Self-Defense by Jonathan Kellerman Page B

and blinked hard.
    “What happened then, Lucy?”
    “I woke up. Found myself on the floor...
again. My legs...” Wincing.
    “What about your legs?”
    “They were...” Spots of color appeared on
her cheeks. “Spread—spread wide, in front of everybody. It made me feel so
sluttish.”
    “People understand accidents, Lucy.”
    She looked at my hand on her shoulder. I
removed it and she sat down.
    “God,” she said. “This is crazy—am I going
off the deep end?”
    “No,” I said firmly. “You’re obviously
reacting to some kind of stress, and we’re going to find out what it is. I also
want you to see a neurologist to rule out anything organic.”
    She caught her breath and looked at me,
terrified. “Like what? A brain tumor?”
    “No, nothing like that, I didn’t mean to
alarm you. We just need to rule out a sleep disorder that responds to
medication. It’s unlikely, but I want to be careful, so our road’s clear.”
    “Our road. Sounds like some kind of
journey.”
    “In a way it is, Lucy.”
    She turned away from me. “I don’t know any
neurologists.”
    I gave her Phil’s name and number. “It
won’t be intrusive or painful.”
    “I hope so. I hate to be pawed. I’ll call
him tomorrow, okay? I’d better get home now.”
    “Why don’t you stay here and relax before
you set out?”
    “I appreciate the offer, but no, thanks.
I’m really tired, just want to crawl into bed.”
    “Want some coffee?”
    “No, I’ll be fine—it’s more emotional
fatigue than sleepiness.”
    “You’re sure you want to go right now?”
    “Yes, please. Sorry for the hassle.”
    “It’s no hassle at all, Lucy.”
    “Thanks for your time—we’ll figure it
out.” Looking to me for confirmation.
    I nodded and walked her to the door. She
opened it and thanked me again.
    “I don’t want to add to your load,” I
said, “but you’re going to see it on the evening news. A body was found today
that matches the Bogeyman victims. There may be a copycat out there.”
    “Oh, no,” she said, leaning against the
doorpost. “Where?”
    “Santa Ana.”
    “That’s Orange County—so Milo won’t be in
on it. Too bad. He could solve it.”

CHAPTER 7
    Phil Austerlitz called me the following
day at five.
    “Clean bill,” he said. “Healthiest person
I’ve seen in a long time, except for her anxiety. Even with that, her blood
pressure was great. Wish mine was as good.”
    “What kind of anxiety did you notice?”
    “Jumpy. Nervous about being
touched—wanting to know exactly what I was going to do to her, how, when, why.
Want to know my guess? Extreme sexual inhibition. Is that what she originally
came to you for?”
    “I’m not dealing with her sex life right
now, Phil.”
    “No? What kind of shrink are you?”
    She didn’t call for an appointment that
day, or the next. The murder down in Santa Ana was a page-ten story, the victim
a twenty-one-year-old prostitute named Shannon Dykstra who’d grown up a couple
of blocks from Disneyland and had gotten addicted to heroin while still in
junior high. The media had fun with that—lots of ironic comments about the
Magic Kingdom gone wrong.
    That night I cooked a couple of steaks and
made a salad, and at seven Robin and I sat down to dinner, with Spike begging
for sirloin. When we were through, Robin said, “If you’ve got no big plans, I
thought I might do a little work. The time I’m spending at the house is
crimping me.”
    “Want me to take a shift?”
    “No, honey, but if I could catch up, it
would help.”
    Spike watched her depart with longing, but
he decided to stay and finish his table scraps. He hung around as I washed the
dishes and followed me to the couch when I played guitar, settling next to me,
loose lips blowing out B-flat snores that missed harmony by a mile.
    Shortly after nine, Milo called and I
asked him if he was involved in the Dykstra case.
    “Involved but not committed—know the
difference? In a ham-and-egg breakfast, the