Kiss Her Goodbye (A Thriller) (15 page)

 The ladder descended into the blackest darkness Donovan had ever known. Dropping to the ground, he silently cursed as he sank ankle deep into icy water.

 Scavengers had long ago stripped the tunnel system clean, taking the much needed reciprocating pumps along with them. Without the pumps, rain and river water had seeped into several of the drifts and remained there, stagnating.

 The water sloshed, echoing through the darkness, as Donovan turned and took his flashlight out, flicked it on.

 He was in middle of a grand union, a three-way intersection of tunnels. The tunnels were no more than seven feet high, probably less than that in width, and made of nonrein-forced concrete.

 The question was, which one to take?

 His shoes sucked mud as he moved. Lifting a foot out of the water, he shone his light on it, wondering if this was where Gunderson had picked up the mud on his work boots. Could he have been making preparations down here before he grabbed Jessie?

 The mud might explain the boot prints on the bus—but what about the fertilizer? Where had it come from?

 Maybe A.J. had been right, maybe Gunderson
had
been cooking up a combustible, and Donovan wondered if he should take Al Cleveland’s warning a little more seriously. Like the train yard, this place might be booby-trapped.

 Yet, as he moved forward, fanning the narrow beam of his flashlight over the seamless tunnel walls, he felt no threat. Except for the mud and the water and the missing trolley wire that had been stripped away by scavengers, the place seemed undisturbed. He doubted much had changed down here since the system was abandoned. And despite Gunderson’s love of explosives, the idea of a booby trap just didn’t feel right.

 Not here, at least.

 So what, then, was this all about? Why had the scent from Jessie’s sweater led him here? Gunderson had told him that she was buried somewhere. Had he been speaking only figuratively? If so, forty feet below street level would certainly qualify.

 But what about the oxygen tanks? The air down here was cool and a bit musty, but plentiful enough to keep someone alive. So why had Gunderson warned that Jessie would soon be gasping for breath?

 It didn’t make sense.

 As Donovan stood there, trying to puzzle it out, the slosh of the murky water gradually subsided and he thought he heard a sound.

 He stood perfectly still. Listened.

 Yes.

 It was faint and muffled, coming from somewhere far off. It sounded like …

 Like someone crying.

 Donovan’s heart kicked up a notch. Jessie?

 He wanted to move, to spring into action, but the noise of the splashing water would make it impossible to determine which direction the sound was coming from.

 He shone his light toward the two adjoining drifts, wishing he had the dogs down here to pick up Jessie’s scent. Listening intently, he tried to trace the source of the sound and finally settled on the tunnel to his left, knowing he could double back if he had to.

 He pressed forward, traveling several yards into it, feeling the floor beneath him angle downward. He sank deeper into the water as he progressed, until it was nearly at waist level. The crying grew louder with each step.

 It was Jessie. He was sure of it.

 Who else could it be?

 The burial, the oxygen tanks, were a lie. Gunderson had been playing him, that’s all. Instead of putting her into the ground, he’d left Jessie alone down here—cold, frightened, and unable to find her way out in the dark.

 The crying was still muffled, but he was close enough to recognize her voice.

 “Jessie!” he shouted, sweeping the flashlight beam wildly.

 The crying continued unabated.

 “Jessie, it’s me! It’s Dad! Can you hear me?”

 No answer. Just the crying.

 Donovan tried to pick up speed, but the water was like a living force, slowing him down. He half expected something dark and malevolent to reach up and grab his legs.

 Then all at once he was at the end of the tunnel, blocked by a concrete bulkhead. The bulkhead housed a steel door that looked like something from a German U-boat. Doors like this had been placed in the drifts that dipped under the river. A safety precaution in case of a collapse.

 The crying came from beyond the door.

 “Jessie, can you hear me?”

 No response.

 “Jessie?”

 She was probably in shock. Possibly drugged.

 “Hang on, kiddo. I’ll have you out of there in a heartbeat.”

 Clenching the slender barrel of the flashlight between his teeth, Donovan gripped the wheel mounted in the center of the door and—

 —Al Cleveland’s warning flashed through his mind again:

 
Booby-trapped.
 

 What if the thing was booby-trapped?

 He froze, stopping just short of turning the wheel. Grabbing the flashlight, he shone it along the seam of the door, looking for telltale wires.

 Nothing.

 The lower half of the door was submerged in at least three feet of water. Popping the flashlight between his teeth again, he crouched, sinking to his shoulders, a pungent stench filling his nostrils as he ran his hands along the seam.

 No wires. No molded bits of plastique. No signs of anything unusual. Satisfied, he stood up, his clothes now plastered to his skin, the chilly air enveloping him.

 Jessie’s sobs continued unbroken.

 “I’m coming, kiddo, I’m coming.”

 Donovan shivered. There was a chance that Gunderson had rigged the other side of the door, but he decided to trust his initial instincts.

 He grabbed hold of the wheel.

 It groaned as he spun it three-quarters of a turn, then a latch clicked and the seal was broken.

 So far so good.

 He pulled on the door and the water around him began to swirl, shifting toward the adjoining tunnel, where it remained at waist level.

 Jessie’s sobs were much clearer now. Very close.

 He shone the Maglite into the darkness. “Jessie?”

 Still no response.

 As he crossed the threshold, his left foot got caught on something solid and he stumbled, plunging face-first into the murky liquid. Momentarily seized by panic, he did a quick half twist, then found the floor and stood up, drenched now from head to toe.

 Sonofabitch.

 The flashlight flickered, threatening to go out. Donovan banged it against the heel of his hand, brought it back to life.

 Jessie’s cries were behind him now.

 Turning, he shone the light back the way he’d come. “Jess, where are you?”

 The crying continued.

 He swept the beam from side to side. The walls were rougher here, still bearing the impression of the wooden arches that formed the tunnel, as if the final coat of cement had never been applied.

 Jessie was nowhere in sight, yet the crying continued.

 “Talk to me, Jess. Say something.”

 Still nothing.

 “Goddammit, Jessie, where the hell …”

 Then it struck Donovan. Now that he was this close, now that he was past the barrier that had muffled Jessie’s sobs, there was something odd about the sound.

 An unreal, hollow quality.

 The bulkhead door clanged shut and he immediately shot the Mag beam toward it, saw a flash of blue and white just above it: clothing hanging from a rusty piece of trolley wire.

 A skirt and blouse.

 The rest of Jessie’s uniform.

 Donovan pushed toward them and ripped them free, feeling something hard and weighty as the blouse fell into his hands. Jamming his fingers into the pocket, he brought out a digital recorder, the kind reporters use for on-the-spot interviews—the kind with a built-in microphone and speaker.

 Donovan shone his light on it. The tiny LED readout said it was set to repeat mode. Jessie’s sobs rose from the speaker, vibrating against his hand.

 Heart sinking, he felt something else in the pocket and dipped his fingers in, bringing out a single Polaroid photograph.

 It was Jessie, naked, feet and hands duct-taped, staring into the camera with wide, terrified eyes. She was lying inside a crude wooden coffin, an oxygen mask covering her nose and mouth.

 And written on the narrow border of the photograph in neat block letters were the words:

NICE TRY, HOTSHOT

NO CIGAR

27

W
AKE UP, JESSIE.
 

Jessie … wake uhhh-up.

… Jessie?

S
HE AWOKE TO
rain.

 It was faint, but unmistakable—even through the wood and God knew how many layers of dirt piled on top of it: the muffled, but steady tattoo of water against—what?

 Metal of some kind? Aluminum, maybe.

 It didn’t matter. It was raining and she could hear it, and that one small link to the real world was enough to make her realize that she was still alive, still had a chance. She just hoped the water didn’t seep down here. She was already shivering.

 Then she thought about how thirsty she was and changed her mind. Any kind of liquid would do right now. Even dirty rainwater.

 Jessie had lost count of how many times she had drifted in and out of sleep. Her consciousness seemed to float on the same aimless current as her emotions. Awake. Asleep. Hysterical. Calm. Somewhere in between.

 She usually came awake seized by a sudden rush of panic, but for the moment she was okay. She was Jessie Glass-Half-Full. And she knew that sooner or later someone would find her and take her out of this horrible place. Someone would save her.

 The angel had told her so.

 But she also knew that Jessie Glass-Half-Empty was lurking just around the corner, waiting to pounce. Then the tears would come—as they always did—and all hope would be abandoned to the dark demons gripping her soul.

 How long had she been down here?

 Hours? Days?

 She couldn’t even begin to guess. She had no real point of reference to latch onto. Her memories were a blur of disjointed events, like keyframes in some whacked-out animation timeline.

 Focus, Jessie. Focus.

 But it was hard, really hard. And before she could rein herself in—

 —she was undressing in the back of the Suburban, the man with the ponytail watching her in his rearview mirror, his gaze crawling over her as she stripped down to her bra and panties. She hesitated, but he waved the gun at her. Wanted it all off. She swallowed, tears falling, then reached back and unhooked her bra. The panties came next. And after she stepped out of them, she felt more naked—more exposed—than she’d ever felt before.

 
Humiliated.
That was the word.

 His gaze continued its slow crawl, watching her instead of the road, and she was sure he would crash, she
wanted
him to crash, and—

 —then she was in back of a cab again, the driver looking at her as if he’d never seen a girl in a school uniform and—

 —wait, what was that? Gunshots?

 —a hole the size of a dime opened up in the neck of a man in a Megadeth T-shirt, followed by the screams of the passengers. Or were they
her
screams? Someone grabbed her hair and pulled her toward the front of the bus and—

 —now she was zipping up her backpack, Matt Weber glancing at her as he walked by, and before she could return the look, before she could smile—

 —tape was wrapped around her hands and ankles, the man with the ponytail smiling at her as he lowered her into a narrow wooden box—only she wasn’t quite sure, was it Mr. Ponytail or Matt who was doing all that smiling?

 Or maybe it was the angel. The one who came to her as she slept.

 The angel had called her Jessie Glass-Half-Full.

 “It’s okay, Jessie. Everything’ll be okay.”

 Then she came awake to the mask cutting into her face and the cool rush of air streaming into her nostrils and the faint stench of fertilizer and the deadly silence, and she realized she had zoned out again and nothing had changed. She was still trapped in this godforsaken box, still buried beneath the earth, still thirsty, and, most of all, hungry.

 She screamed and cried and bucked and kicked and tried desperately to loosen the tape around her wrists—

 —and then she remembered the rain.

 Her only link to the real world.

 Had she already said that?

 Focus, Jessie, focus. Gotta stay in focus….

 Jessie?

S
HHHH. DON’T
bother her.
 

 
She’s sleeping.
 

28

D
ONOVAN HAD NEVER
been a religious man. Despite his Irish roots, he had been raised a Methodist, apparently a compromise between his father’s dubious Catholicism and the strict Southern Baptist upbringing his mother had been forced to endure. He and his sister had attended church and Sunday school as children, but no one in the family had ever taken their religious activities seriously, and their attendance had tapered off over the years.

 Donovan’s tenuous belief in a higher power had been hammered out of him after his sister’s suicide and his days working Special Crimes. The evil he’d regularly witnessed had convinced him that no God could possibly be watching over us. The Founding Fathers had been right. Mankind had long ago been abandoned and left to fend for itself.

 Yet, as he sat behind the wheel of his Chrysler, clutching the Lisa Simpson key chain, watching rain splatter the windshield, he sent up a prayer.

 “If you
are
there,” he said quietly, “bring her home to me. Please bring her home.”

 Leaning back in his seat, he closed his eyes to make it official, but he heard no voice in return, was given no sign that his message had been received. Despite the effort, his heart didn’t fill with joy or hope or the promise of a new day.

 Which didn’t particularly surprise him.

 What kind of God would let an innocent fifteen-year-old be snatched away like this? What Benevolent Power would stand idly by as a good, honest man was ripped to shreds by a land mine? What Heavenly Father would let a jackass cop destroy the only chance they had of finding a little girl?