Kiss Her Goodbye (A Thriller) (26 page)

 For a moment he saw Jessie, lying in the coffin—not the Polaroid version, but a live, moving rendition—looking up at him with terrified eyes as the lid of the coffin slammed shut, hiding her from view.

 He cried out her name as a fresh burst of pain assaulted his senses like the sudden and unexpected flash of a camera bulb.

 Then it was dark.

44

W
HEN THE KNOCK
came on the door, Luther Dwayne Polanski rolled off the bed and grabbed the Smith from atop the nightstand. It wasn’t much of a weapon, just a funky old spare Charlie had kept in a drawer under the counter in case his SIG went south. He’d insisted that Luther take it.

 That was the thing about Charlie. Always looking out for Luther. And his friends, too. After the bank heist, when things got too hot at Tony Reed’s place, Charlie had cleared a room for Bobby, letting him stay rent-free for nearly two weeks, bringing him food and whatnot while he waited for the news stories to die down.

 Funny thing was, Charlie didn’t even like Bobby. Had warned Luther that he and Alex were a couple of psychos who couldn’t be trusted.

 “Why you hangin’ around with those turds, man? You know how much trouble you’re in if the Feds find out about you?”

 “No reason they should,” Luther had said.

 “Yeah? One of these assholes gets his head in a vise, ten to one your name’s the first thing pops out of his mouth.”

 Maybe, Luther thought. But what Charlie didn’t know was that if it hadn’t been for Alex, he probably wouldn’t have lasted a week at Danville. In the short time their sentences had overlapped, Alex had taught him a lot about prison life and how to survive.

 “Never show weakness,” Alex said. “Never show fear. Take a cue from the samurai. Operate like you’re already a dead man and that’ll keep you alive.”

 After Alex was released, he kept in touch with Luther, telling him about all the plans he had, how he wanted to build his own army, make Luther his first lieutenant. Luther had liked the sound of that. It gave him hope. Something to think about other than the shithole he was living in and how much he missed his mom.

 Then, when Luther got out, Alex was the first one there, waiting at the bus stop, sweet little Sara on his arm. Sara had been a gift from Alex that night, his welcome-home present. Took him places he hadn’t been in six long years.

 So maybe Charlie was right about Bobby, but he didn’t know shit about Alex. Alex had been a true friend. Sara, too. Now, one was dead and the other one might as well be.

 And Luther was on the run.

 The knock came again. “Hey, Dumbo, open up.” It was Charlie. Charlie always called him Dumbo. Ever since they were kids. Luther never really knew why. It wasn’t like his ears were any bigger than normal. “Come on, man, I got the pizza.”

 Luther relaxed, stuffing the Smith into his belt. He was starving. All he’d had to eat was a half-melted candy bar that Alex had given him yesterday when he’d picked him up at the bar. He’d found it in the glove compartment of the F-150 this afternoon and scarfed it down right before he’d gone in to see Tony. He’d practically chucked it up again when the Feds tried to chase him down.

 Fuckin’ Feds. All he’d wanted from Tony was a little something to supplement his income, and what did it get him?

 Jackass Donovan.

 After he’d hopped the fence, he’d wanted to run straight home and hide in his room. But he knew the Feds would put pressure on Tony and his days of anonymity were over.

 So he’d found a pay phone and called Charlie, asking him for help. Charlie, his lifelong buddy. They’d known each other since they were ten years old, back when their moms had had a little lesbo fling, and they got stuck together playing Nintendo in Charlie’s room.

 Charlie even let him win sometimes.

 When Charlie had answered the phone, he’d sighed and said, “What’d you get yourself into this time? Don’t tell me you’re involved in that thing with the kid?”

 “You know about that?”

 “Jesus Christ, Dumbo. What’d I tell you about that psycho?”

 “Alex needed my help.”

 “Yeah, and now he’s off in la-la land and you’re headed down the crapper, you big, stupid jerk.”

 “Jeez, Charlie, take it easy.”

 Charlie swore under his breath, then the phone went quiet for a long time, Luther feeling panic rise, thinking he might’ve been hung up on.

 “Just tell me this,” Charlie said finally. “You know where she is?”

 “I helped him pick the spot. You remember that trip I told you about? When me and—”

 “Don’t tell
me
, for chrissake, tell the goddamn cops. Don’t you get it? That’s your out, my friend. You give her up, you’re gold. She dies, forget due process. They’ll fuckin’ kill you.”

 “I don’t know,” Luther said. “I don’t want to go back to jail.”

 “What’re you gonna do, then? Run? You wouldn’t survive ten minutes on your own.”

 Charlie was right. Luther wanted to keep running, but where would he go? He didn’t have a clue. He’d never been real good at taking care of himself. That had always been his mom’s job, and Charlie’s. And Alex’s.

 “Get your ass out here pronto,” Charlie said. “We’ll figure this out together.”

 So here he was, locked up in this room, packing a funky old Smith for protection and wondering if he should do what Charlie had said and tell the Feds where the girl was buried. Maybe they’d cut him a break.

 After all, it wasn’t like he’d actually snatched her. That was Alex’s thing, and Alex was dead.

 The knock came on the door a third time. Loud.

 “Goddammit, Dumbo. It’s raining out here. Open the friggin’ door.”

 “I’m coming,” Luther said, and reached for the knob, happy to hear his friend’s voice. It made him feel safe. Protected.

 He pulled the door open to find Charlie standing there, pizza box in hand. He was about to break into a smile when he realized somebody else was with him, standing off to the side, the barrel of Charlie’s prized SIG-Sauer pointed at his rib cage.

 It was Bobby. And his eyes were blazing.

 Bobby took the pizza box out of Charlie’s hands. “Get inside.”

 Charlie complied, pushing his bulk through the doorway, forcing Luther to back up. “I told you these guys were trouble.”

 Luther was dumbfounded. He didn’t know what to make of this. “What the fuck, Bobby? What’s going on? I thought the Feds had you.”

 “That was then and this is now, asshole.” He dropped the pizza box on the dresser, then put a hand on Charlie’s back and shoved him toward the beds. There were two of them, both soft and lumpy. Unless you were too drunk to stand, getting a decent night’s sleep on either one was next to impossible.

 “Face down,” Bobby said. “Hands in view.”

 Charlie did what he was told, climbing onto the bed closest to them, the box springs groaning under his weight. He kept his hands above his head, Luther watching him with his mouth hanging open, wondering how the hell Bobby had managed to get himself sprung, and what exactly the problem was.

 He thought about the Smith in his belt, trying to decide whether he should go for it. Probably not a good idea. Bobby had a crazed look that made him uneasy. He’d seen that look enough to know when to tread lightly.

 “What’s this about, Bobby?”

 Bobby turned his gaze on him. “What do you think? My money.”

 “Huh?” Luther had no clue what he was talking about. “How come they let you out, man? I figured you’d be locked up forever.”

 “I’ve got a better question. How’d I get tagged in the first place? You have something to do with that?”

 “What?” Luther said. “Why would I do that?”

 “The money,” Bobby said, swinging the SIG toward him. “That a good enough reason?”

 “Money? What money?”

 “Cut the shit, Luther. Carla told me everything. You bust in on her like that, you think she’s just gonna smile and pretend it never happened?”

 “I swear to God, Bobby, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 Bobby swung the SIG around and shot Charlie in the left thigh. Charlie howled, grabbing the wound, blood seeping between his fingers.

 “Jesus, why’d you go and do that? Charlie didn’t—”

 Bobby shot Charlie’s right calf. Charlie screamed this time, curling up into a ball as Bobby swung the SIG around toward Luther again. “You’re next, numb nuts. Give me my fuckin’ money.”

 “I’m tellin’ you, man, I don’t have any money. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 “You’re the only one saw me take it. You’re the only one knew I had it. Carla tells me you bulldoze your way into her apartment for it, I got no reason to doubt her.”

 “She’s lying,” Luther said.

 “Why the hell would she lie?”

 “Come on, man, I-I don’t even know her! I don’t even know where she lives!”

 “Hey, moron,” Charlie groaned, staring at Bobby now, his face the color of cottage cheese. He looked like he was about to puke or pass out. “Listen to the kid. He’s telling you the truth.”

 Bobby gestured with the SIG. “The first two weren’t enough? Shut the fuck up.”

 Charlie winced. “It’s your girlfriend, dumb ass. Don’t you get it? … The bitch punked you.”

 Luther saw a flicker of doubt in Bobby’s eyes, like he was thinking this over, thinking maybe it made sense. Luther thought again about the Smith stuck in his belt, wondering if he should make a move.

 Charlie kept going. “She’s the dancer you told Luther about, right? Probably does her fair share of hooking, too.” He squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered, still leaking all over the place.

 It looked like he’d pissed his pants.

 “Bitch like that’ll do anything for a few bucks,” Charlie went on, his voice getting weaker. “You hear that, Luther? The Pussy Prince got punked by a two-bit whore.”

 Bobby didn’t say anything, like he was still thinking it over. Maybe everything would be okay. They could call one of Charlie’s paramedic connections, get him taken care of, and—

 “Nice try,” Bobby said. “There’s just one little problem with that story.” He pointed the SIG at Charlie again. “I never told her about Luther. So how the hell does she know his name?”

 He pulled the trigger and the SIG coughed and the back of Charlie’s head exploded. Luther felt his stomach clutch up as what was left of his lifelong friend shook like he was on one of those vibrating beds, then stopped moving altogether.

 Holy Jesus.

 Luther leaned over and vomited on the carpet, Bobby jumping back to avoid the spray.

 “The money, asshole. Where’s my goddamned money?”

 Luther grabbed the dresser for support, trying to think how he was going to get out of this. He was bigger than Bobby, sure, and stronger, too, but he didn’t have the stone-cold heart Bobby had, or the nerve. Or the SIG in his hand.

 “Get on your knees,” Bobby said.

 “Huh?”

 Bobby pointed the SIG at his head. “Get on your fuckin’ knees. Now!”

 Luther slowly sank to his knees, trying to think of something to say, some magic word that might bring Bobby back to his senses. Then a shadow fell across him, the light from the doorway blocked by someone standing in it.

 “Can’t leave you two alone for even a minute.”

 Luther looked up sharply, saw a dark figure there, rain pooling around his shoes. He couldn’t make out a face. All he saw was the orange glow of a cigarette.

 The voice sounded different, but the way the words were spoken was unmistakable. Impossible, but unmistakable.

 “… Alex?” Luther said.

 Bobby was already spinning around, raising the SIG. The figure in the doorway stepped forward, extending his arm, then pressed the barrel of a gun against Bobby’s temple and fired.

 Bobby went down without a sound, blood spreading beneath him on the carpet.

 Jumping to his feet, Luther stared at him in stunned disbelief. Then he looked up again, as the man with the gun took a long drag off his cigarette and stepped deeper into the room, his face finally coming into the light.

 The gun was pointed at Luther now.

 “Sorry, stud. I love you like a brother, but I can’t risk you going to the Feds.”

 Luther barely registered what the man had said. He wasn’t thinking about words right now, or the Smith in his belt, or poor old Charlie on the bed, or Bobby crumpled on the floor near his feet. All of that was blocked by the adrenaline rush of instinct that overtook him the moment he saw the man’s face.

 There was only one thing he could think to do.

 Run.

45

W
AKE UP, JACK.
 

 Jaaa-ack … wake uhhh-up.

 
She’s waiting for you. Better hurry.
 

 
Ticktock ticktock ticktock ticktock …
 

D
ONOVAN AWOKE TO
the sharp sound of knuckles on glass. “Mr. Reed?”

 He opened his eyes, blinked a few times to clear them. There was a chill in the air. Pale morning sky.

 Jesus. What time was it?

 A woman peered in at him through a window and it took him a moment to realize where he was: lying on the backseat of the Chrysler.

 “Mr. Reed?”

 The woman wore white, clutching car keys, a purse, and the remnants of a sack lunch to her chest as she frowned in at him.

 What had she called him?

 “I’d like to go home now. You’re blocking my car.” Her voice was muffled through the glass. She sounded annoyed.

 Donovan pulled himself upright, his body groaning. He felt something plastered to his cheek and pulled it away.

 A candy wrapper. Baby Ruth.

 His throat was sore. His mouth tasted like dried cow dung.

 Tossing the wrapper aside, he stared out the window at the woman. She lowered her hands now, revealing a little placard on her chest that said
LUCILLE BAKER, RN
.

 Was he back at the hospital?

 “Look,” she said. “I’m sorry I was so abrupt with you, but you shouldn’t be sneaking into your niece’s room. Rules are rules. That’s no reason for childish pranks.” She gestured impatiently. “Could you move your car please? Now?”