Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(75)

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.