by Lisa Gardner
He grabbed her shoulders and, before he could stop himself, shook her hard.
“What the hell did you do?”
“Bobby—”
“Did you think I wouldn’t care? Did you think I wouldn’t mind being used as a tool for murder?”
“It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter.”
“The hell it doesn’t! You used me. You lied to me. You set me up to kill another human being.”
“I didn’t have any other choice! Bobby, please listen to me—”
“Shut up!” he roared.
And then she slapped him. Across the face. Hard. His ears rang. His eyes blinked. The shock rocketed through him, and for an instant, he found his own arm pulling back. He could see himself in his mind’s eye, swinging forward, smacking her back. She would fall, cut down by the blow. And he’d, what … lord it over her? Feel triumphant in his physical superiority? Watch her cower, as his mother used to cower, alone on the kitchen floor?
His arm came down. The roaring subsided in his brain. He came back to himself. Saw that he was still gripping Catherine’s shoulder with one hand, and that his fingers were squeezing mercilessly while the tears poured down her face.
He let her go so abruptly, she stumbled.
“He was going to take Nathan away from me,” she said. “He was going to leave me with nothing simply because he could. You don’t know what it’s like, Bobby, to have nothing.”
“You had no right—”
“It never would’ve worked if he hadn’t hated me. That’s the real trick to manipulation, you know. You can never make someone do something they really don’t want to do. You can only make them do what was already in their heart.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I saw his face, Thursday night. I looked into Jimmy’s eyes, and, in that one instant, I knew I was dead.”
“Liar.”
“Bobby, I didn’t thank you for killing him,” she said steadily. “I thanked you because you saved my life.”
He couldn’t talk anymore. He was too heartsick.
“Bobby.” Her hand came up. Tentatively, she stroked his arm. He flinched at her touch. “I need you. You have to help me.”
He laughed hollowly. “What, already got in mind someone else to kill?”
“Just now, when I called, my father didn’t answer his phone, Bobby.”
“So what?”
“Richard Umbrio did.”
Chapter
36
Mr. Bosu had no problem finding the neighborhood. This had been his first request when initially contacted by Robinson. He wanted to know everything about Catherine. Her home, her family, her husband, her son. He got a list of every job she’d ever had. He demanded photos and driver’s license information and details down to her grocery shopping list and her favorite restaurant. Some of the information had been boring. But most had intrigued him.
The fact that her parents had never moved—that had genuinely fascinated him. Mostly, because he was willing to bet the last penny he would soon be making that his own parents were sitting in the same old house, on the same old sofa, staring at the same old living room from all those years before. They were two peas in a pod, he and Catherine. He had not expected that in the beginning, when he had randomly plucked her off the street with an abbreviated scream and scattering of schoolbooks. It had come to him slowly, day after day, as he continued to let her live. She was the only person in the world who could truly meet his needs. She was the only person in the world who knew the real him.
The day he’d arrived to find her gone was the worst day of his life.
But that was okay. He was going to correct all that real soon.
Mr. Bosu was whistling when he pulled into the driveway. He was still whistling when he got out of his car.
“Stay put,” he told Trickster. “This time around, I’m flying solo.”
He mounted the steps, banged on the door.
He heard the voice from the other side, wary and cautious. “Who is it?”
Mr. Bosu smiled. He flipped open the ID he’d found on Colleen and waved it briefly in front of the peephole. Enough to give the impression of possessing an official ID, without giving away the actual photo.
“Detective Bosu,” he announced. “I’m afraid, Mr. Miller, I have some bad news about an old case. We should talk right away.”
“Is it Richard Umbrio?” Frank Miller asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Catherine’s father unlocked the door. And Mr. Bosu walked right in.
It turned out that Frank Miller was no dummy. Mr. Bosu wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Maybe someone smaller, more shrunken, more beaten by the lousy blow delivered to his family earlier in life. Someone more like his own dad.
Instead, Frank Miller was tall, erect, trim. Active for his age, no doubt prided himself on living alone.
He took one look at Mr. Bosu’s hulking build, older, fleshed-out face, and promptly paused.
“Don’t I know you—?” he started. Then recognition struck. The older man’s eyes went wide. Much faster than Mr. Bosu ever expected, Frank Miller pulled back his right arm and nailed Mr. Bosu in the eye.
“Shit,” Mr. Bosu gasped, staggering back, belatedly trying to cover his face. The old geezer didn’t wait. He went for Mr. Bosu’s kidneys. Got him with a good three or four jabs that would definitely have him coughing up blood later tonight.
Miller launched his right hook again. Enough was enough. Mr. Bosu held up his meaty hand. He caught Miller’s blow in his palm. Then he wrapped his fingers around the older man’s hand and bore down hard.
The blood drained out of Miller’s face. And for the first time, fear appeared in his eyes.
“Tell me where the boy is.”
Miller didn’t speak.
“I know you have him. She had nowhere else to go. Of course she brought him to you.” Mr. Bosu forced back Miller’s hand now, bending the wrist until the man’s knuckles nearly touched his own forearm. Miller went bug-eyed with the pain.
“You can tell me sooner, or you can tell me later. But I’m going to get the information. The only question is, how much will you suffer?”
“Fuck … you,” Miller said. Then he surprised them both by kicking Mr. Bosu in the kneecap. Mr. Bosu went down. Startled, he released his grip on the man’s hand, and Miller promptly bolted for the kitchen.
Mr. Bosu sighed. There was only one thing left to do. He got out the knife.
Mr. Bosu entered the kitchen just as Miller reached into the utility closet. Mr. Bosu had a split-second warning, then he was staring down the barrel of a shotgun. He didn’t wait. He sprung forward, left arm outstretched to grab the gun barrel and force it up, even as Miller fumbled with the trigger. The gun didn’t go off and Mr. Bosu didn’t expect that it would. Few people left a loaded shotgun lying around the house, particularly given the presence of a child.
Miller’s retrieval of the gun told Mr. Bosu something else. The utility closet was only inches from the back door. Surely Miller had had enough time to run out, flee to safety. Instead, he’d chosen to take a stand.
The boy was somewhere in the house. That’s why Miller hadn’t run. He couldn’t bring himself to leave his grandson.
Noble, Mr. Bosu thought idly, as he drove the serrated blade into the soft spot beneath the man’s ribs. Miller made a curious wet sound. Not a scream. Not a groan. Almost a sigh. A man who knew what was coming next.
“Sorry to hear about the wife,” Mr. Bosu said. “Otherwise, I would’ve done her next.”
He pulled the knife over and up. It didn’t take much after all. The old man collapsed, a shriveled husk on the kitchen floor. Mr. Bosu remembered to step back more quickly this time. He didn’t want to ruin a second pair of shoes.
He washed up in the kitchen sink, grimacing at the sight of blood still staining his shirtsleeve and now fresh splatters on his pants. No doubt about it, he was a mess. He rinsed the knife before returning it to the sheath wrapp
ed around his calf. Then he went to search the house.
He found the boy upstairs, in a room decorated with faded pink and purple flowers. As he pushed open the door, the boy said in a hopeful sort of voice, “Mommy?”
Mr. Bosu smiled. First time he’d seen the boy was in the hospital the night he went after the doctor. That night, the boy had called him Daddy. It was nice to know Mr. Bosu could be so loved.
He pushed all the way into the room and the boy sat up on the bed. For a moment, they regarded each other soberly. The boy was small, pale, and sickly. Mr. Bosu was huge, heavily muscled, and stained with blood.
“So,” Mr. Bosu said at last, “would you like to see a puppy?”
The boy held out his hand.
As they were leaving the house, the phone rang. Mr. Bosu didn’t have to be a psychic to know who it would be. He picked up the phone.
“Dad,” Catherine said.
“Catherine,” Mr. Bosu said.
“Oh my God.”
“Hey, Cat. Your son says hi.”
Chapter
37
“We’re going to need a gun,” Bobby said.
Catherine didn’t reply. She was in a state of shock, her gaze unfocused as she followed him blankly down the stairs. He’d made a conscious decision to bypass the elevators. The hospital had security officers. Would they already be on the lookout for him, maybe lying in wait in the lobby?
He remembered what he’d told Dr. Lane only hours before: Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.
“They took Jimmy’s guns,” Catherine said abruptly, panting a little as Bobby rushed them downstairs. “He kept them in the safe. An officer took them all away.”
Except for the one she’d hidden in the bureau, Bobby thought, but now was not the time.
“I have three handguns and a rifle at home, but I’m pretty sure they already have officers positioned at my front door.” He frowned, hammered down another long flight, and found a solution. “My father. Pop. Maybe they haven’t reached him yet.”
There was no cell signal in the stairwell. Bobby had to wait until they reached the lobby. He spotted two security officers positioned by the main doors. They didn’t seem to be watching for anyone in particular, but Bobby didn’t feel like taking a chance. He grabbed Catherine’s hand and pulled her down the side hallway. They emerged out a smaller entrance into a busy side street. Perfect.
“Grab a cab,” he ordered.
“I have a car—”
“And the police know your plates.”
She went to work on the cab. He flipped open his cell phone and pressed the speed-dial button for his father. Pop picked up on the second ring.
“Pop, I need a favor.”
“Bobby? Two guys came here earlier. Looking, asking, making a lot of nasty suggestions.”
“I’m sorry, Pop. I can’t talk, and I can’t explain. I need a gun, though, and I don’t have time to drive out to your place.”
“What do you want?” his father asked.
“Handgun. Nothing fancy, but plenty of ammo. Are they watching you?”
“You mean the two guys in suits across the street?”
“Shit.”
“They told me you’re in over your head.”
“I’m still swimming.”
“I saw on the news.… They’re flashing your photo, Bobby, saying you’re wanted for questioning regarding the murder of a local ADA.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Never thought you did.”
“Do you trust me, Pop?”
“Never had a moment’s doubt.”
“I love you, Dad.” And that comment, probably more than any other, scared them both.
“Where?” his father asked quietly.
Bobby thought of Castle Island.
Thirty minutes later, his father met them there.
Mr. Bosu was also on the phone. Winding his car through the maze of back streets in downtown Boston, he was semi-lost, but not quite worried about that yet. The boy sat quietly in the front seat. He was a good boy, passive, obedient. He already reminded Mr. Bosu of his mother.
Trickster was on the boy’s lap. Nathan was stroking Trickster’s ears. Trickster was nuzzling Nathan’s hand. Mr. Bosu smiled at them both indulgently as his call was finally picked up.
“Good afternoon!” he boomed into Robinson’s cell phone.
“Who is this?” the man asked.
“Mr. Bosu, of course. And this is Judge Gagnon, I presume.”
The good judge, aka Benefactor X, was obviously flustered. “Who … what—”
“Do you prefer me to use the name Richard Umbrio? I would think on an open phone line, you wouldn’t, but I don’t care. Either way, you owe me money.”
“What are you talking about?” the judge demanded.
Mr. Bosu glanced over at the boy. Nathan was regarding him curiously. Mr. Bosu grinned. He meant it to be friendly. Maybe he’d spent too much time among felons after all, for the boy promptly turned away, focusing intently on the dog. Trickster licked his chin.
“You owe me two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” Mr. Bosu said matter-of-factly.
“What?”
“For your grandson.” Mr. Bosu had finally found the side street he wanted. He turned onto a row of grand old homes in the middle of Beacon Hill.
“That is not funny—”
“Nathan, my good boy, tell your grandfather hi.”
Mr. Bosu held out the phone. Nathan called out, “Hi.”
“You monster!” the judge boomed. “Where the hell are you?”
And Mr. Bosu said merrily, “Right at your front door.”
Bobby’s father wanted to join them. Bobby lost ten precious minutes explaining to his father that it was too dangerous, that Pop was a custom pistolsmith and not a trained marksman, etc., etc., etc.
In the end, Bobby got rude, grabbing the gun, loading up Catherine, and climbing impatiently into the front seat of his father’s car. Bobby drove away, with the image of his father standing lost and alone captured vividly in the rearview mirror.
Bobby’s hands were tight on the wheel.
“Where do we start?” Catherine asked.
“Your father’s house.”
“Do you think …”
“I’m sure Nathan is all right,” he tried.
She gave him a feeble smile, but the tears were building in the corners of her eyes.
“My father and I have always fought,” she said quietly. Then she turned her head away from him to cry.
Frank Miller’s house looked quiet from the front. Door was closed. Blinds were drawn. Nothing and no one stirred. Bobby cruised by once, saw no police in the neighborhood, and rounded the block.
He parked on the corner, instructing Catherine to take over the wheel. “You see him,” he said, no need to define him, “just hit the gas and get the hell out of here.”
“And if he has Nathan?”
“Then hit the gas and aim for clipping Umbrio’s kneecaps. He’ll go down, you can grab your son.”
She liked that idea. It infused color into her cheeks and put a spark in her eyes. She took over the driver’s seat with a look of pure determination, while Bobby rechecked the gun his father had given him, then headed down the street.
The front door was unlocked. That gave him the first hint. Walking into the living room, the heavy, rusty scent told him the rest. He checked the whole house just to be sure. But it was empty. Umbrio had come and gone, leaving nothing but a corpse in his wake.
Bobby couldn’t bear to look too closely at Catherine’s father. The gray hair, the bent, sprawled form, already reminded him too much of Pop. He saw the shotgun on the floor and picked it up, recovering a box of shells from the yawning closet. The man had put up a fight. He’d held his ground for his grandson.
He’d tell that to Catherine, see if that gave her any measure of comfort for all the days to come.
Bobby exited with the shotg
un, jogging back to the car, unbearably aware of time. Umbrio had now had Nathan for nearly an hour. Sixty whole minutes. There was no telling what a man like that could do with so much time.
But he didn’t think Umbrio had killed the boy—at least not yet. If that’s all Umbrio wanted, Bobby would’ve found Nathan’s body with his grandfather’s. No, when it came to Nathan, Umbrio had something much grander in mind.
And that thought left Bobby chilled to the bone.
He dialed 911 as he approached the car.
“Body found, male deceased, definite homicide,” he reported, and rattled off the address. He flipped his phone shut just as the 911 operator asked him to hold, opening the car door and sliding into the passenger seat.
Catherine looked at the shotgun, then at his face.
Her face was pale; she struggled briefly, then got it together. “Nathan?”
“No sign of him. I’m sure he’s still all right.”
“Okay,” she said, but her voice was clearly strained, barely holding it together. She took a shaky breath. “Where?”
“I think it’s time we go straight to the source.”
“Walpole?”
“No. Your father-in-law.”
Mr. Bosu was extremely pleased with himself. He parallel-parked the car in front of the Gagnons’ prestigious townhouse, address courtesy of Colleen’s records, and prepared to hear the judge hastily renegotiate terms.
Instead, over the phone, the judge had started to chuckle.
“Let me get this straight,” the judge was saying, “you want two hundred and fifty thousand dollars or you’ll do what?”
Mr. Bosu glanced at the boy next to him. Interestingly enough, he couldn’t bring himself to say the words with the boy sitting right there.
“I think we both know what,” Mr. Bosu said primly. He peered out the window, scowling at the townhouse. Place looked dark. Deserted. For the first time, Mr. Bosu began to wonder about things.
“I don’t care.”
“What?”
“You heard me. The boy was a problem I was going to have to take care of sooner or later. In a curious sort of way, you’ve now done me a favor and I thank you.”