Kiss Her Goodbye

45

Wake up, Jack.

Jaaa-ack… wake uhhh-up.

She’s waiting for you. Better hurry.

Ticktock ticktock ticktock ticktock…

Donovan 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?”

Donovan blinked again, then looked around, trying to scrape away what felt like a thick layer of scum coating the inside of his skull. The Chrysler was parked haphazardly in the middle of a rain-slicked parking lot, blocking at least three of the cars that were angled neatly in their stalls.

Across the lot was a long, squat building. A sign near the entrance read ST. MARGARET’S CONVALESCENT CENTER.

He knew this place.

It was Sara Gunderson’s hospital.

“Shall I call security? Is that really what you want me to do?”

“Uhhh,” Donovan managed, trying to get his mouth to form the words in his head. It wasn’t working.

Lucille gave him a moment, but with nothing forthcoming, she said, “Very well, then.” She opened her purse, dug around for a moment, and withdrew a cell phone.

“No, wait,” Donovan said, holding up a hand, his mind on overdrive. “I–I’ll move the car.”

He reached across to the door release, pushed the door open, and climbed out. He felt dizzy. Grabbed the roof of the Chrysler to steady himself.

“Are you all right, Mr. Reed?”

Donovan turned. “Why do you keep calling me that?”

“I’m sorry, isn’t that what you said your name was? You’re Ms. Gunderson’s uncle, I just assumed-”

“Uncle?” Donovan said. This was getting crazier by the minute. “What are you talking about? Where do you know me from?”

Lucille frowned. “Really, Mr.-whatever your name is-this isn’t the least bit funny. I realize you’re upset, but your behavior is growing quite tedious.” She gestured to the car. “Now, please. I’d like to go home.”

She turned abruptly, moving toward a silver Nissan, one of the cars that was blocked by the Chrysler.

“Wait,” Donovan sputtered, grabbing her arm. “Who is it you think I am?”

“Let go of me.”

“You said I was in Sara’s room. When was I there? What did I do?”

“Let go of me,” Lucille repeated, looking more scared than angry now.

Donovan released her. “I’m sorry. It’s just I… I don’t remember going in there.”

Lucille waved a dismissive hand at him and continued to her car. “You need professional help, mister. If this is any indication of the kind of upbringing that poor girl had, it’s no wonder she fell in with the wrong sort.”

She unlocked the door and got inside, Donovan’s bewilderment quickly turning to horror. The last thing he remembered was pulling into a gas station near Motel Row.

And the headache. That terrible headache.

But how had he gotten here? And why?

It just didn’t make any sense.

Lucille was sitting in her car now, tapping her fingers on the wheel, her angry eyes visible in the side-view mirror.

Climbing onto the driver’s seat of the Chrysler, Donovan found the keys in the ignition. He was about to start the engine when the sight of the in-dash ashtray stopped him.

It hung open, nearly overflowing with cigarette butts. Their filters were torn off.

What the hell?

Had someone else been in the car with him?

Then he remembered the craving he’d felt as he’d waited outside Carla Devito’s apartment building. The intense desire to light up a Marlboro. Judging by the taste in his mouth, he was the one who had smoked all these cigarettes.

But how could that be?

His cell phone bleated, startling him. Fumbling through his coat pockets, he found it, flicked it open. Hesitated. “Donovan.”

Or should he have said Reed?

“Where you been all night?” Waxman barked. “I must’ve called you a hundred times in the last couple hours.”

Donovan was reeling. A spike of nausea assaulted him. “I, uh… I–I must’ve turned my phone off.”

“Nice going, genius. You better get your ass out here to Fredrickville, pronto. The Wayfarer Inn.”

Donovan’s gut tightened involuntarily. “What’s going on?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

Donovan felt like a drunk who’d had one too many on the golf course, only to wake up in a four-by-five jail cell with a fresh new shiner adorning his face. The last few hours were a complete, impenetrable blank.

“Jack? You still there? I got some news you aren’t gonna like.”

He wasn’t liking much of anything right now. He braced himself. “What is it?”

“We found Luther. He’s DOA.”

Before Donovan could respond, a horn blared-a blast so loud and long it startled a flock of pigeons perched on a nearby telephone line.

Lucille Baker had lost her patience.