Kiss Her Goodbye

43

When 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.

Fifty 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.

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.