Alone by Lisa Gardner Page B

ESUS SHITTING BRICKS. What the hell are you doing, Bobby? Half this city is watching you and you go and get drunk?”
    Lieutenant Bruni was dragging him around the corner from the tavern. He had one finger crooked around the collar of Bobby's jacket and was literally pulling him down the street.
    “Not . . . on the . . . clock,” Bobby managed to slur out. Christ, it was cold outside. The raw November night slapped him across the face, making him blink owlishly.
    “Camera crews are coming. Someone leaked to the goddamn press that you were holding court in a pub. But by God, you must have a guardian angel somewhere, because the chatter got picked up on the scanner and I was sent to bail you out. Bobby, listen to me.”
    Lieutenant Bruni suddenly jerked to a halt. He was panting, his breath coming in frosty clouds that floated across Bobby's vision. He had both hands on Bobby's collar, shaking him.
    “Bobby, you're in trouble.”
    “No . . . shit.”
    “Listen to me, Bobby. Today's been a busy day downtown. Judge Gagnon is not happy his son is dead, and he's not about to listen to reason or circumstance. The judge is gunning for revenge, Bobby, and he's got you in his sights.”
    Bobby couldn't think of anything to say. The world was swimming around him. Air cold upon his cheeks. The stench of beer ripe in his nostrils. He needed to shower. Christ, he needed to sleep.
    Thank you, the woman had said. Thank you.
    And then it came to him: What a fucking bitch! Thank him? She shouldn't be thanking him. She should've left her drunken husband years ago. Or she should've said something to calm the man an hour earlier. Or never let go of her son. Or never taunted her husband in such a way to make him smile that cold, vengeful smile. She'd been the one in that room talking to Jimmy. She should've done a million and a half things differently, so Bobby would never have had to pull the trigger. So Bobby would never have had to kill a man and ruin his own goddamn life. So Bobby wouldn't be here now, drunk and exhausted and ashamed. What the hell kind of man killed a guy in front of his own kid anyway? Oh God, what had he done?
    The bitch, the bitch, the bitch.
    He pulled away from his lieutenant. He walked in small, random circles, still feeling crazy with rage. He wanted to take a bat and smash every fucking window in every fucking car on this street. And then he'd take a tire iron to every door and a blade to every tire. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted . . .
    Oh Christ, he couldn't breathe. His chest had locked up. His lips were open, gasping, but nothing was coming, no air would draw in. He was having another heart attack. He was dying in South Boston because it was November and he'd always known it would happen like that. The summer was safe, fall not too bad, but November . . . November was a killer month. Shit, shit, shit.
    “Head between your knees. Come on, Bobby. Bend over, deep breath. You can do it. Just concentrate on the sound of my voice.”
    Bobby felt hands on his shoulders, hands forcing his head down. Stars were building in front of his eyes, brilliant white spots blooming in a sea of black. The stars would burst soon, fade away, and then there'd be only the black, rushing to greet him.
    Then, as quickly as it started, his chest unlocked, his compressed lungs suddenly gasped to life and inhaled a rush of oxygen. He staggered into the middle of the street, barely missed a passing car, and gulped a deep lungful of icy night air.
    Bruni was still beside him, dragging him out of the traffic and talking low and fast. “Pay attention to me, Bobby. Pull yourself together and pay attention.”
    Bobby found a streetlight to cling to. He wrapped his arms and legs around the cold metal. Then he hung his head and fought to get a grip.
    “All right,” he said. “I'm together.”
    Bruni looked skeptical, but he grunted in acquiescence. “Do you know what a clerk-magistrate hearing is?”
    “A clerk