Kiss Her Goodbye (A Thriller) Read online

  “About half-half would be my guess.”

  A.J. crouched next to them. “You think he’s cooking up a combustible?”

  Donovan shook his head. “Our guy’s a hair too sophisticated for homemade goods.”

  Fogerty jostled his bulk into view and tried to work it into a crouch. That idea was a bust, so he settled onto one of the passenger seats instead. “So what the hell’s he up to? Digging himself a flower patch?”

  A new wave of dread washed over Donovan. He glanced at A.J., whose eyes clearly mirrored the feeling.

  Fogerty caught the exchange and raised his eyebrows. “What’d I say?”

  “Few months ago,” A.J. told him, “we found one of our informants in an empty lot in Calumet City. He’d been buried alive.”

  “Christ on a cracker,” Fogerty said. “You don’t think the asshole’s planning to…” He stopped short, but everyone present had a pretty good idea where he was headed.

  Especially Donovan.

  He tried to drive the thought from his mind. Not even Gunderson could be that sadistic. Not with a fifteen-year-old girl. But he knew the evidence didn’t lie. Whatever these boot prints signified, it wasn’t good.

  Not for him. And certainly not for Jessie.

  HE FOUND HER backpack on the floor between two seats near the back of the bus. Her name was scrawled across it in flowery print, the Lisa Simpson key chain safety-pinned to the strap, a shiny new apartment key dangling from it.

  The sight of the key brought on a sudden rush of helplessness.

  You go through your life putting locks on your windows, your doors, your car, hoping to protect your most valuable possessions. But how do you put a lock on a kid? How do you keep the Gundersons of the world from snatching them away and stealing their souls?

  Donovan was a unit commander for one of the most powerful law enforcement agencies in the United States and even he couldn’t prevent it from happening. No matter how much he tried to control his world, no matter how much knowledge and experience he brought to the task, he knew that life was nothing more than a cruel game of Russian roulette. You spin the chamber, close your eyes, and squeeze the trigger, hoping for that reassuring click.

  He sank onto the seat and pulled the backpack into his lap, carefully unpinning the key chain. He ran his thumb over the ceramic replica of Lisa Simpson, recalling younger days with Jessie perched next to him on the sofa as they watched TV—the days before his betrayal of her trust.

  He had failed her once. Would he do it again?

  “Hey, Jack—A.J.”

  Donovan looked up. Al Cleveland was standing in the forward door well. “Sidney says he’ll be here in five. He’s got Bobby Nemo with him.”

  Donovan nodded, felt his jaw tighten. If anybody knew Gunderson, it was Nemo. They had a history that stretched all the way back to Gunderson’s days at the Juvenile Offender Facility. So far, Nemo had refused to cooperate, but that would change. Donovan was sure of it.

  He looked at A.J. “Time to break out the beer and peanuts.”

  18

  ALEX, ALEX, ALEX. You are one crazy mofo.”

  The words were barely audible, little more than a mumble, really, but for all of Sidney Waxman’s faults, he had one great virtue: a keen sense of hearing. When the radar was cooking, he could catch a whisper in a thunderstorm.

  He glanced in his rearview mirror at Nemo’s bloodshot eyes as they took in the furious activity around the crime scene. “You say something, Bobby?”

  “Eat shit and die, asshole.”

  An original thinker, Nemo was. Waxman admired the man’s ability to express himself with crude brevity, unimaginative though it might be. “Come on, Bobby, be nice. Maybe you’ll come out of this with your balls still attached.”

  Nemo’s eyes flitted toward him. Filled with contempt. “What the hell you bring me here for, anyway?”

  “Boss is in the mood for a little conversation.”

  “We had our conversation. Where’s my lawyer?”

  Waxman shook his head. “You keep bringing up this lawyer bullshit. We don’t work that way. Lawyers have a knack for getting in the way of the truth.”

  “Did I just wake up in Pakistan? You’re violating my civil rights.”

  “Didn’t you hear?” Waxman said, smiling. “You’re a terrorist, Bobby. Guys like you don’t have any rights.”

  Thank God for Congress, letting the White House bully them into circumventing the Constitution at a time of national turmoil. The War on Terror had been a boon to law enforcement. New laws relaxing the restrictions on evidence-gathering created lots of potential for abuse, sure, but this situation warranted a little abuse, didn’t it? And, technically speaking, Nemo was a terrorist, even if the Department of Homeland Security didn’t quite see it that way.

  Waxman knew that sooner or later they’d have to break down and get him a federal public defender. Wouldn’t want the poor SOB to incriminate himself. God no. In the meantime, they’d keep waving the Stars and Stripes and stall as long as they possibly could.

  Nemo just stared at the back of his head. “You’re full of shit,” he said.

  “Maybe so,” Waxman told him. “But I’m the one behind the wheel. So you go ahead, keep asking for a lawyer. One of these days I might hear you.”

  “Asshole.”

  Ah, brevity, Waxman thought. A lovely thing.

  NEMO STARED AT the back of the turd’s head, halfway tempted to let a loogy fly. But that would only get him in deeper shit. He figured he’d better just sit here quietly and let this thing play out.

  Outside, a toothpick of a cop unfastened the yellow do not cross ribbon and waved the turd through. As they pulled past him, Nemo looked out again at the bus parked in the middle of the street, big portable floodlights surrounding it, waiting for nightfall. If it weren’t for all the cops running around, you’d think this was a movie set.

  Like his buddy Alex, Nemo had always been a big fan of movies and television. He’d even thought about going into acting once, back when he was in junior high. Buncha Hollywood assholes had come to town to shoot some Chuck Norris chopsocky piece of shit and this sweet-assed casting bitch showed up at the Center Street Arcade, looking for local color.

  Nemo and a couple of other kids were chosen as possibilities, but in the end, the only one who made the cut was an emaciated little fuck named Joey Bustos.

  Nemo didn’t really care about the acting gig. His eyes were on that casting bitch, thinking how he’d like to bend her over the nearest foosball table and hammer Henry home. But he was a little peeved when Joey got the part instead of him.

  The following night, just past dinnertime, he waited outside Joey’s apartment until the little fruit came down to dump the trash. Nemo Chuck Norrised his ass right there in the alley. Left him inside the Dempsey Dumpster.

  Needless to say, Joey never made it to the movie set. Didn’t come to the arcade for a coupla months either. Turned out Nemo had fractured the fruit’s skull, cracked a couple of ribs, and punctured a lung. Unfortunately, all of his hard work went to waste. The Hollywood assholes brought in somebody from L.A. instead, and Nemo never saw that sweet-assed casting bitch again.

  The turd made a turn, pulling into an alley. A couple of Feds and a fat-ass cop were waiting for them, looking all serious.

  Donovan stood in front, his cold, dead eyes on Nemo, and Nemo felt a tickle of fear. He knew Donovan was a hard case, but he’d never seen him like this before. The guy had a definite no-mercy vibe coming off him.

  The turd pulled to a stop, killed the engine, then threw his door open and got out. Turning in his seat, Nemo glanced out the rear window. One of the Feds had moved to the mouth of the alley and was standing there with his back to the rest of them, keeping watch.

  This was not gonna be a friendly conversation.

  The turd opened Nemo’s door, grabbed a couple handfuls of collar, and dragged him out of the car.

  If Nemo hadn’t been cuffed, he would’ve clocked the gu
y right there, but the turd wasn’t his main concern right now. Donovan stood only feet away, never taking his eyes off him.

  Once Nemo was clear of the car doorway and standing upright, Donovan moved in close.

  “What d’ya say, Bobby? Something you want to share with me? And I’m not talking about Gunderson’s twilight-zone bullshit.”

  Face-to-face it was a different story. Donovan was trying to look tough, but you could see the desperation in his eyes. Fucker was scared shitless.

  Not that you could blame him.

  Nemo relaxed a little. Felt a renewed sense of confidence coming on. He offered Donovan a slow smile. “Looks like somebody else got caught in the middle this time, huh, Daddy?”

  The words were out of his mouth before he realized his mistake. Not only were they likely to piss Donovan off, they made it clear that Nemo had known about Alex’s plan all along.

  Bobby, you dumb-ass motherfucker.

  In the tiniest fraction of a second, the desperation in Donovan’s eyes morphed into hot, white anger. A hand shot up to the side of Nemo’s face and sent his head straight into the rear fender of the turd’s sedan. He hit it hard, pain exploding in his skull.

  Hands grabbed him, spun him around, then someone hit him in the shins, knocking his feet out from under him. He landed on the alley floor like a bag of fresh crap, and one of the cops kicked him in the ribs.

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

  Feeling something give, Nemo bit down on his lip, stifling a cry, thinking if he made any noise it might piss them off. At this moment in time, that was the last thing he wanted to do.

  Then Donovan’s fingers grabbed his chin, forcing his head upward, and the next thing he knew he had the business end of a Glock nine-millimeter in his face.

  He could smell the gun oil.

  “Listen carefully, asshole. You listening to me?”

  Nemo nodded, which wasn’t easy with the barrel of the nine stuck halfway up his left nostril.

  “Your fearless leader just bit off a big old chunka shit, and unless you tell me where he’s holed up—right now—I swear to Christ they’ll be hosing little bits of your brain into the gutter tonight. You understand?”

  The tickle of fear was back, only this time it felt like a thousand fingers attacking him simultaneously. He could call this motherfucker’s bluff, sure, but he kept going back to those eyes, the way they shifted erratically between anger and desperation. He’d seen that look before, on the faces of lifers and junkies and the handful of crack whores he’d had the misfortune of hooking up with. And what it meant was this:

  Donovan would not hesitate to pull the trigger.

  Glancing at the others, he realized they had no intention of coming to his rescue. Not now. Not ever. The fat-ass cop was practically licking his chops, for crissakes.

  Do or die time, Bobby. Do or die.

  Donovan pushed in closer. “Do you understand?”

  Nemo nodded again. Vigorously this time. He understood all right.

  He just hoped and prayed Alex would, too.

  19

  IT HAD TAKEN him longer than expected to dig the hole. Despite being isolated these past few weeks, Gunderson had kept himself in shape—a hundred knuckle push-ups twice a day, double that in crunches—and he’d figured an hour tops for the digging.

  Two and a half later, stinking of processed chickenshit, he had emerged from a hole six feet deep, three feet wide, and seven feet long. Just big enough to fit the box and all of its tanks.

  Just big enough to fit a fifteen-year-old piece of sweet peach pie.

  That was this afternoon, and he had finished right under the wire. He’d had maybe twenty minutes to fire up the Suburban and scoot on over to Bellanova Prep where his lovely one waited.

  Sweet Jessie.

  He had been watching her for weeks. Been witness to the pitiful display she and Special Agent Jack called a reunion. Had followed her to school every day since Monday, allowing her only a short glimpse of him this morning.

  She was, he discovered, a perfect candidate for his plan. What his aunt would call a mark, a vulnerable. A girl who suffered from deep, conflicting emotions tempered by an intelligence that was beyond her years. And he was certain that a few days underground would condition her properly. Open the channel, so to speak.

  After he snatched her off the bus, he watched her strip down in the back of the Suburban, her lower lip trembling, eyes refusing to meet his in the rearview mirror. He had been tempted to compare her to Sara—which was only natural, considering what he was about to do—but there was little similarity between the two. Sara eclipsed her in every way.

  Even so, the sight of her flawless young flesh reminded him of that first night he’d spent with Sara, undressing her in the moonlit darkness of the bell tower atop Old Main. How she had looked directly into his eyes as he unhooked her bra and cupped those small but perfect breasts. The faint gasp as he ran his thumbs over her hardening nipples.

  He’d known then and there that Sara was his forever. As his hands explored other parts of her body, he’d felt like a divine sculptor, turning raw, unblemished flesh into woman.

  His woman.

  With enough time and patience, Jessie could be his woman, too. But he had little time or patience right now. He had to work fast and he had to work crudely. No room for the subtleties of seduction.

  Instead, he caught the interstate, drove the twenty miles back to the hole he’d dug, then quickly duct-taped Jessie’s wrists and ankles and dropped her into her home away from home.

  And if all went well, if everything the old bat had taught him proved to be true, he’d be one of the few people in this sad, sick world who could claim to have his cake and eat it, too.

  Once Donovan was finally vapor, he’d come back here and dig this little one up. And as she sucked in her first breaths of fresh air, staring up at him with those big blue eyes, he’d pull her into his arms and murmur softly in her ear:

  Welcome home, my darling. Welcome home.

  IT TOOK HIM less than half an hour to put the dirt back. Once the deed was done, he took care of the rest of his business, ditched the Suburban, then called Luther to pick him up.

  Luther was the only one of the surviving trio who hadn’t been forced to go into hiding. His paranoia had paid off. Thanks to the ski mask he was so fond of wearing, the Feds hadn’t been able to identify him. As a result, he was at Gunderson’s beck and call, the perfect point man, gathering tools and weapons for the renewed crusade.

  Gunderson waited for him in a nearby bar, one of those transient dives where every customer is treated with equal indifference. Pay your money, drink your drink. Nobody gives a damn who you are.

  That’s the thing about being a wanted man, your name and face plastered all over the news. You figure everybody you run into will take one look at you and start screaming for the cops.

  But to Gunderson’s surprise, as long as he was careful, he was virtually invisible. He quickly discovered that if you stick to yourself and don’t attract attention, most people will walk on by without so much as a glance. They’re too busy thinking about their mortgages or their sick kids or their cheating wives to bother with you. And a guy in a booth of some dumpy bar is about as anonymous as a stone in the ocean.

  Nevertheless, he kept his head low, careful not to make direct eye contact with anyone.

  Pulling his I Ching coins from a pocket, he gave them a quick shake, tossed them into the palm of his left hand, and carefully recorded the results on the napkin beneath his beer. After a few more tosses, his hexagram was complete and he felt more confident than ever.

  Invincible, in fact.

  Twenty minutes and two beers later, Luther pulled up outside.

  “Saw you on TV,” he said, as Gunderson climbed into the truck. “Everything go okay?”

  “The bait’s dangling from the hook as we speak.”

  Luther nodded, his expression grim. “You hear about Bobby?”

  “Tell m
e.”

  “Feds picked him up.”

  Gunderson wasn’t surprised. Bobby had always been careless. Right out of the box he’d hooked up with some strip-club skank, a mistake he was destined to regret—although Gunderson hadn’t expected the inevitable to happen quite so soon.

  No matter. It was, after all, what he’d been counting on.

  “Good,” he said, and smiled. “Things are about to get interesting.”

  GUNDERSON’S OWN HOME away from home was an abandoned train yard near Cicero, an industrial suburb with smog thick enough to choke a rhino. The yard had once been a main stop on the metropolitan freight line, but the lines connecting to it had long ago been discontinued, and it quickly became a ghost town. Talks about clearing it out had dragged on for decades. Thirty-five years later it was still standing, but was so overrun with mangy cats and rodents that even the crackheads stayed away.

  The perfect place to remain anonymous.

  It was dark by the time Luther dropped him off, a mile and a half from the yard. Searching the streets of a rundown, blue-collar neighborhood, Gunderson found just the right car to take him home: a beat-up Corolla with missing hubcaps. No doubt its owner was already stationed in front of the tube, waiting for a beer and a blow job.

  It was a chilly, moonless night. When he pulled up to the train yard gate, it seemed as if the Corolla’s headlights were the only illumination for blocks. Killing the engine, he got out, unhooked the padlock, and rolled the gate open.

  He stood there a moment, listening, studying the darkness. The maze of rusted-out train cars was barely visible beneath the blackened sky, but the yard seemed clear. No unaccounted-for sounds. No flicker of flashlight beams or glow of cigarettes.

  He was alone out here, as always. Alone with the cats and the rodents and his thoughts of Sara.

  She’d been lying in a hospital bed for weeks now, her body useless to her, her mind stuck in limbo.