Jonathan Kellerman - The Murderer's Daughter

Drawing out a textbook, she said, “This is college science, young lady. How’d you learn enough to get to this level?”

Grace said, “I read.”

Ramona shrugged. “Guess that explains it.”

Three boxes later, he showed up again and said, “How’s everything going?”

Grace was out by the fence around the green pool, thinking about swimming, not sure if getting all slimy was worth it.

She said, “Fine.”

“I’m not going to test you on the curriculum, Grace, not for a while. You tell me you know it, that’s good enough.”

“I don’t know everything.”

His laugh was deep and rumbly like it came from deep inside him. “No one does, that would be the worst thing, no?”

“Knowing everything?” That sounded like the best thing.

“Having nothing more to learn, Grace. I mean for people like us, learning is everything.”

Almost every time he visited, he said that. Like us. Like he and Grace were members of a club. Like he also had special needs.

She said, “Yes, sir.”

His look said he knew she was just saying it without meaning it. But he didn’t get angry, his eyes got even softer. “Listen, I’ve got a favor to ask you. Could I test you some more? Not about the curriculum, different types of tests.”

“Okay.”

“You don’t want to know anything about the tests?”

“You don’t give shots,” said Grace. “You can’t hurt me.”

His head drew back and he roared with laughter. When he finally settled, he said, “Yes, that’s true, these definitely won’t hurt. But they’re a little different, there’s no right or wrong, I’ll be showing you pictures, asking you to make up stories. You okay with that?”

“What kind of stories?”

“Anything you want.”

That sounded stupid and despite herself, Grace frowned.

Malcolm Bluestone said, “Okay, no problem, let’s forget it. Because I can’t honestly tell you it’ll help you.”

Then why waste time?

“It’s for my sake, Grace. I’m curious, always trying to understand people, and these tests sometimes help me.”

“Someone making up stories?”

“Believe it or not, Grace, yes. But if you don’t want to, that’s really okay, nothing will change in our — I’ll still bring you curriculum materials.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Well,” he said, “that’s nice of you, but take some time to think about it and next time, let me know.”

“I’ll do it right now, sir.”

“You really don’t need to call me sir, Grace. Unless you want me to call you mademoiselle or senorita, or something like that.”

Again, a word shot out of Grace’s mouth. “Fräulein.”

“You know German?”

“It was in the language packet you gave me last week.” International Greetings.

“Ah,” he said. “Guess I should read the packets myself. Anyway, next time—”

“I can do it now, Professor Bluestone.”

“Do — oh, those picture tests. You sure?”

Grace looked at the green pool. Slimier than ever. Once he left, she’d have nothing much to do but start a new packet. “Sure,” she said.

The picture tests were like he’d described, strange. Not photographs, black-and-white drawings of people that she had to make up stories about. Then another one with weird shapes that looked like bats or cats and while Grace talked, Malcolm Bluestone wrote down stuff in a little book.

When that was over, he said, “If you’ve got energy, we can do something totally different. Tapping and moving along a maze — you might find that fun.”

“Okay.”

He brought more tests from his big brown station wagon. They weren’t fun but they filled in the time and when he drove away, Grace kind of missed being busy.

The first time Grace met Shoshana Yaroslav, she watched the woman, four feet eleven, maybe a hundred pounds, looking sweet and innocent and girlish, much younger than her forty years, disable a man named Mac who was twice her size. He was one of Shoshana’s intermediate students who’d volunteered for the role of mugger, a former army medic with thick arms, a slab-like build, and the confidence of a guy who could take care of himself.

Shoshana moved so fast it was impossible to process what she’d done. Mac, prone on the mat, caught his breath and grinned and said, “Why the hell do I keep doing this?”

Shoshana said, “Because you are a gentleman.”

For the next four months, she taught Grace her philosophy of self-defense and rode Grace mercilessly until the student’s responses were borderline reflexive.

Borderline, not absolute, Shoshana was careful to add, because reflexes were “for lower animals, you should never stop thinking.”

Black-belted in several martial arts, Shoshana took an approach that was conceptually simple — home in on the enemy’s vulnerabilities — but required maddening amounts of practice. And she saw the defensive arts the same way Delaware did: a great workout and a whole lot better than no training at all, but unlikely to stand up against a bad person with a gun or knife or a blackjack.

During Grace’s second session, Shoshana looked at Grace’s hands. “Do you have strong nails?”

“I think I do.”

“Foolish answer, they’re too short for you to think anything. Grow them out a bit and see if they hold up. If they do, file them so they’re more pointed than usual. Nothing too conspicuous, we don’t want anyone calling you Ms. Scissorhands. But do create a tiny bit of blade at the apex. Meanwhile we’ll practice with what you’ve got.”

Entering and exiting a side door of the studio, Shoshana returned with a weird-looking wooden board around three feet square and perforated by circular holes. Her other hand held a jar full of brown murky fluid close to her chest. Uncapping the jar released a hideous stench that filled the room: sewer gas overlaid with... rotten barbecue?

Grace blinked back revulsion as Shoshana’s tiny hand dipped into the jar and fished out something round and glassy and gray that dripped onto the wooden floor.

“Sheep’s eye.” Flipping the board over, she exposed a series of hinged metal cups backing each hole. Unsnapping one cup, she dropped the sheep’s eye in where it nested snugly, then snapped it shut. Repeating the procedure with six additional eyes positioned randomly, she held the board in front of Grace. “Go.”

“What do you want me to—”

Grasping the board in one hand, Shoshana managed to reach around with the other and jab. The eyes had seemed out of her visual field but one of them exploded.

“You just failed,” she told Grace. “In the time it took to ask a question, your throat would’ve been cut.”

Without warning, Shoshana’s hand shot out again, terminating at the spot where Grace’s neck joined the hollow above her sternum. A forefinger tickled Grace’s Adam’s apple. Grace stumbled back but Shoshana pressed forward maintaining the same harassing contact. Grace tried to slap Shoshana’s arm away. Now Shoshana was behind Grace, tickling the mastoid process behind Grace’s left ear.

Grace wheeled.

Shoshana had stepped out of reach, stood loose-limbed, hands buried in the pockets of her cargo pants, casual as a tourist.

Grace said, “Okay, I get it.”

“That’s doubtful, Doctor. Don’t say things to make me or anyone else happy.”

Grace suppressed a smile. You may be murderously tough but you don’t understand me.

She lunged for the board. Missed and hit wood and suppressed searing pain in her fingertips and thrust forward again, putting her weight behind the nail-stab.

Shit, the little buggers were hard to hit, and Grace knew immediately that she was way off. Risking another painful collision she checked her blow and feinted to the right. Chose another eye and went for it.