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.

  B OBBY 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.”

  T WELVE-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.”

  H E BRACED HIMSELF for the sight of her. He replayed his conversation with Dr. Lane in his m
ind: 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.

  M R. 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. . . .”

  D R. IORFINO 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. Iorfino 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. Iorfino 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. Iorfino 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. Iorfino 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. Iorfino 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 glyconeogenesis, 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.”

  “Glyconeogenesis,” 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. Iorfino 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. Iorfino. “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. Iorfino 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. Iorfino 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.”