Alone (25 page)

Now he had the puppy on the leash and they were both trotting merrily down Boylston Street. The puppy—Carmel? Snow?—appeared absolutely thrilled to be out in the fresh, fall air. Come to think about it, Mr. Bosu was happy, too.

Mr. Bosu and the puppy—Trickster, maybe? Come on, how could you have a puppy without a name?—reached the street corner. Mr. Bosu got out the map tucked into his pocket. A woman paused beside him. She was blonde, beautiful, and dressed entirely in the fall collection of Ralph Lauren. She gave him a stunning smile.

“What a beautiful puppy!”

“Thank you.” Mr. Bosu looked around the woman. No kids in tow. He was disappointed.

“What's its name?”

“I just bought him fifteen minutes ago. We're still getting to know one another.”

“Oh, he's adorable.” The woman was squatting down now, oblivious to the people trying to walk all around them. She scratched the dangling brown ears. The puppy closed his eyes in true puppy bliss. “Your first dog?” the woman asked.

“I had another when I was a kid.”

“Do you live in the city?”

“At the moment.”

“It won't be easy to have a puppy in an apartment.”

“Fortunately, my job allows me to make my own hours, so it won't be so bad.”

“You're really lucky,” the woman gushed. She was eyeing his Armani sweater and obviously liking what she saw. He flexed just for the hell of it, and her smile grew. “What do you do?”

“Kill people,” the man said cheerfully.

She laughed, a full, throaty sound. He bet she practiced that at night, just for guys like him.

“No, really,” she said.

“Yes, really,” he insisted, but then softened the words with a smile. “I would tell you more,” he said, “but then I'd have to kill you, too.”

He watched her work it out. Was she amused, frightened, or confused? She glanced at his Armani sweater again, then the puppy—Trickster, he was starting to like Trickster—and decided to go with amused. “Sounds exciting. Very hush-hush.”

“Oh, it is. And you?”

“Recently divorced. He had money, now I'm spending it.”

“Congratulations! No kids to worry about?”

“Fortunately not. Or maybe unfortunately. There's a lot more money in child support.”

“Indeed unfortunate,” he agreed. Her eyes were warm, practically glowing as they caressed his chest.

“Maybe we could have dinner sometime,” he said. Those were the magic words. The woman whipped out a card with her name and number like a seasoned pro. He slid it into his pocket and promised that he would call her.

Trickster was now peeing on a newspaper stand. Not quite so attractive, so Mr. Bosu tugged on the puppy and they headed on their way. He eyed the map again. Six blocks later, they were there.

It was a lovely street, tiny, tucked deep within a maze of roads in downtown Boston. Clearly residential here. The lower level offered a corner grocer, florist, a tiny deli. Upstairs were the apartments. He counted from left to right until he found the number he was looking for. Then he eyed his notes once more.

Okay, all was well.

He found a bench by the corner grocer. He tapped the empty place beside him and Trickster jumped up, curling up beside his leg. The puppy made a long, soft sigh, obviously winding down from another hard session of busy puppy work.

The man smiled. He still remembered his first dog, Popeye. A cute little terrier his father had brought home reluctantly from some guy at work. Neither of his parents had been into dogs, but a boy needed a dog, so they brought home a dog. Mr. Bosu was given its complete care and his mother learned to sigh and blink hard when Popeye chewed up her favorite shoes, then went to work on the plastic-covered sofa.

Popeye had been a good dog. They'd run together through the neighborhood, playing endless games of fetch and diving through big piles of leaves.

Mr. Bosu knew what people expected of a guy like him, but he'd never hurt his dog. Never even thought about it. In the silent, little house where he grew up, Popeye had been his best friend.

It lasted five years, until the day Popeye rushed into the street after a squirrel and got flattened by Mrs. Mackey's Buick sedan. Mr. Bosu remembered Mrs. Mackey's horrified scream. Then watching his little dog twitching in the throes of death. There had never even been a question of bringing Popeye to the vet. It had been that bad.

Mr. Bosu had wrapped Popeye in his favorite T-shirt. Then he'd dug a hole in the backyard, burying his dog himself. He hadn't cried. His father had been very proud of him.

Mr. Bosu went to bed early that night, but never slept. He lay wide-eyed in his twin-sized bed, wishing his dog would return to him. Then he had an idea.

He left the house shortly after one a.m. It didn't take him long. People parked their cars in the street, and in a neighborhood like his, no one ever locked the doors. He popped the hood. He used a screwdriver. Punched a few holes. In the end, it was simple and neat.

They said Mrs. Mackey never saw it coming. One minute she was braking for the intersection, the next she was sailing right through the stop sign. The oncoming traffic nailed her at thirty miles an hour. Gave her a concussion and broke several of her ribs, not to mention her hip.

Didn't kill her though. Damn Buick.

Still, it wasn't a bad effort from a twelve-year-old. Of course, he'd gotten much better since then.

Now Mr. Bosu eyed the apartment window up on the second floor. Still no sign of movement. That was okay. He could wait.

He leaned back against the bench. He closed his eyes against the warm sun. He let out a long, low sigh, very similar to Trickster's. Then he scratched his puppy's ears.

Trickster thumped his tail appreciatively. Just a man and his dog, Mr. Bosu thought.

Yeah, just a man, his dog, and his hit list.

Chapter
23

B
OBBY WENT FOR
a run. Daylight was failing. The sunny fall afternoon had come to an end, and the evening loomed dark and cold. Heading out the door, he found himself automatically grabbing his neon yellow running jacket, and that filled him with a sense of relief that was hard to explain. Even after everything he'd been through, his subconscious wasn't trying to kill him just yet. He wondered if he should call Dr. Lane and give her the good news.

He hit the streets, pounding down one long city block and up another. The streets were quiet, people tucked in their homes, preparing for another work week. Lone cars zoomed by here and there, illuminating him briefly before sweeping past.

He planned on running to the old Bath House, an easy five-mile loop from his home. But the Bath House came and went, his feet still churning pavement. He arrived at Castle Island, then swept around the shore's edge, running into the dark.

He wanted to blame James Gagnon for his current mood. Or Catherine Gagnon or even bloodthirsty ADA Rick Copley, so eager to sink his chops into a good, juicy homicide he already had saliva dripping from his teeth.

But in all honesty, he knew what his mood was all about. Tonight, he was thinking about his mother.

It had been so long ago now, he didn't know if the face he recalled was actually hers or some composite carefully crafted by his mind. He had a vague impression: brown eyes, dark hair curling around a pale face, the scent of White Shoulders perfume. He thought he remembered her squatting before him, saying urgently:
I love you, Bobby.
Or maybe that was merely a product of mental fiction. Maybe she'd actually said,
Don't stick your hand in the light socket, son
or
Don't play with guns.

He didn't honestly know. He'd been six when she'd left. Old enough to hurt, young enough to not understand.
Your mother's gone and she's not coming back.
His father had announced it one morning over breakfast. Bobby and George had been chomping away on the sugarcoated Apple Jacks their mother always refused to buy, and as a kid, that had been Bobby's first thought
—Wow, Apple Jacks every day.
His father didn't seem upset, George was nodding solemnly, so Bobby went along.

Later, he'd lie in bed at night, a crushing weight building upon his chest that would still be there when he woke up in the morning. Then there'd been the night he'd heard George yelling at their father. Then there had been the subsequent trip to the emergency room.

After that, no one in their house had spoken of his mother again.

For a long time, Bobby had hated his father. Like George, he'd blamed him for everything. His father who said too little and drank too much. His father who could be very quick with his fists.

When George had turned eighteen, he'd hightailed it out of the state, and he wasn't ever coming back. Maybe that was their mother in him. Bobby would never ask.

But for Bobby it was different. Time did change things. His father changed. Bobby changed. And so did Bobby's impressions of his mother. Now he thought less and less about all the good reasons she had to leave, and wondered more and more why she'd never tried to make any contact. Didn't she miss her two sons at all? Didn't she feel at least a little bit of ache, a little bit of emptiness, where all that love for her children used to be?

Bobby's side hurt. He felt a stitch, growing rapidly as his breath heaved in painful gasps. He picked up his step, running anyway, because anything had to be better than standing alone with these kinds of thoughts. If he kept moving, maybe he could outrun his memories. If he kept running, maybe he'd exhaust his mind.

Twelve miles later. Winded. Sweat-soaked. Chilled.

He finally headed for home. Footsteps tired now, but mind still churning.

He wished he could turn back the clock. He wished he could pull his finger off the trigger the second before he sighted Jimmy Gagnon's head. He wished, in fact, he'd never even heard of the Gagnons, because now, for the first time, he wasn't sure anymore what he'd seen, or why he'd done what he'd done, and that was the most frightening thing of all.

Three days later, Bobby wasn't afraid that Catherine Gagnon was a murderer. He was afraid that he was.

Bobby ran home.

He called Susan.

S
HE WANTED TO
meet at a coffee shop. They settled on a Starbucks downtown. Neutral territory for them both.

He spent too much time picking out his clothes. He ended up with jeans and a long-sleeved chambray shirt he remembered too late Susan had given him for Christmas. Finding his wallet, he ran into a photo of them hiking together, and that sent him into another emotional tailspin.

He exchanged the chambray shirt for a dark green jersey and headed for the Pru.

Business, he told himself. It was all about business.

Susan was already there. She'd selected a small table tucked away behind a towering display of silver-and-green logo mugs. Her hair was pulled back in a clip at the nape of her neck. Long blonde strands had already escaped, curling around her face. The moment she saw him, she started tucking the loose tendrils behind her ears, the way she always did when she was nervous. He felt an immediate pang in his chest and did his best to ignore it.

“Evening,” he said.

“Evening.”

They suffered an awkward moment. Should he bend down and kiss her on the cheek? Should she stand up and give him a friendly hug? Hell, maybe they could shake hands.

Bobby expelled another pent-up breath, then jerked his head toward the counter. “Gonna get a coffee. Need anything?”

She gestured to the giant, foam-topped mug in front of her. “I'm fine.”

Bobby hated Starbucks. He stared at the menu with its dozen different espresso drinks, trying to figure out how you could make so much money off a coffee shop that offered hardly any plain old coffee. He finally settled on a French roast the perky cashier assured him was dark but smooth.

Bobby took the oversized mug back with him to the table, noticed that his hands were shaking slightly, and frowned harder.

“So, how have you been?” he asked at last, setting down the mug, taking a seat.

“Busy. The concert and all.”

“How's it going?”

She shrugged. “The normal amount of panic.”

“Good.” He took a sip of his coffee, felt it sear a bitter trail all the way to his gut, and missed Bogey's with a passion.

“And you?” Susan asked. She still hadn't touched her drink, just kept turning it between her palms.

“Bobby?”

He forced his gaze up. “I'm hanging in there.”

“I thought you would call on Friday.”

“I know.”

“I read the paper, and I was so . . . sad. I was sad about what happened and how that must feel for you. All evening on Friday I'd thought you'd call. Then Saturday morning, I thought to check your drawer. Imagine my surprise, Bobby, when I discovered it empty.”

His gaze went to the tower of coffee mugs; her eyes bored into his face.

“You've never been the most approachable man, Bobby. I used to tell myself that was part of your appeal. The strong, silent type. A regular macho man. Well, I'm not finding it very appealing anymore, Bobby. Two years later, I deserve better than this shit.”

The unexpected curse startled Bobby into looking at her again.

Slowly, she nodded. “Yes, I swear, sometimes I even break things when I get mad. In fact, in the past two days, I've broken quite a few things. It gave me something to do before the investigators came.”

Bobby raised his coffee mug. Christ, his hand was shaking.

“Is that why you finally called, Bobby? Not out of concern for me, but because of curiosity over what the investigators said?”

“Both.”

“Fuck you!” Her control disintegrated. She was nearly crying now, pushing at her eyes with the heels of her hands, trying desperately not to make a scene in public, but failing.

“I was wrong to walk out on you on Friday,” he offered awkwardly.

“No kidding!”

“It wasn't something I planned. I woke up, I looked around . . . I panicked.”

“Did you think I couldn't take it? Is that what this is about?”