Lisa Gardner - Alone

If someone else had taken the call on Thursday night, a sniper whose father had never smacked his mother, a sniper who'd never grown up watching that look of hopelessness bloom on another person's face, would Jimmy Gagnon still be alive?

Would Catherine Gagnon now be dead?

None of them would ever know.

Bobby buried his head deeper into his arms. His breath exhaled as a broken, exhausted sigh.

He did his best not to dream. Mr. Bosu was trying hard to be a better employee.

Currently, he was watching the faintly lit home of a fifty-thousand-dollar man. No doubt about it, this job was going to be tricky.

For starters, the house sat in the middle of a densely populated neighborhood. Secondly, a sticker on the front window advertised the ADT security system. Third, a light was on in the house, which surprised Mr. Bosu. Given the late hour, he'd assumed the occupant to be asleep.

No way around it, for this job, Mr. Bosu was going to need some help.

He eyed Trickster, who was curled up fast asleep in the front seat of the stolen car. As if sensing his look, the puppy opened one eye and yawned mightily.

"I need an accomplice," Mr. Bosu said.

Another puppy yawn.

"Do you think you could play dead? Just hang around looking half asleep. Yeah, like that."

Trickster had already dropped his head back into his paws and had closed his eyes. Mr. Bosu stroked the puppy's ears meditatively, his sausage fingers delicate on the puppy's small head.

Briefly, the thought came to him: Faking wasn't foolproof. If he really was striving to be a dedicated employee, he shouldn't take unnecessary chances. One small twist and he could snap Trickster's neck. It would be swift, painless, the dog would never feel a thing. And with fifty thousand dollars, he could get a lot of new puppies.

His hand stilled on the back of Trickster's head. He felt his fingers dig into the scruff of the dog's fur. Soft. Silky. Fragile. Everyone had to die sometime.

He pulled his hand away. He slid the knife from the strap at his ankle. He looked at Trickster one last time, then shoved up his linen shirtsleeve above his elbow and slit his forearm.

Blood gushed forth, a dark, red welt. Mr. Bosu wiped the blood onto his fingers, then smeared it onto Trickster's white haunch.

"It's okay," Mr. Bosu told him.

"I'll give you a bath as soon as we get home. Now hang on. Things are about to get interesting."

He put the car into reverse. He eased down the block, lights off. Then his hand returned to Trickster's head, steadying the dog, steadying himself.

"One, two, three." Mr. Bosu flipped on the car's headlights. His foot slammed down on the accelerator and the car shot up onto the curb in front of the target home. Mr. Bosu drove straight onto the lawn, screeched the brakes, and let out a giant "Holy crap!" just for good measure.

He grabbed Trickster and bolted out of the car, leaving it parked in the middle of the yard, its headlights pointing into thin air.

"Oh no," he groaned loudly.

"Oh no, oh no, oh no."

Mr. Bosu scrambled across the lawn and knocked furiously on the fifty-thousand-dollar man's front door. Mr. Bosu was breathing hard, sweat rising on his brow. He'd pulled his sleeve back down, but drops of blood were leaking through the fine linen fabric. Excellent.

He banged again, hard, insistent, and the porch light abruptly snapped on. "Help, help, help," Mr. Bosu said. He glanced down at Trickster, pleased with the matted, bloody look of the dog's white fur.

The door finally cracked open, stopped by a metal chain. The guy was careful, Mr. Bosu would give him that.

"Sir, sir, so sorry to disturb you," Mr. Bosu exclaimed in a rush.

"I was just driving by when a dog darted in front of my path. I tried to avoid him, I swear I did, but I nailed him pretty good. Please, I think he's hurt."

Mr. Bosu held up the bloody bundle.

The fifty-thousand-dollar man's reaction was instantaneous and admirable. It would also be his downfall.

"Quick!" the man said.

"Bring him in."

The chain was dropped, the front door opened. The man wasn't wearing a robe as Mr. Bosu would've expected, but apparently was dressed for work.

"I thought I heard a commotion," the man said, already leading the way into the house.

With a slight kick of his foot, Mr. Bosu had the door shut securely behind him.

"Are you a vet, do you know a vet?" Mr. Bosu babbled. His eyes swept the home, getting the lay of the land. He followed the man to the back of the house, where a light blazed. They entered a narrow kitchen, circa 19505. It boasted a small breakfast nook where an old table was totally covered in stack after stack of paper.

"I was up late working," the man commented absently.

"Must've dozed off."

"What do you do?"

"ADA. Here, let me look at the dog, see how bad it is."

Mr. Bosu finally relinquished his hold on Trickster. It made it easier for him to reach down and grab his knife. When he straightened, the man had Trickster propped up on the counter and was inspecting him thoroughly for damage.

"I see blood," Rick Copley reported.

"Funny thing is, I can't find a source."

"Really? Maybe I can help with that."

Mr. Bosu was big, Mr. Bosu was heavily armed. Copley was fast, however, and seemed to know plenty of fancy footwork.

First time Mr. Bosu lunged forward, Copley dodged left. The ADA let go of Trickster. The puppy bounded onto the floor, scampering across the linoleum and disappearing into the family room.

Neither man paid any attention to him. Copley was already up on the balls of his feet, not wasting any time with denial. Mr. Bosu was pleased. After the day he'd had, he was in the mood for a really good fight.

The ADA was a thinking man. A thinking man would want a phone, so he could notify his colleagues of his distress. Sure enough, Copley dove for the cordless receiver on the edge of the table. Mr. Bosu flashed forward and had the satisfaction of drawing first blood.

Copley danced back, now holding his sliced forearm. The ADA was starting to sweat.

"What do you want?" he demanded.

"Peace on earth."

"You need money? I have three hundred dollars in my wallet."

"Please, you're worth a hundred times that dead."

"What?" The ADA was taken aback by the news. He lost focus. Mr. Bosu lunged again. Copley whirled at the last minute, but was a hair too late; Mr. Bosu nicked his ribs.

The ADA ran for the family room. And Mr. Bosu gave chase.

It was a small house. Not many places to run, not many places to hide. Copley found a lamp, a bookend, a sofa cushion. He danced, he.whirled, he dodged.

Mr. Bosu had fifty pounds on him and a much longer reach. For him, the end was never in doubt. Copley hit and tossed and ran. And Mr. Bosu kept coming, herding the man away from the front door, forcing him deeper into his own home, where he slowly but surely became trapped by the very walls that were supposed to protect him. A man's home was his castle. For Rick Copley, it became his execution chamber.

Mr. Bosu finally got the smaller man cornered in his own bathroom, trapped against the tub. After that, it went quick.

In the aftermath, when the bloodlust finally stopped thundering in Mr. Bosu's head, when his breathing eased, when his heart decelerated, he finally became aware of many things at once: His shin hurt. His shoulder where he nailed a doorjamb, the side of his head where Copley finally got lucky with a lamp.

His left forearm also throbbed. Pain from his own self-inflicted wound. It occurred to him now that the cut was still bleeding, possibly leaving splatters on the floor as he'd moved. He tried to look for telltale spots, but given the mess… The house was destroyed. Books and paper and gutted pillows and, well, blood, lots and lots of blood, just plain everywhere. If he had bled onto the floor, it was now so mixed up with other fluids maybe the lab guys would never be able to sort it out. Honestly, he didn't know. Forensics wasn't his strong suit. He only knew what he'd seen on TV.