accounts.
A hot bath didn’t make me feel any better. Neither
did a cool drink or self-hypnosis. I dragged
myself downstairs to feed the koi but didn’t linger
to watch them eat; Back in the house I fell into bed
226 Jonathan Kel/ennan
with the aper, the rest of the mail, and Leo Kottke
on the stereo. But I found myself too drained to
concentrate, and surrendered to sleep without a
struggle.
BY MORNING my malaise had matured to influenza.
I took aspirin, drank lemon tea, and wished Robin
were there to take care of me.
I kept the TV on for background noise and slept,
on and off, all day. By evening I was feeling well
enough to hobble out of bed and eat Jell-O. But’
even that tired me and soon I was back asleep.
In my dream I was adrift on an A/ctic ice floe,
seeking shelter from a violent hailstorm in a meager
cardboard lean to. Each new fusillade shredded
the cardboard, leaving me increasingly terrified and
exposed.
I awoke naked and shivering. The hailstorm continued.
Digital numbers glowed in the dark: 11:26.
Through the window I saw clear black skies. The
hail turned into bullets. Shotgun fire stinging the
side of the house, ‘
I dove to the floor, lay flat, belly-down, breathing
hard.
227
228 Jonathan Kellerman
More gunfire. A percussive pop, then the tinkle
of broken glass. A cry of pain. A sickening dull
sound, like a melon bursting under a Sledgeham-
mer. An engine starting. Automotive escape.
Then silence.
I crawled to the phone. Called the police. Asked
for Milo. He was off-shift. Del Hardy, then. Please.
The black detective came to the phone. Between
gasps I told him about the nightmare that had turned
real.
He said he’d call Milo, both of them would be
there code three.
Minutes later the wail of sirens stretched up the
glen, trombones gone mad.
I put on a t0be and stepped outside.
The redwood siding on the front of the house was
peppered with holes and spl’mtered ‘in a dozen
places. One window had been blown out.
I smelled hydrocarbons.
On the terrace were three open cans of gasoline.
Wadded rags had been fashioned into oversized
wicks and stuffed into the spouts. Oily footprints’
led to the edge of the landing’and ended in a single
smear of a skidmark. I looked over the railing.
A man sprawled face down and motionless in the
Japanese garden.
I climbed down just as the black and whites
pulled up. Walked barefoot’ to the garden, the stone
cool under feet burning with fever. I called out.
The man didn’t respond.
It was Richard Moody.
Half his face had been blown away. What remained
was dog food. Or more precisely, fish food,
for his head was submerged in my pond and the koi
LOOD TEST 229
nibbled at it, sucking up the bloody water, relishing
the novelty of a new snack,
Sickened, I tried to wave them away but the
sight of me was a conditioned stimulus for feeding
and they grew more enthusiastic, feasting and slurping,
scaly gourmands. The big black and gold carp
came half out of the water to get a mouthful. I
could swear he grinned at me with whiskered lips.
Someone was at my side. I jumped.
“Easy, Alex,”
“Milo!”
He looked as if he’d crawled out of bed. He wore
a lifeless windbreaker over a yellow Hang-Ten polo
shirt and baggy jeans. His hair was a fright wig and
his green eyes gleamed in the moonlight.
“Come on,” he took my elbow. “Let’s go upstairs,
get something liquid in you and then you can
tell me what happened.”
As the crime scene crew busied themselves with
the technical minutiae of murder I sat in my old
leather sofa and drank Chivas. The shock was beginning
to slough .off; I realized I was still sick–chilled
and weak. The Scotch went down warm
and smooth. Across from me sat Milo and Del Hardy.
The black detective was dapper, as always, in a
shaped dark suit, peach-colored shirt, black tie, and
spit-polished demiboots. He put on a pair of reading
glasses and took notes.
“On the surface,” said Milo, “it looks like Moody