Alone

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Bobby ran home.

  He called Susan.

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

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

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

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

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

  “Evening,” he said.

  “Evening.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Busy. The concert and all.”

  “How's it going?”

  She shrugged. “The normal amount of panic.”

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

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

  “Bobby?”

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

  “I thought you would call on Friday.”

  “I know.”

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

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

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

  The unexpected curse startled Bobby into looking at her again.

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

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

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

  “Both.”

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

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

  “No kidding!”

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

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

  “I thought . . .” He frowned, not sure how to put it in words. “I thought you deserved better than this.”

  “What a crock of shit!” Whatever he'd just said, it was the wrong thing, because now she was shaking with rage. She let go of her coffee mug and stabbed a finger at him instead. “Don't you put this on me! Don't you get all high and noble, Neanderthal male just trying to protect his little woman. That's bullshit! You ran away, Bobby. You never even gave me a chance. The going got rough and you split, plain and simple.”

  Bobby's own temper started to rise. “Well, excuse me. Next time I've just shot a man, I'll be sure to put your feelings first.”

  “I cared about you!”

  “I cared about you, too.”

  “Then why are we sitting here yelling at each other?”

  “Because it's all we have left!” He regretted the words the moment he said them. She sat back, clearly stunned, deeply hurt. But then she started to nod, and that hurt him, so they were even.

  “You've been waiting for it to end since the minute it started,” she said, her voice soft, her hands back to rotating her coffee mug.

  “We've never had much in common.”

  “We had enough to last two years.”

  He shrugged, feeling even more awkward, and hollow now, in a way he couldn't explain. He wished this scene were over. He wasn't so good with the leaving. He was better when the people were already gone.

  “Ask me what you're going to ask me, Bobby,” Susan said wearily. “Quiz your ex-girlfriend on what she told the police.”

  He had the good grace to flush.

  “I honestly didn't remember meeting them,” he said curtly.

  “The Gagnons?” She shrugged. “Personally, I think they make quite an impression.”

  “Was it only that one time that we met?”

  “I've met them several times at a variety of functions, but the big shindigs . . . I think you only met them that once.”

  Bobby felt it was important to say this: “I didn't pay much attention to her.”

  Susan rolled her eyes. “Come on, Bobby! She's a gorgeous woman. And with that gold dress and the exotic mask . . . Hell, even I thought about sleeping with her.”

  “I didn't pay much attention,” Bobby repeated. “I was too busy watching him watch you
. That's what I remember. Some man ogling my girlfriend, right in front of me and his wife.”

  Susan didn't look convinced, but she finally nodded, cradling her mug. “Does that bother you?”

  “What?”

  “You knew Jimmy Gagnon. You thought bad things about him. Then later, you killed him. Come on, Bobby, that's gotta gnaw at your gut.”

  “But I didn't remember meeting him until after you mentioned it to the police.”

  She was silent for a moment. “If it helps any, from what I read in the paper, it sounds like you saved that little boy's life.”

  “Maybe,” he said bleakly, and then, simply because he needed to say the words out loud, “I think the family is going to get me.”

  “The family?”

  “Gagnon's parents filed a lawsuit against me. They're going after me for felony murder. As in, if I'm found guilty, I go to jail.”

  “Oh Bobby . . .”

  He frowned, surprised by how tight his throat had grown, then picked up his coffee and took another bitter sip. “I think they're going to win.”

  She closed her eyes. “Oh Bobby . . .”

  “It's funny. The whole time I've had this job, I've always been so certain. Of what I do, of what I see. Even Thursday night. I never had a doubt. I sat there, lined up my shot and pulled the trigger. Then I told myself I didn't have any other choice.

  “What a load of horseshit,” he expelled now. “As if in fifteen minutes or less I could really know or understand what was going on inside a family.”

  “Don't do this, Bobby.”

  “Do what?”

  “Give up. Blame yourself. Crap out. It's what you do. You're one of the smartest guys on the force, but you never became a detective. Why is that?”

  “I like being on STOP—”

  “You gave up. You and me, a great two years together. But here we are, doing an awkward farewell in the middle of a coffee shop. I don't think we don't have enough in common. I don't think this has to end. But I also know it's over. Because you gave up.”

  “That's not fair—”

  “You're a good guy, Bobby, one of the best I've ever known. But there's something dark in you. Something angry. For every step forward, you take two steps back. It's as if half of you genuinely wants to be happy, but the other half won't let go. You want to be angry, Bobby. You need it, somehow.”

  He pushed his chair back. “I should be going.”

  Her gaze was dead-on. “Yes, run away.”

  “Hey, I do not want to go to prison!” He was suddenly impatient. “You don't understand. The truth doesn't matter to a guy like Judge Gagnon. He can take any fact and twist it to be what he needs it to be. If I want to get out of jail, I gotta trade in another life. And I won't do that.”

  “Catherine Gagnon,” Susan guessed softly.

  He thinned his lips, not denying it, and Susan slowly but surely shook her head.

  “I don't know, Bobby. Sounds to me like you remember Catherine better than you think. Sounds to me like she made quite an impression.”

  “Not at the cocktail party,” he countered harshly, “not when you were with me.”

  Susan had always been smart. “Oh God, Bobby, what exactly was it that you saw on Thursday night?”

  C ATHERINE DIDN'T KNOW what started to spook her. She and Nathan were downstairs in the family room. It was nearly ten o'clock, well past Nathan's bedtime. He didn't seem to want to head upstairs, however, and she didn't have the heart to make him. He lay on the floor amid a mound of pillows, only his head visible above the pile. She'd put in his favorite movie, Finding Nemo. So far, he'd watched it twice.

  Catherine spent too much time glancing at the clock, wondering when Prudence would be home.

  Finally, just to keep busy, she started messing around in the kitchen. Nathan wasn't allowed chocolate. Instead, she heated up a mug of vanilla-flavored soy milk. He accepted the mug wordlessly, his eyes glued to the TV.

  “How does your stomach feel?”

  He shrugged.

  “Are you hungry?”

  Another shrug.

  “Maybe you'd like some yogurt.”

  He shook his head, pointedly staring at the TV.

  Catherine retreated once more to the kitchen. Now that she was paying attention, they desperately needed groceries. Soy milk was low, soy yogurt, too. Nathan ate a special gluten-free bread, nearly gone. His organic peanut butter, almost wiped out as well. She started working on a list, then remembered that they had an appointment with the new doctor tomorrow afternoon and paused.

  She headed back out of the kitchen, past the bar, and stepped down into the sunken family room.

  “Nathan, we need to talk.”

  Reluctantly, Nathan turned his TV-glazed stare onto her.

  “Dr. Tony can't be your doctor anymore.”

  “Why?”

  She hesitated, fully planning on telling the truth, then looked at his drawn face and lost her courage. “Dr. Tony thinks you need a special doctor. A super-duper doctor. One with superpowers.”

  Only four years old, Nathan gave her the look of a born skeptic. God, why wasn't Prudence home yet? Sure, she had the whole day off, but did she have to stay out all night too? Didn't she know how much Catherine might need her? Catherine tried again.

  “Tomorrow, we're going to see a new doctor. Dr. Iorfino. His specialty is little boys just like you.”

  “New doctor?”

  “New doctor.”

  Nathan looked at her. Then he very deliberately held up his mug of soy milk and poured it out onto the carpet.

  Catherine took a deep breath. She wasn't mad at Nathan—not yet—but she felt a growing, displaced rage toward Prudence, who had abandoned her, thereby forcing her to handle this scene.

  “That wasn't very nice, Nathan. Only bad boys dump their milk on the rug. You don't want to be a bad boy.”

  Nathan's lower lip was starting to tremble now. He jutted it out, nodding furiously. “I'm bad! And bad boys don't go to doctors!”

  He had tears in his eyes. Big, unshed tears, that hurt a mother even worse than angry sobs.

  “Dr. Iorfino's going to help you,” Catherine insisted. “Dr. Iorfino is going to get you well. Make you a big kid, so you can play with all the others.”

  “Doctors don't help! Doctors have needles. Needles don't help!”

  “Someday they will.”

  Nathan looked her right in the eye. “Fuck doctors!” he said clearly.

  “Nathan!”

  And then, “I know what you're trying to do,” he said in a sly, nasty voice she'd never heard before. “You're trying to kill me.”

  Catherine's heart stopped in her chest. She headed back into the kitchen, hoping Nathan wouldn't see how badly her hands were trembling. You're in control now, she kept telling herself. This was the true consequence of Jimmy being dead. No more excuses, no more escapes. Buck stopped with her now. She was in charge.

  She got a roll of paper towels and returned to the family room. Nathan looked a great deal less certain. His chin was tucked against his bony chest, his shoulders were up around his ears.

  He was waiting for her to hit him. It's what Jimmy would've done.

  She held out the roll of paper towels. After another moment, Nathan took it.

  “Please wipe up the milk, Nathan.”

  He remained hunched.

  “You know what? You do half, I'll do half. We'll do it together.” She took the roll back, briskly ripping off sheets. After another moment, he did the same. She got on her hands and knees. This intrigued him enough to emerge from his cocoon of pillows. She started blotting. “See, it comes right up.”

  Slowly but surely, he followed suit.

  When they were done, she took the pile of soggy paper into the kitchen and threw it away. In the family room, Nathan ejected the movie. He sat in the middle of the soy-stained rug, still looking small and forlorn.

  It was bedtime. Both of them stared at the dark shadows looming at the top
of the stairs.

  “Mommy,” he whispered, “if I go to so many doctors, why don't I ever get better?”

  “I don't know. But someday we're going to figure it out, and then you'll get to run around just like all the other kids. Come on, Nathan, it's time for bed.”

  He reached up his arms. She gave in to his silent request. For a split second, he hugged her hard. For a split second, she hugged him back.

  And then, at that moment, she knew what was wrong.

  The draft of air. Very cold, very crisp, very outside air drifted down the stairwell. It ruffled Nathan's fine brown hair. And it carried with it the unmistakable odor of death.

  F OR A CHANGE, Bobby wasn't asleep. He'd given up on it. Fuck sleep, fuck healthy foods, fuck moderate exercise. He'd taken everything Dr. Lane had told him to do and tossed it out the window. Now he was pacing his family room on exhausted, rubbery legs, gnawing cold pizza, guzzling a liter of Coke, and working himself into a state.

  He had messages on his answering machine. A lot from reporters. A few from his team. Bruni invited him to dinner again. Two guys from the EAU asked if he wanted to meet. Everyone calling to check up on the psycho shooter cop. He should be grateful, appreciative. Once on the team, always on the team, that's what they said.

  He was resentful. He didn't want their calls, he didn't want their attention. Frankly, he didn't want to be the psycho shooter cop, the unfortunate sniper who'd discharged his weapon in the line of duty and now was screwed for the rest of his life. Fuck the team, fuck camaraderie. None of the rest of them had their butts on the line.

  Yeah, he was feeling good and sorry for himself now.

  He thought about calling his brother in Florida. Hey, Georgie boy, it's been what, ten, fifteen years? Just thought I'd give you a ring. Oh yeah, I blew some guy away the other day and that reminded me of something. What exactly happened with Mom?

  Or maybe he'd call Dr. Lane instead. Good news, I haven't had a drink today. Bad news, I fucked up everything else. Say, if you have a chance to save yourself by ratting out someone else, should you do it? Or is that the kind of thing that'll just drive you insane?

  He couldn't stand himself in this kind of mood, so edgy he felt as if he were going to burst out of his own skin, so ragged he could barely think. Honest to God, he needed to shoot something.