Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(101)

“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.”




M R. 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.





W E 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.”