Kiss Her Goodbye (A Thriller) Read online

  Something grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him upward. In a few short seconds, both bridge and river were little more than pinpricks below as he was sucked into an endless, swirling corridor of light and sound.

  Fear blossomed in the pit of his stomach as a surreal barrage of images hurtled toward him at lightning speed, much too fast to decipher. He sensed that he was seeing his life play out before him, some sort of high-speed chronicle of where he’d been and who he’d known in his thirty-nine years. His parents, his sister, his marriage, Jessie—

  Gunderson….

  Above him, at the far end of the corridor, a bright circle of light flickered.

  Was it a star of some kind?

  All he knew was that there was something compelling about it. And soothing. His fear and apprehension suddenly sifted away as an odd sense of warmth vibrated through his body—

  —a warmth like nothing he’d ever felt before.

  There was no pain, no pleasure, just—and this seemed strange, considering the frenzied activity swirling around him—just calm.

  Then, the faint murmur of voices filled his head, calling his name, beckoning to him.

  Were they coming from the light?

  He couldn’t be sure.

  Before he had a chance to find out, invisible hands took hold of him again and yanked him toward a shadowy fold in the corridor wall.

  HE FOUND HIMSELF lying on a small patch of earth, staring into darkness.

  Pulling himself upright, he looked around, waiting for his eyes to adjust. After only a moment, he could make out the vague shapes of other human beings, their faces gradually becoming clear, full of shell-shocked confusion—a look he was certain reflected his own.

  They were surrounded by rocky terrain. The distant mountains looked as sharp and impenetrable as razor wire, and the sky was not simply restless, but somehow threatening. Hungry.

  Yet the others seemed oblivious to it all.

  Oblivious to him.

  He watched as those around him began to rise and migrate, shuffling off toward a narrow pathway in the distance as if herded to the spot by a phantom wrangler.

  He didn’t hear the call, didn’t feel compelled to follow, but he stood up anyway.

  What, he wondered, was drawing them?

  Had the Roman Catholics gotten it right? Had the penitent come here to be purged of their sins before ascending to … wherever?

  The gathering crowd began to shift and change shape, forming a ragged line that funneled deeper into the darkness toward an unknown destination.

  He remembered, with sudden clarity, what Gunderson had said back at the train car, about the ancient Egyptians and the Fields of Yaru. Were these the newly dead, lining up to be tested? Did that narrow pathway lead to a world of boiling swamps and venomous serpents?

  The answers were beyond his grasp. He had no idea what any of it meant.

  For him, or for Jessie.

  His presence here seemed like some kind of sick, cosmic joke—a metaphysical monkey wrench—and he wondered if he was to be forever anchored to this strange place while his daughter slowly suffocated in a crude wooden coffin.

  She was alone somewhere, alone and frightened, calling for him.

  Help me, Daddy. Help me.

  He had to find her. He couldn’t let her die.

  Wouldn’t let her.

  Yet, what could he do? There were no bus stops here. No waiting trains to take him home.

  Searching the bleak landscape, he saw nothing to give him hope. It was, he imagined, much like the moon, or some far-flung asteroid. An unforgiving place that held no promise of escape.

  The crowd continued its march toward whatever that pathway offered. What did they see in the darkness there? Was it a way out?

  Help me, Daddy.

  Feeling a sudden sense of urgency, he moved forward, catching up to the crowd, then searched the landscape beyond, looking for some kind of opening. Jessie was back in the real world, calling to him, and all he could think to do was to find the nearest exit sign and flee this place. But as he tried to work his way into the throng, they closed ranks, blocking his passage.

  He pushed forward, trying to shove his way in.

  “Let me through!” he shouted, but they ignored him, refusing to budge. “Move, goddammit! Let me—”

  “Easy, Jack.”

  It was barely a whisper, right next to his ear. He felt the heat of the speaker’s breath.

  He whipped around. Saw nothing. No one.

  Then the wind kicked up and he froze in place as a fold in the darkness opened up before him.

  A familiar figure stepped out of the shadows.

  Donovan stumbled back, jolted by what he saw, a mix of emotions flooding his mind: relief, joy, disbelief.

  “Sweet Jesus,” he said.

  It was A.J.

  A.J.

  Alive and whole and vibrant.

  30

  TEARS FILLED DONOVAN’S eyes, and before he knew it, he had his arms wrapped around his partner, hugging him.

  “My God,” he said, pulling away to look him over. “Is it really you?”

  A.J. was silent for a moment, then nodded and said, “I’m here, Jack, I’m with you.” There was a calmness to his voice that was almost unsettling. “But what you see comes from inside. Your mind is filling in the gaps to help you process what’s happening to you.”

  “What do you mean? Like a dream?”

  “More like window dressing. The only thing that exists in this place is thought. Pure thought. Our minds supply the props we need in order to cope. But I’m real, Jack. Very real. Just not in a way you can fully appreciate right now.”

  Donovan shook his head. This was a dream. It had to be. Any minute now he’d wake up and find himself neck deep in freezing river water, thankful to be alive.

  He tried to remember some of the more vivid dreams he’d had in his lifetime, but none of them came readily to mind.

  A.J. offered him a benevolent smile, looking for all the world like a guardian angel, his eyes bright and clear and full of quiet wisdom. For a moment Donovan felt like a four-year-old looking into the eyes of his father.

  Then A.J. squeezed his shoulder. The hand felt warm. Alive. Would it feel that way if he was dreaming?

  “She’s waiting for you, Jack. Go back and find her. It’s what you were meant to do.”

  Then the smile faded and the darkness opened up again, swallowing A.J. whole.

  DONOVAN BLINKED. “A.J.?”

  He searched the darkness, raising his voice. “A.J.?”

  But there was no sign of him.

  Donovan stood there, not quite sure what to do with himself, A.J.’s words still banging around inside his head:

  Go back and find her.

  It’s what you were meant to do.

  But no matter how much he tried to convince himself that A.J. was real, he couldn’t quite believe it. This wasn’t death at all, it was nothing more than a hallucinatory episode brought on by severe trauma.

  How could it be anything else?

  His mind was playing tricks on him, that’s all. He was alive and floating on the surface of the river, and any minute now, the paramedics would drag him out to safety and wake him from this terrible nightmare.

  Yet, despite his protests, something in his gut told him he was wrong. No hallucination, no dream, could be as alive and as palpable as this. The corridor, the murmuring voices, the crowd of walking dead—these weren’t things the mind made up out of whole cloth, were they?

  Backing away from the crowd, he turned and again searched the darkness, hoping to find a fold in the fabric, the same fold A.J. had disappeared into.

  Then, another whisper tickled his ear:

  “This way, Jack.”

  For a moment he wasn’t sure whether he’d actually heard the words or had only imagined them. Then he noticed a flash of movement in the corner of his eye.

  “This way.”

  A dark figure darted into th
e crowd, weaving through it. He followed, the crowd yielding passage this time, as the figure bobbed in and out of view. Abruptly turning, it broke away from the line, heading across the landscape toward an outcropping of rocks.

  Donovan moved after it and picked up speed, the air around him growing colder with each step. The figure disappeared behind the rocks and Donovan quickly circled around them—

  —only to find himself alone.

  In almost total darkness.

  The faint wind howled, like the distant cry of a tortured beast. A shiver snaked up his spine, accompanied by an almost overwhelming sense of dread.

  “What’s the matter, hotshot? Lose something?”

  A fold in the fabric opened up and—

  —Alexander Gunderson stood before him. Smiling. Malevolently.

  Donovan stared at him. Stunned.

  “I’ll bet you thought you’d seen the last of me,” Gunderson said. He leaned forward, forcing Donovan to take a step back. “I told you it wasn’t over.”

  Donovan stood immobile, felt frozen to the spot. Was this really happening?

  Without warning, Gunderson reached up and clapped his hands on either side of Donovan’s face.

  “Give us a kiss,” he said, and planted his lips on Donovan’s. A reptilian tongue slithered between them, forcing its way deep inside his mouth.

  Donovan gagged and pushed at Gunderson, struggling to break free as white heat burrowed deep into his chest and squeezed his heart.

  Then, all at once, Gunderson collapsed in on himself and dissolved into vapor.

  Recoiling, Donovan fell back, unable to breathe, his lungs once again on fire. A fierce wind kicked up from out of nowhere and swirled around him.

  In a far corner of his brain he heard voices, distant voices, speaking a language he didn’t quite understand.

  A code of some kind.

  Someone shouted, “Clear!” and the fierce wind enveloped him completely, a thousand invisible hands reaching out to grab him as a massive whirling wormhole opened up overhead …

  And swept him away.

  31

  THE SUNLIGHT HURT his eyes.

  It wasn’t much more than a pale, watercolor wash of gray slanting in through the window from an equally gray sky, but in those first few moments after he awoke, it hurt to keep his eyes open.

  He felt drugged; was vaguely aware that he was in a hospital room. His lungs ached. As if they’d been scraped out with the dull edge of a spoon. In fact, his entire body ached more than he could ever remember. Even worse than those long-ago academy days, after the first hours of intense physical training, when walking took Herculean effort.

  A cool stream of oxygen flowed through plastic tubing in his nose. An IV tube was taped to the back of his left hand, its needle implanted in the flesh, and deeper, into a vein, stretching it just enough to be uncomfortable. His chest was heavy with wires and a Walkman-sized heart monitor. Another monitor was clamped over his right index finger.

  Somewhere nearby a machine beeped, its pattern erratic, reacting to every tiny move he made.

  He turned his head slightly, saw that he wasn’t alone. A petite figure was curled up in a nearby chair, and it took him a moment to realize who it was.

  Rachel. Fast asleep.

  He lay there quietly, waiting for his head to clear, not wanting to disturb her. He had no idea what time he’d been brought in here, but figured she must’ve spent the night.

  She looked peaceful, knees tucked to her chest, head resting lightly against the wall. He watched her sleep, wishing this were a different time and place, a time and place where he could act on these feelings he’d been harboring for so long.

  Then he cursed himself for even thinking such a thing. He needed to clear his head, focus on the present.

  Jessie. What was the news on Jessie?

  As if sensing his turmoil, Rachel opened her eyes and blinked at him. Then she smiled, her voice thick and drowsy: “Welcome back, stranger.”

  Donovan opened his mouth to speak and discovered his throat was scratchy. “… What happened?”

  Rachel uncurled her body and sat upright. She wore jeans and a T-shirt with a dark wool sweater pulled over it. He wasn’t used to seeing her in such casual attire.

  “You went for a swim last night,” she said. “Only you forgot to get out of your car first. Fortunately there was a police boat nearby. They dragged you out.”

  She paused a moment, looking as if she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to continue. “They told me you were dead, Jack.”

  “Dead.”

  “The paramedics. They don’t know how long. Your heart stopped. They had to pump a ton of water out of your lungs.”

  Dead, Donovan repeated to himself, his thoughts drifting to the dim memory of a dark, faraway place.

  A.J. had been there.

  And Gunderson.

  And he vaguely remembered being … kissed.

  But it all felt so distant. Dreamlike. Do the dead dream? he wondered. Does the mind remain active even after the body ceases to function? He thought about Sara Gunderson lying in a coma—what some called the sleep of the dead—and wondered what she saw.

  Had she, too, been kissed?

  Rachel got to her feet, moved close to the bed. “You don’t look so good. Maybe you should go back to sleep.”

  He didn’t feel so good, either, but he had other things to worry about. “How long have I been here?”

  “They brought you in about three this morning. You spent the first few hours in intensive care.” She checked her watch. “It’s just past noon.”

  Noon? Jesus. Sixteen hours since Gunderson was shot. Sixteen long hours—most of them wasted now. Was it too late? Had it been too long? He was almost afraid to ask the next question.

  “What about Jessie?”

  Rachel’s expression darkened. “Nothing yet.”

  “Son of a bitch …” Donovan sat up, his body groaning in protest. Wires shifted and the Walkman-like heart monitor tumbled to the floor.

  Rachel put her hands on him. “Jack, no. Sidney and the others are working nonstop. They’ll find her.”

  Donovan pulled away from her and yanked at the wires, popping them off the electrodes stuck to his chest. The machine beeped wildly in response and he knew it was only a matter of moments before a herd of nurses came barreling through the door.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Getting out of here.”

  “Dammit, Jack. You need rest.”

  “I’m fine,” he said. He wasn’t by a long shot, but the first step toward defeat was admitting the possibility even existed. Grabbing the IV needle in his hand, he jerked it out. Blood spurted from the open vein. He clamped it with his right hand, then swung his legs around and touched his bare feet to the linoleum.

  Rachel eyed the blood. “This is crazy.”

  Maybe, Donovan thought, but he ignored her and stood up anyway, feeling the world tilt sideways. He struggled for balance. Cold air sliced through the open back of his hospital gown. “Where are my clothes?”

  Urgent shouts echoed through the hallway just outside his room. A Code Blue was in progress and he was the target.

  “You’re not doing Jessie any good in this condition.”

  “Where are my clothes?”

  Rachel sighed, then crossed to a plastic bag on the floor next to her chair. “I brought you some fresh ones,” she said. “And a toothbrush and razor.”

  Donovan managed a smile. “What would I do without you, Rache?”

  32

  WHAT EXACTLY ARE you looking for?” Rachel asked. The tone of disapproval had been there since they’d left the hospital.

  “I’ll know when I find it,” Donovan told her.

  He sat in the passenger seat of her cramped Celica, working the keys of his laptop as she drove. The back of his left hand displayed a nasty black-and-purple bruise, the tiny IV needle-prick caked with dried blood.

  The S.A.R.A. file filled his
computer screen. A digitized photo stared up at him, Gunderson’s cruel eyes mocking him. He hit another key and the Known Associates list popped up.

  Gunderson had made a truckload of friends and acquaintances over the years, most of the major players listed here. In the weeks after the attack on Northland First & Trust, Donovan and his team had repeatedly scoured this list, hauling in Gunderson’s buddies one by one for questioning.

  Donovan had spent hours in the interrogation room grilling car thieves, drug runners, and suspected arms dealers, many of whom spoke openly until Gunderson was mentioned. The mere utterance of the name froze them up, as if they were afraid the man himself might break into the room and tear their heads off.

  Rachel glanced over at the screen. “Sydney’s been through that list half a dozen times since yesterday.”

  “There’s something here,” Donovan insisted. “There’s gotta be. Gunderson couldn’t have pulled off the kidnapping alone. He was too hot. He needed a front man. Someone to gather supplies and information and funnel it back to him.”

  “What about Nemo?”

  “Too much of a wild card,” Donovan said. “Nemo’s loyalty depends on his mood and the time of day. What Gunderson needed was a foot soldier. Somebody who did what he was told and didn’t ask questions.”

  The image of a large man in a ski mask filled Donovan’s head. He remembered watching the guy stagger toward the overturned news van, blood dripping from a nasty gash in his left forearm. Despite considerable effort, Donovan’s team had never managed to identify the guy, and that anonymity would surely be attractive to Gunderson.

  “Besides,” Donovan continued, “Nemo already served his purpose last night.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Getting us to that train yard.”

  Rachel frowned. “You think Gunderson wanted you there?”

  “There were enough explosives in that yard to take out half the Chicago Police Department. Gunderson was a showman. He thrived on attention. And he knew Nemo would crack under the right amount of pressure.”