Jonathan Kellerman - Twisted

Mephisto: Arrogant asshole.

CrimeGirl: Im still waiting for intelligence in a y chromosomer.

BulldogD: What about John Gacey? Buddies with Jimmy Carter And all the time he’s burying bodies

Mephisto: It was Rosmarie Carter

CrimeGirl: Rosalyn, fact-boy

P-Kasso: a self-styled artist. Retzak’s biggest fan.

Isaac rescrolled the chat, read it again. Felt his fingers go cold. Logging off, he unplugged the modem, hurried to the wall phone, punched in Petra’s cell.

It connected to her land line. Her machine; he talked to it, trying not to sound weak or scared or frantic, guessing that he’d failed.

Would she call home for messages? Why would she? Busy on stakeout.

Thinking she knew.

The clock on the stove said: 11:11.

P-Kasso.

Rushing back to his room, he looked for his shoes, couldn’t find them, felt around under the bunk, finally got hold of the right loafer, then its mate. He’d gone to sleep in a T-shirt and sweatpants, no socks. That would have to do. Shoes in hand, he ran toward the door.

Isaiah sat up. “What the…”

“Sweet dreams, bro.”

“Where… goin’?”

“Out.”

Down on the floor Joel rolled to the wall. Rolled back. Smiled.

Isaiah said, “Goin’ out for more pussy?”

Isaac closed the door on both of them.

Isaiah owned a pickup truck that needed an engine. The sole operating Gomez vehicle was the intermittently operant Toyota Corolla Papa chanced driving to work. Papa’s keys dangled from a plastic frog screwed to the wall next to the fridge.

The car was just back from the shop, new filters of some sort. Isaac slipped the ignition key off his father’s ring, began sneaking across the kitchen, feeling like a burglar, before he stopped.

Minor omission.

He corrected that. Left.

THURSDAY, JUNE 27, 11:03 P.M., THE DOEBBLER RESIDENCE, ROSITA AVENUE, TARZANA

You’re sure?” said Petra.

Eric had just returned from another look behind the house. This time she’d seen him emerge, the faintest black smudge against the indigo Valley night. He’d probably showed himself on purpose, to make her feel good.

“No more magazine, he was watching TV. I couldn’t get an angle to see the screen. At eleven sharp, he got up, turned off the light, went upstairs.”

Less than an hour to go. Both of Doebbler’s cars were in place.

“You’re sure there’s no way he can leave from behind?”

“Steep hillside up to the neighbor’s property, then wrought-iron fencing. Anything’s possible but- ”

“If it’s possible we need to worry about it.” Little Miss Shrew. Before she could apologize, Eric said, “Want me to go back there and stay?”

“That would mean no two-way view of the street, but maybe…”

“Just tell me.”

“What do you think?”

“Tough call,” he said.

“This doesn’t feel right, Eric. Even if the kill-spot’s some close-by clinic, he’s cutting it too close. He’s compulsive. Would take his time setting it up.”

“Maybe he’s preparing right now. In his head.”

“Maybe,” she said. “Okay, look, go back there. If nothing happens within ten… fifteen minutes, I’m marching up to the front and ringing the bell.”

No response.

“You think it’s a bad idea?”

“No,” he said. “I’m on my way right now.”

THURSDAY, JUNE 27, 11:23 P.M., VERMONT AVENUE, ONE BLOCK SOUTH OF PICO

The Toyota stalled again.

Third time in a mile. Isaac shifted into neutral, coasted into the right lane as cars sped around him. Depressing the clutch, then releasing as he gassed, he tried to revive the ignition. A sputter, a nanosecond of panic, and the puny engine was chugging again. Pausing on the brink of death… resuscitating.

Barely.

Freakin’ piece of junk. So much for Montalvo, his father’s friend, the alleged mechanic.

Or maybe it was his own fault- poor stick-shift skills. It had been a long time since he’d gotten behind the wheel.

He snail-crawled north on Vermont, struggling to keep the gas flow even, anticipating lights and working at minimizing unnecessary stops and starts.

Half-moon night, pebbled lunar light filtering through neon and smog and humidity. No shortage of activity on Vermont at this hour. Rainbows of neon in Spanish, then Korean, then Spanish again. The car wheezed steadily past darkened buildings that alternated with the flash and buzz of bars and liquor stores and clubs.

Asian kids milling around the better-looking clubs. Nice clothing, souped up wheels that worked. The confident smiles of affluent youth.

Then back to the working-class Mexican and Salvadoran joints.

Vamos a bailar…

English was his language, his passport to some suburban Xanadu, but sometimes he dreamed in Spanish. Mostly, he didn’t dream.

Music poured out of a raunchy-looking dance-place as he putt-putted by.

The gaiety didn’t seem right for killing time.

Neither did the weather; warm night, a pleasant breeze.

Maybe this wasn’t killing time.

Had to be. No, it didn’t. Look how wrong he’d been.

P-Kasso.

Even if something was going to happen tonight, he’d almost certainly embarked on a fool’s mission.

Heading for a destination based on theory and the cold, flat religion that was logic.

The single best deduction, given the facts. But what did facts mean?

Chances were he was wrong, yet again. Dreadfully, tragically wrong.

At Third Street, the Toyota sputtered and threatened to die once more. Holding his breath he pressed down gently on the accelerator and the damn thing relented.

He made it to Fourth, Beverly…

Idiotic and quixotic, but what else could he do? Petra’s cell was still transferred- some police thing, for sure, what the cops called a tactical line. And contacting anyone else at the department was out of the question. Would bring the cops looking for him.

Four-fifteen mental case, male Hispanic, heading north on Vermont in a moribund clunker.

He passed Melrose. Just another couple of miles…

And then what?

He’d park at a safe distance, proceed on foot. Check out the layout and find some kind of vantage point.

Playing detective.

The object of his guess: Western Pediatrics Hospital. The one place you could count on a slew of nurses who took care of children.

He’d rotated through Western Peds as a pre-med sophomore. Introduced by a bio professor who wanted aspiring physicians to see what health care was really like.

Isaac had found the hospital a wonderful, terrifying place, brimming with compassion, frantic activity, the saddest stories of all.

The big-eyed stares of very sick kids. Bald heads, waxy skin, stick-limbs tethered to I.V. lines.

He’d decided, then and there, that pediatrics wasn’t for him.

Now he was headed back there on a return trip so terribly asinine it made him tremble.

The car made a retching noise. Isaac’s body lurched backward as the vehicle accelerated spontaneously. He maintained shaky control, rolled through an intersection just south of Santa Monica. Violated a boulevard stop and narrowly avoided being pulverized by a house-sized supermarket truck.

The trucker’s klaxon rage filled his ears as he kept going.

Two seconds later, the Toyota gave up.

On foot.

Jogging the half-mile to Sunset, staying in the darkness, close to buildings so as not to attract attention.

Male mental case running north…

He reached his destination by eleven forty-three, slowed his pace, and stayed on the south side of the boulevard as he ambled toward the big, blocky buildings of the hospital complex.