Jonathan Kellerman - Dr. Death

I heard her breath catch.

"What is it, Stacy?"

"I was just thinking… We had a dog, this yellow mutt named Helen that we got from the pound. Eric would take her with him on long walks, then she got old and lost the use of her legs and he built her a little wagon thingie and pulled her around-pretty funny-looking, but he took it seriously. She died-a year before Mom. Eric stayed out all night with her. That's got to be what happened. When I asked him about it, he said he did his best thinking late at night, up in the mountains. So that's probably it, he's a little stressed, decided to try that. As far as the test, he probably figured he could talk his professor into a makeup-Eric can talk his way into anything."

"Why's he stressed?"

"I don't know." Long silence. "Okay, to be honest, Eric's having a real hard time. With Mom. He had a terrible time with it right from the beginning. Took it much worse than I did. Bet that's not what my father told you, though. Right?"

My son deals with his anger by organizing… I think it's a great way of handling stress… Get in touch with how you feel, then move on.

"We didn't discuss Eric in detail," I said.

"But I know," she said. "Dad thinks I'm the screwed-up one. Because I get low, while Eric does a great job of looking okay on the surface-keeping up his grades, staying achievement-oriented, saying the right things to my father. But I can see through that. He's the one who took it really hard. By the time my mother died, I'd already done my years of crying, but Eric kept trying to pretend nothing was wrong. Saying she'd get better. Sitting with Mom, playing cards with her. Acting happy, like nothing was any big deal. Like she just had a cold. I don't think he ever dealt with it. Maybe hearing about Dr. Mate brought the memories back."

"Did Eric talk about Mate?"

"No. We haven't talked at all, not for weeks. Sometimes he e-mails me, but I haven't heard from him in a while… One time-toward the end of my mother's… a few days before she died, Eric came into my room and found me crying, asked what was the matter. I said I was sad about Mom and he just lost it, started screaming that I was stupid, a wimp and a loser, that falling apart would accomplish nothing, I shouldn't be so selfish, thinking about my own feelings-wallowing in my feelings was the phrase he used. It was Mom's feelings I should be concentrating on. We all needed to be positive. To never give up."

"He was tough on you," I said.

"No big deal. He yells at me all the time, that's his style. Basically, he's this big huge brain machine with the emotions of a little kid. So maybe he's having some sort of delayed reaction, doing what he used to do when he got uptight. Do you think I should be worried about him?"

"No, but I think you did exactly the right thing by calling your father."

"Walking in on that detective… Guess what my father did? Chartered a plane and flew up to Palo Alto. He looked worried. And that bothers me."

"He doesn't get worried too often?"

"Never. He says anxiety is the province of fools."

I thought: The lack of anxiety is the province of psychopaths. Said, "So you're alone in the house."

"Just for a couple of days. I'm used to it, my father travels all the time. And Gisella-the maid-comes every day."

The phone cut in and out during the last sentence.

"Where are you, Stacy?"

"At the beach, some big parking lot on PCH. I must have driven here from Dad's office." She laughed. "Don't even remember. That's weird."

"Which beach? "I said.

"Um, let's see… There's a sign over there, says… Topanga… Topanga Beach. Kind of pretty out here, Dr. Delaware. Plenty of traffic on the highway, but no one on the sand-except for one guy walking around near the tide line… seems to be looking for something… he's holding some kind of a machine… looks like a metal detector… I know this place, you can see it from Dad's office."

Her voice had softened, turned dreamy.

"Stay right there, Stacy. I can be there in twenty, twenty-five minutes."

"There's no need," she said. It sounded like a policy statement.

"Humor me, Stacy."

Silence. Crackle. For a moment I thought I'd lost her. Then: "Sure. Why not? Got nowhere else to go."

I drove too fast, thinking about Eric. A brilliant, impetuous loner, used to getting his way. The one person who seemed able to elude Richard's dominance. Working hard at maintaining control, but powerless over what had mattered most: his mother's survival.

Close to his father, and his father despised Mate, expressed his hatred openly.

Eric. A hiker who disappeared when he wanted to, liked the mountains, knew the terrain. Dark, hidden places, like the dirt road stretch of Mulholland.,

Impetuous enough to get violent? Smart enough to clean up thoroughly?

How far had filial devotion taken him?

After Joanne's death, Richard had tried to contact Mate, but the death doctor hadn't called back. Had Joanne warned Mate about Richard? Knowing Richard would fight her decision-that's why she'd kept it from him. From her children, as well.

But what if Mate had answered a call from Eric?

Poor, distraught kid wanting to talk about his mother's final passage. Had there been enough of the physician left in Mate to respond to a cry for help?

Dark BMW parked down the road.

Borrowing Daddy's car…

I kept racing west on Sunset, turning it over and over. Pure speculation, I'd never breathe a word to Milo or anyone else, but there was nothing that didn't fit.

A red light at Mandeville Canyon stopped the Seville, but my mind kept revving.

Stacy had offered a sibling's eloquence: a big brain machine combined with emotional immaturity.

Combined with boiling, adolescent rage. Perfect for the meld of compulsive planning and reckless daring that had transformed the brown van into a charnel house on wheels.

Broken stethoscope… Beowulf. Happy Traveling, You Sick Bastard.

Slaying the monster, as if it were just another myth- just another video game.

There was an adolescent feel to the phony book. To sneaking into Mate's flat and leaving a note. The message itself. Primitive gamesmanship, but backed up by an intellect that was starting to scare the hell out of me.

Where had Eric been last Sunday? The trip from Stanford to L.A. was no big deal, shuttles from San Francisco ran all day. Easy enough for a college student with a credit card. Do your business, jet back to school, show up for class as if nothing had happened.

But now the perfect student had missed a test for the first time. Unable to run from what he'd done? Or had some other stress worked apart the fissures that had spidered their way across the perfect porcelain image of the Doss family?

Richard jetting up to Stanford, leaving Stacy alone, sitting at the beach, oblivious… I sensed she'd always been alone. Squeakless wheel not getting any grease.

A car horn honked. The light had turned green but I'd sat there-obliviousness was contagious.

I shot forward, warning myself not to get caught up in it. Not good for the soul, all this hypothesizing. Besides, Milo had other suspects.

Roy Haiselden. Donny Mate. Richard Doss.

None of the above? None of my business. Time to concentrate on what the state said I was qualified to do.

Stacy was easy to spot. Little white Mustang coupe facing the water, one of the few cars stationed in the city lot that paralleled the beach. Low tide, miles of beige kissing Wedgwood-blue water, all of it topped by the same clear sky as inland. The ocean was pretty but roiling. As I hooked across the highway and pulled onto the asphalt beside her, I saw the man with the metal detector, a hundred feet past Stacy's car, knees bent, hunched over a find.

Stacy's windows were closed. As I got out of the Seville, the driver's panel rolled down. She glanced at me, both hands on the steering wheel. Her face was thinner than six months ago. Deepened hollows around the cheeks, darkened flesh beneath the eyes, a few more pimples. No makeup. Her black hair was tied back in a ponytail, bound by a red rubber band.