Kiss Her Goodbye (A Thriller) Read online

  Donovan shivered. There was a chance that Gunderson had rigged the other side of the door, but he decided to trust his initial instincts.

  He grabbed hold of the wheel.

  It groaned as he spun it three-quarters of a turn, then a latch clicked and the seal was broken.

  So far so good.

  He pulled on the door and the water around him began to swirl, shifting toward the adjoining tunnel, where it remained at waist level.

  Jessie’s sobs were much clearer now. Very close.

  He shone the Maglite into the darkness. “Jessie?”

  Still no response.

  As he crossed the threshold, his left foot got caught on something solid and he stumbled, plunging face-first into the murky liquid. Momentarily seized by panic, he did a quick half twist, then found the floor and stood up, drenched now from head to toe.

  Sonofabitch.

  The flashlight flickered, threatening to go out. Donovan banged it against the heel of his hand, brought it back to life.

  Jessie’s cries were behind him now.

  Turning, he shone the light back the way he’d come. “Jess, where are you?”

  The crying continued.

  He swept the beam from side to side. The walls were rougher here, still bearing the impression of the wooden arches that formed the tunnel, as if the final coat of cement had never been applied.

  Jessie was nowhere in sight, yet the crying continued.

  “Talk to me, Jess. Say something.”

  Still nothing.

  “Goddammit, Jessie, where the hell …”

  Then it struck Donovan. Now that he was this close, now that he was past the barrier that had muffled Jessie’s sobs, there was something odd about the sound.

  An unreal, hollow quality.

  The bulkhead door clanged shut and he immediately shot the Mag beam toward it, saw a flash of blue and white just above it: clothing hanging from a rusty piece of trolley wire.

  A skirt and blouse.

  The rest of Jessie’s uniform.

  Donovan pushed toward them and ripped them free, feeling something hard and weighty as the blouse fell into his hands. Jamming his fingers into the pocket, he brought out a digital recorder, the kind reporters use for on-the-spot interviews—the kind with a built-in microphone and speaker.

  Donovan shone his light on it. The tiny LED readout said it was set to repeat mode. Jessie’s sobs rose from the speaker, vibrating against his hand.

  Heart sinking, he felt something else in the pocket and dipped his fingers in, bringing out a single Polaroid photograph.

  It was Jessie, naked, feet and hands duct-taped, staring into the camera with wide, terrified eyes. She was lying inside a crude wooden coffin, an oxygen mask covering her nose and mouth.

  And written on the narrow border of the photograph in neat block letters were the words:

  NICE TRY, HOTSHOT

  NO CIGAR

  27

  WAKE UP, JESSIE.

  Jessie … wake uhhh-up.

  … Jessie?

  SHE AWOKE TO rain.

  It was faint, but unmistakable—even through the wood and God knew how many layers of dirt piled on top of it: the muffled, but steady tattoo of water against—what?

  Metal of some kind? Aluminum, maybe.

  It didn’t matter. It was raining and she could hear it, and that one small link to the real world was enough to make her realize that she was still alive, still had a chance. She just hoped the water didn’t seep down here. She was already shivering.

  Then she thought about how thirsty she was and changed her mind. Any kind of liquid would do right now. Even dirty rainwater.

  Jessie had lost count of how many times she had drifted in and out of sleep. Her consciousness seemed to float on the same aimless current as her emotions. Awake. Asleep. Hysterical. Calm. Somewhere in between.

  She usually came awake seized by a sudden rush of panic, but for the moment she was okay. She was Jessie Glass-Half-Full. And she knew that sooner or later someone would find her and take her out of this horrible place. Someone would save her.

  The angel had told her so.

  But she also knew that Jessie Glass-Half-Empty was lurking just around the corner, waiting to pounce. Then the tears would come—as they always did—and all hope would be abandoned to the dark demons gripping her soul.

  How long had she been down here?

  Hours? Days?

  She couldn’t even begin to guess. She had no real point of reference to latch onto. Her memories were a blur of disjointed events, like keyframes in some whacked-out animation timeline.

  Focus, Jessie. Focus.

  But it was hard, really hard. And before she could rein herself in—

  —she was undressing in the back of the Suburban, the man with the ponytail watching her in his rearview mirror, his gaze crawling over her as she stripped down to her bra and panties. She hesitated, but he waved the gun at her. Wanted it all off. She swallowed, tears falling, then reached back and unhooked her bra. The panties came next. And after she stepped out of them, she felt more naked—more exposed—than she’d ever felt before.

  Humiliated. That was the word.

  His gaze continued its slow crawl, watching her instead of the road, and she was sure he would crash, she wanted him to crash, and—

  —then she was in back of a cab again, the driver looking at her as if he’d never seen a girl in a school uniform and—

  —wait, what was that? Gunshots?

  —a hole the size of a dime opened up in the neck of a man in a Megadeth T-shirt, followed by the screams of the passengers. Or were they her screams? Someone grabbed her hair and pulled her toward the front of the bus and—

  —now she was zipping up her backpack, Matt Weber glancing at her as he walked by, and before she could return the look, before she could smile—

  —tape was wrapped around her hands and ankles, the man with the ponytail smiling at her as he lowered her into a narrow wooden box—only she wasn’t quite sure, was it Mr. Ponytail or Matt who was doing all that smiling?

  Or maybe it was the angel. The one who came to her as she slept.

  The angel had called her Jessie Glass-Half-Full.

  “It’s okay, Jessie. Everything’ll be okay.”

  Then she came awake to the mask cutting into her face and the cool rush of air streaming into her nostrils and the faint stench of fertilizer and the deadly silence, and she realized she had zoned out again and nothing had changed. She was still trapped in this godforsaken box, still buried beneath the earth, still thirsty, and, most of all, hungry.

  She screamed and cried and bucked and kicked and tried desperately to loosen the tape around her wrists—

  —and then she remembered the rain.

  Her only link to the real world.

  Had she already said that?

  Focus, Jessie, focus. Gotta stay in focus….

  Jessie?

  SHHHH. DON’T bother her.

  She’s sleeping.

  28

  DONOVAN HAD NEVER been a religious man. Despite his Irish roots, he had been raised a Methodist, apparently a compromise between his father’s dubious Catholicism and the strict Southern Baptist upbringing his mother had been forced to endure. He and his sister had attended church and Sunday school as children, but no one in the family had ever taken their religious activities seriously, and their attendance had tapered off over the years.

  Donovan’s tenuous belief in a higher power had been hammered out of him after his sister’s suicide and his days working Special Crimes. The evil he’d regularly witnessed had convinced him that no God could possibly be watching over us. The Founding Fathers had been right. Mankind had long ago been abandoned and left to fend for itself.

  Yet, as he sat behind the wheel of his Chrysler, clutching the Lisa Simpson key chain, watching rain splatter the windshield, he sent up a prayer.

  “If you are there,” he said quietly, “bring her home to me. Pleas
e bring her home.”

  Leaning back in his seat, he closed his eyes to make it official, but he heard no voice in return, was given no sign that his message had been received. Despite the effort, his heart didn’t fill with joy or hope or the promise of a new day.

  Which didn’t particularly surprise him.

  What kind of God would let an innocent fifteen-year-old be snatched away like this? What Benevolent Power would stand idly by as a good, honest man was ripped to shreds by a land mine? What Heavenly Father would let a jackass cop destroy the only chance they had of finding a little girl?

  Donovan felt nothing but fury. Toward himself, toward Gunderson, Fogerty, and toward a neglectful God who would never answer his prayer.

  He sat up and started the engine, resisting the urge to jam his foot against the gas pedal and plow through anything that got in his way. There was a tap on the passenger window and Sidney Waxman stood outside, gesturing for him to roll it down.

  Donovan did.

  Sidney leaned in, dripping rain. “CPD’s been all over those tunnels. We got bupkis.” He paused. “You all right?”

  Donovan just stared at him.

  “Okay, dumb question. What’s our next move?”

  “Pray forensics finds something in the Suburban,” Donovan said. “In the meantime, get CPD and the team topside, walking a grid, six-block radius, then expand from there if you have to.”

  “What exactly are we looking for?”

  “Any patch of earth you can find that’s big enough to hold a coffin. And don’t stop digging until you’re sure you’ve come up empty.”

  “That’s a pretty tall order, Jack, especially in this rain. We’re gonna get a lot of flak.”

  Again, Donovan just stared.

  “Okay, okay.” Waxman raised his hands in surrender. “Anybody complains, I’ll break his balls.”

  “See that you do.”

  “And while I’m having all this fun, what’ll you be up to?”

  “Driving,” Donovan said, and popped the Chrysler in gear.

  SO HE DROVE, and drove fast, knowing that on these rain-slicked streets, every turn was an invitation to disaster. But driving was his therapy, always had been, even with cases that weren’t so personal. He’d reach a dead end in his mind and feel compelled to jump behind the wheel and drive for hours, endlessly circling the city as he worked the puzzle, looking for the break that eluded him.

  But this time he had no desire to sift through evidence. All he wanted was to make his mind a blank, to forget he even existed in this screwed-up world where Evil was the true God.

  He took a sharp right, splashing through a puddle, hearing the shouts of a cluster of angry streetwalkers as water sprayed over them. Traffic had slowed up ahead—late-night partyers on the way home—so he took another turn, a left this time, and found himself on a long, empty stretch of road; a stretch of road that would allow him to pick up speed.

  He punched the gas pedal, the Chrysler’s beefy engine roaring. A VW Bug turned off a side street and pulled in front of him, going way too slow, and he swerved around it, angrily honking his horn.

  He knew this was wrong, knew that he had to regain control of himself, but the fury he felt wouldn’t allow for compromise. All good sense had been abandoned to raw emotion.

  Despite his best efforts to make his mind a blank, thoughts of Gunderson and Jessie continued to tumble through his head.

  Taking out his cell phone, he speed-dialed Rachel’s direct line.

  After two rings, she answered.

  “It’s Jack.”

  “Oh, God, I heard. I’m so sorry. I don’t know if Sidney told you, but a couple of guys from Washington have been hanging around and—”

  “I know all about it. Right now I need your help.”

  “Anything.”

  “Transfer the Gunderson files to my laptop and meet me at my apartment in twenty minutes.”

  “Why? What are you looking for?”

  “Something we missed. Gunderson was smart, but he wasn’t exactly tight-lipped. Somebody else knows about Jessie, and that somebody is in those files.”

  “I hope to God you’re right.”

  “Twenty minutes,” Donovan said, and hung up.

  He took another turn, onto a four-lane highway that stretched back toward the Chicago River. A sea of taillights confronted him, but he didn’t slow down. Instead, he weaved in and out of traffic, making a game of it.

  A woman with one face-lift too many throttled the horn of her BMW as he breezed past her and cut in, narrowly missing her front bumper. Another driver showed him the finger as Donovan switched lanes and cut him off, kicking back a torrent of rainwater.

  No matter how he tried, he couldn’t get the image of that Polaroid out of his head—Jessie looking so helpless, so vulnerable. The sight of her lying there exposed to Gunderson’s camera made him sick to his stomach. What kind of animal would subject a child to that?

  What kind of devil?

  Snapping to attention, he realized he was coming up fast on a lumbering SUV. He braked and looked to the right, but the lane was jammed tight. No way to force himself in. Craning his neck, he looked to the left, past the SUV, checking the opposing lane for a break in the oncoming traffic. The river was directly ahead now, cars braking slightly as they approached the bridge that spanned it.

  But again Donovan didn’t slow down. Spotting his break, he whipped the wheel, cutting across the double yellow line, letting his fury blind him to the risk he was taking. Picking up speed, he pulled onto the bridge, rainwater spraying out from beneath his tires as he again tried to block the image of Jessie from his mind.

  Then, without warning, a large container truck changed lanes up ahead and barreled straight at him, headlights blazing. Donovan gripped the wheel, ready to cut back to his side of the road, but there was no room—he hadn’t yet cleared the SUV.

  The truck was coming up way too fast. Donovan hit the brakes and—

  —there it was, a gap in his lane—

  —but just as he turned the wheel, the bottom seemed to drop out of the Chrysler. It hit a puddle and hydroplaned, sending him into a rudderless swerve.

  The truck’s horn blasted mournfully as Donovan pumped his brakes and fought the wheel. He struggled to regain some traction, but the street below him seemed to have vanished.

  The Chrysler washed diagonally across the oncoming lanes. A chorus of horns blasted through the rain as Donovan spun toward a guardrail. Seeing what was coming, he threw his arms up as if to ward off evil spirits. With a deafening, metallic crash, the Chrysler smashed through the rail and plummeted.

  The next thing Donovan knew he was vertical, headed nose first toward the icy blackness of the Chicago River. The surface of the water rose toward him like a wall of cement, shattering the windshield as he hit.

  Donovan had just enough time to suck air into his lungs as what felt like subzero water flooded in, hammering him mercilessly. He fumbled for his seat belt, struggling to unhook it as the Chrysler sank like a brick in a well.

  A final tug and the latch clicked open. Freeing himself from the harness, he kicked back against the seat, then shot forward through the window frame and swam, his legs and arms pumping furiously toward the surface.

  But his lungs could only hold so much air and they were on fire.

  Hold on, Jack, hold on. You can make it.

  But could he? Not with this current tugging at him. Not with this freezing water slicing deep into his bones, numbing his arms and legs to the point of uselessness.

  Not with his lungs about to burst.

  He fought with every bit of strength he had, but he knew it wasn’t enough. Not even close.

  He’d once read that Harry Houdini had conditioned himself to hold his breath underwater for a full five minutes. But Donovan was no Houdini, and he’d be doing pretty good just to hold his breath for one minute, let alone five.

  Sixty-three seconds after the river crashed through his windshield, a final
, searing jab of pain claimed Donovan’s lungs, feeling much like Willy Sanchez’s knife to the kidney …

  Then everything went black.

  Part Three

  DARKNESS

  29

  IF YOU HAD ASKED him before this moment what he thought about life after death, he would’ve told you it doesn’t exist.

  Death, he would have said, is a dark vacuum where all memories cease and all senses are cut off as cleanly and abruptly as the power company switches off electricity to your home.

  He had never held the illusion that there was something waiting for him in the great beyond. Heaven and hell were fairy tales, a promise and a warning, created by superstitious men. Religion was nothing more than politics dressed up with symbols and sacraments—and too often used as justification to conquer and control.

  He lived in a world where evidence was king, and the promise of life after death had not lived up to scrutiny.

  Faith was a sucker’s bet. A fool’s game.

  And while he certainly wasn’t perfect, by any means, he’d never been a fool.

  Or had he?

  WHEN HE OPENED his eyes, he was standing on the bridge. The container truck was gone, as were the cars. And the people driving them. The sky was dark and restless, but the road was dry, no sign of the rain that had washed him away.

  The only sound was a distant, howling wind.

  In front of him stood a mangled mass of steel that had once been a guardrail, sporting a huge gap where the Chrysler had crashed through.

  But if the Chrysler was down there …

  … how did he get up here?

  Had someone pulled him out?

  Moving closer to the gap, he stared at the black river and watched as a body crested the surface of the water like a fishing bobber. Somewhere in the distance, a boat horn gave off three short blasts. A distress signal.

  Jesus, he thought, that guy looks dead. I hope they get to him soon.

  Then, just as he began to realize, with growing anxiety, that it wasn’t just any body floating in the water—but was, in fact, him—a sudden rush of wind enveloped him and a black, turbulent wormhole opened up overhead.