Someone shouted, “Clear!” and the fierce wind enveloped him completely, a thousand invisible hands reaching out to grab him as a massive whirling wormhole opened up overhead…
And swept him away.
31
The sunlight hurt his eyes.
It wasn’t much more than a pale, watercolor wash of gray slanting in through the window from an equally gray sky, but in those first few moments after he awoke, it hurt to keep his eyes open.
He felt drugged; was vaguely aware that he was in a hospital room. His lungs ached. As if they’d been scraped out with the dull edge of a spoon. In fact, his entire body ached more than he could ever remember. Even worse than those long-ago academy days, after the first hours of intense physical training, when walking took Herculean effort.
A cool stream of oxygen flowed through plastic tubing in his nose. An IV tube was taped to the back of his left hand, its needle implanted in the flesh, and deeper, into a vein, stretching it just enough to be uncomfortable. His chest was heavy with wires and a Walkman-sized heart monitor. Another monitor was clamped over his right index finger.
Somewhere nearby a machine beeped, its pattern erratic, reacting to every tiny move he made.
He turned his head slightly, saw that he wasn’t alone. A petite figure was curled up in a nearby chair, and it took him a moment to realize who it was.
Rachel. Fast asleep.
He lay there quietly, waiting for his head to clear, not wanting to disturb her. He had no idea what time he’d been brought in here, but figured she must’ve spent the night.
She looked peaceful, knees tucked to her chest, head resting lightly against the wall. He watched her sleep, wishing this were a different time and place, a time and place where he could act on these feelings he’d been harboring for so long.
Then he cursed himself for even thinking such a thing. He needed to clear his head, focus on the present.
Jessie. What was the news on Jessie?
As if sensing his turmoil, Rachel opened her eyes and blinked at him. Then she smiled, her voice thick and drowsy: “Welcome back, stranger.”
Donovan opened his mouth to speak and discovered his throat was scratchy. “… What happened?”
Rachel uncurled her body and sat upright. She wore jeans and a T-shirt with a dark wool sweater pulled over it. He wasn’t used to seeing her in such casual attire.
“You went for a swim last night,” she said. “Only you forgot to get out of your car first. Fortunately there was a police boat nearby. They dragged you out.”
She paused a moment, looking as if she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to continue. “They told me you were dead, Jack.”
“Dead.”
“The paramedics. They don’t know how long. Your heart stopped. They had to pump a ton of water out of your lungs.”
Dead, Donovan repeated to himself, his thoughts drifting to the dim memory of a dark, faraway place.
A.J. had been there.
And Gunderson.
And he vaguely remembered being… kissed.
But it all felt so distant. Dreamlike. Do the dead dream? he wondered. Does the mind remain active even after the body ceases to function? He thought about Sara Gunderson lying in a coma-what some called the sleep of the dead-and wondered what she saw.
Had she, too, been kissed?
Rachel got to her feet, moved close to the bed. “You don’t look so good. Maybe you should go back to sleep.”
He didn’t feel so good, either, but he had other things to worry about. “How long have I been here?”
“They brought you in about three this morning. You spent the first few hours in intensive care.” She checked her watch. “It’s just past noon.”
Noon? Jesus. Sixteen hours since Gunderson was shot. Sixteen long hours-most of them wasted now. Was it too late? Had it been too long? He was almost afraid to ask the next question.
“What about Jessie?”
Rachel’s expression darkened. “Nothing yet.”
“Son of a bitch…” Donovan sat up, his body groaning in protest. Wires shifted and the Walkman-like heart monitor tumbled to the floor.
Rachel put her hands on him. “Jack, no. Sidney and the others are working nonstop. They’ll find her.”
Donovan pulled away from her and yanked at the wires, popping them off the electrodes stuck to his chest. The machine beeped wildly in response and he knew it was only a matter of moments before a herd of nurses came barreling through the door.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting out of here.”
“Dammit, Jack. You need rest.”
“I’m fine,” he said. He wasn’t by a long shot, but the first step toward defeat was admitting the possibility even existed. Grabbing the IV needle in his hand, he jerked it out. Blood spurted from the open vein. He clamped it with his right hand, then swung his legs around and touched his bare feet to the linoleum.
Rachel eyed the blood. “This is crazy.”
Maybe, Donovan thought, but he ignored her and stood up anyway, feeling the world tilt sideways. He struggled for balance. Cold air sliced through the open back of his hospital gown. “Where are my clothes?”
Urgent shouts echoed through the hallway just outside his room. A Code Blue was in progress and he was the target.
“You’re not doing Jessie any good in this condition.”
“Where are my clothes?”
Rachel sighed, then crossed to a plastic bag on the floor next to her chair. “I brought you some fresh ones,” she said. “And a toothbrush and razor.”
Donovan managed a smile. “What would I do without you, Rache?”
32
What exactly are you looking for?” Rachel asked. The tone of disapproval had been there since they’d left the hospital.
“I’ll know when I find it,” Donovan told her.
He sat in the passenger seat of her cramped Celica, working the keys of his laptop as she drove. The back of his left hand displayed a nasty black-and-purple bruise, the tiny IV needle-prick caked with dried blood.
The S.A.R.A. file filled his computer screen. A digitized photo stared up at him, Gunderson’s cruel eyes mocking him. He hit another key and the Known Associates list popped up.
Gunderson had made a truckload of friends and acquaintances over the years, most of the major players listed here. In the weeks after the attack on Northland First amp; Trust, Donovan and his team had repeatedly scoured this list, hauling in Gunderson’s buddies one by one for questioning.
Donovan had spent hours in the interrogation room grilling car thieves, drug runners, and suspected arms dealers, many of whom spoke openly until Gunderson was mentioned. The mere utterance of the name froze them
