The Murderer's Daughter

Chapter 12

Andrew Toner didn’t call and by nightfall, back at home, Grace felt like jumping out of her skin. Mindless TV didn’t help. Neither did music, exercise, wine, or the stack of journals. Finally, she slipped under the covers shortly after one a.m., stretching her body and relaxing her limbs, hoping her brain waves would conform to her posture.

She awoke at 2:15, 3:19, 4:37, 6:09 a.m.

Interrupted sleep wasn’t foreign to Grace. Because of the way she’d grown up — a variety of rooms, beds, and roommates, including a fair share of kids who screamed in terror — her adult slumber often broke into two patterns. Most of the time, she’d sack out for eight refreshing hours, but every so often she was in and out, like a newborn. She’d come to terms with her episodic nights, as they didn’t seem to connect to daytime events, nor did they pose a problem. She’d always found it easy to slip back into the void.

But the night after meeting Andrew Toner — the second time — was a sheet-twisting, pillow-contorting ordeal filled with taunts of drowsiness followed by stretches of wide-eyed arousal. No bad dreams, no residue of foul images. Just up.

By the time the sun rose, she’d long given up on REM.

Welcome to the first day of vacation.

Or maybe not, there was still time for Andrew to ask for a retry, maybe he just needed time.

To deal with moral parameters. Whatever that meant.

Unable to hold down much breakfast, Grace phoned her service at nine a.m. Not a single message. She was astonished at her disappointment.

Feeling as if she’d been stood up.

Dressing in sweats, she went out on the deck and checked out the beach. Plenty of dry sand, so she took an hour run up and down the entire stretch of La Costa. Returning no more settled, she made coffee, tried the service again.

Nothing, Dr. Blades.

You don’t write, you don’t call.

She resolved to forget the whole unfortunate episode because guilt wasn’t a big part of her makeup.

So. What, now?

A stab at breakfast? Maybe just getting away would tweak her appetite. The Beach Café in Paradise Cove? Or Neptune’s Net, at the northwestern tip of Malibu?

Both sounded fine in the abstract but she just didn’t feel like it.

Suppressing the urge to try her service a third time, she stripped to panties and bra and practiced some self-defense moves, imagining terrible men coming at her, the vicious things she’d do to their eyes and their genitals and the vulnerable spot beneath their noses.

Going through the motions but unable to put any passion into it.

If some psychopath broke in now, she’d be toast.

A long shower filled a pitiable amount of time. Faced with two weeks of nothing, she still hadn’t decided between hanging out at home or booking a random ticket to some pocket of luxury.

When she traveled, she nearly always found a man for a Leap.

Her stomach lurched.

No appetite for that, either.

She sat on the floor and tried to figure out what she actually felt like doing, ended up blank, small, hunched, a real nothing.

Not shattered; a piece of lint broken apart gradually and carried away by cruel, persistent wind.

Bad thinking, Grace. Erase erase erase, then replace.

What had she told so many patients? The key was to do something.

She could drive out to the range in Sylmar and practice her shooting. Not that she needed the drill, her most recent session had been three weeks ago Sunday and she’d turned the target’s bland, politically correct, Caucasian head into a sieve. Her marksmanship had elicited stunned silence followed by a “Whoa” from the guy in the adjoining stall, a shaved-head, tatted-out gangbanger-type who was trying to look tough with a .357 Magnum.

Grace ignored him and demolished a second target the same way and Gangbang muttered “Mama loca” with a combination of loathing and admiration, then proceeded to mess up his shooting in all kinds of humiliating ways.

When she packed up her guns and left the range, he was starting to do better.

Pretending he’d never met her.

Grace had taken up shooting and serious self-defense training shortly after buying the house and the office. Finding herself alone and figuring that might be her status forever, she had no idea where to begin and had turned to Alex Delaware because she’d heard he was some sort of karate honcho, occasionally worked with the police.

She’d spotted him on campus, leaving Seeley Mudd, the psych building, in the company of two female grad students.

The three of them chatted and then the women left and Delaware kept walking, using a slow but long stride. Not an especially tall man but he moved like one. Dressed in a black turtleneck and jeans, wearing a backpack.

Grace moved into his line of vision and waved. He waved back, waited for her to reach him.

“Hi, Grace.”

“Have a second?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I’m thinking of getting into martial arts, wondered if you had any advice.”

Delaware’s eyes were a gray-blue that should’ve been cold but weren’t. His pupils had dilated quickly. Serious interest but Grace didn’t detect anything sexual, more like he was really thinking about the request.

He smiled. “Someone told you I’m a sensei?”

“Something like that.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, I just dabble, haven’t done much in a while.”

“Whatever you know, I don’t.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “Are you looking for a good workout or an actual means of defending yourself?”

“Possibly both.”

A couple of undergrad girls in short-shorts passed, giggling. Both gave Delaware the once-over but he didn’t notice. Guiding Grace to a shady bench across from Seeley, he said, “I don’t want to pry, but I can’t give you the best answer without knowing if you’re concerned about a specific threat.”

“I’m not,” she said. “I’m living alone now and this is L.A.”

Everyone knew the reason Grace was alone. Grace was sick of hearing about it and hoped Delaware wouldn’t get into it and, bless him, he stayed on point: “Here’s the thing about karate or any other martial arts system: It’s great for exercise and personal discipline but outside of movie fight scenes, it’s pretty much useless against an armed thug. So if that’s your primary goal, I’d suggest you get some training in deadly assault — similar to what the Israelis do with krav maga but even rougher.”

“Go-for-the-jugular stuff,” said Grace.

Delaware smiled again. “The carotid’s an easier target. One of many.”

She said, “Sounds good. Got a referral?”

“One more thing: If you want to take it a step further, buy a gun and learn how to use it.”

“Do you own a firearm?”

“I don’t. But not because I used to do karate.”

“You lost interest in it?”

“My teacher got old and died, I kept telling myself I’d find another dojo, finally realized I wouldn’t. It’s a fantastic workout, especially for balance, so one day I may get back to it. But up against a knife or a gun?” He shook his head.

“Where would I go for serious assault training?”

Removing his backpack, he took out a pad and pen, wrote down a name.

Shoshana Yaroslav.

“She’s my teacher’s daughter. Back when I was in training, she was just a kid. But she’s grown up.”

“Does she know about guns?”

“Among other things.”

“Thanks, Alex.”

“Anything else?”

“No, that’s it.”

“Hope you find what you’re after,” he said. “Hope you never need it.”