Alone (6 page)

Bobby sat back down. He remained scowling, however, and those keen eyes of his were narrowed, assessing. She wondered how often he used that stare on people and found them wanting. She added to her mental list: Lots of acquaintances but very few friends. Does not forgive. Does not forget.

And he had lied about his mother's leaving.

“I'd like to keep this simple,” he said.

“Fair enough.”

“Ask what you gotta ask, I'll answer what I gotta answer, and we can both get on with our lives.”

“Admirable goal.”

“I'm not thinking of a lifetime plan.”

“Wouldn't dream of suggesting it to you,” she assured him. “Unfortunately, this isn't single-sitting work.”

“Why not?”

“For starters, you didn't make an appointment and we don't have enough time to cover everything in one night.”

“Oh.”

“So, I'm going to suggest that we talk a little bit tonight, then meet again on Monday.”

“Monday.” He had to think about it. “All right,” he begrudged the professional headshrinker. “I can do that.”

“Perfect. Glad we got that covered.” Her voice sounded drier than she intended, but at least he smiled. He had a decent smile. It softened the hard lines of his face and put bracket lines around his eyes. She was slightly surprised to realize that when he smiled, he was one very handsome man.

“Maybe instead of talking about last night, we can talk about today,” she said.

“Today?”

“Today is the first day of your life after you've shot someone. Surely that's noteworthy. Have you slept?”

“A little.”

“Eaten?”

He had to think about it, then seemed genuinely surprised. “No, I guess I haven't. I went out to fetch coffee when I woke up this afternoon, but then I saw the
Boston Herald
and . . . I never got the coffee.”

“Did you pick up the
Herald
?”

“Yeah.”

“Read the article?”

“Enough.”

“What'd you think?”

“Massachusetts State Police officers don't target civilians, not even if they're judges' sons.”

“Good piece of fiction?”

“Yeah, based on the three paragraphs I read, I'd agree with that.”

“You didn't read more? I would've thought you'd be more curious.”

“About what happened? I don't need some reporter's account, I had box seats.”

“No. About the victim. About Jimmy Gagnon.”

That drew him up short. She gave him credit. She'd caught him off guard, but he took the time to consider her point. “Information is a luxury tactical units don't have,” he said finally. “When I pulled the trigger last night, I didn't care about the man's name, his neighborhood, his father, or his history. I didn't know if he beat his dog or gave money to orphanages. All I knew was that the subject had a gun pointed at a woman's head and his finger on the trigger. I had to base my actions on his actions. So I did. Now none of the rest matters anymore, so why torture myself with it?”

Elizabeth smiled again. She liked Bobby Dodge. She hadn't seen so many layers of denial and rationalization in years, but she liked Bobby Dodge.

“Exercise?” she asked. “Have you worked out today?”

“No. I thought about going for a run, but with my photo plastered everyplace . . .”

“I understand. Okay, this is your assignment for the weekend. You need to start taking care of yourself physically, so you can then tend to yourself emotionally. Is there anyplace you can go, maybe your father's, maybe your brother's, where you can escape and get some rest?”

“My girlfriend's.”

“And she's doing okay with this?”

“I don't know. We haven't exactly had time to chat about it.”

“Well, given what's happened, you're going to need a good support network, so if I were you, I'd talk to her about it.” Elizabeth leaned forward. “Last night was a big thing, Bobby. It's going to take more than twenty-four hours for you to wade through it, so first things first. Eat three well-balanced meals a day and try to get a good night's sleep. If you're feeling tense and wired, engage in some light exercise to blow off steam. Be careful, though. There's a fine line between running six miles to help yourself relax and running fifty miles to grind your thoughts into dust. You don't want to cross that line.”

“I promise not to run more than forty-nine miles,” he said.

“All right, then. Have a nice weekend.”

“That's it? Eat, sleep, work out, and I'm cured? I can go back to work next week?”

“Eat, sleep, work out, and we'll talk more later,” she corrected mildly. “But not tonight; it's too late and maybe it's even too soon for you to know everything that's on your mind. I'm going to give you my phone number. You can call me if you do feel a sudden urge to talk, otherwise I'll see you on Monday. How does three sound?”

He shrugged. “They won't let me work, so I guess my day's kinda open.”

“Perfect.” She rose. He rose. He didn't bolt for the door right away, like she thought he might. Instead, he just sort of stood there, looking adrift.

“Sometimes,” he said abruptly, “sometimes when I think about what happened, I get really angry. Not with myself, but with the subject, for going after his wife and kid. For making me shoot him. Is that weird? To kill a man and hate him for it?”

“I'd say that reaction falls within the normal category.”

He nodded, but didn't lose that unsettled look. “Can I ask you another question? A general psychobabble sort of one?”

“By all means, allow me to babble away.”

“We get called out for domestic disturbances a lot. Seems three, four times a week I'm standing in someone's yard while the wife yells at the husband or the husband screams at the wife. One thing always strikes me—that we're gonna be back. That no matter how much these people pound on one another, they always stay together. And if you do get a little rough with the boyfriend while you're loading him into the squad car, nine times out of ten, the woman, the same one who called nine-one-one and is wearing the imprint of the guy's fist, will attack us for hurting her man.”

“Domestic abuse is very complex,” she agreed, wondering where this was going.

“So would it be strange to kill a woman's husband and have her thank you for it?”

Elizabeth paused. “That reaction would be less common,” she said slowly.

“That's what I thought.”

“But that doesn't necessarily mean anything.”

“It's gotta mean something, Doc, or she wouldn't have said it.”

“Bobby, did you talk to Catherine Gagnon? Did you know Jimmy's wife?”

“Nah, Doc. I can honestly tell you, we've never exchanged a word.”

Bobby was already out in the reception area, donning his heavy wool jacket and rewrapping his scarf. Elizabeth trailed behind him, her radar working full power but unable to penetrate his screen.

“See you Monday at three. Gee, it feels good to have an appointment.” Bobby rolled his eyes, gave her a little salute, headed for the door. Moments later, she watched him walk down Boylston Street, shoulders hunched against the cold, hands buried deep into the front of his jacket.

Dr. Elizabeth Lane stood at the window long after his figure had passed from sight. Finally, she sighed.

She hated what she had to do next.

Elizabeth picked up the phone.

“Hello.” A few moments passed. “So sorry. My condolences. I realize this is very awkward.” And then, “Again, I'm very sorry for the timing, sir, but we need to talk.”

Chapter
6

T
URNING INTO SOUTH
Boston, Bobby tried to figure out what he should do next. The doctor was right; he was tired, hungry, stressed out. He should call it a night, hole up at home and get some rest. He lived on the first floor of a three-family row house—rented out the top two floors for a little income, really little actually, since one of the tenants, Mrs. Higgins, had come with the house. The previous owner had been charging her one hundred and five dollars a month for the past twenty years, and Bobby hadn't the heart to change terms on her. People were like that in Southie. They took care of one another, and even if he was still an outsider, one of the new bloods buying into the old neighborhood, he felt he should live up to the spirit of the place. So he kept Mrs. Higgins and her three cats at a hundred and five a month, and in return, she baked him chocolate chip cookies and told him stories of her grandkids.

Mrs. Higgins was going to be disappointed with him now. She'd liked Susan, approved the way everyone else in Bobby's life approved. Susan was sweet, Susan was kind. Susan was grade-A wife material all the way.

And it was over. Bobby had lied to the counselor earlier, maybe because the knowledge still stung. As of five hours ago, he and Susan were through. It had been a fantasy, and now it was done.

He'd bolted awake shortly after one this afternoon, shaky and disoriented from the sound of traffic pouring through a sun-bright room. Ohmygod, he'd overslept his alarm. He was at the wrong house, he didn't have his uniform, oh shit, he was really in for it now—

And then it came back to him. The night, the shooting, the spray of a man's brains across a distant room. He lay in Susan's bed, feeling his heart pound, and for a moment, he was afraid he was having a heart attack. He couldn't breathe, and his arm was tingling, shooting pains going straight to his chest, which continued to heave and gasp.

Then it came to him. Susan's blonde head, warm and heavy on his shoulder. The length of her bare body, pressed against his. Her left leg, crooked over his hip. Her sheets, smelling of lavender and sex.

He'd eased his arm out from beneath her, and she'd stirred, rolling over, sighing deeply, then drifting back to sleep. He'd watched her a moment longer, feeling an emotion he couldn't name. He wanted to touch her cheek. He wanted to inhale the fragrance of her skin. He wanted to curl up against her and cling to her like a child.

And he'd thought, almost wildly, that maybe if he never got up, the day would never happen. He could stay here, she could stay here, and he'd never have to tell and she'd never have to know. His world could remain warm naked skin, tousled blonde hair, and lavender-scented sheets.

He'd never have to face what he had done. He'd never have to be the man who pulled the trigger. God, life was full of shit.

Bobby got out of bed. He made it to the bathroom, where he realized he hadn't had a chance to urinate since eight last night, and pissed for what felt like forever. Then he got dressed, found the lower drawer where he kept his extra things, and as quietly as he could, emptied the contents into his rucksack.

He paused at the doorway of the bedroom. He took in the flush of Susan's cheeks, the rumpled curls of her golden hair. And Bobby felt an ache that went on and on and on.

Bobby rarely thought of his mother anymore, but when he did, it was almost always during moments like this one. When he wanted something he knew he couldn't have. When he felt a little unhinged, a little undone, a permanent outsider, always looking in.

He remembered the way the woman had held her child last night, the little boy's head tucked against her chest, her hands tight over his ears. And he found himself wondering, in a dark, foreboding sort of way, if his mother had ever done the same.

Two in the afternoon on a bright, sunny day, when he should've been cruising I-93 for speeders or drunks or motorists in need of assistance, when he should've been going through the paces the way he'd been going through the paces for years, Bobby stood in the doorway of his girlfriend's bedroom and felt something inside him tear. A sharp, hard ache. A genuine physical pain.

Then the worst of it was over, and all that was left was an already fading ache, the echo of a ghost pain, a soft mourning for what might have been. He could live with that. He had, in fact, been living with that for years.

Bobby left.

When the front door clicked shut behind him, Susan opened her eyes. She spotted the empty space on the bed. She called out his name, but he was already down the hall and it was too late to hear.

T
HE L STREET
Tavern was a bar's bar, heralding back to the days of smoke-filled interiors and drunken games of darts, the days before bars became smoke-free, family-friendly national chains and the settings of popular sitcoms. Lots of cops hung out here. Locals, too. It was the kind of a place where a guy could finally relax.

It was also crowded on a Friday night. Bobby thought he'd have to stand, but then halfway across the low-lit room, Walter Jensen from Boston PD spotted him and immediately slid off his stool.

“Bobby, my man! Get your ass over here! Have a seat, make yourself at home. Hey, Gary, Gary, Gary. I'm buying this man a beer!”

“Coke,” Bobby said automatically, making his way to the wood-scarred bar, where lots of guys were turning now, some Bobby knew, some he didn't. Behind the bar, Gary had already started pouring a Killian's.

“Beer,” Walt said sternly. “Pager can't get you anymore, Bobby. Remember? As long as you're on administrative leave, the four-hundred-pound gorilla is dead. So sit back, loosen that collar, and have yourself a cold one.”

“Well, shit,” Bobby said with some surprise. “You're right.”

So Bobby had a beer. First from Walt, who had to congratulate him on a job well done.

“I heard it straight from the horse's mouth—Lieutenant Jachrimo himself. You did what you had to do. And through glass no less. Shit, Bobby, that's some serious shooting.”

Then Donny, also BPD, wanted in on the glory. He refreshed Bobby's drink and contributed his own two cents.

“Just goes to show, money doesn't buy happiness. Walt, how many times have we been out to that place? Three, four, five? We're just sorry we missed the party.”

It occurred to Bobby for the first time that both Walt and Donny were also part of Boston's SWAT. “How'd it play in Revere?” he asked.

“Same old, same old,” Donny said. “Guy shot up the roof of his own house. Drank a six-pack. Shot up his house some more, and then, just when the LT was getting really pissed off at the lack of progress, passed out cold. We went in and wrapped him up tight while he snored. Kind of boring really. We didn't even get to yell.”