Isolation, he thought. Of himself, of Catherine. He wanted to think it was due to choices of his own making. Or was Judge Gagnon really that good?
The interview wound down. Little more D.D. could ask. Little more Catherine would tell.
The door finally opened. D.D. stalked out, looking even angrier than when she'd stalked in. Bobby didn't bother to try to apologize.
He slid up beside her, just as she was walking out the door.
“Get the fuck out of my way, Bobby—” she started.
“I know how the murders are connected,” he said. She wasn't going to ask, so he supplied on his own: “Overpowering a grown man and snapping a young girl's neck. Whoever did this is very big and very strong.”
D.D. whirled on him with surprising vehemence. “She's leading you around by the tail between your legs. She's turned you from a good cop into a fucking idiot. Well, you'd better be enjoying the sex, Bobby, because this is the end of your damn career.”
Chapter
27
T
WO A.M. THE
whole world was sleeping snug as bugs in their beds. Mr. Bosu thought he'd like to join them. Unfortunately, Trickster had other ideas. The puppy was currently whining in the bathroom, scratching at the door. A part of Mr. Bosu thought, Fuck it. It was only his second night in a real bed on real sheets, for chrissakes. He could spread out his arms and legs. He could bury his face against the mattress and not smell the stink of piss. Like hell he was getting up for some sniveling little dog.
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 childcare 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, 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 Mr. 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 splattering 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&J sandwich. Then, on a 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.