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.”
18
Alex, Alex, Alex. You are one crazy mofo.”
The words were barely audible, little more than a mumble, really, but for all of Sidney Waxman’s faults, he had one great virtue: a keen sense of hearing. When the radar was cooking, he could catch a whisper in a thunderstorm.
He glanced in his rearview mirror at Nemo’s bloodshot eyes as they took in the furious activity around the crime scene. “You say something, Bobby?”
“Eat shit and die, asshole.”
An original thinker, Nemo was. Waxman admired the man’s ability to express himself with crude brevity, unimaginative though it might be. “Come on, Bobby, be nice. Maybe you’ll come out of this with your balls still attached.”
Nemo’s eyes flitted toward him. Filled with contempt. “What the hell you bring me here for, anyway?”
“Boss is in the mood for a little conversation.”
“We had our conversation. Where’s my lawyer?”
Waxman shook his head. “You keep bringing up this lawyer bullshit. We don’t work that way. Lawyers have a knack for getting in the way of the truth.”
“Did I just wake up in Pakistan? You’re violating my civil rights.”
“Didn’t you hear?” Waxman said, smiling. “You’re a terrorist, Bobby. Guys like you don’t have any rights.”
Thank God for Congress, letting the White House bully them into circumventing the Constitution at a time of national turmoil. The War on Terror had been a boon to law enforcement. New laws relaxing the restrictions on evidence-gathering created lots of potential for abuse, sure, but this situation warranted a little abuse, didn’t it? And, technically speaking, Nemo was a terrorist, even if the Department of Homeland Security didn’t quite see it that way.
Waxman knew that sooner or later they’d have to break down and get him a federal public defender. Wouldn’t want the poor SOB to incriminate himself. God no. In the meantime, they’d keep waving the Stars and Stripes and stall as long as they possibly could.
Nemo just stared at the back of his head. “You’re full of shit,” he said.
“Maybe so,” Waxman told him. “But I’m the one behind the wheel. So you go ahead, keep asking for a lawyer. One of these days I might hear you.”
“Asshole.”
Ah, brevity, Waxman thought. A lovely thing.
Nemo stared at the back of the turd’s head, halfway tempted to let a loogy fly. But that would only get him in deeper shit. He figured he’d better just sit here quietly and let this thing play out.
Outside, a toothpick of a cop unfastened the yellow do not cross ribbon and waved the turd through. As they pulled past him, Nemo looked out again at the bus parked in the middle of the street, big portable floodlights surrounding it, waiting for nightfall. If it weren’t for all the cops running around, you’d think this was a movie set.
Like his buddy Alex, Nemo had always been a big fan of movies and television. He’d even thought about going into acting once, back when he was in junior high. Buncha Hollywood assholes had come to town to shoot some Chuck Norris chopsocky piece of shit and this sweet-assed casting bitch showed up at the Center Street Arcade, looking for local color.
Nemo and a couple of other kids were chosen as possibilities, but in the end, the only one who made the cut was an emaciated little fuck named Joey Bustos.
Nemo didn’t really care about the acting gig. His eyes were on that casting bitch, thinking how he’d like to bend her over the nearest foosball table and hammer Henry home. But he was a little peeved when Joey got the part instead of him.
The following night, just past dinnertime, he waited outside Joey’s apartment until the little fruit came down to dump the trash. Nemo Chuck Norrised his ass right there in the alley. Left him inside the Dempsey Dumpster.
Needless to say, Joey never made it to the movie set. Didn’t come to the arcade for a coupla months either. Turned out Nemo had fractured the fruit’s skull, cracked a couple of ribs, and punctured a lung. Unfortunately, all of his hard work went to waste. The Hollywood assholes brought in somebody from L.A. instead, and Nemo never saw that sweet-assed casting bitch again.
The turd made a turn, pulling into an alley. A couple of Feds and a fat-ass cop were waiting for them, looking all serious.
Donovan stood in front, his cold, dead eyes on Nemo, and Nemo felt a tickle of fear. He knew Donovan was a hard case, but he’d never seen him like this before. The guy had a definite no-mercy vibe coming off him.
The turd pulled to a stop, killed the engine, then threw his door open and got out. Turning in his seat, Nemo glanced out the rear window. One of the Feds had moved to the mouth of the alley and was standing there with his back to the rest of them, keeping watch.
This was not gonna be a friendly conversation.
The turd opened Nemo’s door, grabbed a couple handfuls of collar, and dragged him out of the car.
