Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(76)

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.

He was briefly aware of a young boy's voice behind him: “Mommy, look at the puppy.”

Then Mr. Bosu faded into dusk.

Back in the Hampton Inn parking lot now, Mr. Bosu gave up on sleep altogether. He was too restless, too keyed up from remembering past events.

Might as well do something useful, he decided.

“Hey, Trickster,” he said softly. “Road trip.”





H E SAID: “I haven't slept in two days. I'm wired, I'm edgy, and I'm thinking of having a drink. I know it's late, but can I come over?”

She said: “I think you'd better.”

He arrived fifteen minutes later. She met him at the door.




D R. ELIZABETH LANE had last seen Bobby twenty-four hours ago. The sight of him now filled her with both shock and dismay. His face was drawn, his eyes sunken. Whereas once he'd sat in her office with preternatural stillness, now he paced relentlessly, filling the space with manic energy. He was a man on the brink. One wrong step and he'd go over. She was thinking strongly of prescription medication. For now, however, she started with “Would you like a glass of water?”

He said in a rush, “You know that old saying, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I never thought I was paranoid, but now I think they're out to get me.”

He wasn't going to sit. Rather than respond to his agitation, she moved behind her desk, finding her chair and clasping her hands neutrally. “Who is they, Bobby?” she asked evenly.

“Who isn't? The judge, the ADA, the BPD, the widow. Hell, everyone wants a piece of me these days.”

“The investigation into the shooting has you concerned?”

“The investigation into the shooting?” He stopped, blinked his eyes a few times in confusion, then impatiently waved his hand. “Screw that. No one's waiting long enough to care about those results. No, they're going to get me tomorrow.”

She remained patient. “What's going to happen tomorrow, Bobby?”

But he'd caught wind of her tone. He stopped pacing long enough to square off against her and plant his hands on her desk. Bobby Dodge stared her straight in the eye, and Elizabeth was a bit disconcerted to discover that in his current state he frightened her.

“I am not an idiot,” he said intently. “I am not losing it. No, strike that, I am losing it. That's exactly why I'm here. But dammit, I have cause!”

“Would you like to start at the beginning?”

He whirled away from her desk. “Beginning? What beginning? I don't even know what the hell that is anymore. Was the beginning Thursday night, when I shot Jimmy Gagnon? Or was the beginning nine months ago when I randomly met Jimmy and Catherine at a cocktail party? Maybe it was Tuesday, when Jimmy filed for divorce, or maybe it was twenty-odd years ago when Catherine was abducted by a pedophile. How the hell should I know?”

“Bobby, I would like to help you—”

“But I sound like a f*cking psycho?”

“I wouldn't use those words—”

“Gagnon would. Copley would. Christ, it's only a matter of time.” He ran his hand through his hair, then looked wildly around her office, like an animal sizing its cage. At the last minute, just when she was beginning to fear the worst, that he would do something rash and hurt himself, or do something dangerous and hurt her, he suddenly took a deep breath and exhaled it long and slow.