
The old man smiled. “You have a good memory, Doctor. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen me up close.”
The old man’s voice had a low, musical quality to it, as if all its edges had been worn away by years of soothing, reasonable speech. I nodded again. The gravediggers shuffled their feet.
“Well,” I said, “I guess it’s about time—”
“I’ll take that shovel,” Rabbi Leibovitz told Crenshaw.
“But Rabbi, you shouldn’t be doing heavy work.”
The rabbi took the shovel from the amazed gravedigger and spaded it into the soft pile of dirt. “This is work for a man’s friends and family,” he said. “Doctor?” He looked up at me.
I took the other shovel from the second man and followed his example.
“Afternoon, Mark,” muttered Crenshaw, a little put out. He and his partner shambled off toward a battered pickup that waited at a discreet distance.
I shoveled earth steadily into my grandmother’s grave while Rabbi Leibovitz worked on the other. It was hot—Georgia summer hot—and soon I was pouring sweat. As the backfill rose toward my feet, I was a little surprised to find that the shoveling felt better than anything I had done since I first heard the news of my grandparents’ deaths, and far better than anything anyone had said to console me. When I checked the old man’s progress, I was surprised to find him only a little behind me in his work. I went back to mine with a will.
When I finished filling my grandmother’s grave, I walked around to help Rabbi Leibovitz. Together we finished filling my grandfather’s in a couple of minutes. The rabbi laid his shovel on the ground behind him, then turned back to the grave and began praying quietly. I stood holding my shovel in silence until he had finished. Then, as if by mutual consent, we started walking to the narrow asphalt lane where I had parked my black Saab.
I saw no other cars nearby. The cemetery was a good mile and a half from the center of town. “Did you walk all the way out here, Rabbi?” I asked.
“I caught a ride from a good Christian,” he said. “I was hoping to ride back with you.”
The request caught me off guard, but I said, “Sure, glad to do it.”
I opened the passenger door for him, then went around and got behind the wheel. The Swedish-built engine revved smoothly. “Where to?” I asked. “You still live across from the synagogue?”
“Yes. But I thought we might visit your grandparents’ house. Are you staying there while you’re in town?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “Yes, I am.” I looked at him curiously. Then I felt a familiar sense of recognition. I had seen these situations before. Some people don’t feel comfortable confronting serious medical symptoms in a physician’s office. “Is there something you need to tell me, Rabbi?” I asked slowly. “Are you in need of medical attention?”
“No, no. I’m quite well for my age, thank God. But there is something I’d like to talk to you about, Mark. Something I think your grandfather meant to discuss with you … eventually. But somehow I don’t think he ever made the time.”
“What are you talking about?”
“About what your grandfather did in the war, Mark. Did he ever talk to you about that?”
I felt myself flush a little. “No. He never got past ‘I did my duty when it was required.’”
“That sounds like Mac.”
“He never talked to my grandmother about it either,” I confided, surprising myself. “She told me that, and … it hurt her. It was kind of like a hole in our lives. Small, maybe, but there all the same. A dark place, you know?”
Rabbi Leibovitz nodded. “A very dark place, Mark. And I think it’s about time someone shed a little light on it for you.”
Fifteen minutes later we were standing in the study of my grandparents’ house. Three generations of doctors had grown up in this rambling country clapboard. We were looking down at the steel firesafe where my grandfather had always kept his personal papers.
“Do you know the combination?” the rabbi asked.
I shook my head. He reached into his back pocket, withdrew his wallet, and dug around inside until he found what he was looking for—a small white card of introduction, one of my grandfather’s. He read some numbers off the back, then looked at me expectantly.
“Listen, Rabbi,” I said, beginning to grow uncomfortable, “I’m not exactly sure why we’re here. I mean, I know you and my grandfather were acquaintances, but I never knew you were close. Frankly, I don’t see how anything in that safe could be any business of yours.” I paused. “Unless … he left the synagogue a bequest in his will. Is that it?”
Leibovitz chuckled. “You’re a suspicious man, Mark, just like your grandfather. No, this has nothing to do with money. I doubt if Mac had much left, to tell you the truth. Except for the insurance, which was only around fifty-thousand, I think. He gave most of his money away.”
I shot him a sidelong glance. “How do you know all that?”
“Your grandfather and I were more than acquaintances, Mark. We were fast friends. I know about his money because he gave a lot of it to the synagogue. Once you made it through medical school, he figured you could take care of yourself, and your grandmother too, if he happened to die first. He owned this house, of course. You’ll get that. As far as the money he gave me, I was to use it to help persecuted Jews who were trying to reach Israel.” Leibovitz turned his callused palms upward. “This all goes back to the war, Mark. What Mac did during the war. If you open that safe for me, everything will become much clearer.”
That reasonable, forthright voice was hard to refuse. “All right,” I agreed, knowing I was being manipulated, but strangely unable to resist. “Read the combination again.”
As Leibovitz read, I worked the dial on the safe until I heard a click, then pulled open the heavy door. The first thing I saw was a stack of papers. Just what I had expected. They looked like legal documents—titles to the two family cars, the house, an ancient mortgage.
“Do you see a box?” the rabbi asked. “It would be nearly flat, and not too large.”
Carefully