concentration, however, was wavering. The headache that had started earlier had blossomed into a full-fledged brain-banger, and his recently recharged batteries were steadily draining.
Craving a cigarette, he reached into his coat pocket and brought out a pack of Marlboros. The wrapper was halfway off before he realized what he was doing.
A faint whisper of voices skittered through his brain like rustling leaves.
He’d never smoked a day in his life.
Suddenly uneasy, he flashed back to the deli and the man in the gray suit who’d left his cigarettes behind. He remembered staring at the red-and-white box, feeling an odd kind of attraction to it.
But when had he picked it up? And why?
Not only had he never smoked, cigarettes disgusted him. He hated the smell, the smoke, the sickness they caused. He was the poster boy for a cigarette-free lifestyle.
Yet here he sat, holding a pilfered pack of Marlboros, feeling the urge to shake one out and fire it up. The thought of taking smoke into his lungs soothed him, even made the pounding in his head subside for a brief but welcome moment.
Then the headache was back with a vengeance, accompanied by a sick, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
What was happening to him?
Before he could even try to make sense of it, Carla Devito’s emerald green Honda Del Sol rolled up the parking ramp and onto the street, Bobby Nemo behind the wheel.
Snap out of it, Jack. Time to move.
Tossing the box and all of the questions it raised aside, Donovan started the engine, then waited for Nemo to turn a corner before pulling out after him.
He was still craving a cigarette when they reached the expressway.
Fifty miles south, however, a cigarette was the last thing on Donovan’s mind.
All he could think about was the pain.
He hadn’t had a migraine since he was twelve years old, a condition his doctor had insisted was brought on by childhood anxieties, yet this head-banger certainly qualified as one. His skull felt as if it might burst apart at any moment, unable to contain the throbbing, swollen mass that used to be his brain.
It was raining again, coming down light, but threatening to get nasty. The view beyond his windshield was a blur of taillights in the darkness, the Del Sol’s distinguishable only because of their lower proximity to the road. Half-blinded by pain, he did his best to keep them in sight while maintaining a discreet distance from the car, careful not to tip Nemo to the tail.
Five minutes later, Nemo took the Fredrickville turnoff, splashed through a fresh puddle of rain that had formed at the bottom of the ramp, then headed west toward the battle-scarred signs that advertised Motel Row.
Fredrickville was a small, forgotten town that wore its failed economy on tattered storefronts and pockmarked streets. Motel Row was no exception. Three motels lined a narrow road just off the expressway, a pathetic, ramshackle collection of flophouses located within a few hundred yards of each other, looking more like tenement homes than overnight lodging.
Despite their proximity to the main thoroughfare, travelers tended to stay away, leaving the sagging mattresses and dingy sheets to the handful of drug addicts, prostitutes, and petty criminals who chose anonymity over hygiene.
Donovan watched through his haze of pain as the Del Sol rolled past the first two motels and pulled into the parking lot of the third, the Wayfarer Inn.
Pulling into a gas station, which was apparently closed for the night, Donovan doused the headlights, but kept his wipers going. Popping open the glove box, he grabbed his field glasses and trained them on the Del Sol as it angled into a slot near the motel’s front office. The magnified image intensified his headache, sending a wave of nausea through him.
Lowering the glasses, he closed his eyes, wondering again what was happening to him.
Was it fatigue? Hunger?
Or was there something more sinister at work?
He knew he should open his eyes and concentrate on Nemo, but keeping them shut seemed to soothe the pounding in his skull. A moment of sleep wouldn’t hurt, would it? Just enough to feed the migraine and recharge the double A’s.
Feeling himself about to slip away, he snapped his eyes open.
Concentrate, Jack. Think about Luther. He’s your only link to Jessie.
Donovan raised the glasses again. The Del Sol’s door flew open and Nemo climbed out, a deep scowl on his face. He crossed toward the office, which was encased in battle-scarred glass and lit up by harsh fluorescent light.
Yanking the lobby door open, Nemo approached an overweight, slope-shouldered counterman in a paisley shirt, who was working on a slice of pepperoni pizza that he clearly didn’t need.
Their exchange did not look friendly.
Feeling the need to get closer, Donovan set the glasses on the seat and took hold of the wheel. He was about to shift into gear when needle-sharp pains pierced his skull. A burst of hot, white light blinded him.
For a moment he saw Jessie, lying in the coffin-not the Polaroid version, but a live, moving rendition-looking up at him with terrified eyes as the lid of the coffin slammed shut, hiding her from view.
He cried out her name as a fresh burst of pain assaulted his senses like the sudden and unexpected flash of a camera bulb.
Then it was dark.
44
When the knock came on the door, Luther Dwayne Polanski rolled off the bed and grabbed the Smith from atop the nightstand. It wasn’t much of a weapon, just a funky old spare Charlie had kept in a drawer under the counter in case his SIG went south. He’d insisted that Luther take it.
That was the thing about Charlie. Always looking out for Luther. And his friends, too. After the bank heist, when things got too hot at Tony Reed’s place, Charlie had cleared a room for Bobby, letting him stay rent-free for nearly two weeks, bringing him food and whatnot while he waited for the news stories to die down.
Funny thing was, Charlie didn’t even like Bobby. Had warned Luther that he and Alex were a couple of psychos who couldn’t be trusted.
“Why you hangin’ around with those turds, man? You know how much trouble you’re in if the Feds find out about you?”
“No reason they should,” Luther had said.
“Yeah? One of these assholes gets his head in a vise, ten to one your name’s the first thing pops out of his mouth.”
Maybe, Luther thought. But what Charlie didn’t know was that if it hadn’t been for Alex, he probably wouldn’t have lasted a week at Danville. In the short time their sentences had overlapped, Alex had taught him a lot about prison life and how to survive.
“Never show weakness,” Alex said. “Never show fear. Take a cue from the samurai. Operate like you’re already a dead man and that’ll keep you alive.”
After Alex was released, he kept in touch with Luther, telling him about all the plans he had, how he wanted to build his own army, make Luther his first lieutenant. Luther had liked the sound of that. It gave him hope. Something to think about other than the shithole he was living in and how much he missed his mom.
Then, when Luther got out, Alex was the first one there, waiting at the bus stop, sweet little Sara on his arm. Sara had been a gift from Alex that night, his welcome-home present. Took him places he hadn’t been in six long years.
