Kiss Her Goodbye (A Thriller) (11 page)

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

 He just hoped and prayed Alex would, too.

19

I
T 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.
 

I
T 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 me.”

 “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.”

G
UNDERSON’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.

 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

W
HEN 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.

T
HE 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.