Self-Defense by JONATHAN KELLERMAN

“Morning, just on my way out.”

He let me into a parqueted foyer. A statuary-marble center table held a black vase full of white silk flowers. Behind it, the stairway was a softly curving arc of polished oak.

The front rooms on either side were dark and vaulted, shaded by heavy cream damask drapes and filled with gleaming furniture.

“Nice repo,” I said.

Ken nodded. “The owners cut out to Europe overnight. Food in the fridge and clothes in the closet. Some kind of shopping center deal that went bad. People are looking for them.”

“Been seeing a lot of that lately?”

“More than usual for the last couple of years. It’s what we specialize in. We pick them up from the bank, rehab them, and turn them around. I guess that makes us capitalist exploiters.” He smiled and picked out one of the silk flowers. “It’s not what I thought I’d be doing when I was in Berkeley.”

“What were you interested in then?”

“My sister Jo was an archaeology major; she turned me on to old bones. After she graduated, she went to Nepal to climb around and explore. I flew there to be with her and we hung out together in Katmandu—place called Freak Street, Telegraph Avenue transplanted to the Himalayas.” He shook his head and looked at the flower. “I was with her when she died.”

“What happened?” I said.

“We were hiking. She was experienced, very athletic. This was just a stroll for her. But she put her foot down and something gave way and she fell over a hundred feet. I was way behind. She passed right by me as she went down, landed on a ledge full of sharp rocks.” He touched his eyes and pressed down on the lids. Then his hands flew to his lapels.

A door opened on the upstairs landing, and Lucy came down the stairs.

“Morning,” she said, looking at Ken. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s great.” He smiled and buttoned his jacket. “I should be back around six. Don’t worry about your car, I’ll have it brought over.” A wave, and he was gone.

“Looks like you’re being well taken care of,” I said.

“He’s a sweet guy.” She looked at the living room. “Not too shabby for a hideout, huh? Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“Would you like to talk outside? It’s nice in here, but I find it a little gloomy.”

The backyard was generous, with a pork-chop-shaped swimming pool and waterfall spa. A brick patio running along the rear of the house contained a table and chairs and potted plants that needed watering. The neighboring properties were blocked from view by tall honeysuckle hedges and billowing mounds of plumbago.

We sat. Lucy crossed her legs and looked up at the sky. Her eyes were tired, and she seemed to be fighting tears.

“What is it?” I said.

“I can’t stop thinking about Puck.”

After a second’s debate, I said, “He called your—called Lowell two days ago to tell him you were in the hospital. He obviously cares about you, but something’s keeping him out of town.”

Her legs uncrossed and her head shot forward. “Why would he call him—how do you know this?”

“Lowell phoned me, wanting to talk about you. I told him I couldn’t without your permission.”

“That’s crazy. Why would Puck call him?”

“He knew you were at Woodbridge.”

“He must have found out some—absurd. I don’t understand any of this.”

“I got the impression Puck had been in contact with him.”

She stared at me, then lowered her head, as if ashamed.

“He told me Puck had a drug problem,” I said. “I didn’t assume it was true, but Milo checked it out.”

Her mouth opened, then closed. Her fingernails scraped the glass top of the table, and my short hairs rose.

“Damn him. He had no right—why did Milo have to do that?”

“For your sake. And Puck’s. We couldn’t understand why he couldn’t come back to see you, figured he might be in some kind of trouble. How long’s he been addicted?”

“He—I don’t know, exactly. He started smoking grass in prep school. By the time he started Tufts he was already into . . . the bad stuff. He had to drop out in his junior year because a campus policeman caught him shooting up in a dorm room. After that he didn’t care and just hit the streets. The police kept picking him up for vagrancy, and the system kept spitting him back. He tried to get help—student health, free clinics, private doctors. Nothing worked. It’s a disease.”

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