Self-Defense by JONATHAN KELLERMAN

Figuring it for a wrong number, I hung up, redialed, and got the same tape. This time I listened to the end.

“. . . specially canned goods, powdered milk, and baby formula. If you’re calling for spiritual guidance, our twenty-four-hour Help Line is . . .”

I copied that number down. The tape ended with a quote from First Corinthians:

“Christ our passover is sacrificed for us: Therefore let us keep the feast, not with old leaven, neither with the leaven of malice and wickedness; but with the unleavened bread of sincerity and truth.”

The Help Line was answered by another woman. I asked for Sherrell Best.

“The Reverend’s out in back with the packages. Can I help you?”

I gave her the police psychologist semi-truth.

“The police?” she said. “Is there some problem?”

“It’s concerning the Reverend’s daughter.”

“Karen?” Her voice jumped an octave.

“Yes.”

“One minute.”

Seconds later, a man said, “Sherrell Best. What about Karen?”

I started to give him my intro.

He said, “Please, sir. Tell me about Karen.”

I repeated the story I’d told his son. When I was finished, he said, “Praise the Lord, I knew she’d be found.”

“Reverend Best, I don’t want to—”

“Don’t worry, sir, I don’t expect her to be restored. There was only one Rebirth. But the truth—I knew it would come out. “In your patience possess ye your souls.’ ”

“We don’t really have the truth, Reverend. Just—”

“This is the beginning, sir. What does this witness remember?”

“Just what I told you. Sir.”

“Well, I have things for you. Names, dates, clues. May I show them to you? It may sound stupid, but, please, would you humor an old maniac?”

“Certainly,” I said.

“When can we meet? I’ll come to you.”

“How about tomorrow?”

Pause. “If need be, sir, I’ll wait until tomorrow, but today would be better.”

“I could meet you tonight,” I said. “Around nine.”

“Nine would be perfect. Where shall it be? The file’s at my home.”

“Your home’s fine.”

“I live in Highland Park.” Repeating the address his son had given me. “Where are you coming from?”

“The west side.”

“If you’d like I can come to you.”

“No, it’s no problem.”

“You’re sure? All right, then. I can have it all organized for you by the time you get there. Will you have time for dinner? I can prepare something.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Coffee, then? Or tea?”

“Coffee.”

“Coffee,” he said, as if committing a menu to memory. “I look forward to it, sir. God bless you.”

At eight-fifteen, I left Robin and Spike in the garage workshop and drove over Malibu Canyon to the 101. Midway through the Valley it turned into the 134, and a few miles later I connected to the Glendale Freeway south and got off just past Eagle Rock, in Highland Park.

The streets were dark, hilly, and tilting, crowded with small houses, duplexes, and apartment buildings on scratch lots, suburban silence broken by a constant freeway dirge. Runt lawns hosted old cars and trucks. The neighborhood had once been working-class white; now it was mostly working-class Hispanic. Gangs had made some inroads. A police chief had lived there, but that hadn’t made much difference.

Sherrell Best’s home was a single that overlooked a dry wash and the six lanes of asphalt that paralleled it. A box with a low-pitched tar roof. The stucco was sprayed on and looked pink in the nightlight. The grass was split by a concrete walkway. Iron grating shielded the windows.

Spanish music came from the place next door. Best’s place was silent but all the lights were on—custard-colored patches behind woven curtains. A twenty-year-old Olds 88 sat in the driveway.

He was at the front door before I got there, a small round man with a small round head. He wore black-rimmed glasses, a wash-and-wear white shirt, and a narrow gray clip-on tie.

“Dr. Delaware?” he said, holding the door open, then closing it behind us and double-bolting. The house smelled of canned vegetable soup. The front was divided between a low narrow living room and a dining area even more pinched. The furniture was old and fussy-looking and arranged very neatly: polished wood tables with Queen Anne legs, beaded lamps with floral shades, overstuffed chairs sleeved with doilies. A gray hooked rug spread on the vinyl floor like a sleeping pet. The walls were covered with framed posters of biblical scenes. All the characters looked Nordic and on the brink of emotional collapse.

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