Jonathan Kellerman - The Murderer's Daughter

“I’m leaving. It’s okay.” She didn’t like the Samahs anyway. Two boring people who kept a pair of nervous, smelly dogs, bland food and not that much of it, a bed as hard as wood. Sometimes Mrs. Samah took the time to smile but it was hard to figure out what she was smiling about.

“Indeed,” said Wayne. “So let’s pack up and move on.”

“Where am I going?”

“Well,” said Wayne, “maybe this will work out, I’m sure aiming at that — something long term. ’Cause I’ve had my eye on you since I had to move you from the Kennedys after they scored a special-needs baby. A Level Five baby, which is the highest, meaning the most dough. Kid had some sort of birth defect, the Kennedys get paid to use oxygen tanks and all sorts of drugs. I mean that’s okay, a baby who can’t breathe needs extra attention. But I still think it sucks, why should you be penalized for being normal? And hell, even being smart doesn’t help, if it did, I’d file papers for you, myself. Special needs because you’re a sharp one, right?”

Grace nodded.

“But no go, that’s what’s crazy, kid. If you were retarded, you’d be in good shape, but there’s no law benefiting smart kids, doesn’t that suck? Isn’t the world a suck place? Which is why you’re my last case, after I move you out of here, I’m quitting and going to law school. Know why?”

Grace shook her head.

“ ’Course not, how could you?” Wayne winked again. Gave her another Tootsie Roll that she stashed with the first one, you never knew when you were going to be hungry.

Wayne Knutsen said, “That candy’s what we call a guilt offering, kid. Anyway, I’d like to tell you I’m going to be a lawyer so I can change the system and turn water into grape juice, but I’m no better than the rest, I intend to make some serious money suing rich people and try not to think about the time I spent in the system. It was supposed to be a temporary job, anyway.”

“Okay,” said Grace.

“You keep saying that.”

“I feel okay.”

“The system’s okay by you?”

“It’s like animals,” said Grace. “The jungle. Everyone takes care of themselves.”

Wayne stared at her, emitted a low whistle. “You know there’re some Level One things I was thinking of tagging you with — mostly psych stuff — emotional — whatever. Excessive dependence. But that’s not you. I could’ve also tried excessively irritable, but that’s not you, either. Then I figured why saddle you with stuff on your record, you’ve done this well so far, you’ve got a decent chance. ’Mi right?”

Grace, not sure what he was talking about, nodded, yet again.

“Good self-esteem,” said Wayne. “Thought so. Anyway, even if I Level One’d you, it wouldn’t have helped because this new kid, the seizures, is a Five, no way you could compete. Anyway, let’s go pack your stuff. This time maybe I got a good place for you. I think. If not, sorry, I tried.”

Andrew Toner didn’t call and by nightfall, back at home, Grace felt like jumping out of her skin. Mindless TV didn’t help. Neither did music, exercise, wine, or the stack of journals. Finally, she slipped under the covers shortly after one a.m., stretching her body and relaxing her limbs, hoping her brain waves would conform to her posture.

She awoke at 2:15, 3:19, 4:37, 6:09 a.m.

Interrupted sleep wasn’t foreign to Grace. Because of the way she’d grown up — a variety of rooms, beds, and roommates, including a fair share of kids who screamed in terror — her adult slumber often broke into two patterns. Most of the time, she’d sack out for eight refreshing hours, but every so often she was in and out, like a newborn. She’d come to terms with her episodic nights, as they didn’t seem to connect to daytime events, nor did they pose a problem. She’d always found it easy to slip back into the void.

But the night after meeting Andrew Toner — the second time — was a sheet-twisting, pillow-contorting ordeal filled with taunts of drowsiness followed by stretches of wide-eyed arousal. No bad dreams, no residue of foul images. Just up.

By the time the sun rose, she’d long given up on REM.

Welcome to the first day of vacation.

Or maybe not, there was still time for Andrew to ask for a retry, maybe he just needed time.

To deal with moral parameters. Whatever that meant.

Unable to hold down much breakfast, Grace phoned her service at nine a.m. Not a single message. She was astonished at her disappointment.

Feeling as if she’d been stood up.

Dressing in sweats, she went out on the deck and checked out the beach. Plenty of dry sand, so she took an hour run up and down the entire stretch of La Costa. Returning no more settled, she made coffee, tried the service again.

Nothing, Dr. Blades.

You don’t write, you don’t call.

She resolved to forget the whole unfortunate episode because guilt wasn’t a big part of her makeup.

So. What, now?

A stab at breakfast? Maybe just getting away would tweak her appetite. The Beach Café in Paradise Cove? Or Neptune’s Net, at the northwestern tip of Malibu?

Both sounded fine in the abstract but she just didn’t feel like it.

Suppressing the urge to try her service a third time, she stripped to panties and bra and practiced some self-defense moves, imagining terrible men coming at her, the vicious things she’d do to their eyes and their genitals and the vulnerable spot beneath their noses.

Going through the motions but unable to put any passion into it.

If some psychopath broke in now, she’d be toast.

A long shower filled a pitiable amount of time. Faced with two weeks of nothing, she still hadn’t decided between hanging out at home or booking a random ticket to some pocket of luxury.

When she traveled, she nearly always found a man for a Leap.

Her stomach lurched.

No appetite for that, either.

She sat on the floor and tried to figure out what she actually felt like doing, ended up blank, small, hunched, a real nothing.

Not shattered; a piece of lint broken apart gradually and carried away by cruel, persistent wind.

Bad thinking, Grace. Erase erase erase, then replace.

What had she told so many patients? The key was to do something.

She could drive out to the range in Sylmar and practice her shooting. Not that she needed the drill, her most recent session had been three weeks ago Sunday and she’d turned the target’s bland, politically correct, Caucasian head into a sieve. Her marksmanship had elicited stunned silence followed by a “Whoa” from the guy in the adjoining stall, a shaved-head, tatted-out gangbanger-type who was trying to look tough with a .357 Magnum.

Grace ignored him and demolished a second target the same way and Gangbang muttered “Mama loca” with a combination of loathing and admiration, then proceeded to mess up his shooting in all kinds of humiliating ways.

When she packed up her guns and left the range, he was starting to do better.

Pretending he’d never met her.

Grace had taken up shooting and serious self-defense training shortly after buying the house and the office. Finding herself alone and figuring that might be her status forever, she had no idea where to begin and had turned to Alex Delaware because she’d heard he was some sort of karate honcho, occasionally worked with the police.

She’d spotted him on campus, leaving Seeley Mudd, the psych building, in the company of two female grad students.

The three of them chatted and then the women left and Delaware kept walking, using a slow but long stride. Not an especially tall man but he moved like one. Dressed in a black turtleneck and jeans, wearing a backpack.