Kiss Her Goodbye (A Thriller) (16 page)

 Donovan felt nothing but fury. Toward himself, toward Gunderson, Fogerty, and toward a neglectful God who would never answer his prayer.

 He sat up and started the engine, resisting the urge to jam his foot against the gas pedal and plow through anything that got in his way. There was a tap on the passenger window and Sidney Waxman stood outside, gesturing for him to roll it down.

 Donovan did.

 Sidney leaned in, dripping rain. “CPD’s been all over those tunnels. We got bupkis.” He paused. “You all right?”

 Donovan just stared at him.

 “Okay, dumb question. What’s our next move?”

 “Pray forensics finds something in the Suburban,” Donovan said. “In the meantime, get CPD and the team topside, walking a grid, six-block radius, then expand from there if you have to.”

 “What exactly are we looking for?”

 “Any patch of earth you can find that’s big enough to hold a coffin. And don’t stop digging until you’re sure you’ve come up empty.”

 “That’s a pretty tall order, Jack, especially in this rain. We’re gonna get a lot of flak.”

 Again, Donovan just stared.

 “Okay, okay.” Waxman raised his hands in surrender. “Anybody complains, I’ll break his balls.”

 “See that you do.”

 “And while I’m having all this fun, what’ll you be up to?”

 “Driving,” Donovan said, and popped the Chrysler in gear.

S
O HE DROVE
, and drove fast, knowing that on these rain-slicked streets, every turn was an invitation to disaster. But driving was his therapy, always had been, even with cases that weren’t so personal. He’d reach a dead end in his mind and feel compelled to jump behind the wheel and drive for hours, endlessly circling the city as he worked the puzzle, looking for the break that eluded him.

 But this time he had no desire to sift through evidence. All he wanted was to make his mind a blank, to forget he even existed in this screwed-up world where Evil was the true God.

 He took a sharp right, splashing through a puddle, hearing the shouts of a cluster of angry streetwalkers as water sprayed over them. Traffic had slowed up ahead—late-night partyers on the way home—so he took another turn, a left this time, and found himself on a long, empty stretch of road; a stretch of road that would allow him to pick up speed.

 He punched the gas pedal, the Chrysler’s beefy engine roaring. A VW Bug turned off a side street and pulled in front of him, going way too slow, and he swerved around it, angrily honking his horn.

 He knew this was wrong, knew that he had to regain control of himself, but the fury he felt wouldn’t allow for compromise. All good sense had been abandoned to raw emotion.

 Despite his best efforts to make his mind a blank, thoughts of Gunderson and Jessie continued to tumble through his head.

 Taking out his cell phone, he speed-dialed Rachel’s direct line.

 After two rings, she answered.

 “It’s Jack.”

 “Oh, God, I heard. I’m so sorry. I don’t know if Sidney told you, but a couple of guys from Washington have been hanging around and—”

 “I know all about it. Right now I need your help.”

 “Anything.”

 “Transfer the Gunderson files to my laptop and meet me at my apartment in twenty minutes.”

 “Why? What are you looking for?”

 “Something we missed. Gunderson was smart, but he wasn’t exactly tight-lipped. Somebody else knows about Jessie, and that somebody is in those files.”

 “I hope to God you’re right.”

 “Twenty minutes,” Donovan said, and hung up.

 He took another turn, onto a four-lane highway that stretched back toward the Chicago River. A sea of taillights confronted him, but he didn’t slow down. Instead, he weaved in and out of traffic, making a game of it.

 A woman with one face-lift too many throttled the horn of her BMW as he breezed past her and cut in, narrowly missing her front bumper. Another driver showed him the finger as Donovan switched lanes and cut him off, kicking back a torrent of rainwater.

 No matter how he tried, he couldn’t get the image of that Polaroid out of his head—Jessie looking so helpless, so vulnerable. The sight of her lying there exposed to Gunderson’s camera made him sick to his stomach. What kind of animal would subject a child to that?

 What kind of devil?

 Snapping to attention, he realized he was coming up fast on a lumbering SUV. He braked and looked to the right, but the lane was jammed tight. No way to force himself in. Craning his neck, he looked to the left, past the SUV, checking the opposing lane for a break in the oncoming traffic. The river was directly ahead now, cars braking slightly as they approached the bridge that spanned it.

 But again Donovan didn’t slow down. Spotting his break, he whipped the wheel, cutting across the double yellow line, letting his fury blind him to the risk he was taking. Picking up speed, he pulled onto the bridge, rainwater spraying out from beneath his tires as he again tried to block the image of Jessie from his mind.

 Then, without warning, a large container truck changed lanes up ahead and barreled straight at him, headlights blazing. Donovan gripped the wheel, ready to cut back to his side of the road, but there was no room—he hadn’t yet cleared the SUV.

 The truck was coming up way too fast. Donovan hit the brakes and—

 —there it was, a gap in his lane—

 —but just as he turned the wheel, the bottom seemed to drop out of the Chrysler. It hit a puddle and hydroplaned, sending him into a rudderless swerve.

 The truck’s horn blasted mournfully as Donovan pumped his brakes and fought the wheel. He struggled to regain some traction, but the street below him seemed to have vanished.

 The Chrysler washed diagonally across the oncoming lanes. A chorus of horns blasted through the rain as Donovan spun toward a guardrail. Seeing what was coming, he threw his arms up as if to ward off evil spirits. With a deafening, metallic crash, the Chrysler smashed through the rail and plummeted.

 The next thing Donovan knew he was vertical, headed nose first toward the icy blackness of the Chicago River. The surface of the water rose toward him like a wall of cement, shattering the windshield as he hit.

 Donovan had just enough time to suck air into his lungs as what felt like subzero water flooded in, hammering him mercilessly. He fumbled for his seat belt, struggling to unhook it as the Chrysler sank like a brick in a well.

 A final tug and the latch clicked open. Freeing himself from the harness, he kicked back against the seat, then shot forward through the window frame and swam, his legs and arms pumping furiously toward the surface.

 But his lungs could only hold so much air and they were on fire.

 Hold on, Jack, hold on. You can make it.

 But could he? Not with this current tugging at him. Not with this freezing water slicing deep into his bones, numbing his arms and legs to the point of uselessness.

 Not with his lungs about to burst.

 He fought with every bit of strength he had, but he knew it wasn’t enough. Not even close.

 He’d once read that Harry Houdini had conditioned himself to hold his breath underwater for a full five minutes. But Donovan was no Houdini, and he’d be doing pretty good just to hold his breath for
one
minute, let alone five.

 Sixty-three seconds after the river crashed through his windshield, a final, searing jab of pain claimed Donovan’s lungs, feeling much like Willy Sanchez’s knife to the kidney …

 Then everything went black.

Part Three
DARKNESS

29

I
F YOU HAD ASKED
him before this moment what he thought about life after death, he would’ve told you it doesn’t exist.

 Death, he would have said, is a dark vacuum where all memories cease and all senses are cut off as cleanly and abruptly as the power company switches off electricity to your home.

 He had never held the illusion that there was something waiting for him in the great beyond. Heaven and hell were fairy tales, a promise and a warning, created by superstitious men. Religion was nothing more than politics dressed up with symbols and sacraments—and too often used as justification to conquer and control.

 He lived in a world where evidence was king, and the promise of life after death had not lived up to scrutiny.

 Faith was a sucker’s bet. A fool’s game.

 And while he certainly wasn’t perfect, by any means, he’d never been a fool.

 Or had he?

W
HEN HE OPENED
his eyes, he was standing on the bridge. The container truck was gone, as were the cars. And the people driving them. The sky was dark and restless, but the road was dry, no sign of the rain that had washed him away.

 The only sound was a distant, howling wind.

 In front of him stood a mangled mass of steel that had once been a guardrail, sporting a huge gap where the Chrysler had crashed through.

 But if the Chrysler was down there …

 … how did he get up here?

 Had someone pulled him out?

 Moving closer to the gap, he stared at the black river and watched as a body crested the surface of the water like a fishing bobber. Somewhere in the distance, a boat horn gave off three short blasts. A distress signal.

 Jesus, he thought, that guy looks dead. I hope they get to him soon.

 Then, just as he began to realize, with growing anxiety, that it wasn’t just
any
body floating in the water—but was, in fact,
him
—a sudden rush of wind enveloped him and a black, turbulent wormhole opened up overhead.

 Something grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him upward. In a few short seconds, both bridge and river were little more than pinpricks below as he was sucked into an endless, swirling corridor of light and sound.

 Fear blossomed in the pit of his stomach as a surreal barrage of images hurtled toward him at lightning speed, much too fast to decipher. He sensed that he was seeing his life play out before him, some sort of high-speed chronicle of where he’d been and who he’d known in his thirty-nine years. His parents, his sister, his marriage, Jessie—

 Gunderson….

 Above him, at the far end of the corridor, a bright circle of light flickered.

 Was it a star of some kind?

 All he knew was that there was something compelling about it. And soothing. His fear and apprehension suddenly sifted away as an odd sense of warmth vibrated through his body—

 —a warmth like nothing he’d ever felt before.

 There was no pain, no pleasure, just—and this seemed strange, considering the frenzied activity swirling around him—just calm.

 Then, the faint murmur of voices filled his head, calling his name, beckoning to him.

 Were they coming from the light?

 He couldn’t be sure.

 Before he had a chance to find out, invisible hands took hold of him again and yanked him toward a shadowy fold in the corridor wall.

H
E FOUND HIMSELF
lying on a small patch of earth, staring into darkness.

 Pulling himself upright, he looked around, waiting for his eyes to adjust. After only a moment, he could make out the vague shapes of other human beings, their faces gradually becoming clear, full of shell-shocked confusion—a look he was certain reflected his own.

 They were surrounded by rocky terrain. The distant mountains looked as sharp and impenetrable as razor wire, and the sky was not simply restless, but somehow threatening. Hungry.

 Yet the others seemed oblivious to it all.

 Oblivious to
him.
 

 He watched as those around him began to rise and migrate, shuffling off toward a narrow pathway in the distance as if herded to the spot by a phantom wrangler.

 He didn’t hear the call, didn’t feel compelled to follow, but he stood up anyway.

 What, he wondered, was drawing them?

 Had the Roman Catholics gotten it right? Had the penitent come here to be purged of their sins before ascending to … wherever?

 The gathering crowd began to shift and change shape, forming a ragged line that funneled deeper into the darkness toward an unknown destination.

 He remembered, with sudden clarity, what Gunderson had said back at the train car, about the ancient Egyptians and the Fields of Yaru. Were these the newly dead, lining up to be tested? Did that narrow pathway lead to a world of boiling swamps and venomous serpents?

 The answers were beyond his grasp. He had no idea what any of it meant.

 For him, or for Jessie.

 His presence here seemed like some kind of sick, cosmic joke—a metaphysical monkey wrench—and he wondered if he was to be forever anchored to this strange place while his daughter slowly suffocated in a crude wooden coffin.

 She was alone somewhere, alone and frightened, calling for him.

 
Help me, Daddy. Help me.
 

 He had to find her. He couldn’t let her die.

 Wouldn’t let her.

 Yet, what could he do? There were no bus stops here. No waiting trains to take him home.

 Searching the bleak landscape, he saw nothing to give him hope. It was, he imagined, much like the moon, or some far-flung asteroid. An unforgiving place that held no promise of escape.

 The crowd continued its march toward whatever that pathway offered. What did they see in the darkness there? Was it a way out?

 
Help me, Daddy.
 

 Feeling a sudden sense of urgency, he moved forward, catching up to the crowd, then searched the landscape beyond, looking for some kind of opening. Jessie was back in the real world, calling to him, and all he could think to do was to find the nearest exit sign and flee this place. But as he tried to work his way into the throng, they closed ranks, blocking his passage.

 He pushed forward, trying to shove his way in.

 “Let me through!” he shouted, but they ignored him, refusing to budge. “Move, goddammit! Let me—”

 “Easy, Jack.”