gunfire.
Nothing came.
A quick scan revealed what looked like a teenager’s bedroom: baseball memorabilia on the shelves, a set of barbells tucked into one corner, an unmade bed, closet hanging open with dirty clothes on the floor. It had to be Luther’s, but Luther himself was nowhere to be found.
Pressing on, Donovan approached an open bathroom, which was small and cramped and empty.
Then he heard a scream above him.
Donovan shot through to the back of the house to where a narrow set of steps led upstairs. Taking them two at a time, he reached the second floor, barreled through the hallway, and found an open door, Darcy just inside, in shooting stance. Her weapon was pointed at a large, short-haired woman who sat shrieking in the middle of a queen-size bed, sheets clutched to her ample bosom.
“Hands!” Darcy shouted, her voice cutting through the din. “Show me your goddamn hands!”
The woman’s eyes were nearly as wide as her open mouth, but the shrieks caught in her throat as she let the sheet drop and threw her hands into the air. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Luther Polanski,” Darcy demanded. “Where is he?”
“I–I don’t know,” the woman blubbered. “I don’t live here… I… I haven’t seen him in days.”
Donovan moved to a nearby closet door, threw it open, found only a neat row of blouses, carefully arranged by color. An adjoining bathroom was also empty-except for the gold-and-white waitress’s uniform hanging on a hook next to the shower.
Christ, Donovan thought, shifting his gaze to the foot of the bed where a pile of clothing lay. Pants, blouse, bra. He looked at the woman, hands still in the air, tears rolling off her chin onto her bottom-heavy breasts.
Was this who they’d seen in the doorway? The recipient of Marilyn Polanski’s kiss?
Donovan heard a noise and spun. Al Cleveland in the hallway. Cleveland’s eyes immediately went to the half-naked woman on the bed. “Second floor’s clear. No sign of him anywhere.”
“Son of a bitch,” Donovan said, then jabbed the call button on the radio clipped to his belt. “Sidney. Give me some good news.”
The radio crackled in response. “Sorry, Jack. Basement’s clear. Same with the first floor. We got bupkis.”
38
Marilyn Polanski was refusing to cooperate.
Sure, she told them, Luther had gotten into some trouble when he was younger, but he was a good boy, sucked in by the wrong crowd. He’d done his time and he was clean now-just ask his parole officer. So if they wanted any help from her, forget it. She’d said all she was going to say.
Her girlfriend, Barbara Watkins, a beautician who had met Marilyn at the Cuts amp; Curls Beauty Salon just three weeks earlier, knew less about Luther than they did.
Sniffing back tears, she told them she was humiliated and embarrassed by this whole situation and was seriously considering a lawsuit against the ATF, the Treasury Department, and the Attorney General’s Office.
It was all background noise to Donovan, a jumble of high-pitched voices drifting in his general direction as he stepped into Luther’s bedroom for a closer look around.
The room had been seized by a severe case of arrested development. Next to the baseball memorabilia on the brick and plywood shelves were two Monsters of Hollywood models of Dracula and the Mummy. Next to them, a camouflage-garbed G.I. Joe was twisted strategically to suggest doggy-style sex with the Barbie doll beneath it.
A Polaroid camera sat on the dresser. Pulling open the top drawer, Donovan found socks and boxers, all neatly stacked and folded. There was a precise, anal-retentive feel to the arrangement, and judging by the unmade bed and the clothes strewn on the closet floor, Luther wasn’t the culprit. Twenty-eight years old and Mommy was still doing his laundry.
Donovan formed an image of him in his mind: a huge, muscle-bound galoot with limited brainpower and an overbearing mother. A grown man trapped in adolescence who liked to think he was independent, but could be twisted and manipulated as easily as the G.I. Joe on his shelf.
He was the perfect target for a guy like Gunderson.
Donovan could see them in the prison yard, Luther bench-pressing an easy two hundred, Gunderson spotting, sucking on a Marlboro as he worked Luther like a hungry politician, recruiting him for the cause-whatever that might be. The image was so clear in Donovan’s brain that he had to wonder where it was coming from.
Earlier, in Reed’s office, he had pictured Gunderson sprawled in Reed’s living room watching TV. But now that he thought about it, when he really concentrated on the moment, he wasn’t quite sure he’d seen Gunderson at all. The guy had been there, all right, but he was little more than a gesture of the hand, a crossing of legs, a reflection in a window.
It almost felt as if these images were coming from Gunderson himself.
Like… memories.
“Find anything?”
Donovan looked up from the drawer. Waxman stood in the doorway.
“Luther has little sea horses on his boxers.”
“Cute,” Waxman said, stepping into the room. “The miz and missus ain’t giving us squat. Cleveland and Payne volunteered to sit on the house, but I don’t think Mama’s little troublemaker’ll be coming home anytime soon.”
“What about his file? We need that list of known associates.”
“Danville Correctional is faxing it to the command center, same for the CPD.” Waxman frowned and nodded to the open drawer. “What’s that?”
Donovan followed his gaze and found a corner of white plastic peeking up from beneath the edge of the drawer liner. He pulled the liner aside to reveal at least a dozen Polaroids lying facedown at the bottom of the drawer.
Gathering them up, he thought about the photo of Jessie he’d found in the tunnels. His stomach tightened as he turned them over in his hand.
The first one featured a girl of about twenty, naked and smiling at the camera, her legs parted in invitation. She was in this room, sprawled on Luther’s bed. A defect in the emulsion made it impossible to identify her, but the next photo left no doubt about who she was.
This time she had a hand between her legs, playing with herself, as the other hand hooked a finger at the camera, beckoning to the photographer.
It was Sara Gunderson.
The third photo introduced a new player to the scene, Luther Polanski in all his glory, standing next to Sara with an erection so large it nearly dwarfed her face. She was smiling up at him, mouth slightly open.
The fourth and fifth photos showed Sara engaged in the inevitable, and thoroughly enjoying herself. Then they were both on the bed, Luther taking her in various positions as the photographer snapped away, getting it all down for the scrapbook.
“Energetic little minx,” Waxman said, moving in for a closer look. “Any guesses who’s manning the camera?”
Donovan didn’t have to guess. He knew who it was, could feel it. Could see it plainly in the part of his brain that seemed to be reserved for Gunderson’s point of view. He felt the weight of the camera in his hands, heard the familiar click-wrrrr as each new Polaroid slid out of the box. Voices echoed in his head, the faint sounds of sex, the grunts and groans of intense pleasure.
Then he was there in the room with them, watching them writhe on the bed, legs wide, hips thrusting, Sara looking over Luther’s shoulder, looking straight into the camera, sweat glistening on her forehead, lips twisted into a smile as she slowly mouthed the words I
… love… you…
“Jack?”
