Billy Straightby Jonathan Kellerman
A resourceful runaway alone in the wilds of Los Angeles, twelve-year-old Billy Straight suddenly witnesses a brutal stabbing in Griffith Park. Fleeing into the night, Billy cannot shake the horrific memory of the savage violence, nor the pursuit of a cold-blooded killer.See more details below
A resourceful runaway alone in the wilds of Los Angeles, twelve-year-old Billy Straight suddenly witnesses a brutal stabbing in Griffith Park. Fleeing into the night, Billy cannot shake the horrific memory of the savage violence, nor the pursuit of a cold-blooded killer.
-- Entertainment Weekly
The New York Times Book Review
“Riveting . . . nobody evokes Los Angeles better than Jonathan Kellerman.”—Los Angeles Times
- Random House Publishing Group
- Publication date:
- Edition description:
- Product dimensions:
- 4.15(w) x 6.90(h) x 1.20(d)
Read an Excerpt
In the park you see things.
But not what I saw tonight.
God, God . . .
I wanted to be dreaming but I was awake, smelling chili meat and onions and the pine trees.
First, the car drove up to the edge of the parking lot. They got out and talked and he grabbed her, like in a hug. I thought maybe they were going to kiss and I'd watch that.
Then all of a sudden, she made a weird sound-surprised, squeaky, like a cat or dog that gets stepped on.
He let go of her and she fell. Then he bent down next to her and his arm started moving up and down really fast. I thought he was punching her, and that was bad enough, and I kept thinking should I do something. But then I heard another sound, fast, wet, like the butcher at Stater Brothers back in Watson chopping meat-chuck chuck chuck.
He kept doing it, moving his arm up and down.
I wasn't breathing. My heart was on fire. My legs were cold. Then they turned hot-wet.
Pissing my pants like a stupid baby!
The chuck chuck stopped. He stood up, big and wide, wiped his hands on his pants. Something was in his hand and he held it far from his body.
He looked all around. Then in my direction.
Could he see me, hear me-smell me?
He kept looking. I wanted to run but knew he'd hear me. But staying here could trap me-how could he see anything behind the rocks? They're like a cave with no roof, just cracks you can look through, which is the reason I picked them as one of my places.
My stomach started to churn around, and I wanted to run so badly my leg muscles were jumping under my skin.
A breeze came through the trees, blowing up pine smell and piss stink.
Would it blow against the chili-burger's wrapping paper and make noise? Would he smell me?
He looked around some more. My stomach hurt so bad.
All of a sudden he jumped ran back to the car, got in, drove away.
I didn't want to see when he passed under the lamp at the corner of the parking lot, didn't want to read the license plate.
The letters burned into my mind.
Why did I look?
I'm still sitting here. My Casio says 1:12 a.m.
I need to get out of here, but what if he's just driving around and comes back-no, that would be stupid, why would he do that?
I can't stand it. She's down there, and I smell like piss and meat and onions and chili. Real dinner from the Oki-Rama on the Boulevard, that Chinese guy who never smiles or looks at your face. I paid $2.38 and now I want to throw it up.
My jeans are starting to get sticky and itchy. Going over to the public bathroom at the other end of the lot is too dangerous . . . that arm going up and down. Like he was just doing a job. He wasn't as big as Moron, but he was big enough. She trusted him, let him hug her . . . what did she do to make him so mad . . . could she still be alive?
No way. Impossible.
I listen carefully to see if she's making any sounds. Nothing but the freeway noise from across the east side of the park and traffic from the Boulevard. Not much traffic tonight. Sometimes, when the wind blows north, you hear ambulance sirens, motorcycles, car honks. The city's all around. The park looks like the country, but I know the difference.
Who is she?-forget that, I don't want to know.
What I want is to put tonight on rewind.
That squeaky sound-like he took the air right out of her. For sure she's . . . gone. But what if she isn't?
Even if she isn't, she will be soon, all that chucking. And what could I do for her, anyway? Breathe into her mouth, put my face in her blood?
What if he comes back while I'm doing it?
Would he come back? That would be stupid, but there are always surprises. She sure found that out.
I can't help her. I have to put this all out of my mind.
I'll sit here for ten more minutes-no, fifteen. Twenty. Then I'll get my Place Two stuff together and move.
Where to? Place One, up near the observatory, is too far, and so are Three and Four, even though Three would be good 'cause it has a stream for washing. That leaves Five, in the fern tangle behind the zoo, all those trees. A little closer, but still a long walk in the dark.
But it's also the hardest one to find.
Okay, I'll go to Five. Me and the animals. The way they cry and roar and smash against their cages makes it hard to sleep, but tonight I probably won't sleep anyway.
Meantime, I sit here and wait.
Our Father in heaven, how about no more surprises?
Not that praying ever got me anything, and sometimes I wonder if there's anyone up there to pray to or just stars-humongous balls of gas in an empty black universe.
Then I get worried that I'm blaspheming.
Maybe some kind of God is up there; maybe He's saved me lots of times and I'm just too dumb to know it. Or not a good enough person to appreciate Him.
Maybe God saved me tonight, putting me behind the rocks, instead of out in the open.
But if he had seen me when he drove up, he probably would've changed his mind and not done anything to her.
So did God want her to . . .
No, he just would've gone somewhere else to do it . . . whatever.
In case You saved me, thank You, God.
In case You're up there, do You have a plan for me?
What People are saying about this
America's foremost author of psychological suspense takes a rare departure from his bestselling Alex Delaware series with the recently released BILLY STRAIGHT -- a riveting thriller that weaves together the lives of a 12-year-old runaway, a psychotic killer, and a dedicated detective from the LAPD. Here is what Jonathan Kellerman had to say when barnesandnoble.com asked about the inspiration behind his new book BILLY STRAIGHT.
Where Ideas Originate by Jonathan Kellerman
One of the questions I'm asked most frequently is "Where do you get your ideas?" So often am I faced with this that the urge to answer flippantly -- "From my warped mind." "At Sears." "At the blackjack table in Vegas." -- can be overwhelming.
The truth is that there's no pat answer. My ideas -- my novels themselves -- spring from a variety of sources. Sometimes a character appears to me and his/her persona drives the book. Other inspirations include chance meetings, overhearing a particularly delicious snippet of dialogue, my concern about social issues, and news items. (Not the headline-grabbing stuff. What turns me on is the obscure little piece buried in the back pages of some arcane journal.) Most often, a combination of factors is at play.
Occasionally, events from my own life guide my pen. For example, when I retired from the practice of psychology over a decade ago, I realized that my patients would remain in my life for as long as they needed my counsel. Hence, the first line of the book-in-progress, PRIVATE EYES: "A therapist's work is never over."
I've been quoted often regarding my affection for the two jobs with which I've been blessed: clinical psychology and writing fiction. What unites the two, I believe, is a deep curiosity, and hopefully, a compassion, about people. What differentiates them, is that psychology strives to develop rules about human behavior while fiction explores the exceptions to the rules.
Twelve-year-old Billy Straight, whom I believe to be among the most fascinating and endearing characters gracious enough to visit my head, presented himself in astonishing detail, virtually commanding me to write his story.
Billy is a grand exception, cast by Fate, Province, accident of birth -- whatever you choose to call it -- in the role of congenital victim. He enters this world in turmoil, encounters obstacles at every turn, and suffers the kind of terror and degradation that most children are fortunate never to encounter.
Yet, Billy never abandons his essential goodness, never takes leave of a strong moral stance. Billy survives. He thrives. I think of him as a hero for our time.
The same can be said for Petra Connor, the brilliant but troubled homicide cop who finds herself searching for Billy. Introduced in SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST, Petra kept returning to my office, urging, "C'mon, Kellerman, there's more to me than that little cameo."
The streets of Hollywood played a role, too.
For many years, I worked in an inner-city hospital on the tough east end of Hollywood, came into contact with street kids, learned about the horrors of abuse and abandonment. I wanted to write about street life, but not in the usual way -- merely reciting a litany of horrors -- because that had been done before. And because I don't traffic in despair.
I wanted to write about the exceptions.
Every page of this book was a joy to construct. Writing BILLY STRAIGHT permitted me to explore the resilience of the human spirit within the framework of what I hope is an entertaining and gripping thriller. For, despite the sometimes dismal state of the world, I remain a stubborn optimist.
I know life can't be tied up neatly. I always strive to avoid pat endings to my novels.
But there are heroes out there. And I'm one of the lucky guys who gets to tell some of their stories.
I hope you enjoy reading BILLY STRAIGHT as much as I enjoyed writing it.
“JONATHAN KELLERMAN HAS JUSTLY EARNED HIS REPUTATION AS A MASTER OF THE PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER. . . . The writing is vivid, the suspense sustained, and [he] has arranged one final, exquisitely surprising plot twist to confound the complacent reader.”
—People (Book of the Week)
“[A] TENSION-FILLED THRILLER . . . A COMPELLING READ . . . KELLERMAN MAKES YOU CARE DEEPLY FOR THIS CHILD.”
—San Francisco Examiner
“RIVETING . . . NOBODY EVOKES LOS ANGELES BETTER THAN JONATHAN KELLERMAN.”
—Los Angeles Times
and post it to your social network
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
See all customer reviews >