Kiss Her Goodbye (A Thriller) (25 page)

 Nemo applied more pressure. “What was that? I didn’t hear you.”

 “S-she won’t be in tonight,” Leather Boy croaked. “Called and said something came up.”

 “She say what that something was?”

 Leather Boy’s face had lost all color. He looked and sounded like a guy passing a gallstone. “That’s all I know, man. I swear.”

 Nemo released him and Leather Boy stumbled back, gasping, grabbing his package to make sure everything was still in one piece. “Asshole,” he muttered.

 “Strike two,” Nemo said, then stepped inside, grabbing him by the shirt. An imitation-silk number.

 He spun the guy around and slammed him against a wall, pinning him there. “Now give me twenty bucks. I need cab fare.”

W
HEN THE KNOCK
came on the door, Carla Devito sucked in a breath and let it out again. She hadn’t been this nervous since she’d turned her first trick.

 Not that Bobby made her nervous. He had a temper, sure, but he could be tamed the way most men could, a lesson Carla had learned when she was thirteen years old.

 It was the situation that was getting to her. The Fed showing up at her doorstep, telling her what a badass Bobby was—like that was news—saying she’d better cooperate or she’d be facing charges of obstruction and harboring a fugitive and God knows what else.

 The Fed had looked sick, all pale and stuff, with dark, crazy-looking eyes. He was one of the ones who’d come busting in the day before, the one in charge, and Carla didn’t doubt he meant business.

 He’d told her that Bobby was getting released from jail and would probably come knocking before the night was over. And, sure enough, here Bobby was, standing at her door, looking kind of small and distorted through the peephole, but still sexy as hell.

 Carla sucked in another breath, then flipped the latch and yanked the door open, hoping she could pull this off, knowing she had to, because jail was not an option.

 “Ohhh, my God,” she said, putting it on extra thick.

 Bobby smiled, looking her over. She wore a tight black T-shirt and a tiny lavender thong, and he seemed to like what he saw. “Hey, baby.”

 “Oh my God,” she repeated, then threw her arms around him and pushed her face into his. She found his mouth and sucked his tongue between her lips, pressing up against him, feeling his hands crawl over her, feeling him grow hard against her thigh.

 Pulling him inside, she shut the door. “They told me I’d never see you again.”

 “I ain’t no ghost,” Bobby said.

 And then she had his pants undone and his zipper down and Bobby’s beast in her mouth, Bobby moaning, “Oh, yeah, baby,” and before she knew it, they were on the floor, Bobby yanking the thong aside, using the Beast like a weapon, impaling her, radiating heat like she’d never felt it before, radiating it right up into her brain. The pressure built and built and
boom
, there it was, firecracker number one, and then
boom
, firecracker number two, followed by a whole series of firecrackers popping off inside her head.

 But deep down, all she could think about was how nervous she was and how sad she felt, because she was about to betray the best damn thing she’d ever had.

I
GOTTA PISS
,” Bobby said.

 They were in bed now, round three and counting, the sheets all torn up and soaked with sweat. Feeling both whipped and wired, Carla realized that this was her cue.

 “Do it in the shower,” she said, the nerves coming back, a knuckle of tension in her stomach.

 Bobby frowned at her. “What the hell for?”

 “Toilet’s broke.”

 He got up on his elbows. “What do you mean, it’s broke? Broke how?”

 Carla hesitated, wondering again if she could pull this off. “There’s something I gotta tell you, Bobby. Something bad.”

 And then he was sitting upright, the frown deeper, his eyes starting to cloud. All of a sudden she wanted to dump this whole scam and tell him the truth. But that would mean jail time, and despite her past, Carla had never done a day of jail in her life. Not one.

 Sensing her hesitation, Bobby was out of bed before she could say anything more, crossing toward the bathroom, his beautiful bare ass flexing as he walked.

 The moment he stepped through the doorway, he made a sound, something guttural and unpleasant, and she knew he was staring at the hole in the wall—the hole that had been hidden by the toilet tank that now sat off to the side—the hole she hadn’t known about until she’d come home last night and found it just like the Feds had left it: empty.

 When she’d gone to pee, she’d had to squat over the shower drain like some third world orphan. Her landlord was missing in action and she sure as hell didn’t know how to put a toilet back together. Then the Fed showed up and told her what was what. Now all she wanted to do was crawl under the bedsheets and stay there.

 When Bobby came out of the bathroom, he had a look on his face she’d never seen before. A heat in his eyes that had nothing to do with sex or desire. “Where the fuck is my money, bitch?”

 Bobby may not have made her nervous, but now he was scaring her, so much so that all the details of the story she’d been rehearsing suddenly vacated her brain.

 His skin was two shades darker, a deep crimson stain spreading all the way down to the Beast, which seemed to be twitching with an anger all its own.

 He moved toward the bed, hands grabbing for her, and Carla tried desperately to remember the name the Fed had told her to use, knowing that if she blew this, jail would be the least of her worries.

 For some reason an image of Superboy popped into her head, the one from TV—Superboy and his cute bald friend—just as Bobby hooked her forearm and yanked her toward him.

 “Luther!” she shouted, suddenly remembering.

 The name must’ve meant something to him, because he stopped just short of hitting her, the heat in his eyes replaced by bewilderment. “What?”

 “He was here … a little while ago. Pushed his way in, threatened to hurt me.” She hoped she was getting this right. “I wanted to tell you right away, but I was scared.”

 “Are you fucking kidding me?” Bobby shook his head as if he were trying to clear some cobwebs from his brain. “A big guy? Scar on his arm?”

 “That’s the one,” Carla told him. “He took it. He took your money. Said you wouldn’t need it where you’re going.”

 “Motherfucker,” Bobby muttered, releasing his grip on her arm.
“Muuu-ther-fuuucker.”
 

 In that moment, Carla began to believe in the devil, because he was surely lurking behind Bobby’s eyes. She was sitting upright, as naked as a newborn, and despite spending a large portion of her life in this state, she suddenly felt exposed and vulnerable. The urge to blurt out the truth washed over her again.

 You stupid jerk, she wanted to tell him, the first place they look is behind the toilet. They found your stash ten minutes after they hauled us out of here.

 But she resisted. Hard.

 Keep going, she told herself. Finish what you started.

 “There’s more,” she said. “I-I think the cops are after him. He said something about getting out of the city. That’s why he wanted your money.”

 “Sonofabitch,” Bobby said. He searched the floor, then grabbed his pants and jerked them on. “That fucker is toast.”

 “He’s leaving
town
, Bobby. How you gonna find him?”

 “I don’t know if you noticed, cupcake, but Luther ain’t exactly a wattage hog when it comes to brainpower.” He slipped his shirt on, started buttoning it. “He’s the kind of guy always needs somebody to tie his shoes for him. And if the cops are after him, I’ve got a pretty good idea where he’ll go.”

 “Where?”

 Bobby glared at her. “Why do you care? You fuck him or something? Looking for a repeat performance?”

 “Jesus, Bobby, what do you think I am?” They both knew the answer to that, but that was beside the point. “I’m just curious, is all.”

 Bobby snorted, shoving his feet into his shoes. “Curiosity’s overrated,” he said, then snatched her car keys off the dresser and headed for the bedroom door.

 “You’re taking my car?”

 “Don’t worry, you’ll get it back.”

 “And what am I supposed to do?”

 Bobby paused in the doorway and looked at her, his gaze sliding over her body. “You just keep shaking those tits, baby. That’s what you’re good at.”

43

W
HEN HE HEARD
the front door slam, Donovan pulled his earpiece out and shut off the receiver. It had been a while since he’d done his own wire work. He usually let the techs handle the job. Yet, despite his lack of practice, the signal had come in crisp and clear. Especially the transmitter in Carla’s bedroom.

 He had hoped Carla would be able to draw Nemo out a bit more, get him talking about Luther’s whereabouts, but at least the bastard was pissed off and on the move. That’s all that really mattered.

 Parked across from Carla’s apartment house, a newly renovated, twenty-story pile of glass and stucco, Donovan kept his gaze on the underground parking ramp, waiting for Nemo to ride the elevator to the garage. His concentration, however, was wavering. The headache that had started earlier had blossomed into a full-fledged brain-banger, and his recently recharged batteries were steadily draining.

 Craving a cigarette, he reached into his coat pocket and brought out a pack of Marlboros. The wrapper was halfway off before he realized what he was doing.

 A faint whisper of voices skittered through his brain like rustling leaves.

 He’d never smoked a day in his life.

 Suddenly uneasy, he flashed back to the deli and the man in the gray suit who’d left his cigarettes behind. He remembered staring at the red-and-white box, feeling an odd kind of attraction to it.

 But when had he picked it up? And why?

 Not only had he never smoked, cigarettes disgusted him. He hated the smell, the smoke, the sickness they caused. He was the poster boy for a cigarette-free lifestyle.

 Yet here he sat, holding a pilfered pack of Marlboros, feeling the urge to shake one out and fire it up. The thought of taking smoke into his lungs soothed him, even made the pounding in his head subside for a brief but welcome moment.

 Then the headache was back with a vengeance, accompanied by a sick, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

 What was happening to him?

 Before he could even try to make sense of it, Carla Devito’s emerald green Honda Del Sol rolled up the parking ramp and onto the street, Bobby Nemo behind the wheel.

 Snap out of it, Jack. Time to move.

 Tossing the box and all of the questions it raised aside, Donovan started the engine, then waited for Nemo to turn a corner before pulling out after him.

 He was still craving a cigarette when they reached the expressway.

F
IFTY MILES SOUTH
, however, a cigarette was the last thing on Donovan’s mind.

 All he could think about was the pain.

 He hadn’t had a migraine since he was twelve years old, a condition his doctor had insisted was brought on by childhood anxieties, yet this head-banger certainly qualified as one. His skull felt as if it might burst apart at any moment, unable to contain the throbbing, swollen mass that used to be his brain.

 It was raining again, coming down light, but threatening to get nasty. The view beyond his windshield was a blur of taillights in the darkness, the Del Sol’s distinguishable only because of their lower proximity to the road. Half-blinded by pain, he did his best to keep them in sight while maintaining a discreet distance from the car, careful not to tip Nemo to the tail.

 Five minutes later, Nemo took the Fredrickville turnoff, splashed through a fresh puddle of rain that had formed at the bottom of the ramp, then headed west toward the battle-scarred signs that advertised Motel Row.

 Fredrickville was a small, forgotten town that wore its failed economy on tattered storefronts and pockmarked streets. Motel Row was no exception. Three motels lined a narrow road just off the expressway, a pathetic, ramshackle collection of flophouses located within a few hundred yards of each other, looking more like tenement homes than overnight lodging.

 Despite their proximity to the main thoroughfare, travelers tended to stay away, leaving the sagging mattresses and dingy sheets to the handful of drug addicts, prostitutes, and petty criminals who chose anonymity over hygiene.

 Donovan watched through his haze of pain as the Del Sol rolled past the first two motels and pulled into the parking lot of the third, the Wayfarer Inn.

 Pulling into a gas station, which was apparently closed for the night, Donovan doused the headlights, but kept his wipers going. Popping open the glove box, he grabbed his field glasses and trained them on the Del Sol as it angled into a slot near the motel’s front office. The magnified image intensified his headache, sending a wave of nausea through him.

 Lowering the glasses, he closed his eyes, wondering again what was happening to him.

 Was it fatigue? Hunger?

 Or was there something more sinister at work?

 He knew he should open his eyes and concentrate on Nemo, but keeping them shut seemed to soothe the pounding in his skull. A moment of sleep wouldn’t hurt, would it? Just enough to feed the migraine and recharge the double A’s.

 Feeling himself about to slip away, he snapped his eyes open.

 Concentrate, Jack. Think about Luther. He’s your only link to Jessie.

 Donovan raised the glasses again. The Del Sol’s door flew open and Nemo climbed out, a deep scowl on his face. He crossed toward the office, which was encased in battle-scarred glass and lit up by harsh fluorescent light.

 Yanking the lobby door open, Nemo approached an overweight, slope-shouldered counterman in a paisley shirt, who was working on a slice of pepperoni pizza that he clearly didn’t need.

 Their exchange did not look friendly.

 Feeling the need to get closer, Donovan set the glasses on the seat and took hold of the wheel. He was about to shift into gear when needle-sharp pains pierced his skull. A burst of hot, white light blinded him.