Rage

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Rocks and dirt and scampering bugs.

  “You came well-prepared,” I said.

  “Boy Scout days,” he said. “Made it all the way to Eagle. If they’d only known.”

  * * *

  We’d traipsed halfway through the reserve, finding nothing. The excitement that had pinged my chest when we’d found the Jeep began to fade.

  We were just about to turn back when the sound gave it away.

  Low, insistent buzzing, nearly drowned out by freeway roar.

  Flies.

  Milo made use of his long legs and was there within seconds.

  When I caught up, the penlight was focused on a forty-foot sycamore tree.

  Stout-trunked thing, with spavined, mottled branches. Unlike the surrounding evergreens and wild oaks, bare of all but a few desiccated brown leaves.

  Drew Daney, dressed in dark sweats and sneakers, hung from a low branch, feet dangling two inches off the ground. His head was twisted to the side, his eyes bulged nearly out of their sockets, and his tongue was a Japanese eggplant protruding from a lopsided mouth.

  Milo aimed the light at his head. Single gunshot to the left temple. Stellate entry wound. Larger exit. Tiny, hyperkinetic ants crawled in and out of both openings. The flies seemed to favor the exit.

  It took awhile, but he found the hole in the tree where the slug had lodged.

  Daney’s eyes and tongue said he’d been hung first. I said, “Overkill.” Thinking about Daney dangling, just short of safety. Clutching at the rope, trying to hoist himself up.

  Using his big upper body. Maybe he’d managed for seconds, even minutes.

  Failing, inevitably. Feeling the life force slip away.

  Milo lowered the beam. “Look at this.”

  Daney’s crotch was a busy place. Mangled cavity, ragged around the edges where the cotton of the sweatpants had been blasted away.

  Here the flies ruled supreme.

  Milo got closer and inspected. A few of the insects scattered but most of them stayed on-task. “Looks liked gunshots . . . a bunch of them.” He stooped and checked the tree trunk, lower down. “Yeah, here we go, looks like . . . four, no five slugs . . . yeah, five.”

  “Emptying the six-shooter,” I said. “A cowboy gun.”

  “Something else in there.” He lit and peered and pointed. “Couple of rings.”

  I stepped in and saw two white gold bands specked with tiny blue gems. Same rings I’d seen at the jail eight years ago.

  Thumbtacked to what was left of Daney’s organ.

  “Drew’s and Cherish’s wedding bands,” I said. “She made her statement.”

  He stepped away from the corpse. Looked it up and down. Expressionless.

  Whipping out his phone he called the Van Nuys station. “This is Lieutenant Sturgis. Cancel the BOLO on missing fugitive Daney. Daney. I’ll spell it for you.”

  CHAPTER 45

  Milo and I moved away from the body and waited.

  “Hang ’em high,” he said. “More like hang ’em low.”

  He was restless, went over and examined Daney’s sneakers. The fatal two inches. “Couldn’t have been comfortable. Think they used Drew’s gun or Barnett dipped into his arsenal?”

  “I’d guess Drew’s. The temptation of poetic justice.”

  “Cherish got that along with the money. If you’re already going for the irony, why hold back?”

  * * *

  Considering the need to proceed on foot up the dirt path, it didn’t take long for the six uniforms to arrive. Then four detectives, and a white coroner’s van bearing two investigators.

  Milo briefed one of the D’s very quickly, then came over to where I sat, just outside the tape.

  “Ready for dinner?”

  “That’s it?”

  “It’s someone else’s problem now.”

  We had pasta and wine at Octavio’s, on Ventura Boulevard, in Sherman Oaks.

  No conversation until Milo had finished half his linguini with clams. Then: “These rolls are great.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  A glass of Chianti later, I said, “Cherish may not have intended to, but she helped set Rand up to be killed. Maybe all she wanted was for him to rat out Drew, but it was a sloppy plan. She should’ve known he wasn’t smart enough to conceal his anxiety. Her hatred for Drew overrode that.”

  “Sloppiness ain’t an indictable offense.” He broke off a piece of bread, sopped up sauce. “Delicious.”

  “You’re really through with it.”

  “Don’t see any reason not to be.”

  “What about Cherish and Barnett stringing up Daney and blasting his balls off?”

  “Wild West kinda thing,” he said, spooling linguine around his fork. Some of it dropped and he retrieved it, ate, got sauce on his chin. “And I ain’t the sheriff of Dodge.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “We don’t know for a fact that Malley and Cherish were behind it, do we? Guy like Drew could make all sorts of enemies.”

  I stared at him.

  He wiped his chin with a napkin. “In any case, the Valley boys will pursue it to its logical end.”

  “If you say so.”

  “What, you’re not finished with it?”

  “Guess I am. Except for therapy for the girls. If Detective Weisvogel calls.”

  “That surprised me,” he said. “Given your attitude about long-term commitment. What, she catch you off guard?”

  “That must’ve been it.”

  He dove into his food again, came up for breath. “Sorry if I’m disillusioning you, Alex, but I’m tired.”

  “Don’t blame you.”

  “I’m talking serious tired. As in waking up and not wanting to get out of bed and dragging myself through the day.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  He picked up a strand of linguini. Sucked it into his mouth the way little kids do. “I’ll be fine.”

  * * *

  Two days later, he called.

  “Daney mighta wiped his Jeep down, but it’s a forensic trove. Pubic hairs, semen, tiny specks of blood in the ribbing underneath the door. Also, I just got a call from downtown. My request for DNA has been approved and will be sent to Cellmark expeditiously. If I don’t hear back within ninety days, give a call.”

  “Any word on Cherish and Barnett?”

  “Not that I’ve heard, but I might not hear.”

  “Not in the loop.”

  “The only loop of substance was the one around that bastard’s neck. Anyway, Rick and I are leaving for Hawaii, thought I’d call to let you know.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Condo rental on the big island, ten days.”

  “Thought you don’t tan.”

  “So I’ll sauté.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “Twenty minutes if the E.T.D. on the board is accurate.”

  “You’re at the airport?”

  “Love this place. Two hours of security line worked by morons. I had to take off my shoes, they tossed my carry-on, frisked me. Meanwhile, everyone else, including a guy who could be Osama’s twin, sails through.”

  “Must be your dangerous demeanor.”

  “If they only knew.”

  * * *

  Detective Judy Weisvogel didn’t phone that day, but the following morning I came back from running and found a message from my service. I’d hoped it was Allison. Told myself Allison had her hands full and maybe I needed some of that, myself.

  I reached Weisvogel at her downtown office.

  “Thanks for calling back, Doctor. Still willing?”

  “I am.”

  “From what we can tell, you were right. He only molested Valerie and Monica Strunk. Valerie won’t talk to you but Monica seems okay with it. You’d be more qualified to say but she seems awfully dull to me, pretty close to retarded. Or maybe it’s trauma.”

  “That would fit,” I said. “Valerie was his number one choice. Monica was brought in for backup.”


  “Bastard,” she said. “Can’t say I’m losing sleep over what happened to him.”

  “How’d Valerie take the news?”

  “She doesn’t know yet. Didn’t know if I should tell her, seeing as she still talks about him as if he was Jesus. Damned Stockholm syndrome. What do you think?”

  “Find her someone she can relate to and ask them.”

  “Good idea. She’s got no family other than some distant cousins who want nothing to do with her.”

  “Poor kid,” I said.

  “Poor everybody. So when can you start?”

  “I’ll come by tomorrow.”

  “Terrific. We’ve got the social workers involved and all the girls are staying at a youth shelter downtown. Run by a Pentecostal church, but the people in charge aren’t doing the holy-roller bit and I know from past experience that they’re righteous.”

  She gave me an address on Sixth Street.

  I said, “I’ll be there at ten.”

  “Thanks again, Doctor. In terms of the long-term placement, if you have some advice, we’re all open. The shelter’s good but it’s temporary. I can’t see sending them off to new foster homes without some real careful checking.” She laughed. “Now I’m being a social worker.”

  “All part of the job.”

  “Unless you keep it out of the job,” she said. “And I’m not ready to do that yet.”

  CHAPTER 46

  That night, Allison phoned. “I’m in the car, ten minutes away. May I come by?”

  “Of course.”

  I left the front door open. Seven minutes later, she strode in.

  Cosmetics, jewelry, hair loose and shiny. Sleek white silk blouse tucked into wine-colored slacks. Burgundy suede sandals with tiny rhinestone bows. Tiny gold chains across her instep.

  She took my face in both hands and kissed my lips, but it didn’t last long.

  We sat down in the living room, thigh to thigh. I held her hand. She touched my knee.

  “It seems like ages,” she said. “Since we had any fun.”

  “It has been ages.”

  “I heard about Drew Daney. It was on the news— something about the Sepulveda Dam. Not a lot of details.”

  “Do you want details?”

  “Not really. You doing okay?”

  “Fine, how about you?”

  “Me too.” Her eyes dipped at the outer edges.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I wish I could provide fun, Alex, but I have to leave for Connecticut in a couple of days. Gram fell and broke her hip and Wes says it seems to have done something to her mind, she’s just not herself. I’d be on the plane tonight but I’ve still got Beth to worry about. She’s better, a lot better, and there’s a very good resident who wants to work with her. Beth seems to like her but the rapport hasn’t developed and there’s the whole abandonment thing to deal with. I’m hoping to get her to accept the resident in a couple of days. To understand that my absence will be temporary.”

  She sighed. “I wouldn’t tell anyone else this, but nothing would thrill me more than coming back to find she prefers the resident.”

  “Know how you feel.”

  “I’m so drained, Alex. Every minute I’m not at the office, I’m over at the hospital. Now it’s Gram. Sometimes I feel I’m a host and everyone else is a parasite. Isn’t that horrible? No one forced me to take this job.”

  I put my arm around her. She remained stiff for a moment, then dropped her head on my shoulder. Her hair tickled my nose. I tolerated it.

  A few moments later, she said, “I know there’s a lot I need to say to you, but I just don’t have the energy. So could we just go to bed and not have sex? I’ll understand if you say no, but if you could find it within yourself, I’d really appreciate it.”

  I got up and took her hand.

  “Thank you,” she said. “At least I’ve got a friend.”

  * * *

  She’s fond of her body and usually strips down in front of me. This time she undressed in the bathroom and emerged with her bra and panties on. I was nude, beneath the covers. When she crawled in and I felt the mattress bounce, I got hard and turned to keep that out of view.

  She sensed it anyway, rolled over, squeezed, let go.

  “It’s so ready,” she said. “Sorry.” Lying on her back, she dropped a smooth white arm over her eyes.

  “No apologies necessary,” I said. I needn’t have bothered. She was fast asleep, breathing through her mouth, bra cups heaving.

  I knew sleep wouldn’t come my way. Way off my biorhythm and too many things on my mind.

  Tomorrow morning. What approach should I take with Monica Strunk?

  Would Valerie be able to connect with another therapist?

  Where was Miranda?

  Would my role as a police surrogate make any approach to the girls futile and would I end up reporting failure to Judy Weisvogel?

  Man in a tree.

  Baby bracelet.

  Trying to breathe myself calm, I worked at shutting out the case.

  Thought about a call I’d need to make sooner or later.

  Sooner rather than later, given the circumstances.

  As Allison slept, I rehearsed mentally.

  Ring ring ring.

  It’s me.

  Oh, hi.

  How’re you doing?

  Okay. You?

  Hanging in.

  That’s good.

  I thought I might drop over. Visit Spike.

  Sure, that’s fine. I’ll be here, too.

  The End

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  JONATHAN KELLERMAN is one of the world’s most popular authors. He has brought his expertise as a clinical psychologist to numerous bestselling tales of suspense, including the Alex Delaware novels, The Butcher’s Theater, Billy Straight, The Conspiracy Club, and Twisted. With his wife, the novelist Faye Kellerman, he co-authored the bestseller Double Homicide. He is also the author of numerous essays, short stories, scientific articles, two children’s books, and three volumes of psychology, including Savage Spawn: Reflections on Violent Children. He has won the Goldwyn, Edgar, and Anthony awards, and has been nominated for a Shamus Award. Jonathan Kellerman lives in California and has four children. Visit the author’s website at www.jonathankellerman.com.

  Rage is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2005 by Jonathan Kellerman

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Kellerman, Jonathan.

  Rage / Jonathan Kellerman.

  p. cm.

  eISBN 0-345-48477-0

  1. Delaware, Alex (Fictitious character)— Fiction. 2. Sturgis, Milo (Fictitious character)— Fiction. 3. Police— California— Los Angeles— Fiction. 4. Juvenile justice, Administration of— Fiction. 5. Girls— Crimes against— Fiction. 6. Los Angeles (Calif.)— Fiction. 7. Psychologists— Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3561.E3865R34 2005b

  8131.54— dc22 2005042101

  Ballantine Books website address:

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12