Jonathan Kellerman - Self-Defence

Sentries.

Diamonds of light shone through the wispy foliage.

A baby-blue network, ethereal as lace.

I ran out of the cabin.

Lucy's eyes were fixed on a spot between the trees, a bare, sunken area.

She took the shovel from me and began circling the pond clockwise. Awkward, almost hesitant, toeing along the bank, inches from the water's edge.

Her eyes closed and she slipped. Before I could catch her, one leg went into the water, up to the ankle. She pulled it out. Her jeans were soaked. She shook her leg and kept walking. Stopped in the bare spot, tears dripping down her cheeks.

Cradling the shovel like a baby.

Inspiration.

Lowell's private spot.

Burying Karen here… for company?

He needed company- the adulation of fans and disciples and, when that dried up, the worship of young women.

Send me someone good-looking.

Had other women been buried here?

My initial thought upon hearing the dream was that he'd molested Lucy. There'd been more than a nuance of sexuality in his approach to her just now: comments about her legs and her toilet training. Flaunting his infidelity with her aunt.

Yet I couldn't shake the feeling that with Lucy he was after something different.

Stick with me and I'll show you the world, kid.

Body failing, fame withered, he wanted a family.

He'd stopped coming here a long time ago.

No more inspiration.

Lucy stood up.

Without a word, she began digging.

She wouldn't let me help her.

The first foot of soil was forgiving, but after that she hit compressed clay and cried out in frustration. I wrested the shovel from her. Each second weighed on me as I excavated a hole six feet long and three feet deep, getting in the pit and pitching out dirt like a manic paid by the shovelful. My arms felt leaden and detached from my body.

No signs of any bones. The smallest chip and I'd yank her the hell out of here. Even without progress, I'd give it five more minutes.

She got in and said, "My turn," but when I shook my head she didn't argue. Tears had washed her face clean.

The sun was sinking and the pond had grayed. It had been over an hour since we'd come up, but the day seemed timeless.

Each shovelful mixed with the blood rush in my head.

I dug and dug, till my breath grew short and harsh. Then I heard something else.

Another voice- a woman's- from across the pond.

Both of us turned.

Nova was standing near Inspiration. A man had one arm around her waist. His other hand held a pistol to her head.

She looked frightened to death. The man's fingers touched one of her breasts and spidered their way up in a manner that couldn't be accidental.

I pushed Lucy down and ducked. The man's gun arm snapped, as if he was throwing the weapon.

The shot knocked loose a chunk of dirt a yard from my right hand. No marksman, but we had no cover.

Trapped.

I crouched low in the pit, keeping my hand on Lucy's back. Her mouth was open but her breathing was silent.

No sounds. I raised my head for a peek.

The man put the gun back to Nova's head and prodded her with one knee. The two of them slow-danced around the pond till they got within fifteen feet of us.

Her left cheek was scraped raw and her left eye was swelling. I ducked and peeked, ducked and peeked. Finally seeing his face.

His right hand gripped her narrow waist. Manicured nails. The jeans were pressed. His sweatshirt said Sausalito. He looked like an executive hanging loose.

Exactly what he was.

Christopher Graydon-Jones.

"You've made some nice progress," he said. "Pity we don't have more spades. Well, get to work. We'll need it a good deal deeper to fit all of you. Go on, will you?"

"She's still his daughter," I said. "When he called you, he didn't expect you to kill her."

"No, I suppose not." He gave a split-second smile that raised one corner of his mouth. "Actually, he had this tart call, and look what happened to her. Expectations are so seldom met."

Nova moved, and he kneed her hard in the back.

"True," I said. "You wanted to be a sculptor."

His lips drew back and he did something with his free hand that made Nova cry out.

"Though there is a continuity," I said. "Molding form, shaping limbs. Big-time power needs- that's what got you into trouble with Karen, isn't it?"

He dug his fingers into Nova's middle. She gasped and shivered and a wet stain spread at her groin.

"Please," she said.

"Start digging or I'll kill this bit of fuzz right now and make you chop up her body with the dull edge of that spade."

I picked up the shovel. He backed out of swinging range.

Nova was nearly limp, straining his grip. Aiming the gun at Lucy, he shoved down on Nova's shoulder, forcing her to her knees, then prone, her face in the dirt. She ate some, gagged, managed to turn her head to the side.

Graydon-Jones put his foot on her spine. Trophy hunter.

But his eyes were jumpy.

"Come, come, faster, faster, or I'll have to finish both these tarts."

I jammed the shovel in the clay. Pulling it out was like towing a barge. My whole upper body felt encased in concrete. The lace pattern through the willows was pewter-colored now. I managed to dig.

He said, "Not that it matters, but I didn't get into trouble with Karen. Karen did it to herself."

"Drugs?" I said, stopping.

"Don't slack off- yes, yes, drugs, what else, don't you watch your public-service commercials? I wasn't even the one to give them to her."

"Who was?" The shovel hit the ground again. I pretended to dig deep but got only a few grains of soil on my blade. He was too far away to notice, his gaze leveling off at my elbows. If I stroked rapidly and grunted a lot, that might pass for a while.

"Who gave her the drugs?" I said, faking another hard chop. "App?"

No answer. One of his big hands caressed Nova's rear.

"You were just along for the party?"

I saw Lucy from a corner of my eye. Sitting, knees up. Frozen. Powerless again.

"Yes, a party. There was no crime, " said Graydon-Jones. "She was the life of it. Coming on to all of us, crawling up in our laps, telling us she was going to be a film star and live in Beverly Hills."

"What kind of drugs did App give her?"

"What's the difference: grass, hash, quaaludes. It was the 'ludes that got to her. No tolerance. Out like a light."

He looked down at Nova, then his gaze shifted to Lucy.

"What are you staring at? Make yourself useful. Dig with your hands- go on."

Lucy got down on all fours and began scooping up clay.

I said, "Two parties, then. Friday night and Saturday."

He blinked with surprise. Covered it with a laugh.

"The police know, too."

"Is that so? That sounds right out of a telly script. Go on, dig."

I faked some more. "So she came on to you?"

"All saucy talk and meaningful glances, quite a piece. A virgin, though you'd never have known it."

"She didn't stay one Saturday night, did she?" Chop. Grunt.

"Oh," he said. "Are we being politically correct ? Are we saying a saucy little piece who crawls up on your lap and puts her tongue in your ear doesn't want it? We treated her like a lady- ill-deserved. She was totally stoned, unbuttoning her blouse, singing Jefferson Airplane songs. Then she vomited. All over me."

His mouth twitched. "But I cleaned her up anyway. Dressed her and combed her hair. Curt even put makeup on her- are you slacking, Ms. Daughter? Get those hands working."

Lucy scooped and tossed dirt. Her eyes were dry and her thoughts were impossible to read. Nova's cheek was squashed against the earth, her swollen eye totally shut, her lip split.