Kiss Her Goodbye (A Thriller) (34 page)

 The sound of the rain was long gone, leaving nothing to connect her to the real world but the hiss of air filling her nostrils.

 Then that, too, had finally gone.

 Every so often, that hiss had trickled to a stop, only to kick into gear again, pumping fresh new air.

 But this last time, nothing …

 Only silence.

 And as that silence stretched out longer and longer, she began to realize that all that was left to her was the air in this box. Air that was thick with feces and urine and stale body odor.

 Air that smelled like death.

 Shaking her head from side to side, she had managed to dislodge the mask just enough to allow her to breathe. But each breath she took seemed harder than the one before it, and she knew it was only a matter of time before she’d be unable to fill her lungs.

 Like the angel, Jessie Glass-Half-Full had abandoned her. And the funny thing was, she didn’t have enough energy to care.

 She thought of her father, frantically searching for her. Thought of Mr. Ponytail’s wicked smile and Matt Weber’s championship rear end and her mother and Roger doing it in their hotel room in the Caymans—and it all seemed so distant to her. So silly.

 So many things in her life seemed pointless now that she was about to take her last breath.

 Had any of it even mattered?

 She wanted to believe it had. Wanted to believe that she’d brought some happiness to the lives of those who had made
her
happy. Wanted to believe that she and her father would finally have patched things up …

 But what she wanted and what she could have seemed to be two very different things.

 And, in the end, maybe what she really wanted was simply to let go.

 Her chest felt so tight. No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t get enough air and she knew that she would soon be leaving this darkness.

 Don’t resist, she told herself. You have to let go now.

 Say goodbye, Jessie.

 Your time has come.

55

T
HEY CONVERGED ON
the place like a small army, a cluster of federal and CPD vehicles, Rachel’s Celica in the lead. Not far behind was an ambulance, its siren cutting mournfully through the afternoon air.

 A popular tourist attraction, the Lake Point Lighthouse had recently been closed for renovation, a project that had been stalled by a dispute with the contractor. Except for the ambulance and the converging cars, the place was deserted.

 Donovan was out of the Celica and running before it came to a complete stop.

 He raced across a wide lawn to the entrance of a small building shaded by trees, the lighthouse towering above it. There was a padlock on the door.

 “I need some cutters here!”

 A moment later Sidney Waxman appeared carrying a bulldog bolt cutter. He sliced through the lock and Donovan flung the door open, stepping inside.

 The building was rectangular, holding a small gift shop, the lighthouse museum, and the keeper’s quarters. At the back of the room, a short passageway led to the tower, sunlight streaming in from above, filtering across a wrought-iron staircase that spiraled upward toward the lantern room.

 As Sidney, Cleveland, and several of the others filed in behind him and fanned out to search the place, Donovan headed toward that pool of sunlight, remembering what Gunderson had said about Sara:

 
Give her a lakefront view and you’d lose her for half the day.
 

 What better view, Donovan thought, than the one upstairs?

 Moving to the staircase, he took the steps two at a time, winding his way upward. Still plagued by an overextended body, he was out of breath by the time he reached the lantern room.

 The view was magnificent, large windows looking out over the water and at the wide green expanse of the lighthouse grounds.

 Donovan scanned the landscape, looking for disruptions in the surface, but to his frustration, the lawn was pristine and perfectly maintained. No signs of a premature burial.

 But Jessie was out there somewhere. He was sure of it. She had to be.

 His eyes swept over the grounds again, taking it slower this time as he mentally walked a grid, covering it centimeter by centimeter.

 Then he saw it, a good distance away, near a stretch of grass that sloped downward toward the lake, half-hidden by a tight grouping of trees:

 A large aluminum storage shed.

 And leaning against its door were two twenty-pound bags of all-purpose fertilizer.

 Donovan flung the door open with such ferocity, he nearly ripped it off its hinges. The shed was the size of a small garage and shrouded in darkness, the light from the doorway doing little to illuminate it inside.

 Finding a pull cord near the entrance, he yanked it, and a string of bare bulbs came to life. Gardening tools of various shapes and sizes lined the walls, a rusted lawn tractor parked at the rear. There was no floor in the structure, only dirt, and a mound of fertilizer was piled near the center, its acrid smell assaulting Donovan’s nostrils.

 This is it, he thought, his heart pounding furiously.

 Grabbing a nearby shovel, he attacked the mound and dug in deep, tossing aside heaps of fertilizer. Soon, his entire crew had joined him, Sidney and Al grabbing shovels as Darcy, Franky, and Rachel got to their knees, scraping dirt and fertilizer away with their bare hands.

 No one said a word, the only sound the hollow scrape of the shovels. Time seemed to have temporarily been suspended as they all concentrated on their task.

 Within minutes, the mound was gone, leaving only the soft dirt floor. Donovan, Sidney, and Al sank their shovels into it, digging deeper and deeper until, finally, Donovan’s shovel hit something solid.

 “This is it!” he shouted, voice choked with emotion. “It’s her!”

 And then he was digging harder and more furiously than ever before, scraping dirt away from the crude wooden lid of the coffin.

 As it came into view, he flung his shovel aside and scrambled into the hole, grabbing the lip of the lid and yanking at it, trying desperately to pry it open. Several of the others joined in, uttering a collective grunt as they pulled at it.

 The goddamned thing wouldn’t budge.

 “It’s nailed shut,” Cleveland said, grabbing his shovel and ramming it into the crevice between the lid and the body of the coffin. Jamming his heel against the blade, he shoved it in deeper, then levered the handle, forcing the blade upward.

 The lid splintered, breaking into several pieces, and through the cracks, Donovan could see a pair of hands inside—Jessie’s hands—bound together with duct tape.

 “Come on!” he shouted. “Get it open! Get it open!”

 Cleveland’s shovel slammed into the wood again, widening the cracks as Sidney and the others pulled away chucks of it and finally managed to pry what was left of the lid open.

 Donovan stared down at Jessie, her eyes closed, skin bone white. She wasn’t moving. Wasn’t breathing.

 Oh, Jesus God. No. No …

 Ripping her oxygen mask away, he grabbed her by the shoulders and lifted her out of the box. She was cold and limp in his hands. Climbing out of the hole, he laid her down on the floor of the shed, felt for a pulse with shaky fingers.

 Nothing. Not even a hint of heartbeat.

 Strangling a cry of anguish, he slammed his fists on her chest, then yanked her mouth open and covered it with his, blowing air into her lungs.

 She didn’t respond.

 “Come on, goddammit, breathe!”

 He pounded her chest again, administered mouth-to-mouth, but it did no good.

 She was gone.

 Suddenly a paramedic squatted next him, a portable defibrillator in hand. Shoving Donovan aside, he jabbed a needle into Jessie’s arm, as a second paramedic appeared out of nowhere and strapped a fresh new oxygen mask over her face.

 The first paramedic flicked a switch on the defibrillator, shouted, “Clear!” and pressed the paddles against Jessie’s chest.

 Her body bucked beneath them, flopping lifelessly, as Donovan watched, his heart in his throat.

 “Please,” he whispered. “Please wake up.”

 But Jessie remained motionless, no sign of life.

 The paramedic shouted, “Clear!” a second time and brought the paddles down, her body again bucking beneath them.

 A single moment seemed to stretch into eternity, then suddenly her eyelids fluttered and she stiffened, abruptly coming awake, staring up into Donovan’s eyes as she sucked in precious life.

 Everyone around them began cheering and clapping, and in that moment, Donovan felt what seemed like a lifetime of pain leak away.

 He’d found her and she was alive.

 “Thank you, God,” he said. “Thank you …”

 And as tears began to gather in her eyes, he pulled her into his arms and hugged her close, feeling as if he’d never let her go.

 
56
 

T
HE FALLOUT FROM
the hunt for Jessica Lynne Donovan wasn’t pretty.

 After forensic tests revealed that the blood on the carpet in Luther’s room at the Wayfarer Inn was indeed Bobby Nemo’s, the Fredrickville sheriff launched a search for an unknown assailant.

 When a woman named Carla Devito came forward with some illuminating information, Agent Jack Donovan became the prime suspect.

 Sheriff’s investigators concluded that a distraught Donovan had followed Nemo to the motel and, after a particularly brutal interrogation into the whereabouts of his missing daughter, had executed all three men. The removal of Nemo’s body was, they explained, a pathetic attempt to stage the event as a murder-suicide.

 Unfortunately, they had a couple of things going against them: no murder weapon and a fairly unimpeachable alibi.

 Jack Donovan’s registered firearm, a Glock 19, was, according to all accounts, lying somewhere at the bottom of the Chicago River. No mention was ever made—by Al Cleveland or anyone else—that Donovan had been given a replacement, and a search of his apartment and locker proved to be a complete waste of time and manpower.

 The alibi came from Sidney Waxman, who claimed to have been with Donovan for the major part of his surveillance, leaving him only in the wee hours of the morning, shortly after they’d lost Nemo in the rain. Donovan hadn’t asked Sidney to lie for him, and Sidney never explained why he did.

 He was, Donovan realized, a better friend than he deserved.

 When it turned out that the motel’s owner/manager, one Charles Arthur Kruger, was a registered sex offender known for his fondness for nine-year-old girls, the investigation quickly fell apart due to lack of interest in the law enforcement community.

 No prosecutor, particularly one from a nearly bankrupt municipality, was willing to test the reputation of a top-flight ATF agent against that of a stripper and three known, now deceased, felons. Especially when the Feds had made it perfectly clear that they’d rather the whole thing just go away.

 Thankfully, the news played up the happier aspects of the case. Father and daughter blissfully reunited as the world watched. Mother and stepfather rushing home from the Caymans to be with their little girl.

 As for Donovan, Waxman, and Franky Garcia, their stunt with Bobby Nemo did not sit well with the Treasury Department brass. All three were suspended from duty pending departmental hearings into the matter.

 Garcia quit and moved to Hollywood. Waxman suggested to Donovan that they take Garcia’s cue and start their own security consultant firm, a business that would surely be more lucrative than a government job.

 But while Donovan didn’t dismiss the idea, he didn’t jump at it either. Right now, all he wanted was time. Time alone with Jessie. And Rachel.

 Over the next few weeks, as both Jessie and Donovan struggled to regain their strength, they spent many a night watching
The Simpsons
together. Jessie was, Donovan discovered, an incredibly brave young woman—certainly scarred by the experience, but not overwhelmed by it. And with her and Rachel’s help, he managed to overcome the guilt he’d carried with him for so long.

 Guilt about Jessie. The divorce.

 And about his sister’s suicide.

 
Lead with your heart, Jack.
 

 
Glass half full.
 

57

I
’M GOING TO
bed,” Jessie said.

 It was nearly two months since the rescue and Jessie was staying for the weekend. She and Rachel had just finished a game of gin rummy, Rachel the victor. Jessie rose from the sofa, stretching her arms and yawning.

 Donovan, who sat in his favorite armchair working a crossword puzzle—one he fully intended to finish—looked up at her.

 Her therapist had told him she was making good progress, but, to Donovan, she still looked frail. Vulnerable.

 “It’s kinda early,” he said. “You feeling okay?”

 Jessie heaved an exasperated sigh. “I’m fine, Dad. Rachel, will you please tell soon-to-be-ex-agent Donovan here to stop worrying about me all the time?”

 “A lot of good it’ll do,” Rachel said, gathering up the cards. “You go on to bed. I’ll keep him occupied.” She reached across and stroked Donovan’s knee.

 “Gross,” Jessie said, then leaned down and gave Donovan a hug. “Love you, Dad.”

 The words were like a song. He smiled. “Me, too, kiddo.”

 Watching her head toward her room, he thought about what they’d been through and how deeply he loved her.

 She
was
fine. She’d be okay. There was nothing to worry about.

 A year from now, that prom photo he’d wondered about as he stood inside Grandma Luke’s apartment would adorn his mantel. And many more would follow.

 The nightmare was over.

 Finally over.

58

J
ESSIE LAY IN
bed, unable to sleep, wondering if she should tell her father about the headaches. They’d become more frequent lately, and stronger. And after all that had happened, all that she’d survived, she wondered if fate was playing the irony card, giving her a big fat tumor.