MORE PRAISE FOR JONATHAN KELLERMAN AND HIS ALEX DELAWARE NOVELS Silent Partner “A complex and haunting story of tangled personalities, deeply buried family secrets, and of violence lying thinly under the surface … Hits the reader right between the eyes.” —Los Angeles Times Book Review “A gripping and sometimes harrowing tale of murder and manipulation … The first page is a shocker, and the pace never falters.” —The Cleveland Plain Dealer Time Bomb “Scythe-sharp … A great, good read.” —New York Daily News “A meticulously constructed thriller.” —Publishers Weekly Private Eyes “A page-turner from beginning to end.” —Los Angeles Times “Spellbinding suspense … Unforgettable.” —Houston Chronicle Devil’s Waltz “Reads like wildfire … Harrowing suspense.” —The New York Times Books Review “A tension-packed page-turner.” —Cosmopolitan Bad Love “Bad Love will have you looking over your shoulder before you turn out the lights.” —Detroit Free Press “By the end I was fairly racing through the pages.” —Los Angeles Times Self-Defense “With its nicely orchestrated twists, Kellerman’s plot will keep readers guessing.” —Publishers Weekly (starred review) “Kellerman at his best.” —USA Today The Clinic “Mines new realms of psychological terror … Holds the reader riveted.” —Playboy Quite possibly the best of the series—and that’s saying quite a lot.” —Chicago Tribune Survival of the Fittest “An original and gripping tale that is one of his best.” —Chicago Tribune “Why is it so hard to put down a Kellerman thriller …? It’s simple: the nonstop action leaves you breathless; the plot twists keep you guessing; the themes … are provocative.” —Publishers Weekly Monster “Unsettling and thrilling … Right from the start of Monster, Jonathan Kellerman does everything right.” —The Baltimore Sun “Kellerman delivers … Get ready to sleep with the lights on.” —Rocky Mountain News This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidences are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. And resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or loaces, is entirely coindicental. A Ballantine Book Published by The Random House Publishing Group Copyright © 1990 by Jonathan Kellerman Excerpt from Therapy copyright © 2004 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, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc. This edition published by arrangement with Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. www.ballantinebooks.com eISBN: 978-0-345-46378-4 v3.1_r1 Contents Cover Title Page Copyright Epigraph Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Excerpt from Therapy Dedication Acknowledgments Other Books by This Author “And he gave it for his opinion, that whoever could make two ears of corn or two blades of grass to grow upon a spot of ground where only one grew before, would deserve better of mankind, and do more essential service to his country than the whole race of politicians put together.” —JONATHAN SWIFT 1 Back to school. It evokes memories of the tests we’ve passed, or the ones we’ve failed. Monday. Milo’s call punctuated a hard, gray November day that had finally erupted into rain. He said, “Turn on your TV.” I glanced at my desk clock. Just after two-forty P.M.—talk show time. The cathode freak display. “What? Nuns who murder, or pets with ESP?” “Just turn it on, Alex.” His voice was hard. “What channel?” “Take your pick.” I flicked the remote. The sound came on before the picture. Sobs and whimpers. Then faces. Small faces, lots of them. Eyes wide with bafflement and terror. Fragile bodies blanketed and huddled together on the floor of a large room. Gleaming hardwood floors and chalk-white goal lines. A gym. The camera moved in on a little black-haired girl in a puff-sleeved white dress as she accepted a plastic cup of something red. Her hands shook; the beverage sloshed; a false bloodstain spread on white cotton. The camera lingered, feasting on the image. The little girl burst into tears. A chubby boy, five or six, cried. The boy next to him was older, maybe eight. Staring straight ahead and biting his lip, straining for macho. More faces, a sea of faces. I became aware of a mellow-voiced commentary—calculated sound bites alternating with strategic pauses. Sucked into the visuals, I let the words pass right through me. Camera-shift to rain-slick asphalt, acres of it. Squat flesh-colored buildings spattered calomine-pink where the rain had penetrated the stucco. The voice-over droned on and the camera got manic—a flurry of visual slices, so brief they bordered on the subliminal: flak-jacketed, baseball-hatted SWAT cops crouched on rooftops, poised in doorways, and muttering into hand-held radios. Yellow crime-scene tape. Assault