“Such gratitude. I saved your life.”
“Gee, thanks.” She laughed. “What have you done for me today?”
Meaning it.
A part of him—genetically. Raising selfishness to an art form.
I thought of the way she’d tended her father. Absorbing his sexual comments. Changing his diapers.
Jocasta. Turning his Oedipal joke against him, secretly.
Lowell so estranged from his own child that he didn’t recognize her.
The scars remnants of the fall down the mountain. New face. . . .
Nova. New person.
“Anyone with you when you fell off that cliff?”
No answer.
“Wouldn’t have been Ken, would it? He tends to damage women. How can you be sure he didn’t push you?”
A toilet flushed. Ken came out of the guest bedroom with his hair slicked like a country kid’s on Sunday.
Nova said, “I’ll take care of him. You get her.”
“She’s out like a light. I’ll have to carry her.”
“So?”
He touched his lower back and grimaced.
“Do it.”
He left and climbed the stairs.
I said, “He’s really the walking wounded, isn’t he?”
“He’s a dear.” The gun hadn’t moved, and she was just out of reach.
“Dangerous business being a member of your family. Then again, that’ll work to your advantage. Only two slices of the pie, if you and he don’t kill each other first.”
She smiled.
I said, “Yeah, you’re probably right. You and Kenny will find a nice quiet place, get all cozy, and give in to what you’ve been wanting to do for such a long time. What you wanted to do to Daddy. Changing diapers’ a poor substitute for the real thing, isn’t it, cutie?”
She was tough and she knew what I was doing, but her eyes wavered for just a fraction of a second. Her grip on the gun must have loosened, too. Because when I chopped down hard at her wrist, she cried out and the weapon fell to the carpet.
She was a strong woman, full of rage, but there are few women who can handle even a small man physically. That’s part of rape and battering and a lot of the tension between the sexes.
This time, it worked out for the best.
CHAPTER
50
Milo said, “Can’t talk long, got a promising suspect on the copycats. Roofer who was working at the courthouse during the trial.”
“Does he have a dog?”
“Big surly mutt,” he said gleefully. “Aren’t you glad you weren’t the poor clown who had to give him an enema?”
“How’d you get on to him?”
“One of the bailiffs gave us the lead. Says the guy used to sit in on afternoon sessions, doodle, and write things down; always had a weird feeling about him. Asshole lives in Orange County and has a bunch of DUI’s, Peeping Toms, and a five-year-old attempted rape conviction. Santa Ana says their first interview was encouraging. I’m sitting in on the next one in half an hour.”
“So it had nothing to do with the Bogettes.”
“Not necessarily. Bailiff thinks he saw the asshole talking to some of the girls a couple of times. Shitbag denies any connection to them, but his room was full of their press clippings and a videotape of a TV interview with the head harpy—Stasha. Plus sundry other toys. That and the bailiff’s say-so is enough for us to pull those hags in for questioning and sweat them big-time. We’re asking for a pretty inclusive warrant before we come knocking. My bet is we find weapons and dope at that ranch, should be able to put ’em away for something.”
“Good luck.”
“Either way, I like this bastard for Shannon and Nicolette. Santa Ana found a hoop earring that might have been Nicolette’s, as well as receipts for three storage lockers in Long Beach. Be interesting to see what the scrote finds worth storing. Forensic’s still going over his place with their vacuum cleaners; it’ll be awhile before all the fibers are analyzed. Anyway, I wanted you to know.”
“Appreciate it. I can always use a little good news.”
“Yeah . . . something else. We finally ID’d Ms. Nova’s prints. Sorry to shatter your shrink’s intuition, but she’s not the sister.”
“What?”
“The real Jocasta Lowell was printed when she was a student at Berkeley. Busted at a demonstration. And again after her body was shipped back from Nepal, so there’s no doubt. Ken was there with her, by the way, so maybe he did push her off. But our nasty girl’s a piece of work named Julie Beth Claypool. Nude dancer, druggie, biker babe, bad-check artist. String of arrests back to when she was sixteen. Wrote poetry in stir. Ken met her in Rehab, couple of years ago. Love at first bite.”
“She pushes him around,” I said, still in shock.
“I wouldn’t doubt it. SFPD says she’s been known to go for the whips and chains.”
“The scars,” I said. “God, I missed the boat completely—using the Oedipal wedge to throw her off balance—maybe I wanted her to flinch so badly I imagined it.”
My heart was hurling itself against my chest wall. I’d broken out in a cold sweat.
“Talk about operating on false premises,” I said.
“What’d you tell her, exactly?”
“That she wanted to screw Ken the way she’d wanted to screw Daddy.”
“Well,” he said, “SFPD says she comes from a real shitty family. Suspected incest—brothers and Dad, back to when she was real little.”
“Oh, man. The same old story.”
“In this case, lucky for you.”
“Yeah . . . maybe I should buy a lottery ticket.”
Lucy said, “Are peaches okay? I’ve already got pears.”
The woman next to her said, “Put them in, honey. Those old people, the fruit’s good for them.”
They were standing at one of a series of long tables piled high with groceries, along with a dozen other people. Sorting canned goods and boxes of rice and beans and cereal. The Church of the Outstretched Hand’s hub was a run-down warehouse.
Men and women of all ages and colors, working side by side, quietly and cheerfully, putting together boxes for delivery and loading them into a couple of old pickups out in back.
There were other places like it, all over the city.
Newspapers, especially those in the cold-weather zones, love to portray L.A. as a Balkanized smog-blinded armed camp with no more substance than a sitcom and no more altruism than a politician. It’s not any closer to the truth than a lot of the other stuff in the papers.
Sherrell Best was packing along with his parishioners, distinguishable as the leader only because he had to break to take frequent phone calls.
He came over to us. “This is a wonderful person.”
Lucy blushed. “Saint Lucretia.”
“The kind of good she’s created has to come from a beautiful soul, Dr. Delaware.”
“I know.”
“Please,” said Lucy, placing a packet of cookies into the box.
“Wonderful,” said Best. “Can I steal the good doctor from you for a second, Lucy?”
“Only if you bring him back.”
He took me into a cubbyhole office and closed a particle-board door that didn’t cut out much of the noise. On the wall were some of the same type of biblical pictures he’d had in his kitchen.
“I just wanted to thank you for all you’ve done,” he said.
“It was my pleas—”
“It was exceptional, the way you stuck by her. She’s blessed to have met you and so am I.” He gave me a troubled look.
“What is it, Reverend?”
“You know, for a time I thought if I ever found what happened I’d take the law into my own hands. The Bible exhorts against revenge, but it also permits the Blood Redeemer his due. There were times I thought I’d do something terrible. My faith was lacking.”
Tears filled his eyes.
“I could have been a better father. I could have
given her money so she didn’t need to—”
“Stop,” I said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I’m no Solomon, but I know the difference between a good father and a bad one.”
He cried some more, softly, then snapped out of it. Drying his eyes, he took my hand in both of his. “How selfish of me—so much work to be done. Always hunger.”
I returned to the packing line.
Lucy’s hands moved like a weaver’s at a loom. She was trying to smile but her mouth wouldn’t cooperate.
“Thanks for coming,” she said. “Guess I’ll be seeing you at the beach tomorrow.”
“Here, too,” I said. “I think I’ll stick around for a while.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JONATHAN KELLERMAN, America’s foremost author of psychological thrillers, turned from a distinguished career in child psychology to writing full-time. His works include fourteen Alex Delaware books—When the Bough Breaks, Blood Test, Over the Edge, Silent Partner, Time Bomb, Private Eyes, Devil’s Waltz, Bad Love, Self-Defense, The Web, Survival of the Fittest, Monster, The Clinic, and Dr. Death—as well as the thrillers The Butcher’s Theater and Billy Straight, three volumes of psychology, and two children’s books. He and his wife, the novelist Faye Kellerman, have four children.
BOOKS BY JONATHAN KELLERMAN
FICTION:
Billy Straight (1998)
Survival of the Fittest (1997)
The Clinic (1997)
The Web (1996)
Self-Defense (1995)
Bad Love (1994)
Devil’s Waltz (1993)
Private Eyes (1992)
Time Bomb (1990)
Silent Partner (1989)
The Butcher’s Theater (1988)
Over the Edge (1987)
Blood Test (1986)
When the Bough Breaks (1985)
NONFICTION:
Helping the Fearful Child (1981)
Psychological Aspects of Childhood Cancer (1980)
FOR CHILDREN, WRITTEN AND ILLUSTRATED:
Jonathan Kellerman’s ABC of Weird Creatures (1995)
Daddy, Daddy, Can You Touch the Sky? (1994)
THE HIGHEST PRAISE FOR
JONATHAN KELLERMAN’S
SELF-DEFENSE
“Crackling dialog and sharp characterizations . . . [Kellerman] whisks us through the labyrinthine plot with a brisk, driving style.”
—Chicago Tribune
“With its nicely orchestrated twists, Kellerman’s plot will keep readers guessing.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Author Jonathan Kellerman came up big winners with his last two novels. . . . Self-Defense makes it a three-peat.”
—Detroit Free Press
“Often, mystery writers can either plot like devils or create believable characters. Kellerman stands out because he can do both. Masterfully.”
—USA Today
“Kellerman’s in his usual fine form, and his latest Alex Delaware adventure is sure to be every bit as popular as its predecessors.”
—Booklist
Please turn the page to read more about
the novels of Jonathan Kellerman. . . .
WHEN THE BOUGH BREAKS
In this, the first of the bestselling Alex Delaware novels, the child psychologist explores a seven-year-old girl’s subconscious, seeking clues to a brutal homicide that only she witnessed.
“An exceptionally exciting thriller!”
—The New York Times
“[A] knockout of an entertainment.”
—New York Newsday
BLOOD TEST
A dangerously ill five-year-old boy is missing—kidnapped by his own parents. Alex and his friend LAPD detective Milo Sturgis have no choice but to follow them into the L.A. underworld where fantasies are fulfilled at any price—even at the cost of a young boy’s life.
“Truly chilling.”
—Chicago Tribune
“A suspenseful thriller whose solution lies in the darker recesses of the human soul.”
—The Wall Street Journal
SILENT PARTNER
The apparent suicide of a former lover leaves Alex determined to find out what went wrong for this brilliant and privileged woman. The answer will lie in childhood terrors of the past—and secrets that still hold the power to destroy.
“Complex and haunting . . . hits the reader right between the eyes.”
—Los Angeles Times Book Review
“The first page is a shocker, and the pace never falters. . . . A terrific read.”
—The Plain Dealer, Cleveland
TIME BOMB
By the time Alex Delaware reached the school, the sniper had opened fire on a crowded playground, but was gunned down before any children were hurt. Then the sniper’s identity is revealed, and Alex wonders: a would-be killer, or a victim in a deadly plot?
“Though a time bomb is ticking away at the heart of this novel, readers will forget to watch the clock once they begin it.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“Virtually impossible to put aside until the final horrifying showdown.”
—People
PRIVATE EYES
Eleven years ago a seven-year-old child dialed a hospital help line for comfort—and found it in therapy with Alex Delaware. Now the young heiress is calling for Alex’s help again, because her mother, a recluse for 20 years, has disappeared—presumed dead.
“A gut-wrenching scenario.”
—Booklist
“A page-turner from beginning to end.”
—Los Angeles Times
DEVIL’S WALTZ
The doctors call it Munchausen by proxy, the terrifying disorder that causes parents to induce illness in their own children. Now Alex Delaware may have to prove a child’s own mother or father is making her sick.
“Reads like wildfire . . . harrowing suspense.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“The great strengths of this novel stem from Kellerman’s use of his own professional background in child psychology.”
—Cosmopolitan
BAD LOVE
It comes in a plain brown wrapper—an audiocassette recording of a soul-lacerating scream, followed by a childlike chanting: “Bad love, bad love. Don’t give me the bad love. . . .” And for Alex it is the first intimation that he is the target of a carefully orchestrated campaign of terror by a stalker who won’t be satisfied until he is dead.
“Will have you looking over your shoulder before you turn out the lights.”
—Detroit Free Press
“By the end I was fairly racing through the pages.”
—Los Angeles Times
THE BUTCHER’S THEATER
Jerusalem has fallen prey to a serial killer. His violent specialty: the ritual murder of young Arab women. Now veteran police inspector Daniel Sharavi and his crack team must scour a city simmering with religious and political passions to find a killer whose insatiable tastes could destroy the delicate balance on which Jerusalem’s very survival depends.
“Spellbinding . . . a vivid, fascinating tale.”
—Time
“Hair-raising.”
—Chicago Tribune
Turn the page for an excerpt from
Jonathan Kellerman’s
new Alex Delaware novel
A COLD HEART
Available in hardcover
from Ballantine Books
CHAPTER
1
The witness remembers it like this: Shortly after two A.M., Baby Boy Lee exits The Snake Pit through the rear alley fire door. The light fixture above the door is set up for two bulbs, but one is missing, and the illumination that trickles down onto the garbage-flecked asphalt is feeble and oblique, casting a grimy mustard-colored disc, perhaps three feet in diameter. Whether or not the missing bulb is intentional will remain conjecture.
It is Baby Boy’s second and final break of the evening. His contract with the club calls for a pair of one-hou
r sets. Lee and the band have run over their first set by twenty-two minutes because of Baby Boy’s extended guitar and harmonica solos. The audience, a nearly full house of 124, is thrilled. The Pit is a far cry from the venues Baby Boy played in his heyday, but he appears to be happy, too.
It has been a while since Baby Boy has taken the stage anywhere and played coherent blues. Audience members questioned later are unanimous: Never has the big man sounded better.
Baby Boy is said to have finally broken free of a host of addictions, but one habit remains: nicotine. He smokes three packs of Kools a day, taking deep-in-the-lung drags while on stage, and his guitars are notable for the black, lozenge-shaped burn marks that scar their lacquered wood finishes.
Tonight, though, Baby Boy has been uncommonly focused, rarely removing lit cigarettes from where he customarily jams them: just above the nut of his ’62 Telecaster, wedged under the three highest strings.
So it is probably a tobacco itch that causes the singer to leap offstage the moment he plays his final note, flinging his bulk out the back door without a word to his band or anyone else. The bolt clicks behind him, but it is doubtful he notices.
The fiftieth Kool of the day is lit before Baby Boy reaches the alley. He is sucking in mentholated smoke as he steps in and out of the disc of dirty light.
The witness, such that he is, is certain that he caught a glimpse of Baby Boy’s face in the light and that the big man was sweating. If that’s true, perhaps the perspiration had nothing to do with anxiety but resulted from Baby Boy’s obesity and the calories expended on his music: For eighty-three minutes he has been jumping and howling and swooning, caressing his guitar, bringing the crowd to a frenzy at set’s end with a fiery, throat-ripping rendition of his signature song, a basic blues setup in the key of B-flat that witnesses the progression of Baby Boy’s voice from an inaudible mumble to an anguished wail.
There’s women that’ll mess you
Self-Defense Page 41
