by Lisa Gardner
“It's a bellhop,” the man said. “I'd swear someone snapped his neck.”
Pandemonium broke out. Now security guards did come running, bellhops, too. The parking valet went sprinting by Bobby. Bobby grabbed the man's arm, then flashed his badge.
“Police. Give me your pass key. Now!”
The bewildered valet turned over his pass key. Bobby jerked his head at Catherine.
They bolted into the elevator, slammed the key into the slot, and headed for the penthouse floor.
“You look for Nathan,” Bobby said. “I'll take care of Umbrio.”
“What about James and Maryanne?”
Bobby shrugged. “If they're working with Umbrio, then they're probably safe. If they're against Umbrio, then we probably don't have to worry about them anymore.”
“Oh God . . .”
“Let's go,” Bobby said.
M R. BOSU KNOCKED once. He went for a childlike rat-a-tat.
The door opened, and, without bothering to wait, Mr. Bosu slammed his fist into the man's face. There was a wet crunching sound. Then the man sprawled onto the vast marble floor.
“Hey, Judge,” Mr. Bosu said. “Remember me?”
He was still smiling when Nathan's teeth sank into his hand.
S TEPPING OUT OF the elevator, Bobby's first glimpse was an open doorway and a fresh corpse. He reached back one hand to steady Catherine, then realized he was wasting valuable energy. With Umbrio on the premises, one body was the least of their concerns.
“Shhh,” he ordered in a low voice. “Let's not announce ourselves before we have to. We need whatever advantage we can get.”
The place was quiet. Eerily quiet. Bobby didn't like it. He expected screams or scrambling footsteps or a child's excited yells. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing. It made the fine hairs rise up on the back of his neck.
They stepped into the marble foyer and Catherine's heels promptly rang out like shots. They both drew up short, Catherine's dark eyes wide with distress.
“Off.”
She removed her heels.
Bobby stepped forward and inspected Harris. The investigator's nose had been shattered, bone fragments driven up into his brain. It had happened so fast, the man had never even unbuttoned his jacket or reached for his gun. One minute he'd answered the door, the next, he was dead.
Bobby shook his head. In his own way, he'd started to like Harris.
Bobby reached inside the investigator's jacket, and removed the man's nine-millimeter from the shoulder holster. He flipped off the safety, then gave the piece to Catherine. Still no other sounds in the suite.
“Something's wrong,” she whispered.
“No kidding.”
And then . . . Musical chimes. The notes were haunting, distant. A slow lullaby drifting from the back of the suite. A music box. Maybe a child's toy. Bobby didn't know, but the high, tinny notes strained the heavy air.
He looked at Catherine, whose face had gone white.
“What is that?” Her tone was getting strident again. He motioned, Easy, with his hand.
“I don't know. Hold it together, Cat. Nathan needs you.”
She nodded, taking a deep shuddering breath. After another moment, Bobby motioned to the wall, and Catherine fell in step behind him.
Time gave Umbrio the advantage, Bobby realized now, to separate them, to ambush them. The suite was too big for Bobby to control, and Catherine was too inexperienced to help. Whatever happened next would need to happen fast.
Cautiously, he led them from the foyer into the empty sitting room. Given the force of Umbrio's entry, anyone in this room had probably run for cover.
A hallway loomed through an arched expanse on the left. Another loomed on the right. Apparently, the sitting room acted as the central area for the two wings of the suite. Bobby hesitated. Catherine tapped his hand and pointed to the left.
“The music,” she mouthed.
He nodded, understanding. It was difficult to pinpoint the tinny notes, but they appeared to still be coming from the left.
He took her hand. They edged, single file, down the hall.
Then they heard a scream. Shrill, high-pitched, distinctly feminine.
“Maryanne!” Catherine gasped.
They bolted down the hall.
B OBBY PROCESSED EVERYTHING at once. Three open doorways, three bedrooms. He ran by the first, then the second, and came sprinting into the third just in time to see Maryanne staggering back.
“James, James, James,” the woman was sobbing. “Oh God, James!”
Bobby looked down, registered a bloody body, and in the next minute, sensed, more than heard, the movement behind him.
“Look out!” Catherine's cry, farther down the hall.
He tried to turn, tried to get the gun up.
Umbrio caught him in the shoulder. Bobby felt a stunning blow. The force whirled him around, knocked him off-balance. He fought desperately to retain his footing. He had an image out of the corner of his eye, something silver and red.
Knife, he managed to think. Knife, coming for him.
Then he heard a gunshot. A split second later, plaster exploded beside his head.
Bobby fell down. Umbrio, however, stopped and turned.
“Why, Catherine,” the large man said, “what a pleasant surprise to see you here.”
Umbrio grinned. There were flecks of red all over his face. Blood, maybe from James, maybe from Bobby. It gave the murderer a feral look.
Catherine brought up the nine-millimeter again. She was using two hands, trying to take a stand. Her arms shook so badly, however, she couldn't aim. She pulled the trigger wildly and the bullet nailed the wall an inch from Umbrio's shoulder.
Umbrio smiled again. He took a step forward. “Oh, Catherine, Catherine, Catherine.”
Blood poured down from Bobby's shoulder, mixing with the sweat on his palm. His right arm didn't want to move, his fingers didn't want to contract. He shifted the gun to his left hand and squeezed the trigger.
The gun exploded, the shot sailing wildly by Umbrio's knee. The surprise attack from the rear drew the big man up short. He took in Catherine, still trembling in front of him, and Bobby, badly wounded behind him. Bobby was already taking aim again. The floor was an awkward position, but he could make it work. He hadn't spent years practicing weak-hand drills for nothing.
Umbrio seemed to realize that Bobby was down but not out at the same time Bobby centered his second shot on the big man's chest. His finger tightened on the trigger, just as Umbrio sprang through the doorway, vaulting down the wide arched hall. Catherine belatedly fired a dozen times behind him, hitting two pictures, an antique sofa table, and about nine inches of plaster. Umbrio disappeared into another room.
“Shit!” she cried.
She arrived in the bedroom, still shaking uncontrollably and now reeking of gunpowder. Her eyes were dark saucers in her pale face, her hair a disheveled mess. But she was still standing, still bearing her pistol, and Bobby thought she looked gorgeous as hell.
Now she saw the blood pouring down Bobby's shoulder. “Oh no!”
“Who is that man?” Maryanne cried. “And where is Nathan?”
C ATHERINE GOT BOBBY into a sitting position. Good news, Umbrio had missed a major vein. Bad news, he'd injured the joint and now Bobby's right arm dangled uselessly at his side.
“I don't understand,” Maryanne was babbling. “The receptionist called. Nathan was coming up, and I was so excited. I wanted to get the door, to be the first to greet Nathan, but James said no, let Mr. Harris get it. Then the door opened and I heard an awful noise, like a crunch. James yelled at me to run, so I ran. Then James pushed me into this bedroom, told me to get into the closet and not come out no matter what happened. So I hid. Then came the sound of footsteps.
“I thought it would be Mr. Harris, or maybe James. Instead, the closet door opened and that hideous man was staring at me. He was smiling. He was holding a knife and smiling. What kind of man does such a thing?
”
Bobby and Catherine didn't answer. Catherine had pulled a pillowcase from the bed and was now tying it awkwardly around Bobby's shoulder.
“James suddenly appeared. He hit the man over the head with a bookend. Really hard. I've never seen such a thing. But that horrible man, he didn't even blink. He just turned around and he looked at James . . . Oh my God, James knew!” Maryanne sobbed. “You could see it on his face, he knew what was going to happen next. ‘Run, Maryanne,' he said. So I did. And I heard noises. I heard the most awful noises. I tried so hard not to hear those sounds. Except then it became quiet and that was so much worse. I couldn't take it anymore. I had to see James. Oh, my poor, poor, darling James . . .”
She crumpled to the floor beside the body. She clutched her husband's limp hand. And his fingers very slowly curled around hers.
“James!” Maryanne wept. “James! He's breathing. Oh my darling, you're still alive!”
“Shhh,” Bobby and Catherine said instantly. “He's going to come back.”
“Who's coming back?”
“Richard Umbrio.”
“Isn't that the man who kidnapped you, Catherine?” Maryanne was bewildered. “That was years ago. What would he possibly want with us?”
“Maryanne,” Catherine said steadily, “where's Nathan?”
T HE CLOSET WAS dark, but not totally dark. Nathan couldn't stand totally dark, especially now, when he was already really scared. He'd let the puppy go. He wished he hadn't done that now. He missed its warm little body, its sandpaper tongue licking reassuringly at his hand.
Now he was very much alone.
He'd seen the bad man do bad things. Then he'd heard his grandfather holler, “Run!” so he'd run. The other way. Far from everyone, because he didn't like his grandfather, who kept demanding Nathan go home with him, even when it was clear his mommy didn't want him to.
So Nathan dropped the puppy and ran in the other direction, away from everyone, including the bad man.
Then he'd seen this closet, with the shuttered door. It was small, filled with blankets and pillows and piles of bedding. He wished he were bigger. He wished he were stronger. He wished he were a normal healthy boy, because a normal healthy boy could probably climb all the way to the top of the closet, where he could hide above the bad man's head.
But Nathan couldn't do that. So he simply dug his way to the back of the tiny space. He closed the door. He covered himself with down pillows and did his best not to sneeze.
Now he waited. All alone. In the dark.
The bad man was coming.
Nathan whispered, “Mommy . . .”
C ATHERINE HAD FINISHED tying the pillowcase around Bobby's bleeding shoulder. It looked and felt ridiculous, but it was the best they could do. Both handguns rested next to Bobby on the bed, within easy reach if Umbrio should return. Looking at Bobby's mangled shoulder, however, Catherine wondered if the guns would really do much good.
Next, Catherine crossed to James, still prostrate on the floor. Blood pooled beneath him while from his lungs came an ominous whistle, like a balloon losing its air.
Maryanne had his head on her lap, her hand stroking his cheek. She was crying huge soundless tears. As Catherine approached, Maryanne raised her head. Her gaze was beseeching, but there was nothing Catherine could do. The judge was dying. They all knew that.
The judge gazed up at Catherine. For the longest time, the two simply stared at one another.
Catherine waited to feel something. She wanted to feel something. Triumphant. Victorious. Satisfied. But all she felt was an emptiness that went on without end.
“I know what you did,” Catherine said at last, her voice curiously flat. “A geneticist finally diagnosed Nathan—my son suffers from a rare disorder that only occurs in families with a history of incest.”
Maryanne made a small squeaking sound, belatedly covering her mouth with her hand. Catherine looked at the woman. And then she finally felt an emotion—icy cold rage.
“How could you not tell me? The minute Nathan showed signs of illness, how could you not think—”
“I'm so sorry—” Maryanne began.
“Are you cousins?” Catherine interrupted angrily.
“Half siblings,” Maryanne confessed, then threw out in a rush, “But we were never raised together, we never even knew each other as brother and sister. After James's mother died, his father sent him off to military school, you see. They had a bit of a falling-out, and James decided to stay up north. But as the years passed, my father finally made an attempt at reconciliation. He invited James back to visit his new family. I was turning eighteen. My parents threw a magnificent party. And then I saw the most handsome man enter the room. . . .”
James's hand spasmed in hers. Maryanne immediately bent to brush his cheek, but there was something in the tender gesture that now left Catherine feeling sickened. They had been siblings?
“He murdered your family,” Catherine told Maryanne.
“Don't be ridiculous. There was an accident—”
“James made that ‘accident' happen, Maryanne. He arranged for your whole family to die, just so he could have you. Like he killed your firstborn so the doctors would never discover your little secret. Like he released a convicted pedophile to murder Nathan and me. Why do you think everyone around you dies, Maryanne? Can you really be so naive?”
Catherine's voice had risen dangerously. Maryanne shook her head against the onslaught, while on the floor, James moaned feebly.
“I . . . loved her,” the man rasped out.
“Love?” Catherine spat. “You murdered innocent people. Was it easy the first time? Tamper with your father's brakes, tell yourself accidents happen.”
“You don't . . . understand.”
“After that you were free to come up to Boston, make a fresh start where no one would ever know your dirty little secret. Except then you had a child. And genetics found you out. Did your first son have Fanconi-Bickel, as well? Maybe a very severe case. Always sickly, always suffering.”
“I don't understand,” Maryanne whispered brokenly. “Junior died of SIDS.”
“Or because someone pressed a pillow over his face.”
“James?” Maryanne whimpered.
“I . . . love you,” the judge said again, but there was something pleading in his tone now. Something even more damning than guilt. Maryanne started to cry again.
“Oh no . . . oh no, oh no, oh no.”
Catherine, however, wasn't done. “You turned Jimmy against me. You filled his head with awful ideas, and forced me to do unspeakable things. How dare you! We could've worked together to help Nathan. Maybe we could've been happy.”
“My son,” James said clearly, “was always . . . too good . . . for you.”
“James!” Maryanne gasped.
“You idiot,” Catherine said coldly. “You released Umbrio, and now he will kill us all.”
“Police . . . will come,” the judge murmured.
But then, from down the hall, they all heard Umbrio's voice: “Nathan, Nathan, Nathan. Come out wherever you are.”
Bobby said quietly to all of them, “Not soon enough.”
M R. BOSU WAS tired of this game. Coming to the judge's hotel had seemed a good idea. Threaten the judge in person and get a little money, or hey, kill the judge in person and get a little satisfaction, that had been the plan. Mr. Bosu was flexible.
But nothing had turned out that way. Yes, he'd gotten to exercise a little vengeance. But that hadn't felt as good as he'd expected. Maybe even murder got boring after a while. He didn't know. But the wife was still running around and the kid was running around and now Catherine was here and, with her, another man.
Mr. Bosu wanted to feel excited. But mostly, he just felt tired. Screw killing all of them. He'd settle for one last target. The one that would inflict the most damage of all.
He wanted the boy.
Just the boy.
Then he was out of here.
Mr. Bosu had
already completed a search of the left side of the palatial suite. He'd found the master bedroom, raided the wife's jewelry box, and found a wad of cash. Now, he turned his attention to the right-hand side of the suite. If he were a four-year-old boy, where would he hide?
Someplace cozy, someplace dark. No. Wait. The boy had all those dozens of night-lights. The kid was scared of the dark.
Mr. Bosu's eyes fell upon the louvered door of the hall closet. Of course. Mr. Bosu began to smile.
W E NEED A plan,” Catherine said. Her gaze fell to Bobby. He nodded, struggling to sit up straighter on the bed.
“What are we going to do?” Maryanne whimpered forlornly from the floor. “James is injured. You're injured. What are we going to do?”
“I can fire a gun just fine,” Bobby said levelly. “I drill with my left hand all the time.”
Catherine nodded. She picked up both nine-millimeters off the bed and handed him one. “All right. You take a gun, I'll take a gun.”
“You can't shoot worth shit,” Bobby said seriously.
“Well then, I'll just have to make sure I get close enough. Do we hunt him? Is that how this game is played?”
Bobby immediately shook his head. “I don't want us split up. Two against one is better odds, plus I don't want the risk of one of us accidentally hitting the other with cross fire.”
“We're not going to have much element of surprise, two of us blundering down a hall.”
“No, we won't. Which is why we're going to make him come to us.”
“And how do we do that?”
Bobby looked her in the eye. “Well, Catherine, you know him best.”
She nodded slowly. “Yes,” she said after a moment, “I guess I do.”
M R. BOSU WAS on the prowl. He spotted the target. He yanked back the closet door. He thrust deep with his knife. And ripped into a pile of terry cloth towels. What the hell?
“Shit!” Mr. Bosu roared.
He tossed out the pile of towels. Then the shelf of toilet paper, then a collection of bathrobes. Empty, empty, empty. Where was the boy?
