Kiss Her Goodbye

38

Marilyn Polanski was refusing to cooperate.

Sure, she told them, Luther had gotten into some trouble when he was younger, but he was a good boy, sucked in by the wrong crowd. He’d done his time and he was clean now-just ask his parole officer. So if they wanted any help from her, forget it. She’d said all she was going to say.

Her girlfriend, Barbara Watkins, a beautician who had met Marilyn at the Cuts amp; Curls Beauty Salon just three weeks earlier, knew less about Luther than they did.

Sniffing back tears, she told them she was humiliated and embarrassed by this whole situation and was seriously considering a lawsuit against the ATF, the Treasury Department, and the Attorney General’s Office.

It was all background noise to Donovan, a jumble of high-pitched voices drifting in his general direction as he stepped into Luther’s bedroom for a closer look around.

The room had been seized by a severe case of arrested development. Next to the baseball memorabilia on the brick and plywood shelves were two Monsters of Hollywood models of Dracula and the Mummy. Next to them, a camouflage-garbed G.I. Joe was twisted strategically to suggest doggy-style sex with the Barbie doll beneath it.

A Polaroid camera sat on the dresser. Pulling open the top drawer, Donovan found socks and boxers, all neatly stacked and folded. There was a precise, anal-retentive feel to the arrangement, and judging by the unmade bed and the clothes strewn on the closet floor, Luther wasn’t the culprit. Twenty-eight years old and Mommy was still doing his laundry.

Donovan formed an image of him in his mind: a huge, muscle-bound galoot with limited brainpower and an overbearing mother. A grown man trapped in adolescence who liked to think he was independent, but could be twisted and manipulated as easily as the G.I. Joe on his shelf.

He was the perfect target for a guy like Gunderson.

Donovan could see them in the prison yard, Luther bench-pressing an easy two hundred, Gunderson spotting, sucking on a Marlboro as he worked Luther like a hungry politician, recruiting him for the cause-whatever that might be. The image was so clear in Donovan’s brain that he had to wonder where it was coming from.

Earlier, in Reed’s office, he had pictured Gunderson sprawled in Reed’s living room watching TV. But now that he thought about it, when he really concentrated on the moment, he wasn’t quite sure he’d seen Gunderson at all. The guy had been there, all right, but he was little more than a gesture of the hand, a crossing of legs, a reflection in a window.

It almost felt as if these images were coming from Gunderson himself.

Like… memories.

“Find anything?”

Donovan looked up from the drawer. Waxman stood in the doorway.

“Luther has little sea horses on his boxers.”

“Cute,” Waxman said, stepping into the room. “The miz and missus ain’t giving us squat. Cleveland and Payne volunteered to sit on the house, but I don’t think Mama’s little troublemaker’ll be coming home anytime soon.”

“What about his file? We need that list of known associates.”

“Danville Correctional is faxing it to the command center, same for the CPD.” Waxman frowned and nodded to the open drawer. “What’s that?”

Donovan followed his gaze and found a corner of white plastic peeking up from beneath the edge of the drawer liner. He pulled the liner aside to reveal at least a dozen Polaroids lying facedown at the bottom of the drawer.

Gathering them up, he thought about the photo of Jessie he’d found in the tunnels. His stomach tightened as he turned them over in his hand.

The first one featured a girl of about twenty, naked and smiling at the camera, her legs parted in invitation. She was in this room, sprawled on Luther’s bed. A defect in the emulsion made it impossible to identify her, but the next photo left no doubt about who she was.

This time she had a hand between her legs, playing with herself, as the other hand hooked a finger at the camera, beckoning to the photographer.

It was Sara Gunderson.

The third photo introduced a new player to the scene, Luther Polanski in all his glory, standing next to Sara with an erection so large it nearly dwarfed her face. She was smiling up at him, mouth slightly open.

The fourth and fifth photos showed Sara engaged in the inevitable, and thoroughly enjoying herself. Then they were both on the bed, Luther taking her in various positions as the photographer snapped away, getting it all down for the scrapbook.

“Energetic little minx,” Waxman said, moving in for a closer look. “Any guesses who’s manning the camera?”

Donovan didn’t have to guess. He knew who it was, could feel it. Could see it plainly in the part of his brain that seemed to be reserved for Gunderson’s point of view. He felt the weight of the camera in his hands, heard the familiar click-wrrrr as each new Polaroid slid out of the box. Voices echoed in his head, the faint sounds of sex, the grunts and groans of intense pleasure.

Then he was there in the room with them, watching them writhe on the bed, legs wide, hips thrusting, Sara looking over Luther’s shoulder, looking straight into the camera, sweat glistening on her forehead, lips twisted into a smile as she slowly mouthed the words I

… love… you…

“Jack?”

Donovan blinked. Looked at Waxman.

Waxman was frowning again. “Thought I lost you there for a minute. You okay?”

No, Donovan almost told him, I’m very far from okay. Something strange is brewing in your old buddy’s brain.

But he held back, knowing that Waxman’s reaction was bound to be less than sympathetic. Sucking in a breath, he returned his attention to the Polaroids.

The next couple shots showed more of the same, culminating in the expected conclusion. Then the scene shifted.

The last three photos were part of the set they’d found in Gunderson’s train car: typical tourist shots of Sara standing in front of the Lake Point Lighthouse.

The final photo featured all three of them smiling for the camera, Sara, Luther, and Gunderson, arm in arm, taken by an unknown photographer.

Donovan stared at Luther’s image for a long moment, then shifted his gaze to the camera atop the dresser. He’d lay odds it was the same one used to snap Jessie’s picture. Which meant that Luther and Gunderson had been in contact since the kidnapping.

“He’s the link, Sidney. He knows where she’s buried.”

“You don’t have to convince me,” Waxman said.