Four Classic Alex Delaware Thrillers 4-Book Bundle

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Benedict Canyon appeared. Red light. I stopped. My eyes felt acid washed.

  “It was a crummy little place anyway,” she said. “No, it wasn’t, it was a beautiful little place—oh, Alex!”

  I pulled her to me. Her body felt heavy but boneless.

  Green light. My brain said go, but my foot was slow to follow. Trying not to think of everything I’d lost—and everything yet to lose—I managed to complete the left turn and began a solitary crawl up Benedict.

  Home temporary home.

  The dog would run out to greet us. I felt inadequate for the role of animal buddy. For anything.

  I drove up to the white gate. It took a long time to find the card key, even longer to slip it in the slot. Moving the truck up the drive, I counted cypress trees in an effort to settle my mind on something.

  I parked next to the Seville and we got out.

  The dog didn’t rush out to greet us.

  I fumbled with the key to the front door. Turned it. As I walked through the door, something cold and hard pressed against my left temple and a hand reached around and clapped me hard on the right side of my head.

  Immobilizing my skull.

  “Hello, doctor,” said a voice from a chant. “Welcome to Bad Love.”

  CHAPTER

  32

  He said, “Don’t move or speak, pardon the cliché.”

  The pressure on my temple was intense. Strong fingers dug into my cheek.

  “Good,” he said. “Obedient. You must have been a good student.”

  Dig.

  “Were you?”

  “I was okay.”

  “Such modesty—you were a lot better than okay. Your fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Lyndon, said you were one of the best students she ever had—do you remember Mrs. Lyndon?”

  Squeeze and shake.

  “Yes.”

  “She remembers you … such a good little boy … keep being good: hands on head.”

  As my fingers touched my hair, the lights went on.

  One of the couches was out of place, pushed closer to the coffee table. There were drinks and plates on the coffee table. A glass of something brown. The bag of taco chips Robin had bought a couple of days ago was open, crumbs scattered on the table.

  Making himself comfortable.

  Knowing we’d be gone for a while but would come back, nowhere else to go.

  Because he’d used the fire to flush me out. Used the time to prepare the scene.

  The ritual.

  Choreographing death.

  Firesetters and felons …

  I considered how to get at him. Felt the pressure, saw only dark sleeve. Where was Robin?

  “Forward march,” he said, but he continued to hold me still.

  Footsteps on marble. Someone walked into my line of sight, holding Robin the same way.

  Tall. Bulky black sweater. Baggy black slacks. Black ski mask with eye holes. Shiny eyes, the color indeterminate at this distance. He towered over Robin, gripping her face and forcing her eyes up at the ceiling. Her neck was stretched, exposed.

  I gave an involuntary start, and the hand gripped my head harder.

  Imprisoning it.

  I knew where they’d learned that.

  Bumping and scratching from the back of the house. The dog tied out there, behind drapes that had been drawn over the French doors.

  Something else at Robin’s head besides a hand. Automatic pistol, small, chrome plated.

  Bump, scratch.

  The voice behind me laughed.

  “Great attack dog … some tight security you’ve got here. Alarm system with an obvious home run, one snip and bye-bye. Fancy electric gate a dwarf could climb over, and a cute little closed-circuit TV to announce your arrival.”

  More laughter. The tall man with Robin didn’t move or make a sound.

  Two types of killing. Two killers.…

  My captor said, “Okay, campers.”

  The tall man shifted his free hand from Robin’s face to the small of her back and began propelling her down the hallway toward the bedrooms.

  Swinging his hips. Effeminate.

  Walking the way Robin walked.

  A woman? A tall woman with strong shoulders …

  I’d talked to a tall, angry woman this afternoon.

  A Corrective School alumna with plenty of reason to hate.

  I really don’t like you.

  I’d called Meredith out of the blue, yet she’d been willing to talk to me—too eager.

  And she had a special reason to feel rage over the Western Peds symposium.

  Thanks, Dad.

  I’d just stare at them, want to kill them, keep my feelings all inside.

  Alone with Robin, now. Her appetites and anger …

  “Forward march, fool.” The gun stayed in place as the hand moved from my face. No more pressure, but his touch lingered like phantom pain.

  A sharp prod to my kidneys as he shoved me farther into the room. Onto a couch. As I bounced, my hands left my head.

  His foot met my shin and pain burned through my leg.

  “Back up—up, up, up!”

  I complied, waiting to be tied or restrained.

  But he let me stay there, hands on head, and sat down facing me, just out of reach.

  I saw the gun first. Another automatic—bigger than Meredith’s. Dull black, a dark wooden grip. Freshly oiled; I could smell it.

  He looked tall too. Long waist, and long legs that he planted firmly on the marble. A little narrow in the shoulders. Arms a bit short. Navy blue sweatshirt with a designer logo. Black jeans, black leather, high-top athletic shoes that looked spanking new.

  The chic thing to wear for homicide—the avenger reads GQ.

  His mask had a mouth cutout. A sharklike smile filled the hole.

  The dog scratched some more.

  Under the mask, his forehead moved.

  He crossed his legs, keeping the big black gun a couple of feet from the center of my chest. Breathing fast, but his arm was stable.

  Using his free hand, he reached up and began rolling his mask up, doing it deftly, so that his eyes never moved from mine and his gun arm never faltered.

  Doing it slowly.

  The wool peeled away like a snake’s molt, exposing a soft, unremarkable face with fine features.

  Rosy cheeks. The hair brass colored, thinning, worn thicker at the sides, now matted by the mask.

  Andrew Coburg.

  The storefront lawyer’s smile was wide, wet—impish.

  A surprise-party smile.

  He twirled the mask and tossed it over his shoulder. “Voilà.”

  I struggled to make sense of it—Coburg directing me to Gritz. Misdirecting me. Careful researcher … Mrs. Lyndon …

  “I really like this place,” he said. “Despite all the queer art. Nice, crisp, cruel, L.A. ambience. Much better than that little yuppie log cabin of yours. And cliffside—talk about perfect. Not to mention your little friend’s truck—unbelievable. Couldn’t have set it up better myself.”

  He winked. “Almost makes you believe in God, doesn’t it? Fate, karma, predestination, collective unconscious—choose your dogma … do you have any idea what I’m talking about?”

  “Delmar Parker,” I said.

  The dead boy’s name blotted out his smile.

  “I’m talking about consonance,” he said. “Making it right.”

  “But Delmar has something to do with it, doesn’t he? Something beyond bad love.”

  He uncrossed his legs. The gun made a small arc. “What do you know about bad love, you pretentious yuppie prick?”

  The gun arm was board rigid. Then it began vibrating. He looked at it for just a second. Laughed, as if trying to erase his outburst.

  Scratch, bump. The dog was throwing himself hard against the glass.

  Coburg snickered. “Little pit puppy. Maybe after it’s over I’ll take him home with me.”

  Smiling but sweating. The rosy cheeks deep with color.
/>
  Trying to keep my face neutral, I strained to hear sounds from the bedrooms. Nothing.

  “So you think you know about bad love,” said Coburg.

  “Meredith told me about it,” I said.

  His brow tightened and mottled.

  The dog kept scraping. The old-man whining sound filtered through the glass. Coburg gave a disgusted look.

  “You don’t know anything,” he said.

  “So tell me.”

  “Shut your mouth.” The gun arm shot forward again.

  I didn’t move.

  He said, “You don’t know a tenth of it. Don’t flatter yourself with empathy, fuck your empathy.”

  The dog bumped some more. Coburg’s eyes flattened.

  “Maybe I’ll just shoot it … skin it and gut it … how good can a shrink’s dog be, anyway? How many shrinks does it take to change a lightbulb? None. They’re all dead.”

  He laughed a bit more. Wiped sweat from his nose. I concentrated on the gun arm. It remained firmly in place, as if cut off from the rest of him.

  “Do you know what my sin was?” he said. “The great transgression that bought me a ticket to hell?”

  Ticket to hell. Meredith had called the school the same thing.

  I shook my head. My armpits were aching, my fingers turning numb.

  He said, “Enuresis. When I was a kid I used to piss my bed.” He laughed.

  “They treated me as if I liked it,” he said. “Mumsy and Evil Stepdaddy. As if I liked clammy sheets and that litter-box smell. They were convinced I was doing it on purpose, so they beat me. So I got more nervous and pissed gallons. So then what did they do?”

  Looking at me, waiting.

  “They beat you some more.”

  “Bingo. And washed my dick with lye soap and all sorts of other wonderful stuff.”

  Still smiling, but his cheeks were scarlet. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his shoulders hunched under the designer sweatshirt.

  My first thought, seeing those rosy cheeks, had been: a beautiful baby.

  “So I started to do other things,” he said. “Really naughty things. Could anyone blame me? Being tortured for something that I had no control over?”

  I shook my head again. For a split second I felt my agreement meant something to him. Then a distracted look came into his eyes. The gun arm pushed forward and the black-metal barrel edged closer to my heart.

  “What’s the current lowdown on enuresis, anyway?” he said. “Do you pricks still tell parents it’s a mental disease?”

  “It’s genetic,” I said. “Related to sleep patterns. Generally it goes away by itself.”

  “You don’t treat it anymore?”

  “Sometimes behavior therapy is used.”

  “You ever treat kids for it?”

  “When they want to be treated.”

  “Sure,” he grinned. “You’re a real humanitarian.” The grin died. “So what were you doing making speeches—paying homage to Hitler?”

  “I—”

  “Shut up.” The gun jabbed my chest. “That was rhetorical, don’t speak unless you’re spoken to … sleep patterns, huh? You quacks weren’t saying that back when I was getting beaten with a strap. You had all sorts of other voodoo theories back then—one of your fellow quacks told Mumsy and Evil that I was screwed up sexually. Another said I was seriously depressed and needed to be hospitalized. And one genius told them I was doing it because I was angry about their marriage. Which was true. But I wasn’t pissing because of it. That one they bought. Evil really got into expressing his anger. Big financial man, spiffy dresser—he had a whole collection of fancy belts. Lizard, alligator, calfskin, all with nice sharp buckles. One day I went to school with an especially nice collection of welts on my arm. A teacher started asking questions and the next thing I knew I was on a plane with dear old Mumsy to sunny California. Go west, little bad boy.”

  He let his free hand drop to his lap. His eyes looked tired and his shoulders rounded.

  The dog was still throwing himself against the glass.

  Coburg stared straight at me.

  I said, “How old were you when they put you in the school?”

  The gun jabbed again, forcing me backward against the couch. All at once his face was up against mine, breathing licorice. I could see dried mucus in his nostrils. He spat. His saliva was cold and thick as it oozed down the side of my face.

  “I’m not there, yet,” he said, between barely moving lips. “Why don’t you shut up and let me tell it?”

  Breathing hard and fast. I made myself look into his eyes, feeling the gun without seeing it. My pulse thundered in my ears. The spit continued its downward trail. Reaching my chin. Dripping onto my shirt.

  He looked repulsed, struck out, slapping me and wiping me simultaneously. Wiped his hand on the seat cushion.

  “They didn’t put me there right away. They put me in another dungeon first. Right across the street—can you believe that, two hellholes on the same street—what was it, zoned H1 for hell? A real shithole run by a nincompoop alkie, but expensive as hell, so, of course, Mumsy thought it was good, the woman was always such an arriviste.”

  I tried to look like a fascinated student … still no sounds from the bedrooms.

  Coburg said, “A nincompoop. Not even a challenge. A book of matches and some notebook paper.” Smile.

  Firesetters and truants … Bancroft hadn’t said the fire was at his school.

  “Poor Mumsy was stymied, out on the next plane, the poor thing. This wonderful look of hopelessness on her face—and she such an educated woman. Crying as we waited for our taxi—I thought I’d finally scored a point. Then he walked over. From across the street. This goatish thing in a black suit and cheap shoes. Taking Mummy’s hand, telling her he’d heard what had happened, tsk-tsking and letting her cry some more about her bad little boy. Then telling her his school could handle those kinds of things. Guaranteed. All the while tousling my hair—twelve years old and he was tousling my fucking hair. His hand stank of cabbage and bay rum.”

  The gun hand wavered a bit … not enough.

  Scratch, bump.

  “Mummy was thrilled—she knew him from his magazine articles. A famous man willing to tame her wild child.” His free hand fluttered. “The cab came and she sent it off empty.”

  The gun withdrew far enough for me to see its black snout, dark against his white knuckles.

  Two hellholes on the same street. De Bosch exploiting Bancroft’s failures. An alumnus of both schools, coming back years later, a tramp … the clean-cut face in front of me bore no street scars. But sometimes the wounds that healed weren’t the important ones.

  “Across the street I went. Mummy signed some papers and left me alone with Hitler. He smiled at me and said, ‘Andrew, little Andrew. We have the same name, let’s be friends.’ Me saying, ‘Fuck you, old goat.’ He smiled again and patted my head. Took me down a long dark hall, shoved me into a cell, and locked it. I cried all night. When they let me out for lunch, I snuck into the kitchen and found matches.”

  A wistful look came into his eyes.

  “How thorough was I tonight? Did I leave anything standing at Casa del Shrinko?”

  I remained silent.

  The gun poked me. “Did I?”

  “Not much.”

  “Good. It’s a shoddy world, thoroughness is so rare a quality. You personify shoddiness. You were as easy to get to as a sardine in a can. All of you were—tell me, why are psychotherapists such a passive, helpless bunch? Why are you all such absolute wimps—talking about life rather than doing anything?”

  I didn’t answer.

  He said, “You really are, you know. Such an unimpressive group. Stripped of your jargon, you’re noth—if that dog of yours doesn’t shut up, I’m going to kill him—better yet, I’ll make you kill him. Make you eat him—we can grill him on that barbecue you’ve got out back. A nice little hot dog—that would be justice, wouldn’t it—making you confront your own cru
elty? Give you a taste of empathy?”

  “Why don’t we just let him go?” I said. “He’s not mine, just a stray I took in.”

  “How kind of you.” Jab. My breastbone felt inflamed.

  I said, “Why don’t we let my friend go, too? She hasn’t seen your faces.”

  He smiled and settled back a bit.

  “Shoddiness,” he said. “That’s the big problem. Phony science, false premises, false promises. You pretend to help people but you just mind-fuck them.”

  He leaned forward. “How do you manage to live with yourself, knowing you’re a phony?”

  Jab. “Answer me.”

  “I’ve helped people.”

  “How? With voodoo? With bad love?”

  Trying to keep the whine out of my voice, I said, “I had nothing to do with de Bosch except for that symposium.”

  “Except for? Except for! That’s like Eichmann saying he had nothing to do with Hitler except for getting those trains to the camps. That symposium was a public love fest, you asshole! You stood up there and canonized him! He tortured children and you canonized him!”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Yeah, you and all the other good Germans.”

  He spat at me again. The knuckles of his gun hand were tiny cauliflowers. Sweat popped at his hairline.

  “That’s it?” he said. “That’s your excuse—“I didn’t know’? Pathetic. Just like all the others. For a bunch of supposedly educated people, you can’t even plead for yourselves effectively. No class. Delmar had more class in his little finger than the lot of you put together, and he was retarded. Not that it stopped them from bad-loving him day in and day out.”

  He shook his head and flung sweat. I saw his index finger move up and down the trigger. The painful, hungry look on his face made my bowels churn. But then it was gone and he was smiling again.

  “Retarded,” he said, as if enjoying the word. “Fourteen, but he was more like a seven-year-old. I was twelve, but I ended up being his big brother. He was the only one in the place who’d talk to me—beware the dangerous pyromaniac—Hitler warned them all against having anything to do with me. I was completely shunned except by Delmar. He couldn’t think clearly, but he had a heart of gold. Hitler took him in for the publicity—poor little Negro retardo helped by the great white doctor. When visitors came, he always had his hand on Delmar’s woolly little head. But Delmar was no great success. Delmar couldn’t remember rules or learn how to read and write. So when there were no visitors around, he kept bad-loving him, over and over. And when that didn’t work, they sent in the she-beast.”