Kiss Her Goodbye (A Thriller) (10 page)

 Now, as he stood trembling in the street, her terrified cries reverberating through his head, he thought about their volatile reunion and wondered if that message had gotten across. Because now more than ever, she needed to know it.

 Hang on, kiddo. 

 
I’m coming to get you.
 

17

I
WANT EVERYTHING
you’ve got. Notes, witness statements, forensics—anything that might tell us where that son of a bitch is headed.”

 “Now wait just a minute,” Fogerty said, struggling to keep up as Donovan and A.J. strode toward the bus. “I know she’s your kid and all, but I’m gonna have to get authorization for—”

 Donovan spun on him. He couldn’t believe this clown was still giving him static. Normally in these situations he’d try to work out some kind of peace agreement, but there simply wasn’t time. Every second was critical.

 He looked Fogerty square in the eyes. “Let me be clear about something. You do not want to piss me off.”

 Fogerty swallowed and said nothing for a moment, no doubt weighing the pros and cons of continuing this challenge. Then he raised his hands, a gesture of conciliation. “All I can offer you at this point is the tag on the Suburban.”

 “You put out a bulletin?”

 “APB, roadblocks, the whole nine yards.”

 “You hear anything, even a rumor, you bring it to me before it goes anywhere else, or by this time tomorrow you’ll be jockeying shopping carts at the local Wal-Mart.”

 “Lighten up, tough guy. I know my job.”

 “That remains to be seen.” Donovan turned and climbed the steps into the bus. A.J. followed, Fogerty pulling up the rear.

 Inside, two forensic technicians worked quietly. One was hunkered over the driver’s seat, taking samples from the splatter of blood that marked where the driver had been slain. Another was crouched near the center of the bus, next to the side exit, studying something of interest on the plastic-gloved fingertip of his right hand.

 Donovan approached him, carefully navigating the narrow strip of protective plastic that covered the aisle. “What’ve you got?”

 The technician looked up with a frown, as if to say, who the fuck are you? then shifted his gaze to a spot over Donovan’s left shoulder. He was looking to Fogerty for approval. It would be a while before word trickled down that the Feds were in charge.

 Donovan heard a wheezy grunt behind him. “He’s okay.”

 The technician nodded, then refocused his attention on the matter at hand. He gestured to a spot on the floor next to him. A grouping of muddy stains.

 “Shoe prints,” he said. “Work boots from the looks of them.”

 Donovan glanced at the prints and noted a distinctive sole pattern.

 Fogerty wheezed again. “They Gunderson’s?”

 The technician shrugged. “Everybody and his brother rides this bus, but they fit his general shoe size.”

 Donovan crouched, scraped a chunk of dirt free and rubbed it between his fingers. Relatively fresh. Damp to the touch. He held it to his nose, a sharp, acrid smell burning his nostrils. “Fertilizer.”

 “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.

H
E 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

A
LEX, 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.

N
EMO 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 guy 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?”