Lisa Gardner - Alone

The fact that her parents had never moved-that had genuinely fascinated him. Mostly, because he was willing to bet the last penny he would soon be making that his own parents were sitting in the same old house, on the same old sofa, staring at the same old living room from all those years before. They were two peas in a pod, he and Catherine. He had not expected that in the beginning, when he had randomly plucked her off the street with an abbreviated scream and scattering of schoolbooks. It had come to him slowly, day after day, as he continued to let her live. She was the only person in the world who could truly meet his needs. She was the only person in the world who knew the real him.

The day he'd arrived to find her gone was the worst day of his life.

But that was okay. He was going to correct all that real soon.

Mr. Bosu was whistling when he pulled into the driveway. He was still whistling when he got out of his car.

"Stay put," he told Trickster.

"This time around, I'm flying solo."

He mounted the steps, banged on the door.

He heard the voice from the other side, wary and cautious.

"Who is it?"

Mr. Bosu smiled. He flipped open the ID he'd found on Colleen and waved it briefly in front of the peephole. Enough to give the impression of possessing an official ID, without giving away the actual photo.

"Detective Bosu," he announced.

"I'm afraid, Mr. Miller, I have some bad news about an old case. We should talk right away."

"Is it Richard Umbrio?" Frank Miller asked.

"Yes, sir."

Catherine's father unlocked the door. And Mr. Bosu walked right in.

it turned out that Frank Miller was no dummy. Mr. Bosu wasn't sure what he'd expected. Maybe someone smaller, more shrunken, more beaten by the lousy blow delivered to his family earlier in life. Someone more like his own dad.

Instead, Frank Miller was tall, erect, trim. Active for his age, no doubt prided himself on living alone.

He took one look at Mr. Bosu's hulking build, older, fleshed-out face, and promptly paused.

"Don't I know you-?" he started. Then recognition struck. The older man's eyes went wide. Much faster than Mr. Bosu ever expected, Frank Miller pulled back his right arm and nailed Mr. Bosu in the eye.

"Shit," Mr. Bosu gasped, staggering back, belatedly trying to cover his face. The old geezer didn't wait. He went for Mr. Bosu's kidneys. Got him with a good three or four jabs that would definitely have him coughing up blood later tonight. Miller launched his right hook again. Enough was enough. Mr. Bosu held up his meaty hand. He caught Miller's blow in his palm. Then he wrapped his fingers around the older man's hand and bore down hard.

The blood drained out of Miller's face. And for the first time, fear appeared in his eyes.

"Tell me where the boy is."

Miller didn't speak.

"I know you have him. She had nowhere else to go. Of course she brought him to you." Mr. Bosu forced back Miller's hand now, bending the wrist until the man's knuckles nearly touched his own forearm. Miller went bug-eyed with the pain.

"You can tell me sooner, or you can tell me later. But I'm going to get the information. The only question is, how much will you suffer?"

"Fuck… you," Miller said. Then he surprised them both by kicking Mr. Bosu in the kneecap. Mr. Bosu went down. Startled, he released his grip on the man's hand, and Miller promptly bolted for the kitchen.

Mr. Bosu sighed. There was only one thing left to do. He got out the knife.

MR. Bosu entered the kitchen just as Miller reached into the utility closet. Mr. Bosu had a split-second warning, then he was staring down the barrel of a shotgun. He didn't wait. He sprung forward, left arm outstretched to grab the gun barrel and force it up, even as Miller fumbled with the trigger. The gun didn't go off and Mr. Bosu didn't expect that it would. Few people left a loaded shotgun lying around the house, particularly given the presence of a child.

Miller's retrieval of the gun told Mr. Bosu something else. The utility closet was only inches from the back door. Surely Miller had had enough time to run out, flee to safety. Instead, he'd chosen to take a stand.

The boy was somewhere in the house. That's why Miller hadn't run. He couldn't bring himself to leave his grandson.

Noble, Mr. Bosu thought idly, as he drove the serrated blade into the soft spot beneath the man's ribs. Miller made a curious wet sound. Not a scream. Not a groan. Almost a sigh. A man who knew what was coming next.

"Sorry to hear about the wife," Mr. Bosu said.

"Otherwise, I would've done her next."

He pulled the knife over and up. It didn't take much after all. The old man collapsed, a shriveled husk on the kitchen floor. Mr. Bosu remembered to step back more quickly this time. He didn't want to ruin a second pair of shoes.

He washed up in the kitchen sink, grimacing at the sight of blood still staining his shirtsleeve and now fresh splatters on his pants. No doubt about it, he was a mess. He rinsed the knife before returning it to the sheath wrapped around his calf. Then he went to search the house.

He found the boy upstairs, in a room decorated with faded pink and purple flowers. As he pushed open the door, the boy said in a hopeful sort of voice, "Mommy?"

Mr. Bosu smiled. First time he'd seen the boy was in the hospital the night he went after the doctor. That night, the boy had called him Daddy. It was nice to know Mr. Bosu could be so loved.

He pushed all the way into the room and the boy sat up on the bed. For a moment, they regarded each other soberly. The boy was small, pale, and sickly. Mr. Bosu was huge, heavily muscled, and stained with blood.

"So," Mr. Bosu said at last, "would you like to see a puppy?"

The boy held out his hand.

As they were leaving the house, the phone rang. Mr. Bosu didn't have to be a psychic to know who it would be. He picked up the phone.

"Dad," Catherine said.

"Catherine," Mr. Bosu said.

"Oh my God."

"Hey, Cat. Your son says hi." "We're going to need a gun," Bobby said.

Catherine didn't reply. She was in a state of shock, her gaze unfocused as she followed him blankly down the stairs. He'd made a conscious decision to bypass the elevators. The hospital had security officers. Would they already be on the lookout for him, maybe lying in wait in the lobby?

He remembered what he'd told Dr. Lane only hours before: Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you.

"They took Jimmy's guns," Catherine said abruptly, panting a little as Bobby rushed them downstairs.

"He kept them in the safe. An officer took them all away."

Except for the one she'd hidden in the bureau, Bobby thought, but now was not the time.

"I have three handguns and a rifle at home, but I'm pretty sure they already have officers positioned at my front door." He frowned, hammered down another long flight, and found a solution.

"My father. Pop. Maybe they haven't reached him yet."

There was no cell signal in the stairwell. Bobby had to wait until they reached the lobby. He spotted two security officers positioned by the main doors. They didn't seem to be watching for anyone in particular, but Bobby didn't feel like taking a chance. He grabbed Catherine's hand and pulled her down the side hallway. They emerged out a smaller entrance into a busy side street. Perfect.

"Grab a cab," he ordered.

"I have a car-" "And the police know your plates."

She went to work on the cab. He flipped open his cell phone and pressed the speed-dial button for his father. Pop picked up on the second ring.

"Pop, I need a favor."

"Bobby? Two guys came here earlier. Looking, asking, making a lot of nasty suggestions."

"I'm sorry, Pop. I can't talk, and I can't explain. I need a gun, though, and I don't have time to drive out to your place."