Alone

The other half of his mind was relentlessly logical-he was already wide-eyed. Had been for hours. Might as well take care of his dog. Who knew that when he finally got out of the joint, he wouldn't be able to stand the quiet? Life was so unfair.

Mr. Bosu got out of bed. He threw on his five-hundred-dollar trousers. He opened the bathroom door. Trickster came shooting into his arms, wriggling ecstatically and licking at his chin.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." He tried to sound gruff. Trickster kissed half of his face, and Mr. Bosu's grumpiness melted once and for all.

He supposed he'd slept enough the past twenty-five years. Now he was a free man, hanging out with his dog.

"Outside it is." He snapped on Trickster's leash and headed out the door. Mr. Bosu had selected a Hampton Inn tonight, nice but not that noticeable. He'd be just another guy in a suit, passing through. Here today, gone tomorrow, not even worth remembering.

Trickster found a good bush in the parking lot, squatted and ejected a shockingly strong spray. No one was about at this hour. What the hell. Mr. Bosu unzipped his trousers and joined him. A man and his dog, taking a leak. Made him feel better about things. Which was good, because earlier this evening, Mr. Bosu had been feeling blue.

The day had been disappointing. Productive but… flat. He'd found the girl. He'd watched her exit the identified apartment. He'd fallen in step beside her and struck up a conversation using the dog. Everything had gone smooth as silk. Except… She hadn't been taken in by his new clothes, for one. He'd seen no spark in her eyes, no iota of interest. It had actually started to piss him off. He looked pretty damn good, you know. Good enough, at least, for some lady he'd never met to want to meet him for dinner. But here was this young girl-and no beauty contestant at that-barely giving him a second glance.

In fact, after a brief pat of Trickster's ears, she'd been on her way.

Flustered, he'd had to do a quick two-step to catch up. Funny thing about spending twenty-five years in the slammer-you don't think so good on your feet.

The stupid cow was walking away. He couldn't make a scene, but couldn't let her go. After all, she was never going to believe he just magically crossed her path again later. No, this was it. He'd selected his strategy and now it had to work.

It had come to him halfway across the street. What did he know and love? Kids. What did a nanny know and love? Children. He started spouting off about his two point two kids and the lack of good daycare. Boom, he got her attention back. Turned out Prudence Walker was looking for a change of employers. Interestingly enough, she found her current family "kind of frightening." Apparently, when the father of the family is killed pointing a gun at his wife and child, it doesn't make the child-care provider feel too good about things.

Not that the father was sorely missed. Wandering hands when it came to the nanny, violent drunk when it came to the family. Guy sounded like a real loser. Rich, though, which would explain why he maintained a house in Back Bay while the other losers went to prison. Again, life was unfair, yada, yada, yada… Mr. Bosu grew tired of hearing about the father. He wanted to know about the mother. He wanted to know about Catherine.

Real piece of work, said the nanny. Mrs. Gagnon pranced around in impossibly high heels-a woman her age, bloody well ridiculous. (Mrs. Gagnon was beautiful, Mr. Bosu translated in his head, more beautiful than the young nanny, and twice as sexy.) Too many rules, too. Boy can't eat this, boy must eat that.

"Poor bugger can't weigh more than a blade of grass," the nanny prattled on.

"Seems to me, she should be grateful for anything he wants to jolly well stuff down his face."

The mother was cold and arrogant. Held herself too high, put on airs. The woman didn't work, didn't tend the house, didn't raise her own son, and yet she was never home. Probably kept too busy by all her various boyfriends.

Mr. Bosu didn't have to talk anymore, just said "Oh no" or "Oh yes," in an appropriately sympathetic voice. The girl had worked herself into a state, obviously having kept too much locked inside. He found now that, with just the slightest nudge, he could steer her back to Catherine, that dreadful woman who did such dreadful things to her poor, poor son.

And then, briefly, he felt the old magic again. The sun was shining. Trickster was prancing. They were walking along, a regular bounce in their steps as his nerve endings prickled to life and the world took on a slow, surreal feel. This was Mr. Bosu prowling the urban jungle. This was Mr. Bosu, closing in beautifully, magnificently, on his prey.

Thirty thousand dollars, he was thinking. Wow, who had ever known he could get paid for this shit.

Corner bus stop now. The nanny came to a halt, suddenly seeming to realize how long she'd been talking and that he was still with her. For the first time, she appeared uneasy.

He thought he should make his move then. Invite her home to meet the wife and kids. Just around the corner. Make some kind of excuse to get her all alone.

He looked into her eyes, and in that moment, the fantasy left, the colors bled out of the world, and his adrenaline rush came to a crashing halt. She wasn't buying it. In fact, far from being taken in by his beautiful clothes and adorable puppy, she was beginning to frown.

He wavered on a precipice. Let her go. Walk away. No one would be the wiser.

But then he understood it was too late.

She knew Catherine. She'd talked about Catherine. From that moment on, her fate was sealed.

He looked up the street. He looked down the street. The girl opened her mouth.

He grabbed her left arm, spun her back against him, and wrapped his other arm around her neck. A small squeak. Yes, no, please don't. One snap, and she collapsed weightless against him. He cradled her into his arms, nuzzling the side of her neck as if they were lovers.

Then he smelled it on her skin. Sex. Sweaty, lustful, recent. Adult.

The desire washed right out of him. He was left supporting the dead weight of an uninteresting body, while Trickster tugged on the leash and whined curiously.

It was just plain work after that, and not even fun work. Having to lug the body out of view without calling too much attention to himself. Realizing he'd really screwed up now-he was supposed to have used his powers of "persuasion" to make the girl write a note. Well, that ship had sailed. He'd have to write it himself in his best young girl's script-yeah, like the police wouldn't see right through that.

No doubt about it, his employer wasn't going to be happy. And this, right on top of the small little issue of "overkilling" his last assignment. Mr. Bosu began to get truly resentful. If killing was so damn easy, his employer should do it himself. Honest to God, a little murder and mayhem wasn't everything it was cracked up to be. Take right now, for example. Mr. Bosu was tired. Mr. Bosu wanted dinner. Hell, he wanted a good drink.

Instead, he was standing on a street corner with a corpse, forced into faking a make-out session simply so he didn't look ridiculous.

He had to force his brain into thinking fast once more.

Okay. He propped the dead nanny in a stairwell. Nice and peaceful, a girl just catching a snooze in the sun. Then he went around the block and, taking a chance he didn't like, hot-wired a car. This would be the end of things, he thought morbidly. He'd get away with murder, but get busted for auto theft.

Back to the main street. Now double-parked with a stolen car. Waiting for traffic to pass, then trying to get a body into the front seat of the car without attracting too much attention.

"Oh, honey, I you have to stop drinking so much," he announced loudly in an exasperated tone. Just because no one appeared to be around didn't mean no one was listening.

Finally, he had puppy, dead nanny, and the stolen car out on the: road. Now he had to get the body to the right place at the right time for the right moment.

Shit, he'd engineered jailhouse killings that had taken much less work than this. Good thing Benefactor X had coughed up the extra dough, because this was certainly well beyond ten thousand dollars' worth of work. Thirty grand wasn't even seeming like such a bargain anymore.

He got on the cell phone and reached his contact. Turned out his timing wasn't too bad. Residence was clear, he was good to go.

Short drive later, Mr. Bosu arrived at a house he'd been fantasizing about visiting for the past six months, ever since he'd gotten the first phone call, ever since his mysterious employer had reached out and brought hope to Mr. Bosu's world with one magic touch.

One twist of the nanny's key, and Air. Bosu walked inside the townhouse. He inhaled the scent of the air, searching for a hint of her perfume. He couldn't linger. Not today, but oh, oh, to be so close… When he walked up the stairs, he thought of her. When he unfolded the ladder, strung up the rope, and wrestled a fat girl's corpse, he pictured her delicate face. And when he arranged every single candle, lighting them tenderly, he once more remembered his hands around her neck.

He had squeezed. Each and every day he had squeezed. And each and every day, at the last minute, he had stopped. There would come a day when he wouldn't. They had both known that. There would come a day when the desire would be too strong, and he would simply squeeze out her last painful breath.

But for now, he'd stopped, and each time he'd seen in her eyes a small flicker of relief, before he climbed back up into the light, gave her a cheery wave, and abandoned her once more to the cold, black earth.

Then had come the day when he'd arrived back at their special place, whistling, upbeat, happy-even bringing a Twinkie as a special treat-and found it empty. He'd felt genuine pain, followed by genuine panic. Someone had stolen her, someone had taken her away, he would never see her again… And then in the next moment, he'd known what had happened. She had escaped. She had left him. After everything he had done for her, all of the care he had given her, all of those moments when he'd held her life in his hands and allowed her to keep on living… The rage that had filled him was unimaginable. He'd returned home, where he'd sat in his room and thought about killing every single person on his street. He would start with his parents, of course. It was the decent thing to do. Kill them off now, before they ever had a chance to realize the monster they'd raised. Then he'd start with his neighbors, be methodical about it-from closest house to the farthest house, he'd work his way down the street.

Gun would be best. Quick, less exhausting. Didn't move him, though. Bullets were death by long distance. He wanted to be close, intimate. He wanted to hear the wet snicker-snack of a knife slitting skin, he wanted to feel the hot rain of someone's life splatteringg on his hands, he wanted to watch the last glimmer of hope bleed from their face until finally there was only endless, dreadful nothingness.

He should've done it. Should've gone into the kitchen, grabbed a serrated blade, found his mother, and just gotten on with it. But he hadn't. He'd sat there, and then he'd realized rather idly that he was hungry. So he'd made a PB amp;J sandwich. Then, on a I freshly filled stomach, he'd discovered that all that rage had really left him quite tired, so he'd taken a nap.

Next thing he knew, day had turned into day without him deciding on doing much of anything. Until four days later, when the police had turned up on his parents' doorstep, and that had been the end of him making his own decisions for a very long time.

Now he strung up the nanny, moved the bureau, and tore back the plastic on the shattered slider. Now he laid the note, awkwardly forged, upon the bed.

The cell phone rang at his waist. Catherine and Nathan were on the move, said his contact. Time to go. He remained in the doorway, his hand fingering the knob, his nose searching for any whiff of her perfume. Did she dream about him? Did she miss him? They say a girl never forgets her first time-And then, in the next instant, he was seized by divine inspiration. Moving quickly now, to the boy's room. Four minutes, that's all he needed. A quick move here, a quick move there.

The excitement was back. That elusive thrill he hadn't felt since wrapping his arm around the fat girl's neck. Now he had it as he moved swiftly through the boy's room, already picturing the look on Catherine's face.

Three minutes later, he bounded down the stairs, a whistle on his lips. He reset the security, closed and locked the front door, then headed for the lobby. He picked up Trickster, who was waiting for him by the outer doors. They hit the street.

He was briefly aware of a young boy's voice behind him: "Mommy, look at the puppy."

Then Mr. Bosu faded into dusk.

Back in the Hampton Inn parking lot now, Mr. Bosu gave up on sleep altogether. He was too restless, too keyed up from remembering past events.

Might as well do something useful, he decided.

"Hey, Trickster," he said softly.

"Road trip."

He said: "I haven't slept in two days. I'm wired, I'm edgy, and I'm thinking of having a drink. I know it's late, but can I come over?"

She said: "I think you'd better."

He arrived fifteen minutes later. She met him at the door.

Dr. Elizabeth lane had last seen Bobby twenty-four hours ago. The sight of him now filled her with both shock and dismay. His face was drawn, his eyes sunken. Whereas once he'd sat in her office with preternatural stillness, now he paced relentlessly, filling the space with manic energy. He was a man on the brink. One wrong step and he'd go over. She was thinking strongly of prescription medication. For now, however, she started with "Would you like a glass of water?"

He said in a rush, "You know that old saying, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you?"

"Yes." "Well, I never thought I was paranoid, but now I think they're out to get me."

He wasn't going to sit. Rather than respond to his agitation, she moved behind her desk, finding her chair and clasping her hands neutrally.

"Who is they, Bobby?" she asked evenly.

"Who isn't? The judge, the ADA, the BPD, the widow. Hell, everyone wants a piece of me these days."

"The investigation into the shooting has you concerned?"

"The investigation into the shooting?" He stopped, blinked his eyes a few times in confusion, then impatiently waved his hand.

"Screw that. No one's waiting long enough to care about those results. No, they're going to get me tomorrow."

She remained patient.

"What's going to happen tomorrow, Bobby?"

But he'd caught wind of her tone. He stopped pacing long enough to square off against her and plant his hands on her desk. Bobby Dodge stared her straight in the eye, and Elizabeth was a bit disconcerted to discover that in his current state he frightened her.

"I am not an idiot," he said intently.

"I am not losing it. No, strike that, I am losing it. That's exactly why I'm here. But dammit, I have cause!"

"Would you like to start at the beginning?"

He whirled away from her desk.

"Beginning? What beginning? I don't even know what the hell that is anymore. Was the beginning Thursday night, when I shot Jimmy Gagnon? Or was the beginning nine months ago when I randomly met Jimmy and Catherine at a cocktail party? Maybe it was Tuesday, when Jimmy filed for divorce, or maybe it was twenty-odd years ago when Catherine was abducted by a pedophile. How the hell should I know?"

"Bobby, I would like to help you-" "But I sound like a fucking psycho?"

"I wouldn't use those words-" "Gagnon would. Copley would. Christ, it's only a matter of time." He ran his hand through his hair, then looked wildly around her office, like an animal sizing its cage. At the last minute, just when she was beginning to fear the worst, that he would do something rash and hurt himself, or do something dangerous and hurt her, he suddenly took a deep breath and exhaled it long and slow.

Wordlessly, Elizabeth got up and fetched a glass of water. When she returned, he gratefully accepted it and downed it thirstily. She took the empty glass, refilled it, and he drank it again.

"Life has gotten complicated," he said softly. The edge had gone out of his voice. He sounded almost flat now, monotone.

"Tell me."

"Jimmy's father is suing me for murder. But he'll drop those charges if I lie about what I saw on Thursday night and implicate his daughter-in-law. The ADA doesn't think he needs me to implicate Catherine-he's sure she had something to do with the shooting, now he's just trying to decide if I'm in on it, too. At least I had support from my fellow officers, but I sort of screwed the pooch by seeing Catherine, so now they don't trust me either. Oh-and I did have a loving girlfriend, but I dumped her tonight. Told myself I was doing what needed to be done. But honest to God, the whole time, I kept thinking of the dead man's widow."

"You have a crush on Jimmy Gagnon's widow?"

"A crush is feeling tender toward someone. I don't feel tender toward her."

"How about guilt, then?"

He immediately shook his head.

"No. She's not exactly a woman who's grieving her dead husband."

"Lust?" Elizabeth's voice was quiet.

"Okay."

"Do you think she needs you, Bobby?"

He took more time to consider this answer.

"Maybe. I think she wants me to think that she needs me. But I can't decide how much of that is an act, and how much is the real thing."

"Explain."

"She's a player. She lies, she manipulates, she cheats. According to her father-in-law, she married Jimmy for his money. According to the ADA, Copley, she's abusing her kid for attention. According to her, she's the victim. And according to me… sometimes I think they're all right. She's self-centered, dangerous, and unpredictable. But she's also… she's also sad." "Bobby, do you think it's smart for you to be in contact with her right now?"

"No."

"But you've seen her. Why?"

"Because she calls." Elizabeth gave him a look, and he finally had the grace to flush. He pulled the wingback chair closer to her desk. Then, at long last he sat down. And without having been aware that she'd been holding it, Elizabeth released one very strained, pent-up breath.

"It's not what you think," he said.

"What do I think, Bobby?"

"That this was a run-of-the-mill shooting." He added dryly, "As if there really is such a thing. Look… I didn't contact her. I didn't go looking to her for answers. She came to me. And then…" He scowled.

"Something is going on. The doctor that's been seeing her kid was murdered last night. Tonight, I get called to her house only to find the nanny hanging in the master bedroom. Jimmy wasn't the end, Doc. Jimmy was just the beginning."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"That makes two of us. Everyone around this woman is dying. And now my life is getting sucked into the void. Catherine Gagnon either has the worst luck in the world, or she needs help more than any woman I know."

"So you're helping her? Why, Bobby?"

He frowned, not seeming to understand the question.

"Because she needs help. Because it's what people do."

"Bobby, every time you have contact with this woman, it jeopardizes your career. And every time you have contact with this woman, you make it more difficult to put distance between yourself and the shooting. In effect, you jeopardize your own mental health."

"Maybe."

"But whenever she calls, you come. Why do you answer her calls, Bobby?"

He was still frowning.

"I'm a cop."

"You're a cop. Which means you know plenty of other people-professionals-you could direct her to, or personally ask to help her. You don't have to be the one offering assistance. Isn't that correct?"

He obviously didn't care for that assessment.

"I suppose."

"Do you truly believe Catherine Gagnon is in trouble, Bobby?"

"Yes."

"So certain? You said that she was a liar."

"Look, she needs help, I'm trying to help. I don't see how that's so wrong." He stood up again, leg starting to bounce on the floor.

"When was the last time you slept, Bobby?"

"Last night. Three hours."

"When was the last time you ate?"

"I had some coffee earlier."

"Food, Bobby."

His reply was more sullen.

"Breakfast, early this morning."

"You went for a run, didn't you?"

He didn't answer this time.

She forced herself to be quiet, calm.

"Fifteen miles," he blurted out at last. Then, he started to pace.

"You're imploding, Bobby. I know you're imploding, you know you're imploding. I have to ask again: Do you think it's such a good idea to be seeing Catherine Gagnon?"

"It's not her," he said abruptly.

"It's not her?"

"No. I think it's my damn mother."

We don't talk about it," he said at last.

"Every family has its topics that are off-limits, you know. In my family, we don't talk about her."

"Who's we?"

"My father. My older brother, George." Now Bobby stood in front of one of the framed diplomas on her wall, staring blankly at the glass.

"My father used to drink."

"You mentioned that."

"He was a violent drunk."

"He beat your mom and you and your brother?"

"Pretty much."

"Did anyone in your family try to seek help?"

"Not that I know of." "So your father was an abusive drunk. And your mother left him."

"I didn't see it," he said quietly.

"I just heard my brother George yell at my father one night. But I guess… My father had gotten really loaded. Then he'd gotten really mad. And he'd grabbed a leather belt and he'd just whaled on my mother. Just… whipped her like a dog. I guess George tried to interfere, and my father went after him, too. Knocked him cold. When he came to, my father had finally passed out and my mother was packing a bag.

"She told George she couldn't do it anymore. She said maybe if she left, Pop wouldn't get so mad. She had family in Florida. Together, they picked my father's pockets, then she was gone.

"Later, I heard my father and George arguing about it. My father got so mad, he threw George against the wall. George crawled to his feet and he stood in front of my father and he said, "What the fuck are you gonna do now, Dad?" He said, "I've already lost my mother." He said…" Bobby's voice grew quieter.

"He said, "What's left?" "What did your father do, Bobby?"

"He went after my brother with a knife. He stabbed George in the ribs."

"And you saw this, didn't you, Bobby?"

"I was in the doorway."

"And what did you do?"

He said, "I did nothing."

Elizabeth nodded. Bobby had been six or seven years old. Of course he'd done nothing.

"George went to the hospital," Bobby said.

"My father swore that if George would lie, say he was mugged, then he swore he would never drink again. So George lied, my father went to rehab, and none of us ever mentioned my mother again."

"Did that work?"

"Eventually. There were some relapses, some hard times. But my father, he really worked to make it work. I don't know. Maybe my mother's leaving scared him. Or maybe attacking George scared him. But he started to get his act together. He did his best."

"Have you ever heard from your mother, Bobby?"

"No."

"Are you angry at her?"

"Yeah."

"Your father was the one who beat you."

Bobby finally turned, looked her in the eye.

"We were just kids. And he was a violent drunk who thought nothing of using belts and knives. How could she have just left us with him? What the hell kind of mom leaves her kids alone with a man like that?"

"Bobby, can you tell me now why you keep seeing Catherine Gagnon?"

He closed his eyes. She saw the shudder that racked his frame.

"Because she was holding her son. Because even when Jimmy pointed a gun at her, she didn't give up Nathan."

Elizabeth nodded. She had read his statement from Thursday night. She saw now what he had seen then, and she reached the next logical conclusion, the one he wasn't yet ready to face.

"Oh, Bobby," she said softly.

"You are in such a world of hurt." The police were winding down their work in Catherine's house. The female detective had left. Bobby, too. Now she saw only a random uniformed officer here and there, doing God knows what.

The space was emptying out, trying to become her home again. She thought she'd feel grateful. Instead, as she watched each crime-scene tech disappear out the door, she felt increasingly anxious, vulnerable. Her home wasn't her home anymore. It had been penetrated, violated in a horrible manner. She wanted to run away. Instead, she stood a lonely watch in the front parlor, desperately trying to earn Nathan a few hours at least of slumber.

He thrashed in the pillows now, his lips mumbling words from an unhappy dream. An outsider may have thought the front parlor was too bright, but she knew the truth. The two burning lamps didn't offer enough radiance for her and her light-obsessed son. At the rate things were going, soon there would not be enough bulbs in the world to grant either of them a respite from the shadows.

She didn't know what to do.

So of course, her father-in-law arrived.

James Gagnon strode into the foyer with his thousand-dollar cashmere coat and impeccably polished shoes. Three in the morning for God's sake, and he looked like he'd just stepped out of his courtroom.

The young uniformed officer standing in the foyer took one look at him and snapped to attention.

Stand strong, Catherine told herself. Oh God, she was tired.

"Catherine," her father-in-law boomed.

"I came the moment I heard."

Catherine moved into the foyer, purposely putting distance between him and Nathan. James rested his hands on her shoulders, the picture of fatherly concern. He kissed both of her cheeks, his gaze already moving hungrily past her, searching for his grandson.

"Of course you and Nathan must come with me immediately. Maryanne and I wouldn't have it any other way."

"We're fine, thank you."

"Nonsense! Surely you can't want to spend another night at the scene of a hanging."

Catherine was very aware of the uniformed officer standing fifteen feet away and listening openly.

"Funny, I don't remember calling you with the news."

"No need. One of my colleagues let me know. Dreadful business, of course. I've always said I didn't think it was a good idea to go with foreign nannies. Poor girls. They simply can't handle the pressure. Nathan must be horribly distraught. Let me talk to him-" He made a move to step forward; she blocked his advance.

"Nathan's sleeping."

"Amid all this chaos?"

"He's very tired."

All the better reason to let him come with me. We have a positively gargantuan suite at the LeRoux. Nathan can have his own bed; he'll get plenty of rest. Maryanne will be delighted."

I appreciate the offer. However, given that Nathan's already asleep, I think it would be a shame to disturb him."

Catherine…"James's voice remained kind, patient. He said, as if speaking to a very small child, "Surely you're not considering letting your son spend the night at a homicide scene." "No. I'm considering letting my son spend the night in the comfort of his own room."

"For heaven's sake, there is fingerprint powder everywhere How are you going to explain that to a four-year-old boy? Let alone the smell!"

"I know what's right for my son."

"Really?" James gave her a smile.

"Just as you knew what was right for Prudence?"

Catherine thinned her lips.

There was nothing she could say to that, and they both knew it.

"I hate to state the obvious," James said now, "but perhaps you don't know what's going on in your own household as well as you think. Prudence was obviously deeply upset about what happened to Jimmy. God only knows how Nathan is feeling."

"Get out."

"Now, Catherine-" "Get out!"

James still wore that horribly paternal smile upon his face. He tried to clasp her shoulder; she whirled on the policeman still in attendance.

"I want this man gone."

"Catherine-" "You heard me." She pointed a finger at the officer, who was blinking his eyes in shock at being dragged into the middle of this scene.

"This man is not welcome in my home. Escort him out."

James was still trying.

"Catherine, you're upset, you're not thinking clearly-" "Officer, do I need to call your superior? Escort this man from my home!"

The young man pushed away from the wall, belatedly springing into action. As he stepped forward, James's voice dropped to a low octave, heard only by her ears.

"I'm running out of patience, Catherine."

"Out!"

"Mark my words, things for you are only going to get much, much worse. I have so much power, Catherine. You have no idea "I said get out!" She was screaming. The noise woke Nathan. He started to cry.

The officer finally crossed the room. He put his hand on James's elbow, and the judge had no choice but to comply.

He said out loud, for the officer to hear, "I'm dreadfully sorry to have upset you, my dear. Of course, Maryanne and I only want what's best for our grandson. Perhaps in the morning, when you're thinking more clearly…"

Catherine pointed stiffly toward the open door. James tilted his head forward in chilly acknowledgment. A moment later, she stood alone, listening to the sobbing hiccups of her hysterical son.

One battle at a time, one battle at a time… She entered the parlor and picked Nathan up from the pile of pillows. He flung his thin arms around her neck, gripping hard.

"Light, light, light," he sobbed.

"Light, light, light!"

"Shhh… shhh…"

The foyer wasn't going to work anymore. Too dark, too strange. Her son needed deep, undisturbed sleep in an overly bright room where all the lamps could chase the demons away. Where he could finally relax. Maybe she could, too.

The police officer had already returned. No doubt James had told the man there was no need to walk him out. He'd go, not make any trouble. He was merely trying to help his family. His daughter-in-law was not quite stable, you know. "Catherine took a deep breath. With her arms wrapped tight around Nathan, she looked the officer in the eye and announced, "I'm taking him to his room. I'm closing the door. He's going to sleep. I'm going to sleep. Whatever else you people need, it can wait until morning."

"Yes, ma'am," the officer said, sounding only slightly sarcastic.

Catherine turned away from him and, before she could lose her courage, mounted the stairs.

The smell was dissipating now, probably carted off with "Prudence's body; she had seen the girl's corpse roll out the door on a metal gurney. Her mind hadn't come to terms with it yet, hadn't reconciled the image of Prudence sitting on the floor reading to Nathan with Prudence zipped up in a black body bag. The concept of Prudence dead remained abstract to her. It seemed more like the girl had gone out on her day off and had simply chosen not to return. It was easier for Catherine this way. Not so much because she was attached to the girl-in all honesty, she'd cared for Prudence no more and no less than the others. But the nature of the killing-, neck snapped, body hanged from the rafters of Catherine's bedroom-led to horror beyond imagining. It implied an intruder in Catherine's home. It implied a man targeting her and the people around her. It implied that if she didn't surrender Nathan as her father-in-law demanded, she would be next.

She thought of James's soft-spoken threat. That he would make life miserable for her. That he had all the power. That she was nothing.

She thought, almost bitterly, he should tell her something she didn't know.

Right before she'd met Jimmy, she'd sunk so, so low. Her mother was dead, her life empty. Day after day she spent standing in a department store, spritzing perfume and trying not to flinch as man after man hit on her. She would study all the male faces, wondering which ones touched their children inappropriately and which ones beat their wives. Then she'd go home to her cockroach-infested apartment and dream of a darkness without end.

There came a morning when she just couldn't do it anymore. Couldn't stand the thought of spending one more day in a state of such perpetual fear.

She'd crawled into the tub. She'd gotten out a razor. She'd started to slice her paper-thin skin. And the phone rang. Without giving it a second thought, she'd crawled out of the tub to answer it. Ironically enough, it had been a telemarketer. Someone asking her if she wanted to buy life insurance, which had made her laugh, and that had made her cry, and while she'd stood there, sobbing hysterically into the ear of a very flustered salesperson, she'd seen the ad flash across her TV screen.

Feeling alone? Feeling like there is no way out? Feeling like no one cares?

A suicide hotline number had scrolled across the screen and, driven by a survival instinct she didn't even know she had, she'd slammed the phone down on the telemarketer, then dialed the number.

Thirty seconds later, she was listening to the calmest male ice she'd ever heard. Deep, soothing, funny. She had curled up on he floor and listened to him talk for an hour.

That's how she'd met Jimmy, though she hadn't known it then.

Hotlines had protocols. Handlers were not to give out too much personal information. But they could ask questions, encourage heir troubled callers to talk. So he did, and so she did, about her dead-end job, her apartment, her mother.

It wasn't the next day, that would've been too obvious, or even the day after that.

But Jimmy came to the department store where she worked. He found her, he flirted with her, he wooed her. And she found herself strangely moved by this charming young man with his incredibly calm voice. He'd asked her out. Much to her own surprise, she'd said yes.

It wasn't until months later that he admitted to her what he'd done. That he'd been so moved by her call, he'd felt compelled to find her in person. Please don't tell anyone, he begged prettily. Oh, she could get him in so much trouble-At the time, she'd found it romantic. This man had moved heaven and earth to find her. Surely it was a sign. Surely it meant he loved her. Her life was finally looking up.

It was only later, after they were married, maybe that one Monday evening when she'd commented on his drinking and he'd shocked her by slapping her across the face, that she'd started to wonder. What kind of man used a suicide hotline to pick up girls? What did that say about what he was looking for in a prospective mate?

Like his father, Jimmy had liked power. He'd liked to remind her that she'd be nothing without him. He'd liked to tell her that he'd scooped her out of the gutter, and he could damn well throw her back.

Sometimes, when Jimmy spoke, she actually pictured Richard Umbrio, standing way above her, haloed by daylight as one arm held up the wooden cover that would soon be sealing her in.

"Better make my next welcome even more exciting," he'd tell her gleefully, because otherwise, you never know when I might decide not to Visit. I've given you this much, Cat. You never know when I might take it all away." Jimmy had never wanted to save Catherine. He'd simply wanted to extend her programming.

Well, she now thought matter-of-factly, she had shown him.

In Nathan's room, she snapped on the overhead light. two sixty-watt bulbs blazed from the ceiling. It wasn't enough, however For her, for Nathan, it would never be enough.

"Cowboy," Nathan murmured sleepily against her shoulder Obediently, she went to that night-light first. Snap.

Nothing.

She frowned, tried it again. No light magically illuminated the cowboy's cheery face. Bulb must be burnt out. She went to the night-light beneath it, the traditional clam. Click.

Still nothing.

Maybe a blown fuse? The police with all their spotlights and recorders, maybe they'd overloaded the system. She crossed to the dresser, Nathan's weight growing heavy in her arms. Two table lamps. One had a cactus as its stem, the other a bucking bronco. She tried both, fingers shaking slightly, breathing accelerated.

Nothing. Nothing.

Okay, lots of options. Plenty of options. What was the point of having a neurosis if you didn't do it properly? Nathan's room offered six night-lights, three table lights, and two standing lamps. The overhead light worked, which meant there had to be electricity to at least part of the room. She just had to find those outlets, get those lights humming.

She moved quicker now. Nathan was lifting his head from her shoulder, as if sensing her agitation.

"Mommy, lights!"

"I know, sweetheart. I know."

The damn bear lamp didn't work. Two hundred bucks, she'd found it in Denver and mailed it home as a gift. The antique brass desk light, five hundred dollars from a tiny little shop on Charles Street, also out of commission. She moved to the standing lamps, halogen bulbs, the kind that illuminated the entire ceiling.

Nothing.

More night-lights now. Small little specks of radiance, topped with stained-glass images, or a red plastic Elmo, or a beaming Whinnie-the-Pooh. They had to work. At least one or two or three. Dear God, something in the monstrous room had to break up the dark.

She was breathing too hard, panting really. Nathan pushed rigidly away from her body, arching his spine in growing distress.

"Light, light, light!"

"I know, I know, I know."

Fuck the room. It was too big, too vast. What did two people need with a space this huge? She cradled her son close and bolted for his adjoining bath. Quick flick of the finger and she snapped on the overhead light, waiting for the white-tiled space to come brilliantly into view.

Nothing.

She clicked again. Then again. Hysteria was coming now. She could feel it bubbling up in her throat.

Nathan kicked in her arms.

"Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, where are the lights? I want light!"

"I know. Shhh, baby, shhh."

It came to her. His closet. The small walk-in space boasted two more sixty-watt bulbs. They could curl up on the floor, taking refuge in a puddle of illumination. It would get them through the night.

"Nathan, love, we're going to have an adventure."

She rubbed his back, trying to calm him, as she whirled out of the bathroom and bolted for the closet. She rolled back the mirror-paneled door, reached in her hand, and found the switch. Click.

Light. Bright, brilliant, wondrous light. It flooded the scene, reaching glowing tendrils to each dark corner, shoving back the shadows. Lovely, lovely light.

Catherine took one look inside the closet, then she stuffed her hand in her mouth to muffle the scream.

They were there, in the middle of the floor, right where she would see them: every single bulb, from every single light. They'd been taken out, then arranged into one simple, three-letter word.

BOO

Catherine forced her son's face back down into her neck. She stumbled away from the closet. She careened down the hall, and clambered down the stairs. In the foyer, she grabbed her coat, her purse, her car keys. Didn't look at the uniformed officer. Didn't bother to talk.

She burst out of the front door of the townhouse.

"Light, light light," Nathan was sobbing.

But there was no light. She understood it better than anyone Now it was just her and Nathan, alone in the dark.

"You told me you and your father had made a pact about drinking," Elizabeth said.

"I believe you mentioned an incident with him driving under the influence and that scaring him into sobriety."

"I lied."

"Do you lie often?"

Bobby shrugged.

"For certain things, you need a ready explanation. Saying my father attacked my brother with a knife isn't an explanation I feel like giving. Besides, the DUI incident happened. It was one of my father's relapses-sobriety wasn't exactly a one-step Plan for him. More like one step forward, two steps back. And around that time, I was having my own issues. So yeah, we made the Pact."

"I see. So you lied to me, but in your own mind, it was a lie containing the truth."

"Something like that."

"Uh-huh. And as a child, every time you had a bruise, I imagine you had an 'explanation' for that. And every time your father couldn't attend a school function or embarrassed you in front of your friends, another 'explanation," which may or may not contained a kernel of truth?"

"Yeah, okay. I see your point."

"You say your father is better, but it seems to me that thirty years later you're engaged in the same old patterns, including telling lies."

He didn't answer right away. She thought he was working on a good line of defense, but then he surprised her by announcing quietly, "My father would agree with you."

"He would?"

"He joined AA eight years ago, and for him, it's been like discovering religion. He's big on atonement. Wants to acknowledge what he did. Wants to talk about the old days, ask for forgiveness. My brother, George, won't take his calls. As for me… I just want to forget. My father was who he was, and now he is who he is. I don't see the point of dwelling on it."

"Bobby, aren't there times when you are very, very angry? Angrier than you probably should be?"

"I guess."

"Aren't there times when you look at the future, and you feel an overwhelming sense of hopelessness?"

"Maybe."

"And aren't there times when you feel as if everything is out of your control?"

He looked at her, clearly captivated.

"Okay."

"That's why you need to talk to your father, Bobby. That's why your father needs to talk to you. Your family has changed, but it hasn't healed. Part of forgiving your father is also giving yourself permission to hate him for what he did. Until you do that, you're not going to move forward, and you're not honestly going to love him for who he is now."

Bobby smiled, a wan expression in his tired face.

"I hate my mom, isn't that enough?"

"Your mom's the easy target, Bobby. Once she left, you had to love your father; he was the only caretaker you had. But you also feared and loathed him for how he treated you. Hating your mother resolved the conflict. If what happened to you was her fault, then it was okay to love your dad. It's called displaced rage. Thirty years later, you have a great deal of it."

"Is that why I point guns at people I've never met?" he asked dryly-"I don't know, Bobby. Only you can answer that question."

Bobby steepled his fingers, splaying his fingertips against one another. He said abruptly, "Susan said I was angry."

"Susan?"

"My girlfriend. My ex-girlfriend. When we were talking tonight… she said I deliberately shortchanged my life. That I held on to my anger. That I needed it."

"What do you think?"

"I'm driven." His voice picking up, he said almost hotly, "Is that such a bad thing? The world needs police officers. The world needs guys like me, perched on rooftops with high-powered rifles. Without me, Catherine Gagnon and her son might be dead. Doesn't that count for anything?"

Elizabeth didn't say anything.

"The rest of the world expects us to be all-knowing. But I'm just a guy, okay? I'm doing the best I can. I got called out to a scene. No, I didn't remember the Gagnons, and even if I did, what the hell do I know about them and their marriage? All I could do was react to what I saw, and what I saw was a man pointing a gun at his wife and child. I'm not a murderer, dammit. I had to kill him!"

Elizabeth still didn't say anything.

"What if I'd delayed? What if I'd watched it and done nothing? He could've shot his wife. He could've shot his son. And that Would've been my fault, too, you know. If you shoot, you're screwed; " you don't shoot, you're also screwed. How am I supposed to win? How the hell am I supposed to know what to do?

"He was pointing his gun. He had his wife in point-blank range, then he got that look on his face. I've seen that look. Oh my, I've seen that look too many times, and I'm so tired of other People getting hurt. You can't believe the blood-You can't believe."

Bobby's voice broke. His shoulders were moving, giant, dry sobs, and then he was twisting away from her, mortified by his own outburst, seeking the back of the chair with his hand, clinging to it for support.

Elizabeth didn't move. She didn't go to him. She sat there and let emotion heave through him in raw, violent waves. He needed this. After thirty-six years, a little emotional outburst was long overdue.

He wiped at his face now, hastily drying his cheeks with the back of his hands.

"I'm tired," he said roughly, half apology, half excuse.

"I know."

"I need to get some sleep."

"You do."

"I got a big day tomorrow."

She said bluntly, "This is not a good time in your life to be making major decisions."

He laughed.

"You think Judge Gagnon cares about that?"

"Can you get away from the situation, Bobby? Take a little break?"

"Not with the DA's office conducting a formal investigation. Besides, there's too much going on."

"All right, Bobby. Then sit down again. Because there's one more topic we need to cover before you go. We need to talk, honestly, about Catherine Gagnon."

Catherine and Nathan were in the lobby at the Ritz. She knew they must look odd. A woman, a small child, no bags, checking into a hotel at this hour. She didn't care. Nathan was literally shaking in her arms, his distress apparent in his pale, wide-eyed face. Pancreatitis, she was already thinking again. Or an infection, or chest pains, or God knows what. His health always deteriorated when he was under stress.

She fumbled with her purse, trying to get it on the counter while still holding Nathan in her arms. A hotel clerk finally appeared, looking surprised to see someone at this hour.

"Ma'am?"

"I'd like a room, please. Nonsmoking. Anything you've got."

The man raised a brow, but didn't comment.

A few clicks of the keyboard and he announced they did have a room available. King-sized bed, nonsmoking. Would she like a crib?

She passed on the crib, but asked for a toothbrush and toothpaste, as well as three extra lamps. The lights didn't have to be anything fancy, they'd take whatever they got.

Catherine produced a credit card. The hotel clerk swiped it through the machine.

"Ummm, could I see some ID?"

Catherine was stroking Nathan's back, trying to soothe his trembling.

"Pardon?"

"ID. Driver's license perhaps. For security purposes."

Catherine was perplexed, but obediently dug into her purse. She produced her license, and for the longest time the hotel clerk gazed at the photo on the ID, then back at her.

"Ma'am, are you aware that this credit card has been reported stolen?"

"What?"

"Ma'am, I can't take this card."

Catherine stared at him as if she'd never heard English. She wanted a room. She wanted a beautiful room in a fancy hotel where bad things couldn't happen. Surely if you were surrounded by silk drapes and down pillows, monsters couldn't find you.

"Perhaps your husband…" the hotel clerk suggested kindly.

"Yes, yes, that's right," she murmured.

"He lost his card not that long ago. I didn't realize the company would cancel both."

She knew this wasn't Jimmy's doing, however. He'd never possessed this level of finesse. This was her father-in-law. This was James.

"Things for you are only going to get much, much worse-" "Do you have another card?" the man asked.

"Urnm… let me look." She opened her wallet, staring blankly ' her collection of plastic. She had an Amex and two more platinum cards. She could hand them over, but she thought she already knew the results. James was thorough. And the more cards that ere rejected, the more reason the hotel clerk would have to be suspicious.

She checked her cash instead. One hundred and fifty dollars. Not enough for the Ritz. She gave it one last try, hoping her voice didn't sound as desperate as she felt.

"As you can see from the address on my driver's license, I live just around the corner. Unfortunately, there's been a terrible incident this evening and my son can't sleep in our home. We just need a place to crash for a few hours. I don't have another credit card, but tomorrow, I swear to you, I'll bring a check."

"Ma'am, we need a credit card to release a room."

"Please," she murmured.

"I have so much power… You have no idea…"

"I'm sorry, ma'am."

"He's only four years old."

"I'm sorry, ma'am. Surely you have some family that could help you?"

She turned away. She didn't want this stranger to see her cry.

Walking across the lobby, she saw an ATM. Fatalistically, she got out her bank card. Inserted it. Entered her PIN.

A message flashed across the screen: "Please contact your nearest bank branch. Thank you."

The machine spat her bank card back out, and that was it. No cash, no plastic. She'd been trying to stay one step ahead, but still her father-in-law had outmaneuvered her. How far could she get on one hundred and fifty dollars in cash?

Catherine took a deep breath. For one instant, she heard the weak little voice in the back of her mind. Just hand over Nathan. If she played her cards right, she bet she could get James to write her a check. No, scratch that-she'd get cash. Or better yet, a wire transfer. How much was a son worth? One hundred thousand, two hundred thousand, a million?

She wasn't a good mother. The authorities weren't as wrong as she would've liked. She didn't know how to love the way other people loved. She didn't know how to feel the way other people felt. She had gone into a hole a happy little girl; she'd emerged a hollowed-out shell of a human being. She was not normal; she merely did her best to imitate the normalcy she sensed in others.

So she'd gotten a husband, she'd had a child.

And now here she was, thirty-six years old and still terrified of the dark.

Catherine pulled out her cell phone. She dialed a number. It rang for the longest time, then a male voice came on the line.

"Please," she whispered.

"We have no place else to go."

Do you think Catherine Gagnon was abused by her husband?" Elizabeth asked.

"Yeah."

"Do you think she deserved it?"

"What the hell do I know?"

"Come on, Bobby. You have anger toward your mother, you have anger toward Catherine. Part of that anger is the belief these two women could've done something differently. That they should've kept themselves from being victimized."

"I watched her," he said abruptly.

"Some nights, my father would walk through the door, obviously already liquored up, and I'd watch her start in on him. Been drinking again? Jesus, just one night couldn't you be a decent man and think about your family… Come on, we all knew what was going to happen next."

"He'd hit her?"

"Yeah."

"Did she fight back?"

"Not physically."

"But he'd hit her. And then?"

Bobby shrugged.

"I don't know. He'd get mad, then eventually he'd pass out."

"So if he started out by getting mad at your mother as you say, he'd take his aggression out on her, then pass out."

"I guess."

"So he wouldn't hit you or your brother?"

"Not if we stayed out of the way."

"Do you think your mother knew this?"

He paused, appeared troubled.

"I don't know."

"A woman's love for her husband is a very complicated thing, Bobby. So is her love for her children."

"Yeah, she loves us so goddamn much she just can't wait to rail?" "I can't comment on that, Bobby; I've never met your mother. For some women, however… some women might feel too ashamed."

"I thought we were talking about Catherine," Bobby said.

"All right. Do you think Catherine provoked her husband?"

"She's capable of it."

"And Thursday night?"

He resumed pacing again.

"Maybe. It doesn't make sense. But then again…" He looked at Elizabeth.

"It's the fact that we had met before, that we had spoken, that bothers me. Sure, I didn't remember her, I'm confident of that. But she asked me questions about the job, questions about how and when a tactical team would be deployed. Why those questions? What was she thinking?"

"You said she's manipulative."

"Exactly. But at the same time… could she have pulled it off? I sure as hell wouldn't have gone anywhere near the trigger if Jimmy hadn't been holding a gun. So she'd have to engineer a scenario that would make him get a pistol, and then she'd have to risk herself and her son in a standoff with an armed drunk."

"Dangerous," Elizabeth observed.

"Ballsy." Bobby shook his head.

"If it was just her in that room, I could see it. But I don't think she'd risk her son."

"You don't believe Catherine is abusing Nathan?"

"No."

Elizabeth arched a brow.

"You sound very certain of that."

"I am."

"Would it bother you to know that I'm not as certain? In fact, the more I learn about Catherine Gagnon, the more I'm deeply concerned about the relationship between her and her son."

"You and everyone else."

"She's self-centered, you've said that yourself. And she's a victim of abuse, and we know these things tend to have patterns."

"I'm a victim of abuse, too," Bobby said stiffly. He added almost defiantly, "And we just established that I like to lie, too."

"Bobby, look me in the eye. If Catherine Gagnon felt herself at risk, if Catherine Gagnon felt herself or her lifestyle seriously in jeopardy, do you honestly believe there's a line she wouldn't cross? A person she wouldn't sacrifice to save herself?"

He stared at her mutinously.

But Elizabeth wouldn't drop it. For his sake, she couldn't drop it.

"You don't believe it, Bobby. That's another reason you can't let Thursday night go. Because, deep in your heart, you believe Catherine is capable of engineering the shooting of her husband. You're just not sure how she did it."

"He was an abusive asshole!"

"How do you know?"

"She said-" "She lies."

"Dr. Rocco saw the bruises!"

"Who is Dr. Rocco?"

He flushed, chagrined.

"Her ex-lover."

Elizabeth let that sink in. Then, abruptly, she switched gears.

"Why did you see Susan tonight?"

Bobby was clearly startled.

"Because I felt like I owed it to her. After two years together… I should at least say goodbye in person."

"What did she say?"

He shrugged.

"Not much. I mean, we'd already broken up. What was left to say?"

"Did that disappoint you?"

"I don't understand."

"When you went to meet her tonight, did you really want to finalize the end of the relationship, Bobby? Or did you secretly wish for something else? Did you wish that she would fight for you? Did you wish that she would beg you to stay? Did you wish, deep down inside, that she would love you so much she would not let you go?"

"I would never…" But he couldn't continue the protest. Caught off guard, stripped of his own defenses, he finally couldn't tell a lie. He whispered, "How did you know?"

"Someone you loved once left you and never looked back. Now, all these years later, you're still waiting for people to leave, Bobby. In fact, the longer a woman stays, the more anxious it makes you. So you engineer little scenarios, little tests. The woman will either fight for you or she'll leave you. Either one eases your anxiety. At least temporarily." "Jesus," he said quietly.

"When Catherine calls, you tell her to leave you alone, don't you?"

"Yeah."

"But she doesn't go away. She fights to see you. She tells you she needs you. She reminds you of her poor, sick son, and when you do show up, she makes sure you see her and Nathan together. For some men, I imagine she plays the sex card. But your female fantasy isn't a woman in black lace. Your fantasy is a woman who would never-ever-abandon her child."

Bobby closed his eyes. She could see the dawning realization in his face, because slowly, but surely, he appeared horrified.

Elizabeth leaned forward.

"One more time, Bobby: Do you think Catherine Gagnon may have caused her husband's death?"

He murmured, "Yes."

Elizabeth nodded slowly.

"Then you have to let her go, Bobby. You have to stop seeing her. Because if Catherine Gagnon is a predator, then surely you realize now that you make the perfect prey."

It was three a.m. when Bobby finally made it home. No lights were on in his unit. Just his answering machine blinked a frantic red dot in the night.

He slumped into one of the hard wooden chairs in his kitchen. He felt wrung out, drained, not an ounce of emotion or intelligence left. For the longest time, he simply sat there and watched the message light blink.

Slowly, he reached out and hit Play.

His lieutenant. A guy from the EAU. A hang-up. His father. Two more hang-ups. Silence.

Bobby leaned forward onto the kitchen table and used his hands to pillow his head.

Three hang-ups on the message tape. Catherine, he thought.

He squeezed his temples. Get her out of his head, get her out of his head. Don't let her mess with him like this. Sitting in Dr. Lane's office, it had all made perfect sense. Yet here he was, an hour later, alone in the dark, and already thinking of Catherine.

Was she all right? How was Nathan holding up, and where would they go? Not to her in-laws, that much was clear.

Maybe she had another lover. Why not? She'd certainly wasted no time coming on to him. Woman like that, not the type to go at it alone. Probably had a sugar daddy in every port. Maybe she was already lining up another doctor. Or, more likely, a lawyer. Yeah, she needed a big gun to take on Judge Gagnon.

He bet she could find someone pretty quick. Right clothes, right time, right twitch of the hip.

He wished he could hate her. But he didn't. Catherine was doing what she needed to do to survive. And he understood that too well.

If someone else had taken the call on Thursday night, a sniper whose father had never smacked his mother, a sniper who'd never grown up watching that look of hopelessness bloom on another person's face, would Jimmy Gagnon still be alive?

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. Mr. 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 19505. 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."

Mr. 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-dollar 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. Bobby 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."

Robinson 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 one 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?"

Catherine 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 listening! 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. lorfino'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.

She was still trembling when she heard her father's phone begin to ring downstairs.

Five minutes later he materialized in her doorway. He had a look on his face she'd never seen before. Shell-shocked, bordering on shattered.

"That was Charlie Pidherny," he murmured.

"The lawyer?" Charlie Pidherny had been the DA who'd handled Catherine's case. He'd retired nearly a decade ago; she couldn't recall having heard from him since.

"He's out," her father said.

"Who's out?"

"Umbrio. Richard Umbrio."

"I don't understand."

"They paroled him, on Saturday. Except according to Charlie, they don't release offenders without proper notification, and they don't release them on Saturday mornings. It must be a mistake. That's what happened. Some kind of mistake."

Catherine was still staring at her father. Then, realization hit, hard and visceral.

Hey, honey. Can you help me for a sec? I'm looking for a lost dog.

Catherine bolted from the bedroom. She made it to the toilet just in time.

Nathan, she thought, Oh God, Nathan. Catherine threw up until she dry-heaved as the tears poured down her face.

Bobby met Harris Reed at Bogey's. Even a high-priced private investigator could appreciate a good diner. Harris went for the double cheeseburger, extra onion, extra mushrooms. Bobby ordered a sausage and cheese omelet.

Harris was in a good mood, taking big bites of his dripping burger and chewing enthusiastically. No doubt he thought Bobby had arranged this meeting to announce his submission; he'd surrender to Judge Gagnon's master plan and do whatever was required.

Bobby let the investigator get halfway through his burger before dropping the bomb.

"So, quite a scene in Back Bay yesterday," he said casually.

Harris's jaw slowed, his teeth taking a momentary pause from grinding beef.

"Yeah."

"I hear the nanny hanged herself. What's the word from your contacts?"

Harris swallowed.

"My contacts say you were at the scene, so you'd probably know better than them."

"Maybe I do." Bobby waited a moment.

"Are you curious?"

"Should I be?" "I think you should."

Harris shrugged. He was doing his best to retain his casual demeanor, but he'd set down his burger now and was wiping his hands with the oversized paper napkin.

"So the nanny hanged herself. These girls are young, doing a tough job a long ways from home. Given everything else, maybe it's not surprising."

"Come on," Bobby goaded softly.

"You can do better than that."

"I don't know what you mean."

Bobby leaned forward.

"Did Judge Gagnon ask you for a name? Someone capable of doing 'odd jobs'? Or maybe someone who knew someone who could take care of things? Or did you get personally involved? I'd like to think you're too smart for that, but then again…"

"I don't know what you mean-" "Come on! You knew about the Rocco scene before the blood hit the pavement. You were listening. You were waiting. Why? Because you thought something like that might happen. How good is the judge's money, Harris? How far were you willing to go?"

"I think I'm done eating."

Harris moved to stand. Bobby grabbed the man's hand, and slammed it against the table.

"I'm not wired," he said intently.

"I'm not looking to nail you. I just want a little exchange of information. Man-to-man. You could use a new friend, Harris. Your old ones are putting you in a tough place."

"Nothing personal, Dodge, but at the rate things are going, associating with you hardly does me any favors."

"Her neck was snapped, Harris. Someone broke Prudence Walker in half as if she were nothing but a toothpick. Can you really sleep at night with that on your conscience? Can you really look me in the eye and tell me you don't feel a thing?"

Harris was starting to sweat. His gaze dropped to Bobby's hand, still pinning his wrist in place.

"The cops are gonna start putting two and two together, Bobby said.

"Why did a doctor end up butchered in a parking garage? Why did a nanny go out on her day off and wind up dead? Two murders is too many; that's why it was so important that Prudence's death look like suicide. Is there an end point to this game, Harris? Because you and I both know once you start killing, it's hard to stop."

"I didn't give the judge any information," Harris said abruptly.

"As a matter of fact, he's the one who came to me with a name."

"What name?"

"Colleen Robinson. Asked me to check her out. I didn't understand at first, but then I got her background report. According to several sources, she has a reputation for getting things done."

"A female assassin?"

"No, no, no. Colleen specializes in… hooking people up. You need this, someone else needs that, she makes it happen. She was a small-time player-spent time in prison for grand theft auto. Built a network while she was in there, and has been moving on up ever since." Harris shrugged.

"I ran the report. I gave it to the judge. He seemed satisfied."

"I want her name and address."

"I have a cell phone number. Knock yourself out." Bobby finally released Harris's hand.

"At the first crime scene, there was a message, "Boo." What does that mean?"

"I don't know. Frankly, I'm guessing you need to ask that question of Miss Robinson. So I take it you're not accepting the judge's little deal."

"Nope."

"She that good of a fuck?"

"I wouldn't know."

Harris snorted. He moved to get up from the table, rubbing his wrist self-consciously, then catching the gesture and sticking his hand in his pocket. He said stiffly, "Needless to say, if the judge asks, we never had this conversation."

"Fine by me, though personally, I think you should do a better job of screening your clients."

"Let me tell you something: the ones with the money are always the ones with something to hide. We start screening and we'd be bankrupt in a year."

Harris took a step toward the door, but then at the last minute, did a little about-face. "The Prudence thing… What happened to her, yeah, that pissed me off." He gazed at Bobby, his lips pressed into a hard thin line.

"You want to hear something funny? The judge claims he and Maryanne are from Georgia. Met there, married there, then came to Boston, looking for a fresh start. Now here's the funny part: I did a bit of digging. I can find record of James-schooling, his graduation, the law firm where he used to work. Maryanne Gagnon, on the other hand, doesn't exist."

"What?"

"No birth certificate, no driver's license, no marriage license. Before 1965 there was no Maryanne Gagnon."

"But that doesn't make any sense."

Harris merely smiled.

"Like I said, Dodge, it's the ones with money who are always fucked up."

Twelve-thirty p.m." Bobby left the diner. He flipped open his cell phone. Million and a half reasons he shouldn't call her. He dialed the number anyway.

"I know who the judge used to hire the killer," he said.

"I know who the killer is," Catherine replied.

"Richard Umbrio."

It took him a moment to place the name; then, he was genuinely startled.

"Are you sure? How?"

"Paroled on Saturday morning. Except they don't release inmates on Saturday."

"It would take someone with very high-level, contacts to do such a thing," Bobby filled in.

"Yes," she said quietly.

"Where are you now?"

"Off to see the new doctor; he asked me to come in at one."

"This is the specialist Dr. Rocco recommended?" Bobby asked sharply.

"Yes."

"I'll meet you there."

He braced himself for the sight of her. He replayed his conversation with Dr. Lane in his mind: Catherine was smart, tough, extremely manipulative; he was a man with issues. Catherine was on the defensive, deep in survival mode, and capable of anything; he Was a man who should know better.

Walking into the discreet, high-end lobby of the doctor's office, he was still struck dumb.

She stood alone in the corner, wearing last night's clothing. The black skirt was rumpled. The gray cashmere sweater had seen better days. Her face was pale, her eyes bruised. She had her arms wrapped tightly around her waist, too thin, too tired, and too small to be carrying this much weight on her shoulders.

She looked up, saw him, and for the longest time, they simply regarded each other across the empty room.

He thought of when he'd seen her at the Gardner Museum, just two days before. Catherine's slinky black dress. Her pencil-thin heels. Her strategic positioning in front of an erotic blue painting. Everything she'd worn, everything she'd done, everything she'd said, had been perfectly planned and elaborately staged. That had been the Catherine Gagnon a man should fear.

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.

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. Lorfino 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. lorfino 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. lorfino 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. lorfino 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. lorfino 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. lorfino 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 gluconeogenesis, 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."

"Gluconeogenesis," 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. lorfino 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. lorfino.

"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. lorfino 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. lorfino 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. lorfino.

"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. lorfino 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."

He walked out of Dr. lorfino'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. lorfino, 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.

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." 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 wrapped 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." "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 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 matteroffactly.

"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.

prank 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 shotgun, 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."

"I don't want your gratitude," Mr. Bosu said with a scowl.

"I want your money!"

"I'm calling the police," Judge Gagnon announced silkily.

"I'm telling them you, a convicted sex offender, kidnapped my grandson. Then I'm bringing every FBI agent, state police trooper, and pissant local sheriff down on your ass. I'd start running, Mr. Bosu. You don't have much time left."

The phone clicked off. Mr. Bosu sat there, stunned. What the hell? The man would even sell out his own grandson?

Mr. Bosu got out of the car. He forgot about Nathan sitting in the front seat, he forgot about the bloodstains on his shirt. He reached the front door of the townhouse and banged hard. Nothing. He rang the doorbell. Then, in a fit of temper, he banged and kicked on the solid oak door with all his might.

The house was empty. Abandoned. Deserted. As in, rats were always the first to abandon ship.

Mr. Bosu was breathing hard. His forearm throbbed from the earlier cut. He was also starting to feel nauseous, a junkie coming down hard from a fix.

He took a few seconds and thought long and hard about things. So the judge was taking care of the judge. To hell with paying Mr. Bosu, and to hell with saving his grandson.

That was it. Mr. Bosu was officially pissed off. He didn't even care about the money anymore. Now, it was the principle of the thing.

Nobody crossed Mr. Bosu. Nobody.

Mr. Bosu returned to Robinson's car. The boy sat in the passenger seat, tickling Trickster's ears.

"Say, does your grandfather have a second home?" Mr. Bosu asked casually.

The boy shrugged, played with the dog.

"Anyplace he likes to go in particular? You know, his own special place?" Another shrug.

Mr. Bosu grew impatient.

"Nathan," he said sternly, "I'm supposed to be returning you to your grandfather. Don't you want to see your grandfather?"

"Okay."

"Then where the hell is he?"

The boy looked up at him. He said promptly, "At the Hotel LeRoux."

Mr. Bosu smiled. He put the car in gear.

"Nathan," he said seriously, "when the time comes, I'll make sure you never feel a thing.

don't understand," Catherine was saying.

"You think my father-in-law hired Umbrio?"

"He used a middleman, Colleen Robinson, to make the arrangements. Umbrio got paroled in return for agreeing to perform a few favors."

"So why am I still alive?"

"Because killing you isn't as important as discrediting you."

"Come again?" She blinked her eyes.

"The fudge hates you. Hates you for Jimmy, hates you for marrying into the family. But mostly, I think, he hates you for Nathan. As long as you continue to press about Nathan's health, you're on the verge of uncovering his and Maryanne's secret."

"If I died, I wouldn't be a threat anymore."

"No. But Dr. Rocco would be. And maybe your father would be. There would always be those who'd observe Nathan's poor health and wonder. Unless, of course, they already had a reasonable explanation for why Nathan was sick."

"I was poisoning him," she filled in.

"I was a bad mom."

"Exactly." "But once he won custody of Nathan…" She frowned.

"Wouldn't the fact that Nathan didn't magically get better become a problem?"

"I don't think the judge planned on letting that become a problem," Bobby said quietly.

"You think he would really harm his own grandson?"

"I think," Bobby answered grimly, "the man may have already killed his own son."

It turned out a luxury hotel made a pretty good fortress. Sure, Mr. Bosu valet-parked his car. Sure, he strolled right in with Nathan, and even Trickster, because who was going to say no to a cute boy and his puppy?

That didn't solve his problem. He didn't know what room the judge was in, and the pretty young desk attendant was polite, but firm about the hotel's policy of not giving out such information. She could call Judge Gagnon for him, she could notify Judge Gagnon that he had guests, but without the judge's permission, she could not let the guests go to the judge.

Mr. Bosu had already determined another problem. According to the boy, the judge had described a luxury suite in the hotel. That meant the upper floors, which required a special keycard inserted into the elevator. Assuming the judge was staying in a penthouse suite, Mr. Bosu would not be getting up there any time soon.

It was perplexing. A dilemma, and Mr. Bosu was getting very tired now. He suddenly missed his nice clean bed at the Hampton Inn. Hell, he even missed his prison cot.

He and the boy walked outside, where Mr. Bosu had another Red Bull and contemplated things. The bloodstain on his shirt bothered him; the suspicious stare of the twerpy doorman bothered him. The whole fucking world bothered him.

Then Mr. Bosu had an idea.

He downed his Red Bull. He walked Nathan back into the hotel lobby and took him straight to the receptionist's desk.

"This is Nathan Gagnon, grandson of Judge Gagnon," he announced in his most cordial voice.

"If you call up, you'll find the judge is expecting him. Unfortunately, I've received a bad cut-" Mr. Bosu flashed his bloody arm, "and I need to seek medical attention.

Do you have someone who could escort Nathan upstairs to his grandparents? They'd greatly appreciate the boy not being left alone." The receptionist smiled at him.

"Of course. One minute, sir." She dialed the room. Mr. Bosu held his breath. Surely the good judge couldn't refuse his grandson, particularly if the boy was coming up alone.

"Mrs. Gagnon?" the receptionist said brightly. Mr. Bosu exhaled. The wife. Perfect.

"Yes, we have a fine young man here, Nathan Gagnon-Yes, your grandson. What a handsome boy, too. We'll send him right up with a bellhop. Do you know Nathan has a puppy? Not a problem, ma'am, but we do have a form we'll need filled out. Excellent. I'll send that up, as well. Thank you."

The receptionist put down the phone, the perky smile still on her face.

"Mrs. Gagnon is very excited to see her grandson. If you'd like to depart, sir, we can take it from here."

Mr. Bosu graciously thanked the woman. He even shook Nathan's hand.

"So happy I could get you to your grandparents, young man. The puppy's name is Trickster. Your mom wanted you to have him as a surprise."

"Mommy?" the boy asked hopefully.

"Trust me, you'll be with her soon enough." This pacified the kid, and he nodded his head vigorously while clutching Trickster against his chest. Then the bellhop came over, admiring the fine boy, admiring the fine dog, and all was well.

They headed for the elevator.

"The penthouse suite," the bellhop was telling Nathan.

"That sucker's bigger than my house. You're gonna love it up there."

The elevator doors opened. Mr. Bosu turned. The receptionist was attending someone else, the bellhop was busy with Nathan… Mr. Bosu bolted for the stairs. He sprinted up three levels, Bam, bam, bam, taking the stairs two at a time. Then he burst onto the third floor-blissfully empty-where he pounded the elevator button. The elevator came to an immediate halt.

The doors opened. The bellhop appeared surprised to see Mr. Bosu standing right there.

"Weren't you in the lobby-" Mr. Bosu seized the young man by the shirt and jerked him into the hall. One quick snap and the man crumpled to the floor. Mr. Bosu grabbed the man's jacket, snatched the man's master key-a card hanging from a chain around his neck-and stepped back inside the elevator.

Nathan was staring at him. The boy's eyes were solemn and wide.

"My mommy warned me about men like you," the boy said.

Mr. Bosu grinned his full, awful grin.

"Yeah, I bet she did."

Entering the hotel LeRoux, Bobby watched for security guards while Catherine did the talking.

"James and Maryanne Gagnon," she told the receptionist.

"They're expecting you?"

"Tell them it's about their grandson."

"Nathan?" the receptionist asked brightly.

Catherine became hyperaware. So did Bobby.

"You've seen Nathan?" Catherine asked sharply.

"Why, yes. Just ten minutes ago. One of our bellhops escorted him upstairs."

"Was he with a man?" Bobby broke in.

"Big, maybe looked like he'd been in a fight?"

"Yes, he mentioned he'd been hurt-" They didn't wait to hear the rest.

"That man is a convicted pedophile," Catherine screamed.

"He kidnapped my son earlier today. Call the police and get us upstairs."

The receptionist was flustered. She wanted to call for security. She wanted to dial the room. She needed permission, she needed help. She clearly didn't know what to do.

Bobby was already in front of the elevators, stabbing at the buttons, pacing wildly.

"Fine, call the room!" Catherine pleaded.

"Dial the room number now. Get them on the phone, please, go ahead."

The overwhelmed receptionist picked up the phone. She punched in a four-digit number. Catherine blatantly memorized it-Thirty seconds later, however, the receptionist was more confused than ever.

"No one's answering. I don't understand. Why, just a few minutes ago-" A sudden, sharp scream. The elevator doors opened. A well-dressed man and woman came stumbling out.

"There's a body!" the woman wailed.

"There's a body on the third floor."

"It's a bellhop," the man said.

"I'd swear someone snapped his neck."

Pandemonium broke out. Now security guards did come running, bellhops, too. The parking valet went sprinting by Bobby. Bobby grabbed the man's arm, then flashed his badge.

"Police. Give me your pass key. Now!"

The bewildered valet turned over his pass key. Bobby jerked his head at Catherine.

They bolted into the elevator, slammed the key into the slot, and headed for the penthouse floor.

"You look for Nathan," Bobby said.

"I'll take care of Umbrio."

"What about James and Maryanne?"

Bobby shrugged.

"If they're working with Umbrio, then they're probably safe. If they're against Umbrio, then we probably don't have to worry about them anymore."

"Oh God…"

"Let's go," Bobby said.

– MR. Bosu knocked once. He went for a childlike rat-a-tat.

The door opened, and, without bothering to wait, Mr. Bosu slammed his fist into the man's face. There was a wet crunching sound. Then the man sprawled onto the vast marble floor.

"Hey, Judge," Mr. Bosu said.

"Remember me?" He was still smiling when Nathan's teeth sank into his hand.

stepping out of the elevator, Bobby's first glimpse was an open doorway and a fresh corpse. He reached back one hand to steady Catherine, then realized he was wasting valuable energy. With Umbrio on the premises, one body was the least of their concerns. "Shhh," he ordered in a low voice.

"Let's not announce ourselves before we have to. We need whatever advantage we can get."

The place was quiet. Eerily quiet. Bobby didn't like it. He expected screams or scrambling footsteps or a child's excited yells. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing. It made the fine hairs rise up on the back of his neck.

They stepped into the marble foyer and Catherine's heels promptly rang out like shots. They both drew up short, Catherine's dark eyes wide with distress.

"Off."

She removed her heels.

Bobby stepped forward and inspected Harris. The investigator's nose had been shattered, bone fragments driven up into his brain. It had happened so fast, the man had never even unbuttoned his jacket or reached for his gun. One minute he'd answered the door, the next, he was dead.

Bobby shook his head. In his own way, he'd started to like Harris.

Bobby reached inside the investigator's jacket, and removed the man's nine-millimeter from the shoulder holster. He flipped off the safety, then gave the piece to Catherine. Still no other sounds in the suite.

"Something's wrong," she whispered.

"No kidding."

And then… Musical chimes. The notes were haunting, distant. A slow lullaby drifting from the back of the suite. A music box. Maybe a child's toy. Bobby didn't know, but the high, tinny notes strained the heavy air.

He looked at Catherine, whose face had gone white.

"What is that?" Her tone was getting strident again. He motioned, Easy, with his hand.

"I don't know. Hold it together, Cat. Nathan needs you."

She nodded, taking a deep shuddering breath. After another moment, Bobby motioned to the wall, and Catherine fell in step behind him.

Time gave Umbrio the advantage, Bobby realized now, to separate them, to ambush them. The suite was too big for Bobby to control, and Catherine was too inexperienced to help. Whatever happened next would need to happen fast.

Cautiously, he led them from the foyer into the empty sitting room. Given the force of Umbrio's entry, anyone in this room had probably run for cover.

A hallway loomed through an arched expanse on the left. Another loomed on the right. Apparently, the sitting room acted as the central area for the two wings of the suite. Bobby hesitated. Catherine tapped his hand and pointed to the left.

"The music," she mouthed.

He nodded, understanding. It was difficult to pinpoint the tinny notes, but they appeared to still be coming from the left.

He took her hand. They edged, single file, down the hall.

Then they heard a scream. Shrill, high-pitched, distinctly feminine.

"Maryanne!" Catherine gasped.

They bolted down the hall. Bobby processed everything at once. Three open doorways, three bedrooms. He ran by the first, then the second, and came sprinting into the third just in time to see Maryanne staggering back.

"James James, James," the woman was sobbing.

"Oh God, James!"

Bobby looked down, registered a bloody body, and in the next minute, sensed, more than heard, the movement behind him.

"Look out!" Catherine's cry, farther down the hall.

He tried to turn, tried to get the gun up.

Umbrio caught him in the shoulder. Bobby felt a stunning blow. The force whirled him around, knocked him off-balance. He fought desperately to retain his footing. He had an image out of the corner of his eye, something silver and red.

Knife, he managed to think. Knife, coming for him.

Then he heard a gunshot. A split second later, plaster exploded beside his head.

Bobby fell down. Umbrio, however, stopped and turned.

"Why, Catherine," the large man said, "what a pleasant surprise to see you here."

Umbrio grinned. There were flecks of red all over his face.

Blood, maybe from James, maybe from Bobby. It gave the murderer a feral look.

Catherine brought up the nine-millimeter again. She was using two hands, trying to take a stand. Her arms shook so badly, however, she couldn't aim. She pulled the trigger wildly and the bullet nailed the wall an inch from Umbrio's shoulder.

Umbrio smiled again. He took a step forward.

"Oh, Catherine, Catherine, Catherine."

Blood poured down from Bobby's shoulder, mixing with the sweat on his palm. His right arm didn't want to move, his fingers didn't want to contract. He shifted the gun to his left hand and squeezed the trigger.

The gun exploded, the shot sailing wildly by Umbrio's knee. The surprise attack from the rear drew the big man up short. He took in Catherine, still trembling in front of him, and Bobby, badly wounded behind him. Bobby was already taking aim again. The floor was an awkward position, but he could make it work. He hadn't spent years practicing weak-hand drills for nothing.

Umbrio seemed to realize that Bobby was down but not out at the same time Bobby centered his second shot on the big man's chest. His finger tightened on the trigger, just as Umbrio sprang through the doorway, vaulting down the wide arched hall. Catherine belatedly fired a dozen times behind him, hitting two pictures, an antique sofa table, and about nine inches of plaster. Umbrio disappeared into another room.

"Shit!" she cried.

She arrived in the bedroom, still shaking uncontrollably and now reeking of gunpowder. Her eyes were dark saucers in her pale face, her hair a disheveled mess. But she was still standing, still bearing her pistol, and Bobby thought she looked gorgeous as hell.

Now she saw the blood pouring down Bobby's shoulder.

"Oh no!"

"Who is that man?" Maryanne cried.

"And where is Nathan?"

Catherine got bobby into a sitting position. Good news, Umbrio had missed a major vein. Bad news, he'd injured the joint and now Bobby's right arm dangled uselessly at his side. "I don't understand," Maryanne was babbling.

"The receptionist called. Nathan was coming up, and I was so excited. I wanted to get the door, to be the first to greet Nathan, but James said no, let Mr. Harris get it. Then the door opened and I heard an awful noise like a crunch. James yelled at me to run, so I ran. Then James pushed me into this bedroom, told me to get into the closet and not come out no matter what happened. So I hid. Then came the sound of footsteps.

"I thought it would be Mr. Harris, or maybe James, Instead, the closet door opened and that hideous man was staring at me. He was smiling. He was holding a knife and smiling. What kind of man does such a thing?"

Bobby and Catherine didn't answer. Catherine had pulled a pillowcase from the bed and was now tying it awkwardly around Bobby's shoulder.

"James suddenly appeared. He hit the man over the head with a bookend. Really hard. I've never seen such a thing. But that horrible man, he didn't even blink. He just turned around and he looked at James… Oh my God, James knew!" Maryanne sobbed.

"You could see it on his face, he knew what was going to happen next.

"Run, Maryanne," he said. So I did. And I heard noises. I heard the most awful noises. I tried so hard not to hear those sounds. Except then it became quiet and that was so much worse. I couldn't take it anymore. I had to see James. Oh, my poor, poor, darling James…"

She crumpled to the floor beside the body. She clutched her husband's limp hand. And his fingers very slowly curled around hers.

"James!" Maryanne wept.

"James! He's breathing. Oh my darling, you're still alive!"

"Shhh," Bobby and Catherine said instantly.

"He's going to come back."

"Who's coming back?"

"Richard Umbrio."

"Isn't that the man who kidnapped you, Catherine?" Maryanne was bewildered.

"That was years ago. What would he possibly want with us?"

"Maryanne," Catherine said steadily, "where's Nathan?"

The closet was dark, but not totally dark. Nathan couldn't stand totally dark, especially now, when he was already really scared. He'd Jet the puppy go. He wished he hadn't done that now. He missed its warm little body, its sandpaper tongue licking reassuringly at his hand.

Now he was very much alone.

He'd seen the bad man do bad things. Then he'd heard his grandfather holler, "Run!" so he'd run. The other way. Far from everyone, because he didn't like his grandfather, who kept demanding Nathan go home with him, even when it was clear his mommy didn't want him to.

So Nathan dropped the puppy and ran in the other direction, away from everyone, including the bad man.

Then he'd seen this closet, with the shuttered door. It was small, filled with blankets and pillows and piles of bedding. He wished he were bigger. He wished he were stronger. He wished he were a normal healthy boy, because a normal healthy boy could probably climb all the way to the top of the closet, where he could hide above the bad man's head.

But Nathan couldn't do that. So he simply dug his way to the back of the tiny space. He closed the door. He covered himself with down pillows and did his best not to sneeze.

Now he waited. All alone. In the dark.

The bad man was coming.

Nathan whispered, "Mommy…"

Catherine had finished tying the pillowcase around Bobby's bleeding shoulder. It looked and felt ridiculous, but it was the best they could do. Both handguns rested next to Bobby on the bed, within easy reach if Umbrio should return. Looking at Bobby's mangled shoulder, however, Catherine wondered if the guns would really do much good.

Next, Catherine crossed to James, still prostrate on the floor. Blood pooled beneath him while from his lungs came an ominous whistle, like a balloon losing its air. Maryanne had his head on her lap, her hand stroking his cheek. She was crying huge soundless tears. As Catherine approached, Maryanne raised her head. Her gaze was beseeching, but there was nothing Catherine could do. The judge was dying. They all knew that.

The judge gazed up at Catherine. For the longest time, the two simply stared at one another.

Catherine waited to feel something. She wanted to feel something. Triumphant. Victorious. Satisfied. But all she felt was an emptiness that went on without end.

"I know what you did," Catherine said at last, her voice curiously flat.

"A geneticist finally diagnosed Nathan-my son suffers from a rare disorder that only occurs in families with a history of incest."

Maryanne made a small squeaking sound, belatedly covering her mouth with her hand. Catherine looked at the woman. And then she finally felt an emotion-icy cold rage.

"How could you not tell me? The minute Nathan showed signs of illness, how could you not think-" "I'm so sorry-" Maryanne began.

"Are you cousins?" Catherine interrupted angrily.

"Half siblings," Maryanne confessed, then threw out in a rush, "But we were never raised together, we never even knew each other as brother and sister. After James's mother died, his father sent him off to military school, you see. They had a bit of a falling-out, and James decided to stay up north. But as the years passed, my father finally made an attempt at reconciliation. He invited James back to visit his new family. I was turning eighteen. My parents threw a magnificent party. And then I saw the most handsome man enter the room--" James's hand spasmed in hers. Maryanne immediately bent to brush his cheek, but there was something in the tender gesture that now left Catherine feeling sickened. They had been siblings'?

"He murdered your family," Catherine told Maryanne.

"Don't be ridiculous. There was an accident-" "James made that 'accident' happen, Maryanne. He arranged for your whole family to die, just so he could have you. Like he killed your firstborn so the doctors would never discover your little secret. Like he released a convicted pedophile to murder Nathan and me. Why do you think everyone around you dies, Maryanne? Can you really be so naive?"

Catherine's voice had risen dangerously. Maryanne shook her head against the onslaught, while on the floor, James moaned feebly.

"I… loved her," the man rasped out.

"Love?" Catherine spat.

"You murdered innocent people. Was it easy the first time? Tamper with your father's brakes, tell yourself accidents happen."

"You don't… understand."

"After that you were free to come up to Boston, make a fresh start where no one would ever know your dirty little secret. Except then you had a child. And genetics found you out. Did your first son have Fanconi-Bickel, as well? Maybe a very severe case. Always sickly, always suffering."

"I don't understand," Maryanne whispered brokenly.

"Junior died of SIDS."

"Or because someone pressed a pillow over his face."

"James?" Maryanne whimpered.

"I… love you," the judge said again, but there was something pleading in his tone now. Something even more damning than guilt. Maryanne started to cry again.

"Oh no… oh no, oh no, oh no."

Catherine, however, wasn't done.

"You turned Jimmy against me. You filled his head with awful ideas, and forced me to do unspeakable things. How dare you! We could've worked together to help Nathan. Maybe we could've been happy."

"My son," James said clearly, "was always… too good… for you."

"James!" Maryanne gasped.

"You idiot," Catherine said coldly.

"You released Umbrio, and now he will kill us all."

"Police… will come," the judge murmured.

But then, from down the hall, they all heard Umbrio's voice: "Nathan, Nathan, Nathan. Come out wherever you are."

Bobby said quietly to all of them, "Not soon enough."

Mr. Bosu was tired of this game. Coming to the judge's hotel had seemed a good idea. Threaten the judge in person and get a little money, or hey, kill the judge in person and get a little satisfaction, that had been the plan. Mr. Bosu was flexible.

But nothing had turned out that way. Yes, he'd gotten to exercise a little vengeance. But that hadn't felt as good as he'd expected. Maybe even murder got boring after a while. He didn't know. But the wife was still running around and the kid was running around and now Catherine was here and, with her, another man.

Mr. Bosu wanted to feel excited. But mostly, he just felt tired. Screw killing all of them. He'd settle for one last target. The one that would inflict the most damage of all.

He wanted the boy.

Just the boy.

Then he was out of here.

Mr. Bosu had already completed a search of the left side of the palatial suite. He'd found the master bedroom, raided the wife's jewelry box, and found a wad of cash. Now, he turned his attention to the right-hand side of the suite. If he were a four-year-old boy, where would he hide?

Someplace cozy, someplace dark. No. Wait. The boy had all those dozens of night-lights. The kid was scared of the dark.

Mr. Bosu's eyes fell upon the louvered door of the hall closet. Of course. Mr. Bosu began to smile.

need a plan," Catherine said. Her gaze fell to Bobby. He nodded, struggling to sit up straighter on the bed.

"What are we going to do?" Maryanne whimpered forlornly from the floor.

"James is injured. You're injured. What are we going to do?"

"I can fire a gun just fine," Bobby said levelly.

"I drill with my left hand all the time."

Catherine nodded. She picked up both nine-millimeters off the bed and handed him one.

"All right. You take a gun, I'll take a gun."

"You can't shoot worth shit," Bobby said seriously.

"Well then, I'll just have to make sure I get close enough. Do we hunt him? Is that how this game is played?"

Bobby immediately shook his head.

"I don't want us split up. Two against one is better odds, plus I don't want the risk of one of us accidentally hitting the other with cross fire."

"We're not going to have much element of surprise, two of us blundering down a hall."

"No, we won't. Which is why we're going to make him come to us." "And how do we do that?"

Bobby looked her in the eye.

"Well, Catherine, you know him best."

She nodded slowly.

"Yes," she said after a moment, "I guess I do."

Mr. Bosu was on the prowl. He spotted the target. He yanked back the closet door. He thrust deep with his knife. And ripped into a pile of terry cloth towels. What the hell?

"Shit!" Mr. Bosu roared.

He tossed out the pile of towels. Then the shelf of toilet paper, then a collection of bathrobes. Empty, empty, empty. Where was the boy?

"Shit!" he roared again.

But then he saw it. Farther down the hall, another louvered door. Mr. Bosu stalked forward.

"Richard."

The voice stopped him, the name, too. Mr. Bosu turned, feeling slightly confused. It had been years since anyone had called him Richard. Prison guards didn't use it, neither did his fellow inmates. He was Umbrio or, in his own mind, Mr. Bosu. He had not been called Richard in over twenty years.

Catherine stood alone at the end of the hallway. Taller than the image implanted in his mind, and yet in many ways still the same. Those dark, dark eyes. That tangled mass of black hair. He wished she were wearing a red bow.

Pity that girls should grow up at all.

"Catherine," he said, and gestured with his bloody knife.

"Did you miss me?"

He grinned at her. She had her shoulders back and her head up, trying to appear strong. But he could see how hard she was breathing by the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

She was terrified.

That old feeling came back to him, nostalgic and swift. It was twenty-five years ago, and he was scrambling through the woods, heading happily for a small clearing made distinct only by the large piece of plywood that appeared to be lying on the ground. Next to it were a tall stick and a section of chain that, only upon closer inspection, became a ladder.

He raised the plywood, supporting its edge lean-to style on the stick. Then he was leaning over the gaping hole, preparing to drop down the chain.

Her face appeared below in the gloom. Small, pale, dirt-streaked. Desperate.

"Are you happy to see me?" he called down.

"Tell me you're happy to see me."

"Please, "she said.

He flew down the ladder, grabbing her into his arms.

"What shall we do today?"

"Please," she said again, and just the sound of that word made his heart burst in his chest.

"Are you going to beg?" Umbrio asked now, genuinely excited.

"You know what I like to hear."

"No."

"You should. I'm going to kill you and your son."

"No."

"Come now, Catherine. You of all people know how powerful I am."

"You put me in a hole for twenty-eight days, Richard. I put you in prison for twenty-five years."

Mr. Bosu scowled. He didn't like that thought. In fact, he didn't care for this whole conversation. He took a step forward. Catherine held her ground. He took another step, then came to a sudden halt. Wait a minute.

"Show me your hands," he ordered.

She obediently lifted them up.

"Where's the gun?" he asked suspiciously.

"I gave it to Maryanne. I already tried it and you and I both know I can't shoot."

He frowned, still not liking this.

"So you're just going to attack me with your bare hands."

"No."

"What then? Why'd you come out? Why'd you leave the room?"

"To buy time for my son. The police are going to come, Richard. They're going to be here any minute. And frankly, I don't care if you hack apart every inch of my body, just as long as you don't touch a hair on Nathan's head."

"Oh." He considered it.

"You know what? It's a deal." He sprang forward and Catherine bolted down the hall.

Catherine ran. not too fast. That was the hard part. Her heart was pounding, her nerve endings screaming. Adrenaline pumped through her veins and commanded that she run, run, run.

But she had a role to play. They all had a role to play, and this was suddenly the biggest stage of her life.

She could hear him thundering down the hall behind her. In all of her nightmares, Umbrio rarely had a face. He was a giant black shadow, an impenetrable force that always mowed her down. She was tiny and insignificant. He loomed like a dark, vengeful God.

She had tried telling herself over the years that it was a child's perspective on things, a young girl versus a grown man, a child versus an adult. But seeing him now, she realized she'd been wrong. Umbrio was huge, a muscled mountain of a man. He had terrified her then, and he terrified her now.

So much of her life he'd taken from her. So many pieces of herself, which had gone into that hole and never emerged again.

Now she ran from him. She ran and she cried, out of fear, out of sadness, out of rage. She hated Richard Umbrio. And she missed the woman she might have become if they'd never met that one horrible day.

He was closing in. She picked up her pace, letting her control slip, letting the panic kick in. He was upon her, he was reaching for her. He was going to grab her by the neck and throw her to the ground and then… She burst into the sitting room. Her gaze flew to the coffee table. Bobby was lying behind it, his nine-millimeter propped up on the edge as a makeshift rifle stand, his left hand on the trigger.

"Now," he ordered.

She dropped like a rock. Behind her, Umbrio came to a screeching halt. He waved his arms wildly, trying to slow his own momentum.

Bobby pulled the trigger. Pop, pop, pop. One-two-three.

And Umbrio fell like an oak, crashing to the ground. His hand twitched. Then he was still.

Catherine pulled herself up shakily. Flat on his back on the floor, Umbrio was staring at her. Blood creased the corners of his mouth. He smiled.

"Now what?" he whispered. She didn't understand. Then he grabbed the corner of her skirt. Catherine screamed. Beside her, she heard Bobby pull the trigger but receive only an empty metal click. The guns, Catherine realized. She had swapped them when handing them out, with Bobby receiving the one she'd already fired a dozen times. Bobby swore violently just as Umbrio heaved forward and grabbed Catherine's knee with his big meaty fist.

Then Catherine simply stopped thinking. Umbrio was going to get her. His hands would wrap around her throat. He would squeeze and she would die, just as she was supposed to have died twenty-five years ago. She was in the hole. She was in the ground. She was all alone.

Vaguely she was aware of movement. Bobby was on his feet. Yelling something. She couldn't hear. The room had lost sound. The moment had lost crispness.

Umbrio now had his hand on her hip. He was crawling his way up her body, leering at her with a mouth of bloodstained teeth as his right hand reached for her throat.

She fumbled frantically. And then she found what she'd been looking for, stashed beneath the sofa.

Umbrio's fingers were closing around her neck. Bobby was rising beside him, arm swinging back. And Catherine shoved the barrel of the nine-millimeter right into Umbrio's mouth. For one split second, he appeared very, very surprised. Then she pulled the trigger.

Richard Umbrio was quite literally blown away. He collapsed as a massive weight upon her smaller body. And Catherine started to weep.

Bobby pulled the body away. His arm went around her, cradling her against his chest.

"Shhh," he murmured.

"Shhhh, it's all right now. It's over. It's all done. You're safe now, Cat, you're safe." But it wasn't over. It wasn't done. For a woman like her, it would never be done. There were still too many things Bobby just didn't know.

She cried, feeling her first real tears streaking down her face. Bobby stroked her hair. And she cried harder because she knew, better than he did, that it was only the beginning of the end.

the police came. Hotel security, too. They burst through the door in a flash of badges, guns, and shouts. In contrast, Bobby quietly surrendered his gun to D.D." who took the nine-millimeter from Catherine as well. Medics came for the judge. An EMT tended Bobby's shoulder. The coroner's assistants carried Harris and Umbrio away.

They were still inventorying the damage when a uniformed officer finally located Nathan.

The little boy appeared in the hallway, clutching a rumpled puppy against his chest.

He saw Catherine, who'd been forcefully detained on the sofa despite her pleas to look for her child.

"Mommy?" he said clearly, in the growing din.

Catherine stood. She moved toward her son. She held open her arms. He released the puppy, flying into her embrace.

"Mommy," Nathan said, and burrowed his head against her shoulder.

Bobby smiled at them both. Then D.D. finished reading him his rights and led him away.

January was an ugly month. Thermometer hovered around ten degrees. The wind contained a cruel bite that went straight for the bones.

Bobby didn't mind it that much. He strode down Newbury Street, wool cap pulled low, scarf tight around his ears and the rest of him buried deep in his down jacket. Tiny white lights twinkled merrily on the rows of trees lining the street. Store windows still boasted bright holiday colors and hints of frivolous retail treats.

New Englanders were a hardy lot, and even on a day like today, people were out and about, enjoying the city and taking advantage of fresh winter snow.

Bobby had reached a benchmark of his own today. He'd had his last meeting with Dr. Lane.

"So how were the holidays?" she'd asked him.

"Good. Spent it with my father. We went out. Two bachelor men, no sense cooking."

"And your brother?"

"George never returned Pop's call."

"That must have been hard on your father." "He wasn't wild about it, but what can you do? George is a big boy. He'll have to come around on his own."

"And you?"

Bobby shrugged.

"I can't speak for George, but Pop and I are doing okay."

"Which, of course, brings us to your mother."

"You always want to talk about my mother."

"Industry habit."

He'd sighed, shaking his head at her persistence. But of course they were going to talk about his mother. They always talked about his mother.

"Okay. So, I asked my father some questions about her, like you and I discussed. Pop did his best to answer. We, uh, we actually had a conversation about that night."

"Was that difficult?"

He spread his hands.

"More like… awkward. You know the truth? That one big apocalyptic night? Neither one of us remembers it too well. Seriously. I was too young. Pop was too drunk. And maybe-I'm guessing here-but maybe that's why we can move on and George can't. He still sees what happened. Honest to God, even when we try, Pop and I can't."

"Has your father tried contacting your mother?"

"He said he did, years ago, as part of his program. He reached her sister in Florida. She said she'd give my mom the message. He never heard anything again."

"So you have an aunt?"

"I have an aunt," Bobby said matter-of-factly, "and two living grandparents."

Dr. Lane blinked.

"That's news."

"Yeah."

"How does that make you feel?"

"Oh boy," he rolled his eyes, laughing a little at the trite phrase, but it was a strained laugh.

"Yeah," he admitted finally with a sigh, "yeah, that's a tough one. To know you got family out there and they've never even tried to reach out… it hurts. How can it not hurt? I tell myself it's their loss. I tell myself a lot of things. But okay, it sucks."

"Have you thought of contacting them yourself?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"And I don't know. I mean, I'm thirty-six. Seems a little old to be reaching out to Grandma and Grandpa. Maybe if they don't want to reach me, I should take the hint."

"You don't really believe that, Bobby."

Another shrug.

"So what's really going on?" Dr. Lane had gotten to know him pretty well.

He sighed, stared at the floor.

"I think maybe it's a matter of politics. My mother's in Florida. George is in Florida. We never hear from him, we never hear from her. I think maybe the family split. George abandoned Pop, but gained Mom. I didn't abandon Pop, so…"

"You think as long as you're close to your father, your mom won't contact you."

"That's my guess."

Dr. Lane nodded thoughtfully.

"It's possible. Although I would suggest it would be healthier for you and your mother to have your own relationship, regardless of your father."

Bobby grinned wryly.

"Well, you know, feel free to write her a note." His smile faded. He shrugged again.

"Life is what it is. I'm trying to do as you suggested-focus on controlling the things I can control, and letting go of the things I can't. I can't control my mom, I can't control my grandparents, I can't control George."

"That's very wise of you, Bobby."

"Hell, I'm a regular sage these days."

She smiled at him.

"So, moving right along. Work?"

"Start next week."

"Excited?"

"More like nervous."

"That's to be expected."

He considered things.

"I was cleared for shooting Jimmy Gagnon and I was cleared for killing Copley, so that's all good. But I broke with the ranks. My involvement with Catherine, the way I handled the investigation… I burned a lot of bridges there. Part of being on STOP is being a team player. There are a lot of guys who now doubt my ability to be part of the team."

"And what do you think?"

"I miss the team," he answered firmly. "I miss my job. I'm good at it, and if I have to prove myself again-well, I'll prove myself again. I'm not afraid of a challenge."

"But I'm curious, Bobby. Do you consider yourself a team player?"

"Sure. But being a team player shouldn't be an excuse for acting stupid. If the whole team is leaping off a cliff, should you join them, or, for the sake of the team, should you stand up and say, "Hey, guys, stop leaping? With all respect to D.D. and the other investigators, they didn't understand what was going on with the Gagnons. I did. So I followed my conscience. And I'm fine with that. Frankly, that's what a good cop should do."

"Why, Bobby, you've come a very long way."

"I'm trying."

Her voice grew quieter, so he knew what she was going to ask next.

"Do you still dream about him?"

"Sometimes."

"How often?"

"I don't know." His own voice had grown soft. He no longer looked at her, but studied her framed diploma on the wall.

"Maybe three, four times a week."

"That's better than it was."

"Yeah."

"Are you sleeping?"

"Some. That road… it's gonna be a long one."

"Do you think there will be a time when you won't think of Jimmy Gagnon?"

"I killed the man. That's a heavy burden to bear. Especially knowing there might have been mitigating circumstances. Especially… well, you know, that's precisely the problem. Even after two months, I'm still not sure what happened that night."

"The police aren't pressing charges against Catherine?"

"No evidence."

"I thought you said they found a gun in the dresser in the bedroom."

He shrugged.

"But what does that prove? She fired two shots in her own home? There's no law against that. The decision to kill Jimmy was mine and mine alone. I'm the one who saw his face. I'm the one who pulled the trigger."

"Do you hate her?"

"Sometimes."

"And the other times?"

He smiled wryly.

"The other times I'd just as soon keep to myself."

Dr. Lane shook her head.

"She's a dangerous woman, Bobby."

"No kidding."

"Well, I think we're all set for now. I've signed off on the paperwork and sent it over to Lieutenant Bruni. Of course, you're always welcome to call me."

"I appreciate that."

"Good luck to you, Bobby."

And he said genuinely, "Thanks, Doc. Thank you very much."

He was at the end of Newbury Street now, arriving at the Public Garden. Children were running through the maze of trees, trying to catch snowflakes on their tongues. Adults were out, too, bundled up against the cold. Some watched the kids. Others walked an assortment of exuberant dogs.

Bobby didn't see them right away. When he finally did, he was pleasantly surprised.

He crossed to Catherine, beautiful as always in a black wool coat and deep purple scarf and gloves. Nathan wasn't sitting beside her. For a change, he was chasing after two other kids, the puppy hot on his heels.

"I almost didn't recognize him," Bobby said as he took a seat.

Catherine glanced up at him, flashed a smile, then went back to watching her son.

"Two weeks suddenly makes a big difference."

"I take it the new diet is working out."

"The power of high-fructose corn syrup. Turns out glucose and galactose are processed by the GLUT2 gene, which in Nathan's case is mutated. Fructose, however, is transported by GLUT5, so his system can absorb it much more readily. Now he's not only getting more calories, but he's finally getting an energy source his body can use to grow."

"Catherine, that's excellent." She smiled again, but then her expression, as it often did these days, grew more somber.

"He'll be on a restricted diet all of his life, and even then, he's going to have issues. His body doesn't absorb nutrients the way it should. He'll always have to monitor his health, and God knows all the complications still to come."

"But the two of you are pros."

"I wish I would've found the cause sooner. I wish I would've gotten him better help earlier. I wish… I wish so many things."

There was nothing to say to that. Given the past two months, they both had their share of regrets.

"Any word on the house?" he asked at last.

"Already sold."

"Jesus, that was fast."

"There's a waiting list for Back Bay. Even at these prices."

Bobby shook his head. Catherine had listed her residence at four million. He'd never understand where people got that kind of money.

"So what's next?"

"I'm thinking of Arizona. Someplace warm, where Nathan can play outside every day. Someplace where no one has ever heard of James Gagnon or Richard Umbrio. Someplace where Nathan and I can both start fresh."

"And Maryanne?"

"She's devastated about what James put us through. I think she'd like a fresh start, too, and more time with Nathan. On the other hand… you know, she really loves James. Even after everything, I don't think she can bring herself to leave him."

James was in a coma. Between the blood loss and damage to his internal organs, his system had shut down. Doctors didn't think he'd ever regain consciousness. Mostly, they were surprised the man was still alive.

"Maybe someday," Bobby said.

Catherine nodded.

"Maryanne likes Arizona. She mentioned they'd always talked about buying a home out there. So maybe, afterwards…"

His turn to nod. Now they both watched Nathan. The boy's cheeks were flushed, his breath coming in frosty pants. Trickster nipped at his heels and all the children laughed.

"The nightmares?" Bobby asked quietly.

She smiled wanly.

"Only half a dozen a night."

"You or him?"

She smiled again, but the look was sad.

"Both. You know what's funny? I don't dream of Umbrio. First time in my life, I no longer fear a stranger turning down the street. I dream of Jimmy. That last look on his face. And sometimes, in the middle of the night, I hear Nathan calling out for Jimmy, as well."

"Ouch," Bobby said.

"Ouch," she agreed. She paused.

"When we get to Arizona, I think I'm going to find a specialist. Someone who can help Nathan with the trauma. And maybe someone who can help me, too."

"I think that would be a great idea."

"You could come with us."

"What, and give up all this cold?"

Her hand clutched his.

"Bobby, I'm scared."

"I know."

"Do you not want to work? I can support you-"

"Don't."

She turned away, immediately embarrassed, but he softened the blow by stroking her cheek.

"You're the most special woman I know, Catherine," he said.

"You love your son, you finally stood up to Umbrio. You're going to be okay. Both you and Nathan. It just takes time."

"If I'm so special," she challenged in a muffled tone, "why don't you come with us?"

Bobby smiled. He pulled his hand away from her, clasping his fingers on his lap. He looked at Nathan, running and laughing with the other kids, and then he said the only thing left to be said: "Got a call from Detective Warren the other day." Beside him, Catherine immediately stilled.

"She's been working the connection between Judge Gagnon and Colleen Robinson-looking for phone records, financial transactions, anything to tie the two together. The judge was a smart man. D.D. can find records of cash withdrawals but no indication of where the money went. And when it comes to phone records, D.D. can't find evidence of a single call. Not from the judge.

"But she found two calls from you."

Bobby turned and looked at Catherine. In her cool gaze, he saw a wariness that told him more than any words. "Turns out, Colleen Robinson had a bad time of it in prison. Getting out, she joined a female support group for post-traumatic stress syndrome. You might know the group, Catherine. According to the counselor, you attended some of the meetings."

"I tried out group therapy once," Catherine said levelly.

"But that was ages ago. Before I met Jimmy. Surely you don't expect me to remember one woman from so many years ago."

"Maybe you didn't. But maybe she remembered you." Bobby shook his head, bouncing his fingertips off one another.

"I've been turning over the pieces in my mind all week. On the one hand, I don't think you had the connections to get Umbrio out of prison. But once you knew he was out, that the judge had pulled those strings… Did Colleen give you a call? Is that how it worked? Maybe she wanted some sort of payoff, or maybe she was just trying to be helpful, give you a warning. Of course, a warning wouldn't help you, would it? Umbrio was legally paroled. And the police were too busy suspecting you of murder to be interested in offering you protection. No, you were all alone, backed into a corner. Is that when the idea came to you, Catherine? That you could use the judge's own weapon against him?"

"Richard Umbrio murdered my father," Catherine said steadily.

"How dare you suggest I had anything to do with him. For heaven's sake, he killed Tony and Prudence. What incentive did I have to engineer such a thing?"

"You didn't, not for Tony and Prudence. I suspect Judge Gagnon was the one who paid Umbrio for those targets. But Rick Copley, on the other hand… the ADA was going after you, Catherine. If he had his way, you would've lost Nathan."

Catherine thinned her lips mutinously. She said nothing.

"And then there's the judge himself," Bobby continued quietly.

"A man so cautious, so clever, he left behind no phone or financial records that tie him to Colleen or Umbrio. And yet Umbrio headed straight for him. How did he know to go after Judge Gagnon, Catherine? Who gave him the judge's name?"

"You would have to ask Umbrio."

"I can't, Catherine. You killed him."

She didn't say anything more. Because she had no defense, or because she didn't think he'd believe her if she did? He doubted he would ever know the answer to that. When it came to Catherine, he doubted he would ever know the answer to a lot of things.

"Dr. Lane told me something early on," he murmured.

"She said that, for a woman like you, when it came down to protecting your world, there wasn't any line you wouldn't cross. It's true, isn't it, Catherine? To protect yourself against Judge Gagnon, you were willing to deal with the likes of Umbrio. Through Colleen Robinson, you paid money to the devil himself."

He paused a heartbeat.

"Rick Copley," he said quietly, "was a very fine man. So, I think, was your father."

Catherine didn't speak, but he thought he saw tears in her eyes.

"I hope," she said after a moment, "that someday, when you have your own child, you will never know what it's like to fear for his life."

"You had other people to help you, Catherine. I helped you."

She finally looked at him.

"But I didn't know that in the beginning, did I?"

She rose off the bench, still regal, still ungodly beautiful, and even knowing what he knew, he found himself holding his breath.

"D.D."s a good detective," he said softly.

"My son is safe. For that, no price is too high."

"You really believe that, don't you?"

She smiled crookedly.

"Bobby, it's the only thing that keeps me sane at night. I'll miss you in Arizona."

"Goodbye, Catherine."

Catherine retrieved her son. Bobby sat on the bench, snow-flakes falling on his face, and watched them walk away.

After another moment, D.D. emerged from the white van parked down the street. She sat down heavily on the bench beside him.

"Told you you wouldn't get anything," Bobby commented.

She shrugged.

"It was worth a try."

He reached inside his jacket, and went to work on the wires.

"You think she's honestly moving to Arizona?" D.D. asked. Then she added, "I can always extradite her when the time comes."

".Sure."

"I'm going to get her, Bobby."

"It hardly matters." D.D. scowled.

"What do you mean by that?"

"All she'll ever need is one man appointed to the jury, then Catherine will never spend so much as a day behind bars." Bobby rose off the bench.

"Face it, they don't make 'em like her anymore."

"Thank God," D.D. muttered.

Bobby smiled. He stuck his hands into his front jacket pockets and headed home.