Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(64)

Popeye had been a good dog. They'd run together through the neighborhood, playing endless games of fetch and diving through big piles of leaves.

Mr. Bosu knew what people expected of a guy like him, but he'd never hurt his dog. Never even thought about it. In the silent, little house where he grew up, Popeye had been his best friend.

It lasted five years, until the day Popeye rushed into the street after a squirrel and got flattened by Mrs. Mackey's Buick sedan. Mr. Bosu remembered Mrs. Mackey's horrified scream. Then watching his little dog twitching in the throes of death. There had never even been a question of bringing Popeye to the vet. It had been that bad.

Mr. Bosu had wrapped Popeye in his favorite T-shirt. Then he'd dug a hole in the backyard, burying his dog himself. He hadn't cried. His father had been very proud of him.

Mr. Bosu went to bed early that night, but never slept. He lay wide-eyed in his twin-sized bed, wishing his dog would return to him. Then he had an idea.

He left the house shortly after one a.m. It didn't take him long. People parked their cars in the street, and in a neighborhood like his, no one ever locked the doors. He popped the hood. He used a screwdriver. Punched a few holes. In the end, it was simple and neat.

They said Mrs. Mackey never saw it coming. One minute she was braking for the intersection, the next she was sailing right through the stop sign. The oncoming traffic nailed her at thirty miles an hour. Gave her a concussion and broke several of her ribs, not to mention her hip.

Didn't kill her though. Damn Buick.

Still, it wasn't a bad effort from a twelve-year-old. Of course, he'd gotten much better since then.

Now Mr. Bosu eyed the apartment window up on the second floor. Still no sign of movement. That was okay. He could wait.

He leaned back against the bench. He closed his eyes against the warm sun. He let out a long, low sigh, very similar to Trickster's. Then he scratched his puppy's ears.

Trickster thumped his tail appreciatively. Just a man and his dog, Mr. Bosu thought.

Yeah, just a man, his dog, and his hit list.





B OBBY WENT FOR a run. Daylight was failing. The sunny fall afternoon had come to an end, and the evening loomed dark and cold. Heading out the door, he found himself automatically grabbing his neon yellow running jacket, and that filled him with a sense of relief that was hard to explain. Even after everything he'd been through, his subconscious wasn't trying to kill him just yet. He wondered if he should call Dr. Lane and give her the good news.

He hit the streets, pounding down one long city block and up another. The streets were quiet, people tucked in their homes, preparing for another work week. Lone cars zoomed by here and there, illuminating him briefly before sweeping past.

He planned on running to the old Bath House, an easy five-mile loop from his home. But the Bath House came and went, his feet still churning pavement. He arrived at Castle Island, then swept around the shore's edge, running into the dark.

He wanted to blame James Gagnon for his current mood. Or Catherine Gagnon or even bloodthirsty ADA Rick Copley, so eager to sink his chops into a good, juicy homicide he already had saliva dripping from his teeth.

But in all honesty, he knew what his mood was all about. Tonight, he was thinking about his mother.

It had been so long ago now, he didn't know if the face he recalled was actually hers or some composite carefully crafted by his mind. He had a vague impression: brown eyes, dark hair curling around a pale face, the scent of White Shoulders perfume. He thought he remembered her squatting before him, saying urgently: I love you, Bobby. Or maybe that was merely a product of mental fiction. Maybe she'd actually said, Don't stick your hand in the light socket, son or Don't play with guns.

He didn't honestly know. He'd been six when she'd left. Old enough to hurt, young enough to not understand. Your mother's gone and she's not coming back. His father had announced it one morning over breakfast. Bobby and George had been chomping away on the sugarcoated Apple Jacks their mother always refused to buy, and as a kid, that had been Bobby's first thought—Wow, Apple Jacks every day. His father didn't seem upset, George was nodding solemnly, so Bobby went along.

Later, he'd lie in bed at night, a crushing weight building upon his chest that would still be there when he woke up in the morning. Then there'd been the night he'd heard George yelling at their father. Then there had been the subsequent trip to the emergency room.

After that, no one in their house had spoken of his mother again.

For a long time, Bobby had hated his father. Like George, he'd blamed him for everything. His father who said too little and drank too much. His father who could be very quick with his fists.

When George had turned eighteen, he'd hightailed it out of the state, and he wasn't ever coming back. Maybe that was their mother in him. Bobby would never ask.

But for Bobby it was different. Time did change things. His father changed. Bobby changed. And so did Bobby's impressions of his mother. Now he thought less and less about all the good reasons she had to leave, and wondered more and more why she'd never tried to make any contact. Didn't she miss her two sons at all? Didn't she feel at least a little bit of ache, a little bit of emptiness, where all that love for her children used to be?

Bobby's side hurt. He felt a stitch, growing rapidly as his breath heaved in painful gasps. He picked up his step, running anyway, because anything had to be better than standing alone with these kinds of thoughts. If he kept moving, maybe he could outrun his memories. If he kept running, maybe he'd exhaust his mind.