Kiss Her Goodbye (A Thriller) Read online

  He had visited her several times since her transfer to Saint Margaret’s. The hospital was small, its security system a joke, and the graveyard shift was little more than a skeleton crew—a lone guard and a couple of nurses who spent most of their time yukking it up in the break room.

  A temporary rerouting of the alarm wires and an accommodating fire exit had made it easy enough to slip into Sara’s hospital room and watch her, the wheezy drone of the heart/lung machine and the steady beep of monitors telling the world that she was alive only because of them. One yank of the plug and she’d be on her way to the next life.

  Gunderson had considered pulling it, but could never quite muster up the courage, always hanging on to the hope that he might somehow get her back.

  Then, on his third visit, just as he was about to leave, he heard it.

  Sara’s voice.

  … Release me. …

  It was little more than a whisper in a corner of his mind, but he was certain it was her.

  … Release me. …

  Heart filling with joy, Gunderson leaned over her, looking for a sign of consciousness, but she was as still and as quiet as the dead.

  “I’m here, baby,” he said softly. “Talk to me. Tell me what to do.”

  The voice was so weak it almost brought tears to his eyes:

  … Release me.

  Then she was silent.

  Several minutes passed as Gunderson waited, hoping for more, but nothing came. He heard footsteps in the hall and knew that the night guard was making his hourly rounds.

  Time to go.

  He squeezed Sara’s hand, promising to return, then took the fire exit out to the street, an idea forming at the periphery of his brain.

  Sara’s body might be useless, but she was in there somewhere, begging to get out. And while pulling the plug might free her, it wouldn’t bring her back to him. Not in the flesh. Not to this world.

  But what if he could find a way to make that possible? If he truly believed the things he said he did, how could he deny her that chance? How could he deny himself?

  And then it hit him. The perfect solution. A marriage of vengeance and need, all wrapped up in a nice little fifteen-year-old package.

  Sara would be his again. Not the same, perhaps, not as exquisitely beautiful, but the flesh was much less important to him than the mind and the heart and the soul.

  And now that Bobby was in custody, the plan he’d waited to put into motion was about to kick into high gear.

  And he was ready.

  No, not just ready.

  Eager.

  20

  WHEN HE HEARD the car pulling up, Donovan checked his watch: 8:35. He’d been waiting here twenty short minutes.

  He stood in a corner of a dilapidated train car, near the rear door, his back pressed against the mottled fabric that lined the walls. The air was thick with the smell of stale cigarettes and half a century’s worth of mold.

  Earlier, a sweep of his flashlight had told him that this had once been a passenger car. A luxury one at that, built at the turn of the century. How it wound up in the middle of a freight yard was anyone’s guess.

  A slower sweep had told him that amidst the litter of butt-filled ashtrays and Baby Ruth wrappers, Gunderson had stockpiled enough weapons and ammunition to launch a Cuban invasion. Donovan had them cleared out immediately, of course. No point in taking chances.

  His earpiece crackled.

  A.J.’s voice: “It’s him.”

  Donovan raised his two-way. “Any sign of Jessie?”

  “Negative.”

  “All right. Stay put until I give the signal.”

  Outside, the car approached slowly, its engine rattling. It sounded small and foreign. Probably a beat-up Honda or Toyota, several years old, which undoubtedly matched its surroundings. Gunderson would be sure to steal a car that blended in.

  The question was whether Jessie was inside. Could he have stashed her in the trunk? On the floor, between the front and back seats? Or was she with him at all?

  The sight of those muddy boot prints had left a queasy feeling in Donovan’s stomach. In his gut he knew Jessie wasn’t in that car, and finding her would be problematic at best. All he’d managed to get from Bobby Nemo was this train yard and the location of Gunderson’s makeshift digs. Nemo had claimed no knowledge of Jessie other than Gunderson’s initial plan to snatch her.

  Gunderson himself wasn’t likely to be much more helpful, but Donovan would tie the bastard to a stake and strip the flesh off his body, piece by piece, if that was the only way to break him down. The moment Gunderson took Jessie off that bus, the boundaries had changed. All the rules Donovan had lived his life by went straight out the window.

  The car rattled to a stop. A moment later, the door creaked open, then slammed shut. Just outside the train-car door, a cat cried.

  Gunderson had a friend.

  Donovan’s earpiece crackled again. “Heads up, he’s coming your way.”

  Donovan gave his call button two quick jabs, then clipped the radio to his belt and brought out his Glock. Keeping his eyes on the door, he listened intently as boots trudged onto the rear platform.

  Welcome home, asshole.

  THE FIREBALL WAS waiting for him. The little orange fuzz bucket had adopted him his first week here and wouldn’t let go. Gunderson had always been partial to cats, liked their independence, but this one was a particularly needy beast, always there to greet him when he came home. It had been cute at first, but now he found it annoying as hell.

  He had half a mind to snap its neck.

  As he approached the train-car door, the cat meowed and rubbed against his leg, purring like a motorboat. He gave it a quick kick to the ribs, knocking it aside, then unfastened the padlock and rolled the door open.

  Darkness greeted him. He had considered having Luther pick up a generator, but had decided against it. Unnecessary noise attracts attention. Not something he wanted to do.

  Instead, he had lined the inside of the train car with portable fluorescents—the kind that look like Coleman lanterns—then boarded up all the windows to keep any clue to his presence hidden from the outside world.

  He reached inside, just above the doorway, where he kept one such portable hanging from a hook.

  It wasn’t there.

  Gunderson paused, his senses revving into overdrive. There was something different about the air inside. A hint of human beneath the mustiness.

  He stood there, not moving for a moment.

  Then he smiled. “Hiya, hotshot.”

  “Hello, Alex.”

  21

  A PORTABLE FLUORESCENT lamp flickered to life. Jack Donovan stood to the left, near a corner, the lamp in one hand, a Glock 19 in the other.

  “Step inside,” he said quietly. “Keep your hands in view.”

  Gunderson did as he was told. He took the threat of a weapon like the 19 very seriously. Once inside, he turned and faced the door.

  Donovan set the lamp atop a seat back, then came out of the corner and stood just inside the doorway.

  He didn’t lower the Glock.

  “Where is she?” he said.

  Gunderson ignored the question. “You worked faster than I expected. I take it Bobby didn’t offer you much resistance.”

  “I can be persuasive when I have to be.”

  “I’ll bet you can. Maybe it’s time I got myself some new friends.”

  Donovan stepped forward. “Cut the crap, Alex. Where is she?”

  “Snug as a bug in a rug. Better pray nobody steps on her.”

  “Tell me or you’re a dead man.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Donovan glared at him. Gunderson could sense the gears of desperation clacking away inside the man’s head, trying to calculate the right move, searching for just the right thing to say. Seeing him in agony like this was like feasting on a fine meal. All the risks Gunderson had taken to get to this moment were more than worth it.

  And the game
had only begun.

  “Look behind me, Jack. You see that oxygen tank leaning against the wall back there?” He’d had Luther steal a bunch of them, more than he was able to use. “There are six more just like it buried somewhere nice and cozy, all hooked up to switchover valves. Right now they’re the only thing keeping your pumpkin alive.”

  Donovan’s eyes flashed. “You sick fuck.”

  “Demerits, Jack, demerits. You don’t want to get on my bad side. Look at it this way. I could’ve just popped that teenybopper cherry of hers and left her for dead. Instead I thought I’d give her a taste of what it’s like to be my Sara.” He looked directly at Donovan. “Have you seen Sara, Jack? Have you gone to visit her? I have, late at night, when nobody was watching. All those machines she’s hooked up to? It’s not a pretty sight.”

  “You’re blaming the wrong guy,” Donovan said. “If you love her so much, why was she even in that van? Why put her in harm’s way?”

  “You think that was my choice?”

  “I think she did whatever you told her to.”

  “You’re wrong. I couldn’t have stopped her even if I wanted to. She wasn’t exactly what you’d call a stay-at-home mom. She was committed. To me, and to the cause.”

  “Ahh,” Donovan said. “The cause.”

  “You’re a drone, Jack. You and the rest of America. You sit on your couches, mesmerized by the glitz of Access Hollywood and Entertainment Tonight, while a New World Order is put into place by a government you’re supposed to trust. The Constitution doesn’t matter anymore. There is no United States of America, only a global economy owned and operated by the Pentagon and big oil. You’re a corporate lackey, Jack. And the corporation is set up to feed off its slaves.”

  “Nice speech,” Donovan said. “I might even agree with you to some extent. But why do I get the feeling it’s all hot air and bullshit?”

  “Meaning?”

  “I’ve read your sheet. I know your history. You’re a thug, Alex. A sociopathic headline seeker who preys on the very people you claim you’re trying to help.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Phil.”

  “You may have had Sara fooled, you may’ve even convinced yourself somewhere along the line that what you’re doing makes you some kind of noble warrior, but we both know your only real cause is Alexander Gunderson.”

  Gunderson brought his hands together and clapped. “Looks like it’s a night for speeches. But don’t you think it’s a little dangerous to be psychoanalyzing me when you’ve got so much at stake?”

  “Then let’s get down to it. What do you want from me?”

  “Haven’t we been over this? It doesn’t have to be complicated.” Gunderson nodded to the Glock. “At the moment I’d appreciate it if you’d point that fine piece of hardware in another direction.”

  Donovan’s hand shifted, raising the barrel of the Glock, pointing it at Gunderson’s forehead. “How’s this?”

  “At least you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Gunderson saw a silhouette in the doorway and felt a sudden rush of excitement. God, in His wisdom, had sent him a four-legged savior. Not that he needed one. He was completely confident that he could reverse this situation with relative ease. But it never hurts to have an ally. Makes the game more interesting.

  Tail snaking wildly, the fireball slinked silently into the room and approached Donovan’s right leg. Good thing he hadn’t snapped its neck.

  Keeping his eyes on Donovan, he said, “Tell me something, Jack. Now that you and the pumpkin are back on speaking terms, how’s it feel knowing you abandoned her for so long? You must feel pretty guilty every time you see that sweet little face of hers.”

  “That’s between me and Jessie.”

  “No,” Gunderson said. “I’m between you and Jessie—you keep forgetting that.” He paused. “You ever think about death, Jack?”

  “I’ve seen my share of it.”

  “Haven’t we all. But I’m talking about your own mortality. Heaven and hell.” The fireball was getting closer. “The ancient Egyptians believed the road to heaven was more dangerous than any place on earth. That the newly dead had to go through a series of trials before they’d be allowed onto the Fields of Yaru. Kind of like a high-stakes cosmic reality show.”

  “Good for them,” Donovan said. “And this affects me how?”

  Gunderson smiled. “I know it’s cheating, you being alive and all, but this is one of your trials, Jack. Right here, right now. And when you’re done, you might just get that ticket to Yaru.”

  Donovan’s finger brushed the trigger of the Glock. “Enough bullshit, Alex. Where is she?”

  Gunderson said nothing. Remained perfectly still, every muscle in his body alert.

  The fireball was only inches from Donovan’s leg.

  Donovan’s eyes darkened. “I can hurt you without killing you, you know. It wouldn’t bother me in the least to listen to you scream. You ever seen what a power drill can do to a man’s scrotum? I really don’t think you want to find—”

  The fireball let out a cry and rubbed up against Donovan’s leg. He flinched, the distraction lasting only a fraction of a second, but it was enough to give Gunderson the advantage he needed.

  Gunderson lunged. Donovan’s eyes registered faint surprise, but he didn’t pull the trigger. They both knew that would be a mistake. Batting Donovan’s weapon hand aside, Gunderson tackled him and drove him sideways into the wall.

  Donovan hit with a thud and slid to the floor as Gunderson rolled away and reached for the Walther he kept strapped to his ankle. He dove for the doorway, paying no attention to the shout behind him. Reaching the platform, he sprang to his feet, then vaulted the rail, nearly losing his balance as he hit the ground.

  From the yard, someone shouted, “Hold it, Gunderson!” and floodlights popped to life, lighting up the front of the train car. The lights had artfully been concealed by darkness and surrounding train-yard rubble, a platoon of uniformed cops lying in wait. More lights came to life at the back of the car, and the cops began to close in on Gunderson, their weapons drawn, a fat fuck with a comb-over pulling up the rear.

  But Gunderson didn’t slow down. Swinging his Walther upward, he let loose two quick shots. One of the floodlights shattered as the cops scrambled to take cover. Gunderson squeezed off another quick shot, then dove behind an adjacent train car just as the cops returned fire.

  Bullets ricocheting around him, he scrambled to his feet and ran like hell, letting the darkness swallow him.

  DONOVAN WAS ALREADY up and running when the gunfire started. Dashing to the train-car platform, he saw Gunderson dive to safety behind a broken-down cattle car as Fogerty and his men returned fire. Bullets ripped through the side of the car, splinters of wood flying everywhere.

  Goddamned amateurs. He waved his arms. “Hold it! Hold your fire! We need him alive!”

  A.J., Sidney, and the rest of Donovan’s team filed in from their hiding places, A.J. echoing Donovan’s command, signaling for Fogerty and his boys to stop shooting. As the gunfire died down, Sidney radioed the chopper: “The rabbit is loose! The rabbit is loose! Get your ass out here! Now!”

  Donovan leapt over the platform rail and sprinted after Gunderson. Bringing out his flashlight, he shone its narrow beam into the maze of train cars. It looked impenetrable from this vantage point, and Gunderson was bound to know every nook and cranny in the place. But Donovan could not let him get away. Would not. Not again. Not this time.

  He pushed forward into the darkness, sweeping the light from side to side, his Glock gripped tightly in his hand.

  Instinct. Pure blind instinct. That’s what he’d have to rely on to find the bastard in this mess. Fortunately for Donovan, he and instinct had always been on close, personal terms.

  22

  WEAPONS AND EXPLOSIVES had fascinated Gunderson for as long as he could remember. When he was thirteen years old, a year or so following the incarceration of his beloved aunt, he had b
een taken by his latest foster father into a special room in the family basement.

  Its walls were lined with military weaponry. Amidst the AK-47s, Lugers, and shiny samurai swords was a shelf dedicated to a variety of Russian, German, and American land mines.

  His foster father, an old prune named Vince, had picked up one of the mines—a German anti-personnel device complete with swastika on the side—and handed it to Alex.

  “Careful,” Vince said. “It’s active.”

  Gunderson figured he should be scared, but he wasn’t. He held the device with great care, captivated by the simplicity of its design.

  Vince pointed to the detonator on top. “Step on that,” he said, “and this sucker’ll shred you into a thousand different pieces. You’ve never seen agony until you’ve seen what’s left of your buddy after he’s popped the cherry on one of these babies. If he’s still got lungs, he’s screaming like a six-year-old girl.”

  Two months later, while Gunderson was busy ditching school, old Vince accidentally blew himself, his wife, and half his basement to smithereens. Gunderson was forced to move on to a new foster home, but he’d never forgotten Vince’s words, and the sense of power he’d felt with that precious baby resting on the palm of his hand.

  All these years later, land mines continued to hold a special place in Gunderson’s heart. He had long ago learned to rig his own and had recently turbocharged more than two dozen North Korean APDs, adding computerized detonator controls. With the aid of a remote, he could activate and deactivate them at will.

  In anticipation of tonight’s events, he had buried twenty-seven of these honeys around the train yard. Now, as he worked his way past an old caboose, he took the remote from his coat pocket and punched a combination of numbers on the backlit keypad—a global activation code.

  Buried beneath a pile of rubble just twenty feet behind him, Shredder #1 (as he liked to call it) came to life with a faint beep. All around the yard, its brothers and sisters followed suit.

  Come and get us, they said.

  The fun’s about to begin.