Table Of ContentMORE PRAISE FOR JONATHAN
KELLERMAN AND HIS ALEX DELAWARE
NOVELS
Silent Partner
“A complex and haunting story of tangled personalities, deeply
buried family secrets, and of violence lying thinly under the
surface … Hits the reader right between the eyes.”
—Los Angeles Times Book Review
“A gripping and sometimes harrowing tale of murder and
manipulation … The first page is a shocker, and the pace never
falters.”
—The Cleveland Plain Dealer
Time Bomb
“Scythe-sharp … A great, good read.”
—New York Daily News
“A meticulously constructed thriller.”
—Publishers Weekly
Private Eyes
“A page-turner from beginning to end.”
—Los Angeles Times
“Spellbinding suspense … Unforgettable.”
—Houston Chronicle
Devil’s Waltz
“Reads like wildfire … Harrowing suspense.”
—The New York Times Books Review
“A tension-packed page-turner.”
—Cosmopolitan
Bad Love
“Bad Love will have you looking over your shoulder before you
turn out the lights.”
—Detroit Free Press
“By the end I was fairly racing through the pages.”
—Los Angeles Times
Self-Defense
“With its nicely orchestrated twists, Kellerman’s plot will keep
readers guessing.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Kellerman at his best.”
—USA Today
The Clinic
“Mines new realms of psychological terror … Holds the reader
riveted.”
—Playboy
Quite possibly the best of the series—and that’s saying quite a
lot.”
—Chicago Tribune
Survival of the Fittest
“An original and gripping tale that is one of his best.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Why is it so hard to put down a Kellerman thriller …? It’s
simple: the nonstop action leaves you breathless; the plot twists
keep you guessing; the themes … are provocative.”
—Publishers Weekly
Monster
“Unsettling and thrilling … Right from the start of Monster,
Jonathan Kellerman does everything right.”
—The Baltimore Sun
“Kellerman delivers … Get ready to sleep with the lights on.”
—Rocky Mountain News
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidences are
either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
And resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or loaces, is entirely
coindicental.
A Ballantine Book
Published by The Random House Publishing Group
Copyright © 1990 by Jonathan Kellerman
Excerpt from Therapy copyright © 2004 by Jonathan Kellerman
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The
Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc.,
New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada
Limited, Toronto.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by
any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission
in writing from the publisher.
Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House,
Inc.
This edition published by arrangement with Bantam Books, a division of
Random House, Inc.
www.ballantinebooks.com
eISBN: 978-0-345-46378-4
v3.1_r1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Excerpt from Therapy
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Other Books by This Author
“And he gave it for his opinion, that whoever could make two ears
of corn or two blades of grass to grow upon a spot of ground where
only one grew before, would deserve better of mankind, and do
more essential service to his country than the whole race of
politicians put together.”
—JONATHAN SWIFT
1
Back to school.
It evokes memories of the tests we’ve passed, or the ones we’ve failed.
Monday. Milo’s call punctuated a hard, gray November day that had
finally erupted into rain.
He said, “Turn on your TV.”
I glanced at my desk clock. Just after two-forty P.M.—talk show time.
The cathode freak display. “What? Nuns who murder, or pets with ESP?”
“Just turn it on, Alex.” His voice was hard.
“What channel?”
“Take your pick.”
I flicked the remote. The sound came on before the picture. Sobs and
whimpers. Then faces. Small faces, lots of them. Eyes wide with
bafflement and terror. Fragile bodies blanketed and huddled together on
the floor of a large room. Gleaming hardwood floors and chalk-white
goal lines. A gym.
The camera moved in on a little black-haired girl in a puff-sleeved
white dress as she accepted a plastic cup of something red. Her hands
shook; the beverage sloshed; a false bloodstain spread on white cotton.
The camera lingered, feasting on the image. The little girl burst into
tears.
A chubby boy, five or six, cried. The boy next to him was older, maybe
eight. Staring straight ahead and biting his lip, straining for macho.
More faces, a sea of faces.
I became aware of a mellow-voiced commentary—calculated sound
bites alternating with strategic pauses. Sucked into the visuals, I let the
words pass right through me.
Camera-shift to rain-slick asphalt, acres of it. Squat flesh-colored
buildings spattered calomine-pink where the rain had penetrated the
stucco. The voice-over droned on and the camera got manic—a flurry of
visual slices, so brief they bordered on the subliminal: flak-jacketed,
baseball-hatted SWAT cops crouched on rooftops, poised in doorways,
and muttering into hand-held radios. Yellow crime-scene tape. Assault
