by Lisa Gardner
He thought he should make his move then. Invite her home to meet the wife and kids. Just around the corner. Make some kind of excuse to get her all alone.
He looked into her eyes, and in that moment, the fantasy left, the colors bled out of the world, and his adrenaline rush came to a crashing halt. She wasn't buying it. In fact, far from being taken in by his beautiful clothes and adorable puppy, she was beginning to frown.
He wavered on a precipice. Let her go. Walk away. No one would be the wiser.
But then he understood it was too late.
She knew Catherine. She'd talked about Catherine. From that moment on, her fate was sealed.
He looked up the street. He looked down the street. The girl opened her mouth.
He grabbed her left arm, spun her back against him, and wrapped his other arm around her neck. A small squeak. Yes, no, please don't. One snap, and she collapsed weightless against him. He cradled her into his arms, nuzzling the side of her neck as if they were lovers.
Then he smelled it on her skin. Sex. Sweaty, lustful, recent. Adult.
The desire washed right out of him. He was left supporting the dead weight of an uninteresting body, while Trickster tugged on the leash and whined curiously.
It was just plain work after that, and not even fun work. Having to lug the body out of view without calling too much attention to himself. Realizing he'd really screwed up now—he was supposed to have used his powers of “persuasion” to make the girl write a note. Well, that ship had sailed. He'd have to write it himself in his best young girl's script—yeah, like the police wouldn't see right through that.
No doubt about it, his employer wasn't going to be happy. And this, right on top of the small little issue of “overkilling” his last assignment.
Mr. Bosu began to get truly resentful. If killing was so damn easy, his employer should do it himself. Honest to God, a little murder and mayhem wasn't everything it was cracked up to be. Take right now, for example. Mr. Bosu was tired. Mr. Bosu wanted dinner. Hell, he wanted a good drink.
Instead, he was standing on a street corner with a corpse, forced into faking a make-out session simply so he didn't look ridiculous.
He had to force his brain into thinking fast once more.
Okay. He propped the dead nanny in a stairwell. Nice and peaceful, a girl just catching a snooze in the sun. Then he went around the block and, taking a chance he didn't like, hot-wired a car. This would be the end of things, he thought morbidly. He'd get away with murder, but get busted for auto theft.
Back to the main street. Now double-parked with a stolen car. Waiting for traffic to pass, then trying to get a body into the front seat of the car without attracting too much attention. “Oh, honey, you have to stop drinking so much,” he announced loudly in an exasperated tone. Just because no one appeared to be around didn't mean no one was listening.
Finally, he had puppy, dead nanny, and the stolen car out on the road. Now he had to get the body to the right place at the right time for the right moment.
Shit, he'd engineered jailhouse killings that had taken much less work than this. Good thing Benefactor X had coughed up the extra dough, because this was certainly well beyond ten thousand dollars' worth of work. Thirty grand wasn't even seeming like such a bargain anymore.
He got on the cell phone and reached his contact. Turned out his timing wasn't too bad. Residence was clear, he was good to go.
Short drive later, Mr. Bosu arrived at a house he'd been fantasizing about visiting for the past six months, ever since he'd gotten the first phone call, ever since his mysterious employer had reached out and brought hope to Mr. Bosu's world with one magic touch.
One twist of the nanny's key, and Mr. Bosu walked inside the townhouse. He inhaled the scent of the air, searching for a hint of her perfume. He couldn't linger. Not today, but oh, oh, to be so close . . .
When he walked up the stairs, he thought of her. When he unfolded the ladder, strung up the rope, and wrestled a fat girl's corpse, he pictured her delicate face. And when he arranged every single candle, lighting them tenderly, he once more remembered his hands around her neck.
He had squeezed. Each and every day he had squeezed. And each and every day, at the last minute, he had stopped. There would come a day when he wouldn't. They had both known that. There would come a day when the desire would be too strong, and he would simply squeeze out her last painful breath.
But for now, he'd stopped, and each time he'd seen in her eyes a small flicker of relief, before he climbed back up into the light, gave her a cheery wave, and abandoned her once more to the cold, black earth.
Then had come the day when he'd arrived back at their special place, whistling, upbeat, happy—even bringing a Twinkie as a special treat—and found it empty. He'd felt genuine pain, followed by genuine panic. Someone had stolen her, someone had taken her away, he would never see her again. . . .
And then in the next moment, he'd known what had happened. She had escaped. She had left him. After everything he had done for her, all of the care he had given her, all of those moments when he'd held her life in his hands and allowed her to keep on living . . .
The rage that had filled him was unimaginable. He'd returned home, where he'd sat in his room and thought about killing every single person on his street. He would start with his parents, of course. It was the decent thing to do. Kill them off now, before they ever had a chance to realize the monster they'd raised. Then he'd start with his neighbors, be methodical about it—from closest house to the farthest house, he'd work his way down the street.
Gun would be best. Quick, less exhausting. Didn't move him, though. Bullets were death by long distance. He wanted to be close, intimate. He wanted to hear the wet snicker-snack of a knife slitting skin, he wanted to feel the hot rain of someone's life splattering on his hands, he wanted to watch the last glimmer of hope bleed from their face until finally there was only endless, dreadful nothingness.
He should've done it. Should've gone into the kitchen, grabbed a serrated blade, found his mother, and just gotten on with it.
But he hadn't. He'd sat there, and then he'd realized rather idly that he was hungry. So he'd made a PB&J sandwich. Then, on a freshly filled stomach, he'd discovered that all that rage had really left him quite tired, so he'd taken a nap.
Next thing he knew, day had turned into day without him deciding on doing much of anything. Until four days later, when the police had turned up on his parents' doorstep, and that had been the end of him making his own decisions for a very long time.
Now he strung up the nanny, moved the bureau, and tore back the plastic on the shattered slider. Now he laid the note, awkwardly forged, upon the bed.
The cell phone rang at his waist. Catherine and Nathan were on the move, said his contact. Time to go. He remained in the doorway, his hand fingering the knob, his nose searching for any whiff of her perfume. Did she dream about him? Did she miss him? They say a girl never forgets her first time. . . .
And then, in the next instant, he was seized by divine inspiration. Moving quickly now, to the boy's room. Four minutes, that's all he needed. A quick move here, a quick move there.
The excitement was back. That elusive thrill he hadn't felt since wrapping his arm around the fat girl's neck. Now he had it as he moved swiftly through the boy's room, already picturing the look on Catherine's face.
Three minutes later, he bounded down the stairs, a whistle on his lips. He reset the security, closed and locked the front door, then headed for the lobby. He picked up Trickster, who was waiting for him by the outer doors. They hit the street.
He was briefly aware of a young boy's voice behind him: “Mommy, look at the puppy.”
Then Mr. Bosu faded into dusk.
Back in the Hampton Inn parking lot now, Mr. Bosu gave up on sleep altogether. He was too restless, too keyed up from remembering past events.
Might as well do something useful, he decided.
“Hey, Trickster,” he s
aid softly. “Road trip.”
H E SAID: “I haven't slept in two days. I'm wired, I'm edgy, and I'm thinking of having a drink. I know it's late, but can I come over?”
She said: “I think you'd better.”
He arrived fifteen minutes later. She met him at the door.
D R. ELIZABETH LANE had last seen Bobby twenty-four hours ago. The sight of him now filled her with both shock and dismay. His face was drawn, his eyes sunken. Whereas once he'd sat in her office with preternatural stillness, now he paced relentlessly, filling the space with manic energy. He was a man on the brink. One wrong step and he'd go over. She was thinking strongly of prescription medication. For now, however, she started with “Would you like a glass of water?”
He said in a rush, “You know that old saying, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I never thought I was paranoid, but now I think they're out to get me.”
He wasn't going to sit. Rather than respond to his agitation, she moved behind her desk, finding her chair and clasping her hands neutrally. “Who is they, Bobby?” she asked evenly.
“Who isn't? The judge, the ADA, the BPD, the widow. Hell, everyone wants a piece of me these days.”
“The investigation into the shooting has you concerned?”
“The investigation into the shooting?” He stopped, blinked his eyes a few times in confusion, then impatiently waved his hand. “Screw that. No one's waiting long enough to care about those results. No, they're going to get me tomorrow.”
She remained patient. “What's going to happen tomorrow, Bobby?”
But he'd caught wind of her tone. He stopped pacing long enough to square off against her and plant his hands on her desk. Bobby Dodge stared her straight in the eye, and Elizabeth was a bit disconcerted to discover that in his current state he frightened her.
“I am not an idiot,” he said intently. “I am not losing it. No, strike that, I am losing it. That's exactly why I'm here. But dammit, I have cause!”
“Would you like to start at the beginning?”
He whirled away from her desk. “Beginning? What beginning? I don't even know what the hell that is anymore. Was the beginning Thursday night, when I shot Jimmy Gagnon? Or was the beginning nine months ago when I randomly met Jimmy and Catherine at a cocktail party? Maybe it was Tuesday, when Jimmy filed for divorce, or maybe it was twenty-odd years ago when Catherine was abducted by a pedophile. How the hell should I know?”
“Bobby, I would like to help you—”
“But I sound like a fucking psycho?”
“I wouldn't use those words—”
“Gagnon would. Copley would. Christ, it's only a matter of time.” He ran his hand through his hair, then looked wildly around her office, like an animal sizing its cage. At the last minute, just when she was beginning to fear the worst, that he would do something rash and hurt himself, or do something dangerous and hurt her, he suddenly took a deep breath and exhaled it long and slow.
Wordlessly, Elizabeth got up and fetched a glass of water. When she returned, he gratefully accepted it and downed it thirstily. She took the empty glass, refilled it, and he drank it again.
“Life has gotten complicated,” he said softly. The edge had gone out of his voice. He sounded almost flat now, monotone.
“Tell me.”
“Jimmy's father is suing me for murder. But he'll drop those charges if I lie about what I saw on Thursday night and implicate his daughter-in-law. The ADA doesn't think he needs me to implicate Catherine—he's sure she had something to do with the shooting, now he's just trying to decide if I'm in on it, too. At least I had support from my fellow officers, but I sort of screwed the pooch by seeing Catherine, so now they don't trust me either. Oh—and I did have a loving girlfriend, but I dumped her tonight. Told myself I was doing what needed to be done. But honest to God, the whole time, I kept thinking of the dead man's widow.”
“You have a crush on Jimmy Gagnon's widow?”
“A crush is feeling tender toward someone. I don't feel tender toward her.”
“How about guilt, then?”
He immediately shook his head. “No. She's not exactly a woman who's grieving her dead husband.”
“Lust?” Elizabeth's voice was quiet.
“Okay.”
“Do you think she needs you, Bobby?”
He took more time to consider this answer. “Maybe. I think she wants me to think that she needs me. But I can't decide how much of that is an act, and how much is the real thing.”
“Explain.”
“She's a player. She lies, she manipulates, she cheats. According to her father-in-law, she married Jimmy for his money. According to the ADA, Copley, she's abusing her kid for attention. According to her, she's the victim. And according to me . . . sometimes I think they're all right. She's self-centered, dangerous, and unpredictable. But she's also . . . she's also sad.”
“Bobby, do you think it's smart for you to be in contact with her right now?”
“No.”
“But you've seen her. Why?”
“Because she calls.”
Elizabeth gave him a look, and he finally had the grace to flush. He pulled the wingback chair closer to her desk. Then, at long last, he sat down. And without having been aware that she'd been holding it, Elizabeth released one very strained, pent-up breath.
“It's not what you think,” he said.
“What do I think, Bobby?”
“That this was a run-of-the-mill shooting.” He added dryly, “As if there really is such a thing. Look . . . I didn't contact her. I didn't go looking to her for answers. She came to me. And then . . .” He scowled. “Something is going on. The doctor that's been seeing her kid was murdered last night. Tonight, I get called to her house only to find the nanny hanging in the master bedroom. Jimmy wasn't the end, Doc. Jimmy was just the beginning.”
“I'm not sure I understand.”
“That makes two of us. Everyone around this woman is dying. And now my life is getting sucked into the void. Catherine Gagnon either has the worst luck in the world, or she needs help more than any woman I know.”
“So you're helping her? Why, Bobby?”
He frowned, not seeming to understand the question. “Because she needs help. Because it's what people do.”
“Bobby, every time you have contact with this woman, it jeopardizes your career. And every time you have contact with this woman, you make it more difficult to put distance between yourself and the shooting. In effect, you jeopardize your own mental health.”
“Maybe.”
“But whenever she calls, you come. Why do you answer her calls, Bobby?”
He was still frowning. “I'm a cop.”
“You're a cop. Which means you know plenty of other people—professionals—you could direct her to, or personally ask to help her. You don't have to be the one offering assistance. Isn't that correct?”
He obviously didn't care for that assessment. “I suppose.”
“Do you truly believe Catherine Gagnon is in trouble, Bobby?”
“Yes.”
“So certain? You said that she was a liar.”
“Look, she needs help, I'm trying to help. I don't see how that's so wrong.” He stood up again, leg starting to bounce on the floor.
“When was the last time you slept, Bobby?”
“Last night. Three hours.”
“When was the last time you ate?”
“I had some coffee earlier.”
“Food, Bobby.”
His reply was more sullen. “Breakfast, early this morning.”
“You went for a run, didn't you?”
He didn't answer this time.
She forced herself to be quiet, calm.
“Fifteen miles,” he blurted out at last. Then, he started to pace.
“You're imploding, Bobby. I know you're imploding, you know you're imploding. I have to ask again: Do you think it'
s such a good idea to be seeing Catherine Gagnon?”
“It's not her,” he said abruptly.
“It's not her?”
“No. I think it's my damn mother.”
W E DON'T TALK about it,” he said at last. “Every family has its topics that are off-limits, you know. In my family, we don't talk about her.”
“Who's we?”
“My father. My older brother, George.” Now Bobby stood in front of one of the framed diplomas on her wall, staring blankly at the glass. “My father used to drink.”
“You mentioned that.”
“He was a violent drunk.”
“He beat your mom and you and your brother?”
“Pretty much.”
“Did anyone in your family try to seek help?”
“Not that I know of.”
“So your father was an abusive drunk. And your mother left him.”
“I didn't see it,” he said quietly. “I just heard my brother George yell at my father one night. But I guess . . . My father had gotten really loaded. Then he'd gotten really mad. And he'd grabbed a leather belt and he'd just whaled on my mother. Just . . . whipped her like a dog. I guess George tried to interfere, and my father went after him, too. Knocked him cold. When he came to, my father had finally passed out and my mother was packing a bag.
“She told George she couldn't do it anymore. She said maybe if she left, Pop wouldn't get so mad. She had family in Florida. Together, they picked my father's pockets, then she was gone.
“Later, I heard my father and George arguing about it. My father got so mad, he threw George against the wall. George crawled to his feet and he stood in front of my father and he said, ‘What the fuck are you gonna do now, Dad?' He said, ‘I've already lost my mother.' He said . . .” Bobby's voice grew quieter. “He said, ‘What's left?'”
“What did your father do, Bobby?”
“He went after my brother with a knife. He stabbed George in the ribs.”
“And you saw this, didn't you, Bobby?”
“I was in the doorway.”
“And what did you do?”
He said, “I did nothing.”
