“Hey, you okay? You don’t look so hot.”
A lump of bile formed in Donovan’s throat, choking him as he tried to respond. Before he could get a word out, his cell phone rang. Fumbling it from his coat pocket, he clicked it on and raised it to his ear.
It took him a moment to find his voice. “Jack Donovan.”
“Daddy?”
“Jesus Christ-Jessie?”
Please tell me she’s all right. Please tell me she’s Her words came out in a jumbled rush, her voice high and thin and filled with terror. “Daddy, he says he’ll hurt me. He says he’ll hurt me if you don’t-” Donovan heard a noise and Jessie yelped. After a quick flash of static, a familiar voice filled his ear.
“Hiya, hotshot. Guess who’s got himself a new girl? Not as sweet as my Sara, but she’ll do in a pinch.”
The words barely registered in Donovan’s brain. His world was spinning. “You motherfucker…”
“Now, now, Jack, that’s two demerits for bad manners. You’re only allowed one more, so be careful what you say.”
This isn’t happening. Tell me this isn’t happening. “If you touch her,” Donovan said, his voice shaking, “I swear to Christ I’ll-”
“You’ll what? Hunt me down like the dirty dog I am? Oops, too late. Special Agent Jack and the United States of Fuck You have already put that plan in motion. You see, hotshot, short of blowing my brains out there’s not a whole lot you can do to me that’s worse than what you’ve already done. So the name of the game here is clarity. That’s what I want. I hang on to the pea pod long enough for you to understand, with clarity, what you did to my Sara.”
Donovan tried to breathe. Stay calm, he told himself. Figure a way out of this. “Listen to me, Alex. Let her go. We can make a deal. Anything you want.”
Gunderson laughed. “You gonna forgive me all my sins, Jack? Huh? You gonna work up some miracle cure to solidify the mush that used to be Sara’s brain? You gonna bring back my kid? I don’t think we’ll be making any deals. But I will make you a promise. If and when your schoolgirl comes home-and I’m stressing the if here-you can be absolutely certain of one thing: she won’t be the same sweet Jessie we all know and love.”
The line clicked in Donovan’s ear.
He lowered the phone, trembling.
Donovan searched the street, not even sure what he was looking for, an overwhelming feeling of dread doing a kamikaze barrel-roll through his body. His head felt hollow, as if he’d just been smacked with a two-by-four.
How could he have been so careless? He knew what Gunderson was capable of. He should’ve seen this coming, should’ve stopped it before it had a chance to start.
All along he’d assumed that Gunderson would come after him. But he’d been wrong, and his mistake was inexcusable.
His mistake could mean Jessie’s life.
Just this morning he had looked in on her as she slept, amazed by how quiet she was. No moans, no soft snores, no movement. She was so silent that for a moment he had wondered if she was alive; had put his hand under her nose just to make sure she was breathing.
As he looked down at that composed, expressionless face, he’d thought of Sara Gunderson lying motionless on the sidewalk so many weeks ago. He hadn’t known whether she was alive or dead at the time, but he did know one thing: wherever she’d gone, she wasn’t likely to come back. And she would never again feel her father’s embrace.
Donovan had vowed then and there never to let his own daughter get away from him again. He would woo Jessie back into his life, and if nothing else, she would always know that he loved her.
Now, as he stood trembling in the street, her terrified cries reverberating through his head, he thought about their volatile reunion and wondered if that message had gotten across. Because now more than ever, she needed to know it.
Hang on, kiddo.
I’m coming to get you.
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
