Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(103)

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 Catherine, 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.”