Self-Defense by Jonathan Kellerman Page A

doctor?”
    He looked to be around thirty. Five-ten,
broad-shouldered, stocky, and round-faced, with light brown hair, a golf-course
tan, and wide brown eyes. His blue blazer had some cashmere in it, his burgundy
shirt was broadcloth. Beige linen trousers broke perfectly over oxblood tassel
loafers.
    “I’m Dr. Delaware, her psychologist.”
    “Oh, good.” He extended his hand. “Ken
Lowell. Her brother.”
    Movement down the hall distracted both of
us. An old man, waxy white and skeletal, was being eased by an orderly into a
wheelchair. Blood dripped from under his hospital gown, painting a winding,
crimson trail on the gray linoleum floor. His eyes were blank and his mouth was
open. Only his tremoring limbs said he was alive.
    Ken Lowell stared as the chair was wheeled
away. No one rushed in to clean up the blood.
    He turned back to me, looking queasy. The
good clothes made him seem a tourist who’d wandered into a slum.
    “Dr. Delaware,” he said. “She was asking
for you. I thought she was delirious and wanted to go to Delaware for some
reason.” Shaking his head. “How’s she doing?”
    “She’s recovering, physically. Did you
bring her in?”
    He nodded. “Has she done this before?”
    “Not as far as I know.”
    Pulling a burgundy silk handkerchief out
of his breast pocket, he mopped his forehead. “So what happens to her now?”
    “She’ll be here involuntarily for at least
three days, and then a psychiatrist from the hospital will determine a
treatment plan.”
    “She could be committed against her will?”
    “If the psychiatrist—Dr. Embrey—believes
she’s still in danger, she can go to court and ask for an extension. That’s
unusual, though, unless the patient makes another suicide attempt in the
hospital or experiences some sort of massive breakdown.”
    “What led up to this, doctor? Was she very
depressed?”
    “I’m sorry, but I can’t discuss details
with you—confidentiality.”
    “Oh, sure. Sorry. It’s just that I don’t
know much about her. For all practical purposes, we’re total strangers. I
haven’t seen her in twenty years.”
    “How’d you come to bring her in?”
    “Pure chance. It’s pretty scary. I was
looking for Puck—my half brother, Peter—Lucy’s brother. We had a dinner
appointment at my hotel at seven, and he didn’t show. It bothered me; I didn’t
think it was something he’d miss. So I waited for a while, then drove out to
his apartment in Studio City. No one was home. He’d told me how close he and
Lucy were, so, on a long shot, I decided to look for him at her place. It was
after ten by the time I got there, and I wouldn’t have gone up but her lights
were on and the drapes were partially open. When I got to the door, I thought I
smelled gas. I knocked, got no answer, looked through the window, and saw her
kneeling on the kitchen floor. I tapped the glass hard and she didn’t move, so
I broke the door down and pulled her head out of the stove. She had a pulse and
she was breathing, but she didn’t look too good. I called 911. It took a really
long time to get through. While waiting for the paramedics to arrive, I looked
up hospitals in the phone book and found this place. When they still hadn’t
shown up, I said, Screw this, and brought her in myself.”
    He stuffed the handkerchief back in his
pocket and shook his head.
    “You’re from San Francisco?” I said.
    “How’d you know that?”
    “Lucy told me.”
    “She was talking about me?”
    “I took a family history.”
    “Oh. Actually, I’m from Palo Alto, but I’m
down in L.A. quite a lot on business—real estate, mostly buyouts and
bankruptcies. What with the economy, I’ve been down here more than usual, and I
started thinking about connecting with Puck and Lucy—it seemed wrong that we
never even tried to get together. Lucy wasn’t listed but Puck was, so a few
weeks ago I called him. He was shocked to hear from me; it was awkward. But we
talked a few more times,