Kiss Her Goodbye

17

I want everything you’ve got. Notes, witness statements, forensics-anything that might tell us where that son of a bitch is headed.”

“Now wait just a minute,” Fogerty said, struggling to keep up as Donovan and A.J. strode toward the bus. “I know she’s your kid and all, but I’m gonna have to get authorization for-”

Donovan spun on him. He couldn’t believe this clown was still giving him static. Normally in these situations he’d try to work out some kind of peace agreement, but there simply wasn’t time. Every second was critical.

He looked Fogerty square in the eyes. “Let me be clear about something. You do not want to piss me off.”

Fogerty swallowed and said nothing for a moment, no doubt weighing the pros and cons of continuing this challenge. Then he raised his hands, a gesture of conciliation. “All I can offer you at this point is the tag on the Suburban.”

“You put out a bulletin?”

“APB, roadblocks, the whole nine yards.”

“You hear anything, even a rumor, you bring it to me before it goes anywhere else, or by this time tomorrow you’ll be jockeying shopping carts at the local Wal-Mart.”

“Lighten up, tough guy. I know my job.”

“That remains to be seen.” Donovan turned and climbed the steps into the bus. A.J. followed, Fogerty pulling up the rear.

Inside, two forensic technicians worked quietly. One was hunkered over the driver’s seat, taking samples from the splatter of blood that marked where the driver had been slain. Another was crouched near the center of the bus, next to the side exit, studying something of interest on the plastic-gloved fingertip of his right hand.

Donovan approached him, carefully navigating the narrow strip of protective plastic that covered the aisle. “What’ve you got?”

The technician looked up with a frown, as if to say, who the fuck are you? then shifted his gaze to a spot over Donovan’s left shoulder. He was looking to Fogerty for approval. It would be a while before word trickled down that the Feds were in charge.

Donovan heard a wheezy grunt behind him. “He’s okay.”

The technician nodded, then refocused his attention on the matter at hand. He gestured to a spot on the floor next to him. A grouping of muddy stains.

“Shoe prints,” he said. “Work boots from the looks of them.”

Donovan glanced at the prints and noted a distinctive sole pattern.

Fogerty wheezed again. “They Gunderson’s?”

The technician shrugged. “Everybody and his brother rides this bus, but they fit his general shoe size.”

Donovan crouched, scraped a chunk of dirt free and rubbed it between his fingers. Relatively fresh. Damp to the touch. He held it to his nose, a sharp, acrid smell burning his nostrils. “Fertilizer.”

“About half-half would be my guess.”

A.J. crouched next to them. “You think he’s cooking up a combustible?”

Donovan shook his head. “Our guy’s a hair too sophisticated for homemade goods.”

Fogerty jostled his bulk into view and tried to work it into a crouch. That idea was a bust, so he settled onto one of the passenger seats instead. “So what the hell’s he up to? Digging himself a flower patch?”

A new wave of dread washed over Donovan. He glanced at A.J., whose eyes clearly mirrored the feeling.

Fogerty caught the exchange and raised his eyebrows. “What’d I say?”

“Few months ago,” A.J. told him, “we found one of our informants in an empty lot in Calumet City. He’d been buried alive.”

“Christ on a cracker,” Fogerty said. “You don’t think the asshole’s planning to…” He stopped short, but everyone present had a pretty good idea where he was headed.

Especially Donovan.

He tried to drive the thought from his mind. Not even Gunderson could be that sadistic. Not with a fifteen-year-old girl. But he knew the evidence didn’t lie. Whatever these boot prints signified, it wasn’t good.

Not for him. And certainly not for Jessie.

He found her backpack on the floor between two seats near the back of the bus. Her name was scrawled across it in flowery print, the Lisa Simpson key chain safety-pinned to the strap, a shiny new apartment key dangling from it.

The sight of the key brought on a sudden rush of helplessness.

You go through your life putting locks on your windows, your doors, your car, hoping to protect your most valuable possessions. But how do you put a lock on a kid? How do you keep the Gundersons of the world from snatching them away and stealing their souls?

Donovan was a unit commander for one of the most powerful law enforcement agencies in the United States and even he couldn’t prevent it from happening. No matter how much he tried to control his world, no matter how much knowledge and experience he brought to the task, he knew that life was nothing more than a cruel game of Russian roulette. You spin the chamber, close your eyes, and squeeze the trigger, hoping for that reassuring click.

He sank onto the seat and pulled the backpack into his lap, carefully unpinning the key chain. He ran his thumb over the ceramic replica of Lisa Simpson, recalling younger days with Jessie perched next to him on the sofa as they watched TV-the days before his betrayal of her trust.

He had failed her once. Would he do it again?

“Hey, Jack-A.J.”

Donovan looked up. Al Cleveland was standing in the forward door well. “Sidney says he’ll be here in five. He’s got Bobby Nemo with him.”

Donovan nodded, felt his jaw tighten. If anybody knew Gunderson, it was Nemo. They had a history that stretched all the way back to Gunderson’s days at the Juvenile Offender Facility. So far, Nemo had refused to cooperate, but that would change. Donovan was sure of it.

He looked at A.J. “Time to break out the beer and peanuts.”