by Lisa Gardner
This woman, he thought, wasn’t.
He crossed the room. “Nathan?”
“He’s at my father’s.” She cleared her throat. “We had to go there. Last night. My credit cards have been canceled. Same with the ATM. I called the bank this morning. They won’t let me access any of the accounts, as apparently they are all in Jimmy’s name.”
“The judge,” Bobby said softly.
“Umbrio has been in my home,” she whispered. “I went to put Nathan to bed, and none of the night-lights worked. We were so scared.… I went to the closet. And there on the floor, all the little bulbs: Boo.”
“Catherine—”
“He killed Tony. He killed Prudence. Soon, he’ll kill me, too. It’s what he promised to do. It’s what he’s always wanted. Day after day. You don’t understand.” Her hand had come up. It was compulsively rubbing her throat.
“Catherine—”
“I’ve been alone too long in the dark,” she whispered. “I can no longer find the light.”
He took her in his arms, and she collapsed, her hands grabbing the folds of his shirt, her body trembling uncontrollably. She was small, tiny really, of no significant weight against his chest. And he could feel her exhaustion now, rolling off her in waves, night after sleepless night of doubt, terror, fear.
He wanted to tell her it would be all right. He wanted to tell her he was here now, he would take care of everything. She would never have to be frightened again.
Too many other men had made the same silly promises. He knew better. So did she.
He reached up a hand and stroked her hair.
And for just one moment, she pressed herself hard against his chest.
The door opened. A receptionist appeared. “The doctor will see you now, Mrs. Gagnon.”
Catherine straightened, pushing away. Bobby’s hand dropped back to his side.
She turned toward the hallway first; he fell in step behind her. Right before they passed through the door, however, she paused one last time.
“I never said I didn’t harm Jimmy,” she said. And then they walked into the doctor’s office.
Chapter
34
Mr. Bosu was exhausted. He remembered now: the glorious, nerve-zinging euphoria that always accompanied a good plan. The way, for example, he’d felt high as a kite the minute he’d lured twelve-year-old Catherine into his specially equipped car. Or the way he’d felt coming up behind that gel-slicked doctor in the empty parking garage. One quick flick of the knife … the rush of endorphins. The sheer, giddy thrill of warm, red blood, oozing across his hands.
But what went up must come down. Which brought the second half of the equation: body-slamming crash. The moment the endorphins and adrenaline bled out of your system and left you absolutely, positively done. He could lie down on the hard ground right now and sleep for days.
Unfortunately, he had work to do.
First stop, a small convenience store. Puppy Chow for Trickster. An interesting high-energy drink called Red Bull for him. According to the can, Red Bull would give him wings. Given the tasks Mr. Bosu had left to perform, that couldn’t hurt.
Exiting the convenience store, he patted the trunk of Robinson’s car. “Here’s to you,” he said, holding up the drink can in a mock toast. “Thanks for negotiating that pay raise, and hey, no hard feelings. Business is business.”
Since Robinson was dead, she couldn’t very well reply. But Mr. Bosu remained appreciative. Thanks to her, he had a better set of wheels, some unexpected documents, and a lovely infusion of cash.
He slid into the driver’s seat, polishing off his drink.
“Hey, Trickster,” Mr. Bosu said. “Now, things are about to get interesting.…”
Dr. Iorfino was a bit of a shock after Dr. Rocco. The geneticist was tall, thin, and balding. With his oversized glasses and hooked nose, he reminded Bobby of pictures of Ichabod Crane—and not the Johnny Depp version, but the classic portrait of the gaunt country schoolteacher from The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.
The doctor ushered Bobby and Catherine into an impressive office, boasting a massive cherry desk and two huge windows overlooking the city of Boston. Apparently, there was a bit of money in genetics. Dr. Iorfino also appeared to be a neatnik. In contrast to Dr. Rocco’s office, no loose papers were in sight here. In fact, the man’s desk offered only a flat-screen monitor and a single manila folder.
Dr. Iorfino took the black leather seat behind the desk, then indicated the two empty chairs across from him.
“Catherine Gagnon,” Catherine introduced herself, holding out her hand.
“Ah yes.” The doctor shook her hand belatedly, then turned to Bobby curiously.
“Bobby Dodge,” Bobby provided. “Friend of the family.”
“Interesting,” the doctor murmured.
Bobby shrugged. He wasn’t as convinced that it was interesting to be a friend of the family, but the doctor was already flipping open the manila file.
“I’m pleased you could meet with me,” Dr. Iorfino said. “I felt it was important that I share my findings with you before I saw Nathan.”
“Findings?” Catherine looked confused. “How can there be any findings? You haven’t seen Nathan yet.”
Dr. Iorfino blinked owlishly. “Dr. Rocco didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“When he approached me about Nathan’s case, he sent me the boy’s whole medical history, as well as blood and urine samples. So I could begin testing our theory.”
“Theory? What theory?” Now Catherine sounded nearly panicked.
Bobby leaned forward. “Mrs. Gagnon’s been through a lot the past few days, Doctor. Maybe you should start at the beginning.”
“Well, yes. I suppose. That horrible business with Dr. Rocco, of course. Oh well, and yes, Mrs. Gagnon’s own husband. Quite right.” Dr. Iorfino shuffled the papers inside the file, cleared his throat. “Dr. Rocco contacted me several months ago regarding Nathan. Did he mention that, Mrs. Gagnon?”
“No.”
“Hmm. I see. Well, given Nathan’s symptoms—first the fever, vomiting, growth failure, retarded development of motor skills, now the obvious hepatic glyconeogenesis, galactose intolerance, and medically resistant hypophosphatemia—he began to suspect a particular syndrome. So he asked me to perform an in-depth analysis of Nathan’s chromosomes.”
“Glyconeogenesis,” Catherine repeated awkwardly. “Galactose intolerance? I don’t know what those are.”
“Dr. Rocco has been treating Nathan as if he’s had food allergies, correct? Asking you to substitute soy products for dairy, following a diabetes-mellitus-like diet of small meals with low sugar/carbohydrate intake?”
“He thought Nathan might be allergic to milk. And his blood sugar levels are too high, so he’s been on a low-carb, high-protein diet.”
“Correct, that’s what the records indicate. However, as you can attest, even after a year of this regimen Nathan has failed to make significant progress. Tests show increased levels of glucose in the body, which in turn is leading to the accumulation of glycogen in the liver, pancreas, and kidneys—”
“He’s not improving,” Catherine agreed.
“Mrs. Gagnon, Nathan doesn’t have food allergies. He does, however, have a mutation in the GLUT2 gene. In short, he suffers from a rare but well-defined clinical entity known as Fanconi-Bickel syndrome.”
Catherine expelled a short breath. “You know what’s wrong with him? You know what’s wrong with my son?”
“Yes. Basically, due to a genetic defect, your son does not correctly metabolize glucose and galactose—”
“Galactose?”
“The sugars in milk. Pulling Nathan off dairy products certainly helped, but the fact remains too much sugar is being built up in the filters of his kidneys, leading to a host of problems, including, if we don’t start proper treatment, kidney disease.”
“There’s a proper treatment? You can fix it, this Fanconi-Bickel?” Catherine�
�s eyes were growing bright, nearly feverish.
“There is no cure for Fanconi-Bickel, Mrs. Gagnon,” Dr. Iorfino said patiently. “But now that we have a diagnosis, we can start an appropriate regimen that will mitigate many of the complications Nathan is experiencing. And with proper treatment and diet, your son can lead a fairly normal life.”
“Oh my God,” Catherine said. “Oh my God.” She put a hand over her mouth. She eyed the doctor wildly, then stared at Bobby, and then in a rush of emotions burst into tears. “He’s going to be okay. Finally, finally, after all these years …”
“Thank you,” she sobbed to Dr. Iorfino. “After all the tests, all the wondering and doubt … you have no idea how good it is to finally know what’s going on.”
Dr. Iorfino actually blushed. “Well, you don’t have to thank me, per se. It’s Dr. Rocco who put the pieces together. Fine bit of analysis, I must say. Fanconi-Bickel is very rare, and hardly ever seen around these parts.”
“A genetic disorder,” Catherine murmured, belatedly wiping at her eyes. “Random bad luck. Who would’ve thought?”
But Dr. Iorfino was frowning now. “Fanconi-Bickel isn’t exactly random, Mrs. Gagnon. It’s an inherited defect, mostly seen in males.” Matter-of-factly, he stated: “It’s what you find in families with a history of incest.”
For a moment, Catherine didn’t speak. She appeared too stunned to react to the news. In contrast, for Bobby, the pieces were finally coming together.
“But Jimmy and I weren’t related,” Catherine protested. “My family is from Massachusetts; his family is from Georgia. We knew our parents, there is no way—”
“It’s not you,” Bobby said.
She turned to him, still confused. “But who?”
“The Gagnons. The judge and his wife. It’s why they left Georgia. It’s why she doesn’t exist—because, of course, they had to give her a new name. And probably why there is no marriage license—they never would’ve passed the blood test.”
He turned to Dr. Iorfino. “Can genetic defects skip a generation?”
“Absolutely.”
“And can two interrelated parties still have a healthy child? Or would the children have to have the defect?”
“No, there could be healthy offspring. Think of the royal families of Europe in centuries past. Many of them married first cousins, and still had relatively healthy offspring. But inbreeding weakens the gene pool. Sooner or later …”
“So James and Maryanne get together. Say they’re first cousins.” Bobby frowned, glanced at Catherine. “Harris said Maryanne’s family died before the wedding. What about James’s family? Have you ever heard talk of other relatives? Grandparents, aunts, uncles, anyone?”
“No, Jimmy said his parents came from small families. There was no one left alive.”
“So James and Maryanne meet. God knows her family couldn’t have been wild about the idea, but then they died. Problem solved. James and Maryanne move up here, start fresh with a new name for Maryanne, new past for both of them. Have a son.”
“Jimmy’s older brother,” Catherine whispered. “The one who died young.”
“Maybe Nathan isn’t the first Gagnon male to show signs of Fanconi-Bickel. Harris said James Junior was a sickly baby.”
“Fanconi-Bickel varies in its severity,” Dr. Iorfino provided. “In a very severe case—”
“But Jimmy didn’t have signs of any … disorders,” Catherine protested.
“Again, inbreeding doesn’t guarantee genetic disaster, Mrs. Gagnon, it just makes it more probable.”
“A ticking time bomb,” Bobby said quietly.
“Oh my God, poor Nathan …” And then, Bobby could tell she had reached the same conclusion he had, because her eyes suddenly widened with a fresh look of horror. She turned toward him. “But if Nathan has this syndrome … if others find out that Nathan has this syndrome, then …”
He nodded grimly. “Yeah. This is why the judge is so determined to get custody. Whoever has Nathan has the key to unlocking the Gagnons’ deepest, darkest secret. And that’s something worth killing for.”
Chapter
35
As he walked out of Dr. Iorfino’s office to the lobby, Bobby’s cell rang. He grimaced, but Catherine merely pushed him toward one corner of the lobby.
“I need to call my father, anyway,” she said. “I’ll tell him we’re ready for him to bring Nathan.”
Bobby nodded, giving Catherine some space as he flipped open his phone. It was D.D. She sounded strange.
“Where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”
“I had things to do. What’s up?”
“Are you with her?” D.D. asked.
Bobby didn’t have to ask who D.D. meant. It was implicit in her tone.
“D.D., what do you want?”
“Where are you?”
“You answer my question, then I’ll answer yours.”
There was silence. Bobby frowned, trying hard to interpret that silence. He didn’t get very far.
“Got ballistics back on Jimmy Gagnon’s gun,” D.D. said. “The nine-millimeter was fully loaded. Not a single cartridge missing from the clip. No GSR on the barrel, handle, anything. It was never fired.”
“But I thought …” Bobby paused, struggling to get his bearings. He could feel the danger, but he still couldn’t see it coming.
“But what about the reports of shots fired?” D.D. filled in.
“Yeah.”
“Fascinating development. Last night, when we were at the Gagnon residence cutting down the nanny’s body, one of the crime-scene techs bumped the bureau. Guess what had been taped to the underside of the top, inside a drawer? Guess what then fell down?”
He got it now. He closed his eyes. He turned away from Catherine completely, because he couldn’t look at her and hear this news. “A second gun.”
“Also nine-millimeter. Recently fired. Two bullets missing from the clip.”
“Prints?”
“Her prints, Bobby. Her gun, registered in her name, loaded with the bullets purchased by her, according to the gun dealer. Jimmy Gagnon never fired a shot Thursday night. She did.”
Bobby tried to make the words sink in. Then tried to tell himself it didn’t matter. Jimmy abused her, she had cause. Or maybe, Jimmy abused her, and she was just looking out for her son. He didn’t know. He tried on the thought as many ways as he knew how. He was still left cold and empty.
“Did you tell her how to do it, Bobby?” D.D. asked now. “Is that how it played out? You met her at the cocktail party. Decided to trade in your current blonde for a more exotic model. Catherine’s a big step up, I gotta give you credit for that. Did she promise you money, or was it all for love?”
“It didn’t happen like that.”
“No? So it was just sex? She used your body, and you shot your mouth off in the postcoital glow?”
“D.D., I only met Catherine for one brief moment at that party. I never saw her again until Thursday night.”
“Catherine framed you, Bobby. She fired the gun, she set the stage. If we did have audio, I bet it would be filled with all sorts of venomous things she yelled at Jimmy to keep his anger high, to keep him waving that pistol. After that, it was only a matter of time.”
He didn’t protest anymore. He had squeezed his eyes shut. It still didn’t stop him from seeing what he didn’t want to see. Jimmy Gagnon’s head in his sights. His finger, squeezing the trigger.
“I just don’t get it, Bobby,” D.D. said quietly. “So maybe she could get you to take out Jimmy. Maybe you even thought it had to be done. But what in the world could she have said to make you turn on Copley? Jesus, Bobby, he was one of our own!”
“What?”
“We both know he was on to you. It was only a matter of time. But still, you could’ve pled down, Bobby. You’re a law enforcement officer with a distinguished career. So you made a mistake. You still had options. You didn’t have to do … God, Bobby, a knife? I
wouldn’t have even thought you had it in you.”
“D.D., I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“One more time, Bobby, where are you?”
But he already knew better than to answer. Something had happened to Copley. A knife. Umbrio probably. Except they thought he did it, and if his fellow law enforcement officers thought he did it …
You didn’t go after an expert-ranked police sniper with a pair of handcuffs.
Jesus Christ, he was in a world of hurt.
“D.D.,” he said urgently. “Listen to me. Saturday morning a man was released from prison. His name is Richard Umbrio. Look him up: you’ll find he was the same man who kidnapped and raped Catherine Gagnon twenty-five years ago. You’ll also discover that he wasn’t due for parole. Judge Gagnon arranged it. He set it up. He’s using Umbrio to kill the people close to her.”
“Copley wasn’t close to her.”
“I don’t know why he killed Copley! Honest to God … You said knife. Umbrio used a knife at the Rocco crime scene. Umbrio’s the one who killed Tony Rocco, as well as Prudence Walker.”
“Copley wasn’t dead, Bobby. He used to be a boxer in college. Did it surprise you how much he put up a fight? Did you think it would get that messy? Well, he still had the last laugh. As he lay in the bathtub, bleeding out, he left us one last clue. He wrote your name, Bobby, in his own blood.”
Shit, Bobby thought.
“Colleen Robinson,” he said quickly, trying to get out as much as he could. “She’s a middleman, hired by Judge Gagnon to hire Richard Umbrio. Pull the judge’s financial records, track down Robinson. You’ll find corroboration of what I’m saying. The judge did it, D.D. He’s desperate to cover up evidence of his and Maryanne’s incest. Contact Dr. Iorfino, he’ll tell you all about it.”
“Turn yourself in, Bobby.”
“I can’t.”
“For the last time—”
“If I’m behind bars,” he said simply, “there’s no one left to protect Catherine.”
“Goddammit, Bobby—”
He flipped the phone shut. He turned away. Then he was crossing the room, powered by grief and rage. Catherine was still on the phone, face pale, eyes wide.