Jonathan Kellerman - Bad Love

"You told me there was no record of any fires there."

"Yeah… the kids behaved themselves there. It's when they graduated that the problems started."

• • •

I drove, but I felt as if I was being towed. Each segment of white line diminished me. Across the cab of the truck, Robin wept, unable to stop, finally surrendering to deep, wracking sobs.

I was beyond tears.

Just as I crossed into Beverly Hills, she took a sucking breath and pressed fisted hands together.

"Oh, well," she said, "I always wanted to redecorate."

I must have laughed, because my throat hurt and I heard two voices chuckling hysterically.

"What style should we choose?" I said. "Phoenix Rococo?"

Benedict Canyon appeared. Red light. I stopped. My eyes felt acid washed.

"It was a crummy little place anyway," she said. "No, it wasn't, it was a beautiful little place- oh, Alex!"

I pulled her to me. Her body felt heavy but boneless.

Green light. My brain said go, but my foot was slow to follow. Trying not to think of everything I'd lost- and everything yet to lose- I managed to complete the left turn and began a solitary crawl up Benedict.

Home temporary home.

The dog would run out to greet us. I felt inadequate for the role of animal buddy. For anything.

I drove up to the white gate. It took a long time to find the card key, even longer to slip it in the slot. Moving the truck up the drive, I counted cypress trees in an effort to settle my mind on something.

I parked next to the Seville and we got out.

The dog didn't rush out to greet us.

I fumbled with the key to the front door. Turned it. As I walked through the door, something cold and hard pressed against my left temple and a hand reached around and clapped me hard on the right side of my head.

Immobilizing my skull.

"Hello, doctor," said a voice from a chant. "Welcome to Bad Love."

He said, "Don't move or speak, pardon the cliché."

The pressure on my temple was intense. Strong fingers dug into my cheek.

"Good," he said. "Obedient. You must have been a good student."

Dig.

"Were you?"

"I was okay."

"Such modesty- you were a lot better than okay. Your fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Lyndon, said you were one of the best students she ever had- do you remember Mrs. Lyndon?"

Squeeze and shake.

"Yes."

"She remembers you… such a good little boy… keep being good: hands on head."

As my fingers touched my hair, the lights went on.

One of the couches was out of place, pushed closer to the coffee table. There were drinks and plates on the coffee table. A glass of something brown. The bag of taco chips Robin had bought a couple of days ago was open, crumbs scattered on the table.

Making himself comfortable.

Knowing we'd be gone for a while but would come back, nowhere else to go.

Because he'd used the fire to flush me out. Used the time to prepare the scene.

The ritual.

Choreographing death.

Firesetters and felons…

I considered how to get at him. Felt the pressure, saw only dark sleeve. Where was Robin?

"Forward march," he said, but he continued to hold me still.

Footsteps on marble. Someone walked into my line of sight, holding Robin the same way.

Tall. Bulky black sweater. Baggy black slacks. Black ski mask with eye holes. Shiny eyes, the color indeterminate at this distance. He towered over Robin, gripping her face and forcing her eyes up at the ceiling. Her neck was stretched, exposed.

I gave an involuntary start, and the hand gripped my head harder.

Imprisoning it.

I knew where they'd learned that.

Bumping and scratching from the back of the house. The dog tied out there, behind drapes that had been drawn over the French doors.

Something else at Robin's head besides a hand. Automatic pistol, small, chrome plated.

Bump, scratch.

The voice behind me laughed.

"Great attack dog… some tight security you've got here. Alarm system with an obvious home run, one snip and bye-bye. Fancy electric gate a dwarf could climb over, and a cute little closed-circuit TV to announce your arrival."

More laughter. The tall man with Robin didn't move or make a sound.

Two types of killing. Two killers…

My captor said, "Okay, campers."

The tall man shifted his free hand from Robin's face to the small of her back and began propelling her down the hallway toward the bedrooms.

Swinging his hips. Effeminate.

Walking the way Robin walked.

A woman? A tall woman with strong shoulders…

I'd talked to a tall, angry woman this afternoon.

A Corrective School alumna with plenty of reason to hate.

I really don't like you.

I'd called Meredith out of the blue, yet she'd been willing to talk to me- too eager.

And she had a special reason to feel rage over the Western Peds symposium.

Thanks, Dad.

I'd just stare at them, want to kill them, keep my feelings all inside.

Alone with Robin, now. Her appetites and anger…

"Forward march, fool." The gun stayed in place as the hand moved from my face. No more pressure, but his touch lingered like phantom pain.

A sharp prod to my kidneys as he shoved me farther into the room. Onto a couch. As I bounced, my hands left my head.

His foot met my shin and pain burned through my leg.

"Back up- up, up, up!"

I complied, waiting to be tied or restrained.

But he let me stay there, hands on head, and sat down facing me, just out of reach.

I saw the gun first. Another automatic- bigger than Meredith's. Dull black, a dark wooden grip. Freshly oiled; I could smell it.

He looked tall too. Long waist, and long legs that he planted firmly on the marble. A little narrow in the shoulders. Arms a bit short. Navy blue sweatshirt with a designer logo. Black jeans, black leather, high-top athletic shoes that looked spanking new.

The chic thing to wear for homicide- the avenger reads GQ.

His mask had a mouth cutout. A sharklike smile filled the hole.

The dog scratched some more.

Under the mask, his forehead moved.

He crossed his legs, keeping the big black gun a couple of feet from the center of my chest. Breathing fast, but his arm was stable.

Using his free hand, he reached up and began rolling his mask up, doing it deftly, so that his eyes never moved from mine and his gun arm never faltered.

Doing it slowly.

The wool peeled away like a snake's molt, exposing a soft, unremarkable face with fine features.

Rosy cheeks. The hair brass colored, thinning, worn thicker at the sides, now matted by the mask.

Andrew Coburg.

The storefront lawyer's smile was wide, wet- impish.

A surprise-party smile.

He twirled the mask and tossed it over his shoulder. "VoilÀ."

I struggled to make sense of it- Coburg directing me to Gritz. Misdirecting me. Careful researcher… Mrs. Lyndon…

"I really like this place," he said. "Despite all the queer art. Nice, crisp, cruel, L.A. ambience. Much better than that little yuppie log cabin of yours. And cliff side- talk about perfect. Not to mention your little friend's truck- unbelievable. Couldn't have set it up better myself."

He winked. "Almost makes you believe in God, doesn't it? Fate, karma, predestination, collective unconscious- choose your dogma… do you have any idea what I'm talking about?"

"Delmar Parker," I said.

The dead boy's name blotted out his smile.

"I'm talking about consonance," he said. "Making it right."

"But Delmar has something to do with it, doesn't he? Something beyond bad love."

He uncrossed his legs. The gun made a small arc. "What do you know about bad love, you pretentious yuppie prick?"