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Bones (Alex Delaware Series #23) by Jonathan Kellerman
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(Hardcover)
- Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
- Pub. Date: October 2008
- ISBN-13: 9780345495136
- Sales Rank: 5,788
- 368pp
- Series: Alex Delaware Series, #23
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Synopsis
When it comes to writing deftly layered, tightly coiled novels of suspense, #1 New York Times bestselling author Jonathan Kellerman reigns supreme as “master of the psychological thriller” (People). Now, Kellerman has worked his magic again in this chilling new masterpiece.
The anonymous caller has an ominous tone and an unnerving message about something “real dead . . . buried in your marsh.” The eco-volunteer on the other end of the phone thinks it’s a prank, but when a young woman’s body turns up in L.A.’s Bird Marsh preserve no one’s laughing. And when the bones of more victims surface, homicide detective Milo Sturgis realizes the city’s under siege to an insidious killer. Milo’s first move: calling in psychologist Alex Delaware.
The murdered women are prostitutes–except the most recent victim; a brilliant young musician from the East Coast, employed by a wealthy family to tutor a musical prodigy, Selena Bass seems out of place in the marsh’s grim tableau.
Conveniently–perhaps ominously–Selena’s blueblood employers are nowhere to be found, and their estate’s jittery caretaker raises hackles. But Milo’s instincts and Alex’s insight are too well-honed to settle for easy answers, even given the dark secrets in this troubled man’s past. Their investigation unearths disturbing layers–about victims, potential victims, and suspects alike–plunging even deeper into the murky marsh’s enigmatic depths.
Bizarre details of the crimes suggest a devilish serial killer prowling L.A.’s gritty streets. But when anew murder deviates from the pattern, derailing a possible profile, Alex and Milo must look beyond the suspicion of madness and consider an even more sinister mind at work. Answers don’t come easy, but the darkest of drives and desires may fuel the most devious of foes.
Bones is classic Kellerman–relentlessly peeling back the skin and psyches of its characters and revealing the shadows and sins of the souls beneath. With jolt after jolt of galvanizing suspense, it drives the reader through its twists and turns toward a climax as satisfying as it is shattering.
Publishers Weekly
In this run-of-the-mill police procedural from bestseller Kellerman, his 23rd novel to feature L.A. consulting psychologist Alex Delaware (after Compulsion), high school miscreant Chance Brandt has been assigned to perform community service at the Bird Marsh, a nature sanctuary near Marina del Rey. After Chance dismisses as a prank an anonymous phone call warning him that there's a corpse buried in the marsh, Lt. Milo Sturgis, now "Special Case Investigator" for the LAPD, and Sturgis's team find four bodies there, all women missing their right hand. When Sturgis identifies one of the victims as Selena Bass, who worked as a piano teacher for the wealthy Vander family, the police focus on Travis Huck, the manager of the Vanders' Pacific Palisades estate, as the prime suspect because Travis has a criminal past. Kellerman fans wanting more of the same should be satisfied, though Sturgis gets less benefit from Delaware's psychological expertise than usual. (Nov.)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. More Reviews and RecommendationsBiography
Child psychologist-turned-novelist Jonathan Kellerman uses his knowledge of the psyche's weaknesses to create chilling crime novels, many starring detective (and former child psychologist, natch) Alex Delaware and cop friend Milo Sturgis.
More About the AuthorCustomer Reviews
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Not Up to His Usual Standardby bklvr2
Reader Rating:
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June 17, 2009: Bones by Jonathan Kellerman is certainly worth reading. As a devoted J. Kellerman fan, I would never pass up any of his mystery books---I've read them all. But his latest two or three are not up to his former standards. The writing is still excellent, fast-paced with sparkling dialog. BUT, I liked earlier books where Alex Delaware was actually involved in solving the crime, etc., instead of more or less an interested observer. There is not the immediacy that there once was. Still, they are great for a relaxing, interesting read, and I'll continue to buy them. Marjorie Flathers
Well-written, exciting story.by Anonymous
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May 11, 2009: Interesting cast of characters.
Fact File
Name:
Jonathan Kellerman
Current Home:
Beverly Hills, California
Place of Birth:
New York, New York
Education:
B.A. in psychology, University of California-Los Angeles; Ph.D., University of Southern California, 1974
Awards:
Edgar Award, Anthony Award for When the Bough Breaks, 1986
Biography
"I like to say that as a psychologist I was concerned with the rules of human behavior," Jonathan Kellerman has said. "As a novelist, I'm concerned with the exceptions." Both roles are evident in Kellerman's string of bestselling psychological thrillers, in which he probes the hidden corners of the human psyche with a clinician's expertise and a novelist's dark imagination.
Kellerman worked for years as a child psychologist, but his first love was writing, which he started doing at the age of nine. After reading Ross MacDonald's Lew Archer novels, however, Kellerman found his voice as a writer -- and his calling as a suspense novelist. His first published novel, When the Bough Breaks, featured a child psychologist, Dr. Alex Delaware, who helps solve a murder case in which the only apparent witness is a traumatized seven-year-old girl. The book was an instant hit; as New York's Newsday raved, "[T]his knockout of an entertainment is the kind of book which establishes a career in one stroke."
Kellerman has since written a slew more Alex Delaware thrillers; not surprisingly, the series hero shares much of Kellerman's own background. The books often center on problems of family psychopathology—something Kellerman had ample chance to observe in his day job. The Delaware novels have also chronicled the shifting social and cultural landscape of Los Angeles, where Kellerman lives with his wife (who is also a health care practitioner-turned-novelist) and their four children.
A prolific author who averages one book a year, Kellerman dislikes the suggestion that he simply cranks them out. He has a disciplined work schedule, and sits down to write in his office five days a week, whether he feels "inspired" or not. "I sit down and start typing. I think it's important to deromanticize the process and not to get puffed up about one's abilities," he said in a 1998 chat on Barnes & Noble.com. "Writing fiction's the greatest job in the world, but it's still a job. All the successful novelists I know share two qualities: talent and a good work ethic."
And he does plenty of research, drawing on medical databases and current journals as well as his own experience as a practicing psychologist. Then there are the field trips: before writing Monster, Kellerman spent time at a state hospital for the criminally insane.
Kellerman has taken periodic breaks from his Alex Delaware series to produce highly successful stand-alone novels that he claims have helped him to gain some needed distance from the series characters. It's a testament to Kellerman's storytelling powers that the series books and the stand-alones have both gone over well with readers; clearly, Kellerman's appeal lies more in his dexterity than in his reliance on a formula. "Often mystery writers can either plot like devils or create believable characters," wrote one USA Today reviewer. "Kellerman stands out because he can do both. Masterfully."
Good to Know
Some outtakes from our interview with Jonathan Kellerman:
"I am the proud husband of a brilliant novelist, Faye Kellerman. I am the proud father of a brilliant novelist, Jesse Kellerman. And three lovely, gifted daughters, one of whom, Aliza, may turn out to be one of the greatest novelists/poets of this century. "
"My first job was selling newspapers on a corner, age 12. Then I delivered liquor, age 16 -- the most engaging part of that gig was schlepping cartons of bottles up stairways in building without elevators. Adding insult to injury, tips generally ranged from a dime to a quarter. And, I was too young to sample the wares. Subsequent jobs included guitar teacher, freelance musician, newspaper cartoonist, Sunday School teacher, youth leader, research/teaching assistant. All of that simplified when I was 24 and earned a Ph.D. in psychology. Another great job. Then novelist? Oh, my, an embarrassment of riches. Thank you, thank you, thank you, kind readers. I'm the luckiest guy in the world.
"I paint, I play the guitar, I like to hang out with intelligent people whose thought processes aren't by stereotype, punditry, political correctness, etc. But enough about me. The important thing is The Book."
More fun facts:
After Kellerman called his literary agent to say that his wife, Faye, had written a novel, the agent reluctantly agreed to take a look ("Later, he told me his eyes rolled all the way back in his head," Kellerman said in an online chat). Two weeks later, a publisher snapped up Faye Kellerman's first book, The Ritual Bath. Faye Kellerman has since written many more mysteries featuring L.A. cop Peter Decker and his wife Rina Lazarus, including the bestsellers Justice and Jupiter's Bones.
When Kellerman wrote When the Bough Breaks in 1981, crime novels featuring gay characters were nearly nonexistent, so Alex Delaware's gay detective friend, Milo Sturgis, was a rarity. Kellerman admits it can be difficult for a straight writer to portray a gay character, but says the feedback he's gotten from readers -- gay and straight -- has been mostly positive.
In his spare time, Kellerman is a musician who collects vintage guitars. He once placed the winning online auction bid for a guitar signed by Don Henley and his bandmates from the Eagles; proceeds from the sale were donated to the Jewish Federation of Greater Dallas.
In addition to his novels, Kellerman has written two children's books and three nonfiction books, including Savage Spawn, about the backgrounds and behaviors of child psychopaths.
But for a 1986 television adaptation of When the Bough Breaks, none of Kellerman's work has yet made it to screen. "I wish I could say that Hollywood's beating a path to my door," he said in a Barnes & Noble.com chat in 1998, "but the powers-that-be at the studios don't seem to feel that my books lend themselves to film adaptation. The most frequent problem cited is too much complexity."
Feature Interview
In the winter of 2008, Jonathan Kellerman took time out to talk with our editors: What was the book that most influenced your life or your career as a writer -- and why?
The Babylonian Talmud taught me to think critically. The Count of Monte Cristo taught me the value of strong characterization in concert with a robust plot.
What are your ten favorite books, and what makes them special to you?
I couldn't hope to limit the list to ten!
What are some of your favorite films, and what makes them unforgettable to you?
To me, Fargo is the perfect movie - mordant, fast-moving, richly characterized, well-structured.
What types of music do you like? Is there any particular kind you like to listen to when you're writing?
I've been playing guitar for 50 years and am currently concentrating on classical. However, I love anything well-done - from Baroque to Rap.
What are your favorite kinds of books to give -- and get -- as gifts?
Well-done novels, visually beautiful art books, biographies. Really, once again, anything reductionistic misses the mark.
Do you have any special writing rituals? For example, what do you have on your desk when you're writing?
I treat writing as a job -- the greatest job in the world, but a job. One needs to be professional -- e.g., get up, exercise, get some nutrition, shower, shave, get dressed ... and prepare to open up a psychic vein for a few hours. No rituals, just intense concentration and a desire to write a novel that will entertain and, hopefully, enrich.
Many writers are hardly "overnight success" stories. How long did it take for you to get where you are today? Any rejection-slip horror stories or inspirational anecdotes?
I won a literary prize in 1971 and published my first novel in 1985. Despite two previous publications of nonfiction books, I regarded myself during that 14-year period as a failed writer with a really good day job (clinical psychologist/medical school professor). The only inspiration I can offer is that sometimes an obsessive-compulsive personality pays off.
What tips or advice do you have for writers still looking to be discovered?
Forget "discovery," "being a writer," "fame," -- all nonsense and most destructive, all distractions from the core: writing. If you are driven to write and have talent, hard work and drive are likely to help. Experience life to the fullest, be intensely curious. Most important, write. And rewrite. And rewrite. And don't take yourself too seriously. The guy who fixes your sink is doing something as important -- perhaps more important -- than you are.
From the Publisher
When it comes to writing deftly layered, tightly coiled novels of suspense, #1 New York Times bestselling author Jonathan Kellerman reigns supreme as “master of the psychological thriller” (People). Now, Kellerman has worked his magic again in this chilling new masterpiece.
The anonymous caller has an ominous tone and an unnerving message about something “real dead . . . buried in your marsh.” The eco-volunteer on the other end of the phone thinks it’s a prank, but when a young woman’s body turns up in L.A.’s Bird Marsh preserve no one’s laughing. And when the bones of more victims surface, homicide detective Milo Sturgis realizes the city’s under siege to an insidious killer. Milo’s first move: calling in psychologist Alex Delaware.
The murdered women are prostitutes–except the most recent victim; a brilliant young musician from the East Coast, employed by a wealthy family to tutor a musical prodigy, Selena Bass seems out of place in the marsh’s grim tableau.
Conveniently–perhaps ominously–Selena’s blueblood employers are nowhere to be found, and their estate’s jittery caretaker raises hackles. But Milo’s instincts and Alex’s insight are too well-honed to settle for easy answers, even given the dark secrets in this troubled man’s past. Their investigation unearths disturbing layers–about victims, potential victims, and suspects alike–plunging even deeper into the murky marsh’s enigmatic depths.
Bizarre details of the crimes suggest a devilish serial killer prowling L.A.’s gritty streets. But when anew murder deviates from the pattern, derailing a possible profile, Alex and Milo must look beyond the suspicion of madness and consider an even more sinister mind at work. Answers don’t come easy, but the darkest of drives and desires may fuel the most devious of foes.
Bones is classic Kellerman–relentlessly peeling back the skin and psyches of its characters and revealing the shadows and sins of the souls beneath. With jolt after jolt of galvanizing suspense, it drives the reader through its twists and turns toward a climax as satisfying as it is shattering.
Publishers Weekly
In this run-of-the-mill police procedural from bestseller Kellerman, his 23rd novel to feature L.A. consulting psychologist Alex Delaware (after Compulsion), high school miscreant Chance Brandt has been assigned to perform community service at the Bird Marsh, a nature sanctuary near Marina del Rey. After Chance dismisses as a prank an anonymous phone call warning him that there's a corpse buried in the marsh, Lt. Milo Sturgis, now "Special Case Investigator" for the LAPD, and Sturgis's team find four bodies there, all women missing their right hand. When Sturgis identifies one of the victims as Selena Bass, who worked as a piano teacher for the wealthy Vander family, the police focus on Travis Huck, the manager of the Vanders' Pacific Palisades estate, as the prime suspect because Travis has a criminal past. Kellerman fans wanting more of the same should be satisfied, though Sturgis gets less benefit from Delaware's psychological expertise than usual. (Nov.)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Loading...Product Details
- ISBN:
0345495136
- ISBN-13: 9780345495136
- Format: Hardcover, 368pp
- Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
- Pub. Date: October 2008
- Sales Rank: 5,788
- Series: Alex Delaware Series, #23
Read an Excerpt
Chapter 1
Everyone does it is not a defense!
Wrong.
If everyone did it, that made it normal, right? And after Chance did the research he knew he did nothing wrong.
Googling high school cheating because writing an essay was part of the punishment.
Finding out four out of five high school students—that’s eighty frickin’ percent—did it.
Majority rules. Just like that thing on his Social Action study sheet...social norms.
Social norms are the cement that holds societies together.
There you go, he was being a big help to society!
When he tried to joke about that with the parental units, they didn’t laugh.
Same as when he told them it was civil rights, no way could the school force him to do community service outside the school property. That was against the Constitution. Time to call the ACLU.
That got Dad’s eyes all squinty. Chance turned to Mom but she made sure not to give him any eye contact.
“The ACLU?” Big wet Dad throat clear, like after too many cigars. “Because we make a significant monetary contribution to the ACLU?” Starting to breathe hard. “Every goddamn year. That’s what you’re saying?”
Chance didn’t answer.
“Cute, extremely cute. That’s your point? Well let me tell you something: You cheated. Period. That is not the kind of thing the ACLU gives half a shit about.”
“Language, Steve—” Mom broke in.
“Don’t start, Susan. We’ve got a goddamn fucking serious problem here and I seem to be the only one who fuckinggets it.”
Mom got all tight- mouthed, started plucking at her nails. Turned her back on both of them and did something with dishes on the kitchen counter.
“It’s his problem, Susan, not ours and unless he owns up to it, we can kiss Occidental—or any other halfway decent college—fucking good- bye.”
Chance said, “I’ll own up to it, Dad.” Working on what Sarabeth called his Mr. Sincere look.
Laughing as she undid her bra. Everyone buys Mr. Sincere but me, Chancy. I know it’s Mr. Bogus.
Dad stared at him.
“Hey,” said Chance, “at least give me credit for hand-eye coordination.”
Dad let out a stream of curses and stomped out of the kitchen.
Mom said, “He’ll get over it,” but she left, too.
Chance waited to make sure neither of them was coming back before he smiled.
Feeling good because his hand-eye had been cool.
Setting his Razr on vibrate and positioning it perfectly in a side pocket of his loosest cargo pants, the phone resting on a bunch of shit he’d stuffed in there to make kind of a little table.
Sarabeth three rows up, texting him the answers to the test. Chance being cool about it, knowing he’d never get caught because Shapiro was a nearsighted loser who stayed at his desk and missed everything.
Who’d figure Barclay would come in to tell Shapiro something, look clear to the back of the room, and spot Chance peeking into his pocket?
The whole class doing the same exact thing, everyone’s pockets vibing. Everyone cracking up the moment the test started because Shapiro was such a clueless loser, the whole semester had been like this, the asshole would’ve missed Paris Hilton walking in nude and spreading.
Everyone does it is not a defense!
Rumley looking down his big nose and talking all sad like at a funeral. What Chance wanted to say was, Then it frickin’ should be, dude.
Instead, he sat in Rumley’s office, squeezed between his parents, his head all down, trying to look all sorry and thinking about the shape of Sarabeth’s ass in her thong while Rumley went on forever about honor and ethics and the history of Windward Prep and how if the school so chose they had the option of informing the Occidental admissions office and causing dire consequences for his college career.
That made Mom burst into tears.
Dad just sat there, looking angry at the world, didn’t make a move to even give her a tissue from the box on Rumley’s desk so Rumley had to do it, standing up and handing it to Mom and looking pissed at Dad for making him stretch.
Rumley sat back down and moved his mouth some more.
Chance pretended to listen, Mom sniffled, Dad looked ready to hit someone. When Rumley finally finished, Dad started talking about the family’s “contributions to Windward,” mentioning Chance’s performance on the basketball team, bringing up his own time on the football team.
In the end the adults reached an agreement and wore small, satisfied smiles. Chance felt like a puppet but he made sure he looked all serious, being happy would be a ba- ad move.
Punishment 1: He’d have to take another version of the test— Shapiro would make one up.
Punishment 2: No more cell phone at school.
“Maybe this unfortunate event will have positive ramifications, young man,” said Rumley. “We’ve been thinking about a schoolwide ban.”
There you go, thought Chance. I did you guys a favor, not only shouldn’t you punish me, you should be payin’ me, like some sort of consulting deal.
So far, so good, for a second Chance thought he’d got off real easy. Then:
Punishment 3: The essay. Chance hated to write, usually Sarabeth did his essays, but she couldn’t do this one because he had to do it at school, in Rumley’s office.
Still, no big deal.
Then came Punishment 4. “Because substantive accountability has to be part of the package, Master Brandt.”
Mom and Dad agreeing. The three of them going all al- Qaida on him.
Chance pretended to agree.
Yes, sir, I need to pay my debt and I will do so with industrious alacrity.
Throwing in some SAT vocab words. Dad staring at him, like who are you kidding, dude, but Mom and Rumley looked really impressed.
Rumley moved his mouth.
Community service. Oh, shit.
And here the frick he was.
Sitting in the Save the Marsh office on night eleven of his thirty- night sentence. Shitty little puke- colored room with pictures of ducks and bugs, whatever, on the wall. One dirty window looking out to a parking lot where no one but him and Duboff parked. Stacks of bumper stickers in the corner he was supposed to hand out to anyone who walked in.
No one walked in and Duboff left him by himself so he could run off to investigate how global warming got up a duck’s butt, what made birds hurl, did bugs have big dicks, whatever.
Thirty frickin’ nights of this, nuking his summer vacation.
Five to ten p.m., instead of hanging after school with Sarabeth and his friends, all because of a social norm four out of five people did.
When the phone did ring, he mostly ignored it. When he did answer, it was always some loser wanting directions to the marsh.
Go on the frickin’ website or use MapQuest, Rainman!
He wasn’t allowed to make outgoing calls but since yesterday he’d started to hook up with Sarabeth for cell phone sex. She was loving him even more for not ratting her to Rumley.
He sat there. Drank from his can of Jolt, now warm. Felt the Baggie in his pants pocket and thought Later.
Nineteen more nights of supermax confinement, he was starting to feel like one of those Aryan Brotherhood dudes.
Two and a half more frickin’ weeks until he was free at last, doing his Luther King thing. He checked his TAG Heuer. Nine twenty- four. Thirty- six minutes and he’d be good to go.
The phone rang.
He ignored it.
It kept going, ten times.
He let it die a natural death.
A minute later, it rang again and he figured maybe he should answer it, what if it was Rumley testing him?
Clearing his throat and getting Mr. Sincere ready, he picked up. “Save the Marsh.”
Silence on the other end made him smile.
One of his friends pranking him, probably Ethan. Or Ben or Jared.
“Dude,” he said. “What’s up?”
A weird kind of hissy voice said, “Up?” Weird laughter. “Something’s down. As in buried in your marsh.”
“Okay, dude—”
“Shut up and listen.”
Being talked to like that made Chance’s face go all hot, like when he was ready to sneak a flagrant in on some loser on the opposing team, then get all innocent when the dude wailed about being nut- jammed.
He said, “Fuck off, dude.”
The hissy voice said, “East side of the marsh. Look and you’ll find it.”
“Like I give a—”
“Dead,” said Hissy. “Something real real dead.” Laughter. “Dude.”
Hanging up before Chance could tell him to shove dead up his...
A voice from the door said, “Hey, man, how’s it shaking?”
Chance’s face was still hot, but he put on Mr. Sincere and looked over.
There in the doorway was Duboff, wearing his Save the Marsh T- shirt, geek shorts showing too much skinny white thigh, plastic sandals, that stupid gray beard.
“Hey, Mr. Duboff,” said Chance.
“Hey, man.” Duboff gave a clenched- fist salute. “Did you have a chance to check out the herons before you got here?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“They’re incredible animals, man. Magnificent. Wingspread like this.” Unfolding scrawny arms to the max.
You’ve obviously mistaken me for someone who gives half a shit.
Duboff came closer, smelling gross, that organic deodorant he’d tried to convince Chance to use. “Like pterodactyls, man. Master fishers.”
Chance had thought a heron was a fish until Duboff told him different.
Duboff edged near the desk, showed those gross teeth of his. “Rich folk in Beverly Hills don’t like when the herons swoop in during hatching season and eat their rich- folk koi. Koi are aberrations. Mutations, people messing with brown carp, screwing up the DNA to get those colors. Herons are Nature, brilliant predators. They feed their young and restore nature to true balance. Screw those Beverly Hillbillies, huh?”
Chance smiled.
Maybe it wasn’t a big enough smile because Duboff suddenly looked nervous. “You don’t live there, do I recall correctly?”
“No, sir.”
“You live in...”
“Brentwood.”
“Brentwood,” said Duboff, as if trying to figure out what that meant. “Your parents don’t keep koi, do they?”
“Nope. We don’t even have a dog.”
“Good for you guys,” said Duboff, patting Chance’s shoulder. “It’s all servitude. Pets, I mean. The whole concept is like slavery.”
Keeping his hand on the shoulder. Was the guy a fag?
“Yeah,” said Chance, inching away.
Duboff scratched his knee. Frowned and rubbed a pink bump. “Stopped by the marsh to check for trash. Musta got bit by something.”
“Providing food for the little guys,” said Chance. “That’s a good thing, sir.”
Duboff stared at him, trying to figure out if Chance was messing with his head.
Chance brought out Mr. Sincere and Duboff decided Chance was being righteous and smiled. “Guess you’re right...anyway, I just thought I’d stop in, see how you’re doing before your shift ends.”
“I’m fine, sir.”
“Okay, check you out later, man.”
Chance said, “Uh, sir, it’s kinda close to the end.”
Duboff smiled. “So it is. At ten, you can lock up. I’ll be by later.” Walking to the door, he stopped, looked back. “It’s a noble thing you’re doing, Chance. Whatever the circumstances.”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Call me Sil.”
“You got it, Sil.”
Duboff said, “Anything I should know about?”
“Like what, sir?”
“Calls, messages?”
Chance grinned, flashing perfect white chompers, courtesy five years of Dr. Wasserman.
“Nothing, Sil,” he said, with utter confidence.
Read a Sample Chapter
BonesAn Alex Delaware Novel
By Jonathan Kellerman
Random House Large Print
Copyright © 2008
Jonathan Kellerman
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780739328101
Chapter 1
Everyone does it is not a defense!
Wrong.
If everyone did it, that made it normal, right? And after Chance did the research he knew he did nothing wrong.
Googling high school cheating because writing an essay was part of the punishment.
Finding out four out of five high school students—that’s eighty frickin’ percent—did it.
Majority rules. Just like that thing on his Social Action study sheet...social norms.
Social norms are the cement that holds societies together.
There you go, he was being a big help to society!
When he tried to joke about that with the parental units, they didn’t laugh.
Same as when he told them it was civil rights, no way could the school force him to do community service outside the school property. That was against the Constitution. Time to call the ACLU.
That got Dad’s eyes all squinty. Chance turned to Mom but she made sure not to give him any eye contact.
“The ACLU?” Big wet Dad throat clear, like after too many cigars. “Because we make a significant monetary contribution to the ACLU?” Starting to breathe hard. “Every goddamn year. That’s what you’re saying?”
Chance didn’t answer.
“Cute, extremely cute. That’syour point? Well let me tell you something: You cheated. Period. That is not the kind of thing the ACLU gives half a shit about.”
“Language, Steve—” Mom broke in.
“Don’t start, Susan. We’ve got a goddamn fucking serious problem here and I seem to be the only one who fucking gets it.”
Mom got all tight- mouthed, started plucking at her nails. Turned her back on both of them and did something with dishes on the kitchen counter.
“It’s his problem, Susan, not ours and unless he owns up to it, we can kiss Occidental—or any other halfway decent college—fucking good- bye.”
Chance said, “I’ll own up to it, Dad.” Working on what Sarabeth called his Mr. Sincere look.
Laughing as she undid her bra. Everyone buys Mr. Sincere but me, Chancy. I know it’s Mr. Bogus.
Dad stared at him.
“Hey,” said Chance, “at least give me credit for hand-eye coordination.”
Dad let out a stream of curses and stomped out of the kitchen.
Mom said, “He’ll get over it,” but she left, too.
Chance waited to make sure neither of them was coming back before he smiled.
Feeling good because his hand-eye had been cool.
Setting his Razr on vibrate and positioning it perfectly in a side pocket of his loosest cargo pants, the phone resting on a bunch of shit he’d stuffed in there to make kind of a little table.
Sarabeth three rows up, texting him the answers to the test. Chance being cool about it, knowing he’d never get caught because Shapiro was a nearsighted loser who stayed at his desk and missed everything.
Who’d figure Barclay would come in to tell Shapiro something, look clear to the back of the room, and spot Chance peeking into his pocket?
The whole class doing the same exact thing, everyone’s pockets vibing. Everyone cracking up the moment the test started because Shapiro was such a clueless loser, the whole semester had been like this, the asshole would’ve missed Paris Hilton walking in nude and spreading.
Everyone does it is not a defense!
Rumley looking down his big nose and talking all sad like at a funeral. What Chance wanted to say was, Then it frickin’ should be, dude.
Instead, he sat in Rumley’s office, squeezed between his parents, his head all down, trying to look all sorry and thinking about the shape of Sarabeth’s ass in her thong while Rumley went on forever about honor and ethics and the history of Windward Prep and how if the school so chose they had the option of informing the Occidental admissions office and causing dire consequences for his college career.
That made Mom burst into tears.
Dad just sat there, looking angry at the world, didn’t make a move to even give her a tissue from the box on Rumley’s desk so Rumley had to do it, standing up and handing it to Mom and looking pissed at Dad for making him stretch.
Rumley sat back down and moved his mouth some more.
Chance pretended to listen, Mom sniffled, Dad looked ready to hit someone. When Rumley finally finished, Dad started talking about the family’s “contributions to Windward,” mentioning Chance’s performance on the basketball team, bringing up his own time on the football team.
In the end the adults reached an agreement and wore small, satisfied smiles. Chance felt like a puppet but he made sure he looked all serious, being happy would be a ba- ad move.
Punishment 1: He’d have to take another version of the test— Shapiro would make one up.
Punishment 2: No more cell phone at school.
“Maybe this unfortunate event will have positive ramifications, young man,” said Rumley. “We’ve been thinking about a schoolwide ban.”
There you go, thought Chance. I did you guys a favor, not only shouldn’t you punish me, you should be payin’ me, like some sort of consulting deal.
So far, so good, for a second Chance thought he’d got off real easy. Then:
Punishment 3: The essay. Chance hated to write, usually Sarabeth did his essays, but she couldn’t do this one because he had to do it at school, in Rumley’s office.
Still, no big deal.
Then came Punishment 4. “Because substantive accountability has to be part of the package, Master Brandt.”
Mom and Dad agreeing. The three of them going all al- Qaida on him.
Chance pretended to agree.
Yes, sir, I need to pay my debt and I will do so with industrious alacrity.
Throwing in some SAT vocab words. Dad staring at him, like who are you kidding, dude, but Mom and Rumley looked really impressed.
Rumley moved his mouth.
Community service. Oh, shit.
And here the frick he was.
Sitting in the Save the Marsh office on night eleven of his thirty- night sentence. Shitty little puke- colored room with pictures of ducks and bugs, whatever, on the wall. One dirty window looking out to a parking lot where no one but him and Duboff parked. Stacks of bumper stickers in the corner he was supposed to hand out to anyone who walked in.
No one walked in and Duboff left him by himself so he could run off to investigate how global warming got up a duck’s butt, what made birds hurl, did bugs have big dicks, whatever.
Thirty frickin’ nights of this, nuking his summer vacation.
Five to ten p.m., instead of hanging after school with Sarabeth and his friends, all because of a social norm four out of five people did.
When the phone did ring, he mostly ignored it. When he did answer, it was always some loser wanting directions to the marsh.
Go on the frickin’ website or use MapQuest, Rainman!
He wasn’t allowed to make outgoing calls but since yesterday he’d started to hook up with Sarabeth for cell phone sex. She was loving him even more for not ratting her to Rumley.
He sat there. Drank from his can of Jolt, now warm. Felt the Baggie in his pants pocket and thought Later.
Nineteen more nights of supermax confinement, he was starting to feel like one of those Aryan Brotherhood dudes.
Two and a half more frickin’ weeks until he was free at last, doing his Luther King thing. He checked his TAG Heuer. Nine twenty- four. Thirty- six minutes and he’d be good to go.
The phone rang.
He ignored it.
It kept going, ten times.
He let it die a natural death.
A minute later, it rang again and he figured maybe he should answer it, what if it was Rumley testing him?
Clearing his throat and getting Mr. Sincere ready, he picked up. “Save the Marsh.”
Silence on the other end made him smile.
One of his friends pranking him, probably Ethan. Or Ben or Jared.
“Dude,” he said. “What’s up?”
A weird kind of hissy voice said, “Up?” Weird laughter. “Something’s down. As in buried in your marsh.”
“Okay, dude—”
“Shut up and listen.”
Being talked to like that made Chance’s face go all hot, like when he was ready to sneak a flagrant in on some loser on the opposing team, then get all innocent when the dude wailed about being nut- jammed.
He said, “Fuck off, dude.”
The hissy voice said, “East side of the marsh. Look and you’ll find it.”
“Like I give a—”
“Dead,” said Hissy. “Something real real dead.” Laughter. “Dude.”
Hanging up before Chance could tell him to shove dead up his...
A voice from the door said, “Hey, man, how’s it shaking?”
Chance’s face was still hot, but he put on Mr. Sincere and looked over.
There in the doorway was Duboff, wearing his Save the Marsh T- shirt, geek shorts showing too much skinny white thigh, plastic sandals, that stupid gray beard.
“Hey, Mr. Duboff,” said Chance.
“Hey, man.” Duboff gave a clenched- fist salute. “Did you have a chance to check out the herons before you got here?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“They’re incredible animals, man. Magnificent. Wingspread like this.” Unfolding scrawny arms to the max.
You’ve obviously mistaken me for someone who gives half a shit.
Duboff came closer, smelling gross, that organic deodorant he’d tried to convince Chance to use. “Like pterodactyls, man. Master fishers.”
Chance had thought a heron was a fish until Duboff told him different.
Duboff edged near the desk, showed those gross teeth of his. “Rich folk in Beverly Hills don’t like when the herons swoop in during hatching season and eat their rich- folk koi. Koi are aberrations. Mutations, people messing with brown carp, screwing up the DNA to get those colors. Herons are Nature, brilliant predators. They feed their young and restore nature to true balance. Screw those Beverly Hillbillies, huh?”
Chance smiled.
Maybe it wasn’t a big enough smile because Duboff suddenly looked nervous. “You don’t live there, do I recall correctly?”
“No, sir.”
“You live in...”
“Brentwood.”
“Brentwood,” said Duboff, as if trying to figure out what that meant. “Your parents don’t keep koi, do they?”
“Nope. We don’t even have a dog.”
“Good for you guys,” said Duboff, patting Chance’s shoulder. “It’s all servitude. Pets, I mean. The whole concept is like slavery.”
Keeping his hand on the shoulder. Was the guy a fag?
“Yeah,” said Chance, inching away.
Duboff scratched his knee. Frowned and rubbed a pink bump. “Stopped by the marsh to check for trash. Musta got bit by something.”
“Providing food for the little guys,” said Chance. “That’s a good thing, sir.”
Duboff stared at him, trying to figure out if Chance was messing with his head.
Chance brought out Mr. Sincere and Duboff decided Chance was being righteous and smiled. “Guess you’re right...anyway, I just thought I’d stop in, see how you’re doing before your shift ends.”
“I’m fine, sir.”
“Okay, check you out later, man.”
Chance said, “Uh, sir, it’s kinda close to the end.”
Duboff smiled. “So it is. At ten, you can lock up. I’ll be by later.” Walking to the door, he stopped, looked back. “It’s a noble thing you’re doing, Chance. Whatever the circumstances.”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Call me Sil.”
“You got it, Sil.”
Duboff said, “Anything I should know about?”
“Like what, sir?”
“Calls, messages?”
Chance grinned, flashing perfect white chompers, courtesy five years of Dr. Wasserman.
“Nothing, Sil,” he said, with utter confidence.
From the Hardcover edition.
Continues...
Excerpted from Bones by Jonathan Kellerman
Copyright © 2008 by Jonathan Kellerman. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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