Alone

  “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.

  C ATHERINE 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.

  T HE 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 C
atherine, 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.

  Epilogue

  J ANUARY 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.”

  H E 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.”