If Nemo hadn’t been cuffed, he would’ve clocked the guy right there, but the turd wasn’t his main concern right now. Donovan stood only feet away, never taking his eyes off him.
Once Nemo was clear of the car doorway and standing upright, Donovan moved in close.
“What d’ya say, Bobby? Something you want to share with me? And I’m not talking about Gunderson’s twilight-zone bullshit.”
Face-to-face it was a different story. Donovan was trying to look tough, but you could see the desperation in his eyes. Fucker was scared shitless.
Not that you could blame him.
Nemo relaxed a little. Felt a renewed sense of confidence coming on. He offered Donovan a slow smile. “Looks like somebody else got caught in the middle this time, huh, Daddy?”
The words were out of his mouth before he realized his mistake. Not only were they likely to piss Donovan off, they made it clear that Nemo had known about Alex’s plan all along.
Bobby, you dumb-ass motherfucker.
In the tiniest fraction of a second, the desperation in Donovan’s eyes morphed into hot, white anger. A hand shot up to the side of Nemo’s face and sent his head straight into the rear fender of the turd’s sedan. He hit it hard, pain exploding in his skull.
Hands grabbed him, spun him around, then someone hit him in the shins, knocking his feet out from under him. He landed on the alley floor like a bag of fresh crap, and one of the cops kicked him in the ribs.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
Feeling something give, Nemo bit down on his lip, stifling a cry, thinking if he made any noise it might piss them off. At this moment in time, that was the last thing he wanted to do.
Then Donovan’s fingers grabbed his chin, forcing his head upward, and the next thing he knew he had the business end of a Glock nine-millimeter in his face.
He could smell the gun oil.
“Listen carefully, asshole. You listening to me?”
Nemo nodded, which wasn’t easy with the barrel of the nine stuck halfway up his left nostril.
“Your fearless leader just bit off a big old chunka shit, and unless you tell me where he’s holed up-right now-I swear to Christ they’ll be hosing little bits of your brain into the gutter tonight. You understand?”
The tickle of fear was back, only this time it felt like a thousand fingers attacking him simultaneously. He could call this motherfucker’s bluff, sure, but he kept going back to those eyes, the way they shifted erratically between anger and desperation. He’d seen that look before, on the faces of lifers and junkies and the handful of crack whores he’d had the misfortune of hooking up with. And what it meant was this:
Donovan would not hesitate to pull the trigger.
Glancing at the others, he realized they had no intention of coming to his rescue. Not now. Not ever. The fat-ass cop was practically licking his chops, for crissakes.
Do or die time, Bobby. Do or die.
Donovan pushed in closer. “Do you understand?”
Nemo nodded again. Vigorously this time. He understood all right.
He just hoped and prayed Alex would, too.
19
It had taken him longer than expected to dig the hole. Despite being isolated these past few weeks, Gunderson had kept himself in shape-a hundred knuckle push-ups twice a day, double that in crunches-and he’d figured an hour tops for the digging.
Two and a half later, stinking of processed chickenshit, he had emerged from a hole six feet deep, three feet wide, and seven feet long. Just big enough to fit the box and all of its tanks.
Just big enough to fit a fifteen-year-old piece of sweet peach pie.
That was this afternoon, and he had finished right under the wire. He’d had maybe twenty minutes to fire up the Suburban and scoot on over to Bellanova Prep where his lovely one waited.
Sweet Jessie.
He had been watching her for weeks. Been witness to the pitiful display she and Special Agent Jack called a reunion. Had followed her to school every day since Monday, allowing her only a short glimpse of him this morning.
She was, he discovered, a perfect candidate for his plan. What his aunt would call a mark, a vulnerable. A girl who suffered from deep, conflicting emotions tempered by an intelligence that was beyond her years. And he was certain that a few days underground would condition her properly. Open the channel, so to speak.
After he snatched her off the bus, he watched her strip down in the back of the Suburban, her lower lip trembling, eyes refusing to meet his in the rearview mirror. He had been tempted to compare her to Sara-which was only natural, considering what he was about to do-but there was little similarity between the two. Sara eclipsed her in every way.
Even so, the sight of her flawless young flesh reminded him of that first night he’d spent with Sara, undressing her in the moonlit darkness of the bell tower atop Old Main. How she had looked directly into his eyes as he unhooked her bra and cupped those small but perfect breasts. The faint gasp as he ran his thumbs over her hardening nipples.
He’d known then and there that Sara was his forever. As his hands explored other parts of her body, he’d felt like a divine sculptor, turning raw, unblemished flesh into woman.
His woman.
With enough time and patience, Jessie could be his woman, too. But he had little time or patience right now. He had to work fast and he had to work crudely. No room for the subtleties of seduction.
Instead, he caught the interstate, drove the twenty miles back to the hole he’d dug, then quickly duct-taped Jessie’s wrists and ankles and dropped her into her home away from home.
And if all went well, if everything the old bat had taught him proved to be true, he’d be one of the few people in this sad, sick world who could claim to have his cake and eat it, too.
Once Donovan was finally vapor, he’d come back here and dig this little one up. And as she sucked in her first breaths of fresh air, staring up at him with those big blue eyes, he’d pull her into his arms and murmur softly in her ear:
Welcome home, my darling. Welcome home.
It took him less than half an hour to put the dirt back. Once the deed was done, he took care of the rest of his business, ditched the Suburban, then called Luther to pick him up.
Luther was the only one of the surviving trio who hadn’t been forced to go into hiding. His paranoia had paid off. Thanks to the ski mask he was so fond of wearing, the Feds hadn’t been able to identify him. As a result, he was at Gunderson’s beck and call, the perfect point man, gathering tools and weapons for the renewed crusade.
Gunderson waited for him in a nearby bar, one of those transient dives where every customer is treated with equal indifference. Pay your money, drink your drink. Nobody gives a damn who you are.
That’s the thing about being a wanted man, your name and face plastered all over the news. You figure everybody you run into will take one look at you and start screaming for the cops.
But to Gunderson’s surprise, as long as he was careful, he was virtually invisible. He quickly discovered that if you stick to yourself and don’t attract attention, most people will walk on by without so much as a glance. They’re too busy thinking about their mortgages or their sick kids or their cheating wives to bother with you. And a guy in a booth of some dumpy bar is about as anonymous as a stone in the ocean.
Nevertheless, he kept his head low, careful not to make direct eye contact with anyone.
Pulling his I Ching coins from a pocket, he gave them a quick shake, tossed them into the palm of his left hand, and carefully recorded the results on the napkin beneath his beer. After a few more tosses, his hexagram was complete and he felt more confident than ever.
