by Lisa Gardner
Would Catherine Gagnon now be dead?
None of them would ever know.
Bobby buried his head deeper into his arms. His breath exhaled as a broken, exhausted sigh.
He did his best not to dream.
M R. BOSU WAS trying hard to be a better employee.
Currently, he was watching the faintly lit home of a fifty-thousand-dollar man. No doubt about it, this job was going to be tricky.
For starters, the house sat in the middle of a densely populated neighborhood. Secondly, a sticker on the front window advertised the ADT security system. Third, a light was on in the house, which surprised Mr. Bosu. Given the late hour, he'd assumed the occupant to be asleep.
No way around it, for this job, Mr. Bosu was going to need some help.
He eyed Trickster, who was curled up fast asleep in the front seat of the stolen car. As if sensing his look, the puppy opened one eye and yawned mightily.
“I need an accomplice,” Mr. Bosu said.
Another puppy yawn.
“Do you think you could play dead? Just hang around looking half asleep. Yeah, like that.”
Trickster had already dropped his head back into his paws and had closed his eyes. Mr. Bosu stroked the puppy's ears meditatively, his sausage fingers delicate on the puppy's small head.
Briefly, the thought came to him: Faking wasn't foolproof. If he really was striving to be a dedicated employee, he shouldn't take unnecessary chances. One small twist and he could snap Trickster's neck. It would be swift, painless, the dog would never feel a thing. And with fifty thousand dollars, he could get a lot of new puppies.
His hand stilled on the back of Trickster's head. He felt his fingers dig into the scruff of the dog's fur. Soft. Silky. Fragile. Everyone had to die sometime.
He pulled his hand away. He slid the knife from the strap at his ankle. He looked at Trickster one last time, then shoved up his linen shirtsleeve above his elbow and slit his forearm.
Blood gushed forth, a dark, red welt. Mr. Bosu wiped the blood onto his fingers, then smeared it onto Trickster's white haunch.
“It's okay,” Mr. Bosu told him. “I'll give you a bath as soon as we get home. Now hang on. Things are about to get interesting.”
He put the car into reverse. He eased down the block, lights off. Then his hand returned to Trickster's head, steadying the dog, steadying himself.
“One, two, three!” Mr. Bosu flipped on the car's headlights. His foot slammed down on the accelerator and the car shot up onto the curb in front of the target home. Mr. Bosu drove straight onto the lawn, screeched the brakes, and let out a giant “Holy crap!” just for good measure.
He grabbed Trickster and bolted out of the car, leaving it parked in the middle of the yard, its headlights pointing into thin air.
“Oh no,” he groaned loudly. “Oh no, oh no, oh no.”
Mr. Bosu scrambled across the lawn and knocked furiously on the fifty-thousand-dollar man's front door. Mr. Bosu was breathing hard, sweat rising on his brow. He'd pulled his sleeve back down, but drops of blood were leaking through the fine linen fabric. Excellent.
He banged again, hard, insistent, and the porch light abruptly snapped on.
“Help, help, help,” Mr. Bosu said. He glanced down at Trickster, pleased with the matted, bloody look of the dog's white fur.
The door finally cracked open, stopped by a metal chain. The guy was careful, Mr. Bosu would give him that.
“Sir, sir, so sorry to disturb you,” Mr. Bosu exclaimed in a rush. “I was just driving by when a dog darted in front of my path. I tried to avoid him, I swear I did, but I nailed him pretty good. Please, I think he's hurt.”
Mr. Bosu held up the bloody bundle.
The fifty-thousand-dollar man's reaction was instantaneous and admirable. It would also be his downfall.
“Quick!” the man said. “Bring him in.”
The chain was dropped, the front door opened. The man wasn't wearing a robe as Mr. Bosu would've expected, but apparently was dressed for work.
“I thought I heard a commotion,” the man said, already leading the way into the house.
With a slight kick of his foot, Mr. Bosu had the door shut securely behind him.
“Are you a vet, do you know a vet?” Mr. Bosu babbled. His eyes swept the home, getting the lay of the land. He followed the man to the back of the house, where a light blazed. They entered a narrow kitchen, circa 1950s. It boasted a small breakfast nook where an old table was totally covered in stack after stack of paper.
“I was up late working,” the man commented absently. “Must've dozed off.”
“What do you do?”
“ADA. Here, let me look at the dog, see how bad it is.”
Mr. Bosu finally relinquished his hold on Trickster. It made it easier for him to reach down and grab his knife. When he straightened, the man had Trickster propped up on the counter and was inspecting him thoroughly for damage.
“I see blood,” Rick Copley reported. “Funny thing is, I can't find a source.”
“Really? Maybe I can help with that.”
M R. BOSU WAS big, Mr. Bosu was heavily armed. Copley was fast, however, and seemed to know plenty of fancy footwork.
First time Mr. Bosu lunged forward, Copley dodged left. The ADA let go of Trickster. The puppy bounded onto the floor, scampering across the linoleum and disappearing into the family room.
Neither man paid any attention to him. Copley was already up on the balls of his feet, not wasting any time with denial. Mr. Bosu was pleased. After the day he'd had, he was in the mood for a really good fight.
The ADA was a thinking man. A thinking man would want a phone, so he could notify his colleagues of his distress. Sure enough, Copley dove for the cordless receiver on the edge of the table. Mr. Bosu flashed forward and had the satisfaction of drawing first blood.
Copley danced back, now holding his sliced forearm. The ADA was starting to sweat.
“What do you want?” he demanded.
“Peace on earth.”
“You need money? I have three hundred dollars in my wallet.”
“Please, you're worth a hundred times that dead.”
“What?” The ADA was taken aback by the news. He lost focus. Mr. Bosu lunged again. Copley whirled at the last minute, but was a hair too late; Mr. Bosu nicked his ribs.
The ADA ran for the family room. And Mr. Bosu gave chase.
It was a small house. Not many places to run, not many places to hide. Copley found a lamp, a bookend, a sofa cushion. He danced, he whirled, he dodged.
Mr. Bosu had fifty pounds on him and a much longer reach. For him, the end was never in doubt. Copley hit and tossed and ran. And Mr. Bosu kept coming, herding the man away from the front door, forcing him deeper into his own home, where he slowly but surely became trapped by the very walls that were supposed to protect him. A man's home was his castle. For Rick Copley, it became his execution chamber.
Mr. Bosu finally got the smaller man cornered in his own bathroom, trapped against the tub. After that, it went quick.
In the aftermath, when the bloodlust finally stopped thundering in Mr. Bosu's head, when his breathing eased, when his heart decelerated, he finally became aware of many things at once: His shin hurt. His shoulder where he nailed a doorjamb, the side of his head where Copley finally got lucky with a lamp.
His left forearm also throbbed. Pain from his own self-inflicted wound. It occurred to him now that the cut was still bleeding, possibly leaving splatters on the floor as he'd moved. He tried to look for telltale spots, but given the mess . . .
The house was destroyed. Books and paper and gutted pillows and, well, blood, lots and lots of blood, just plain everywhere. If he had bled onto the floor, it was now so mixed up with other fluids maybe the lab guys would never be able to sort it out. Honestly, he didn't know. Forensics wasn't his strong suit. He only knew what he'd seen on TV.
He retreated to the kitchen, carefully washing his hands and arms. His five-hundred-dol
lar leather dress shoes were now slick with blood. He took them off, made an attempt at rinsing them, then grimaced at the results. Note for the future: blood ruins dress shoes.
He went in search of the laundry room.
On top of the washer, he found a bottle of bleach. He carried it back into the kitchen, where he poured half the bottle down the sink. He'd seen an episode once where blood had gotten trapped in the drainpipes, then been traced by the savvy crime tech.
Mr. Bosu was a registered sex offender. That meant his prints, his blood, and his DNA were all on file.
He applied the rest of the bleach to a dish towel, then went to work on the blood trail winding through the house. He couldn't get all the blood up, so he worked on smearing it instead, obliterating tread patterns and, in some cases, paw prints. In hindsight, he should've grabbed more surgical scrubs from the hospital. Those had been handy.
Mr. Bosu finished up in the bathroom. Helluva mess there. He threw the towel in the bathtub, on top of Copley's body.
Four-thirty in the morning. Mr. Bosu was officially tired. And, come to think of it, hungry.
He went in search of Trickster, finding the puppy huddled beneath the bed.
“It's okay,” he told the quaking dog. “All done now. All done.”
He held out his hand. The puppy obediently crawled forward, then nuzzled Mr. Bosu's fingertips. Mr. Bosu picked up his dog and patted him comfortingly on the head. Trickster had peed on the rug. Oh well. Couldn't be helped. Besides, he'd never seen a show where the crime-scene tech had traced dog piss.
“You're a good boy,” Mr. Bosu told his bloody dog. “Tomorrow for dinner, I promise you steak!”
Mr. Bosu was just plotting his exit when the phone rang. He stopped, wondering who'd call at this hour, then listening mesmerized as the machine picked up.
“Copley, it's D.D. We've just wrapped up the Gagnon residence—surprised I didn't see you there. Some things have come up.” Deep breath. “I'd like to talk about Trooper Dodge. I have some concerns about his involvement with Catherine Gagnon. You may . . . you may have been right about things. Give me a call when you have a chance. I'll be filling out paperwork for the next few hours.”
Phone clicked off. Mr. Bosu walked into the kitchen to stare at the blinking answering machine. Then his gaze fell to a pile of paperwork. He glanced at the summary report, the list of names, and for the first time, he got it. What he'd just done and why.
Then, on the heels of that thought . . .
“Trickster,” he murmured, “I think I know how to make Benefactor X very, very happy.”
The brilliant Mr. Bosu went to work.
B OBBY WOKE UP Monday morning with light hammering against his eyelids. His neck ached. His shoulder throbbed. At some point in the early morning hours, he'd made it from the kitchen table to the dilapidated couch. Now he was sprawled facedown in musty cushions, his right arm dangling over the edge, and half a dozen springs jammed into various parts of his body.
He sat up slowly, biting back a groan. Jesus, he was too old for this shit.
He rose to his feet, stretching his arms above his head and wincing as nerve endings prickled to life. Daylight poured through the front windows, high and bright. He staggered into the kitchen and searched for a clock.
Ten a.m. Shit! He'd been out seven hours. His first decent sleep in days. And an absolutely stupid thing to do, given the five p.m. deadline. He needed food. He needed a shower, he needed a shave. He had to move, he had to . . . do something.
He headed for the bathroom, then belatedly remembered the messages on his answering machine. He should check in with his LT. Probably call his lawyer. Maybe call his father.
And say what?
Bobby stepped into the shower. He stuck his head beneath the stinging spray. He needed clarity. He needed alertness. He needed strength.
Halfway through, it came to him.
Bobby sprang out of the shower, and headed for the phone.
“Hey, Harris,” he said a minute later, dripping water all over the carpet. “Let's meet.”
R OBINSON WAS HUMMING. Not being musically inclined, it wasn't a pretty sound. Robinson hummed incessantly, however, when suffering from a bad case of nerves.
Robinson had a police scanner. All night long, it had been picking up chatter regarding a scene at the Gagnon residence. It didn't sound good.
Now Robinson wasn't taking any chances. There came a time when a body had to put safety first. This was definitely one of those times.
Robinson packed up quickly. Attached to the toilet tank was a waterproof box filled with various credit cards and fake IDs. The box went into the bag. Then came clothes. Taser. Handgun. Little spiral-bound notebook.
That was it.
Place was a rental. Robinson didn't own furniture and had never bothered to supply so much as a doily. The less you owned, the less you had to lose. And the less that could be held against you.
Five minutes later, Robinson stood by the back door, holding the match.
One last hesitation. A tiny moment of regret. This was to have been the job. The big job. Increased risk, no doubt about it, but oh, the payoff. The beautiful lure of cold hard cash. After this job, Robinson would've finally hit easy street. We're talking a white sandy beach, fruity frozen drinks, and clear blue water that would've gone on without end.
Robinson sighed. And tossed the match.
No apologies, no looking back. You took a job, you did your best. But you always put your own interests first. And Robinson's interests said it was now time to get the hell out of town.
Robinson stepped outside, looking up the street, then down the street. Coast was clear.
Robinson walked to the car parked halfway down the block. Bag went into the trunk, then Robinson slid into the driver's side. First thing Robinson noticed was a tiny white and brown puppy curled up in the passenger's seat. Then a giant form filled the rearview mirror.
“Morning, Colleen,” Mr. Bosu said. “Going somewhere?”
C ATHERINE DIDN'T SLEEP. She sat in a chair in her childhood bedroom, watching Nathan finally succumb to exhaustion in the corner of her old twin bed. Her father had taken her in without protest. He'd wordlessly provided the extra lamps. Then he'd stood in the doorway while Nathan had tossed and turned, crying out with terror at things only he could see. Catherine had quietly sung a song she barely remembered but that came back to her now as she returned to her old home. Her mother used to sing it to her. Back in the good old days before a man came looking for a lost dog.
She sang to Nathan, and when she'd looked up again, her father was gone.
Later, after Nathan had fallen into a brief slumber, she'd found her father downstairs. He was sitting in his old recliner, looking at nothing in particular.
She told him about Prudence. He didn't comment. She told him about Tony Rocco. She told him the police thought she'd arranged for Jimmy's death and that her father-in-law would stop at nothing to get Nathan.
When she was done, her father finally spoke. He said, “I don't understand.”
“It's James, Dad. James Gagnon. He thinks I hurt Jimmy and now he's determined to take custody of Nathan.”
“But you said a police officer shot Jimmy.”
“A police sniper did kill Jimmy. James thinks I staged it somehow. Like I wanted Jimmy to go after me with a gun, like I forced him to threaten Nathan and me in front of the cops. James is crazy with grief. Who knows how he thinks.”
Her father was frowning. “And this upset the nanny so much she hanged herself?”
“She didn't hang herself, she was murdered. Her neck was snapped. I told you that.”
“That makes no sense.”
“What makes no sense? That a woman can be murdered? Or that a woman can be murdered in my house?”
“There's no call for getting snotty, Catherine.”
“Someone is trying to kill me!”
“Let's not rush to conclusions—”
“You're not listenin
g! James wants possession of Nathan. He's obviously hired someone to kill anyone and everyone who might be willing to help me. If I don't surrender Nathan soon, I may be next.”
Her father said stubbornly, “Seems to me a man as well bred as the judge hardly has to stoop to murder.”
Catherine opened her mouth. She looked at her father's implacable face, then abruptly closed her mouth again. It was no use. Her father lived in his own world. He wanted to believe in the sanctity of a neighborhood, in weekly rituals such as Wednesday night poker and Sunday afternoon barbecues. He'd never been cut out for a reality where little girls could be abducted walking home from school and where the person you feared the most was the man sharing your bed. He hadn't known how to help her when she was a child; he certainly didn't know how to help her now.
She rose quietly to her feet, thinking wistfully of Bobby Dodge. She could give him a call. . . . A shiver moved through her. A slight, unexpected tingling of the spine. She didn't recognize the sensation and it left her feeling vaguely uncomfortable.
She found herself remembering his face. She had been touching him, she'd been working him, she'd been winning. And then . . . He'd looked at her. He'd looked at her and he'd honestly seen her. And that had ruined everything.
Catherine returned upstairs to her son.
Nathan was starting to fret again, whipping his head from side to side. She stroked his cheek until he calmed. Then she kneeled next to the bed, feathering back her son's soft brown hair.
“I'll always believe you,” she murmured. “When you're older, you can tell me anything, and I'll believe.”
The phone calls happened shortly thereafter.
The first call came on her cell phone at nine a.m. It was the receptionist from Dr. Iorfino's office, confirming Nathan's three o'clock appointment. By the way, the doctor wanted to speak with Catherine at length. Maybe she could come by earlier, at one p.m.? No need to bring Nathan. In fact, it would be better if Catherine came alone.
Catherine hung up, her heart already pounding in her chest. Nothing good ever came out of meetings where the doctor wanted to see you alone.