Jonathan Kellerman - Guilt

My first sighting of the compound entrance was at nine eighteen. Sixteen minutes later, I used my phone to record a delivery from an organic market on Melrose. Eight minutes passed before the truck exited.

Just before ten a.m., a dry cleaner from Beverly Hills completed a similar circuit, then nothing for the next half hour. Blanche and I settled in a shady, safe spot up the road. Water for both of us. I ate a PowerBar and she made short but dainty work of a Milk-Bone, burped happily, and grew entranced by flowers, flies, butterflies, bees, potato bugs. A small plane that circled overhead for a few seconds.

We were back at ten forty-eight, watching the entrance to the compound. Seconds later an unmarked white Econoline van with blackened windows passed us, rolling down from the east. No livery number that I could see, so not hired transport. No I.D. of any sort. As it turned up the compound road, I got my binocs out.

An arm shot out and punched the call button. As the van idled, I managed to make out the lettering around the license-plate frame.

There was a 323 phone number on the top slat.

Home Sweet Home Schooling on the bottom.

The gate swung open, the van drove in. I called Home Sweet Home’s number, got voice mail for Oxford Educational Services followed by a brief description of the mission statement:

Specialized instruction and on-site learning experience provided by alumni of top universities, designed to augment and enrich the educational experiences of homeschooled children .

Did that include anatomy and forensic anthropology?

Nine minutes after the Oxford van had entered, it drove back out, headed south on Coldwater. One of the windows was half open. I caught a flash of juvenile face before the glass slid back up.

On-site learning .

A field trip?

Scooping Blanche into my arms, I ran back to the Seville.

I caught sight of the van descending Coldwater. A Jaguar and a Porsche traveled between us. Perfect cover as we crossed into Beverly Hills.

The cars kept going as the van turned right at Beverly Drive, edging Coldwater Park and cruising slowly.

The park was small but well equipped, with a shallow rock-stream, a playground, and barbered grass. Toddlers frolicked. Mothers nurtured. Nice place for the youngest of the Premadonny brood-the little blond girl-to recreate. The older kids would probably be bored. Then again, these were children who rarely got out. Maybe swings and slides would be a big thrill.

The van made that moot by rolling past the park. Mansions gave way to small charming houses on narrow lots, as the road grew dim under canopies of shaggy old trees. Potholes appeared. The ambience was more funk than luxe, not unlike the slice of Beverly Glen where I lived.

Fifteen mph signs and speed bumps began to appear every few seconds. No problem for the van; it had been crawling at ten miles an hour, came to a full stop at each bump. I hung as far back as I could without losing visual contact, allowed a gardener’s truck to sandwich in. The new convoy continued for another mile before the van veered right and the truck stayed on Beverly Drive.

Now I knew our destination. Good clean fun for all ages.

Franklin Canyon Park is a hidden slice of wilderness minutes from the self-conscious posing and the hypertensive drive of the city. Six-hundred-plus acres of untamed chaparral, skyscraper cedars, pines, and California oaks surround miles of hiking trails and a central hub bejeweled by a sun-mirror lake. A smaller pond is chock full with ducks and turtles and sunfish and minnows.

I knew Franklin because I used to take my previous Frenchie there when he grew restless. A bully, black-brindle heathen named Spike, he loved to explore. Though his affinity for poultry made the duck pond a challenge.

Packs of feral dogs were rumored to prowl the park’s upper reaches but we’d never seen them. We did spot chipmunks, squirrels, the occasional late-rising skunk, lizards, and snakes, including a rattler or two that Spike dismissed as unworthy of his attention. A couple of times our presence provoked a chorus of ululation from distant coyotes. It was all I could do to restrain Spike from hunting down the uncouth intruders.

I’d never brought Blanche to Franklin Canyon, probably because she’s so content with short strolls, hanging with Robin, and consulting on clinical cases.

As I drove up the mile and a half of sinuous mountain road that led to the park’s entrance, she was sitting up, alert, head cocked quizzically.

“First time for everything, gorgeous.”

Space for cars was limited and once the van entered, I could afford to hang back. Pulling over at the next turnoff, I retrieved additional supplies from the Seville’s backseat, slipped them into my pack.

I rolled into the main lot, a rectangle of dirt bordered by post-and-beam fencing and surrounded by waist-high native grasses. No other vehicles in sight.

Leashing Blanche, I put my pack on and began walking down an oak-lined road. One curve and there was the van, right where I’d guessed.

Just above the fenced hollow that contained the lake. Several yards above the pond.

At this hour, not a lot of people around. Which, I supposed, was the point. An attendant helped an old woman trudge along the pathway. A few other dog-walkers strolled. Everyone smiled at Blanche and a woman with a longhaired dachshund stopped to chat, asking the usual canine-related questions.

Pleasant woman but the wiener dog wasn’t nearly as amiable and it began to growl and chuff. The woman said, “Easy, Hansel.”

Blanche looked up at me with what’s-his-problem curiosity.

Hansel lunged.

“Bad boy,” said the woman with obvious insincerity. The dachshund barked. The woman smiled, said, “My, yours is quiet,” and walked on, the perfect enabler.

My attention shifted to a spot up the road. Two people exiting the front of the van.

The first was the driver, a soft-looking, fuzz-bearded guy in his twenties wearing a blue shirt, jeans, and sneakers. He placed a wheeled suitcase on the ground.

From the passenger side came a bespectacled, curly-haired woman around the same age, garbed identically. She carried a multicolored paisley bag heavy enough to require both hands.

The man slid open the van’s rear door and extended his hand. A doll-like Asian girl accepted his help and descended, truing the straps of her own pink backpack. She wore a yellow T-shirt, lavender shorts, bubblegum-colored running shoes topped by frilly socks. Long black hair was held in place by a silver band.

She began laughing as a younger Asian boy leaped out, landed on his feet, and punched air. His hair was spiked, his backpack, black dotted with white specks that were probably skulls. A white T-shirt billowed over green shorts worn long and baggy, skater-dude-style.

Next came an older boy, skinny, smallish, with skin the color of coal. I knew he was thirteen, but puberty hadn’t arrived and his limbs were licorice sticks. His purple shirt and yellow satin basketball shorts sported the Lakers logo. On his feet were black athletic shoes with silver trim.

Kembara.

Kyle-Jacques.

Kion.

The youngest boy tried to get Kion sparring. Kion mussed his brother’s hair, waved his hands, feinted back, refused to take the bait.

Kyle-Jacques shouted, “Aaaah-you die!”

Kion hooked thumbs to his chest, flashed a who-me? grin.

Kyle-Jacques bounced, turned to his sister, began to harass her the same way. She looked at him the way compassionate gods regard sinners. He appeared to settle down. Then he leaped in the air and let out what the non-initiated would consider a martial arts yell. Landing offbalance, he flailed, stumbled back comically, managed to stay on his feet.