mirror.
Climbing onto the driver’s seat of the Chrysler, Donovan found the keys in the ignition. He was about to start the engine when the sight of the in-dash ashtray stopped him.
It hung open, nearly overflowing with cigarette butts. Their filters were torn off.
What the hell?
Had someone else been in the car with him?
Then he remembered the craving he’d felt as he’d waited outside Carla Devito’s apartment building. The intense desire to light up a Marlboro. Judging by the taste in his mouth, he was the one who had smoked all these cigarettes.
But how could that be?
His cell phone bleated, startling him. Fumbling through his coat pockets, he found it, flicked it open. Hesitated. “Donovan.”
Or should he have said Reed?
“Where you been all night?” Waxman barked. “I must’ve called you a hundred times in the last couple hours.”
Donovan was reeling. A spike of nausea assaulted him. “I, uh… I–I must’ve turned my phone off.”
“Nice going, genius. You better get your ass out here to Fredrickville, pronto. The Wayfarer Inn.”
Donovan’s gut tightened involuntarily. “What’s going on?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
Donovan felt like a drunk who’d had one too many on the golf course, only to wake up in a four-by-five jail cell with a fresh new shiner adorning his face. The last few hours were a complete, impenetrable blank.
“Jack? You still there? I got some news you aren’t gonna like.”
He wasn’t liking much of anything right now. He braced himself. “What is it?”
“We found Luther. He’s DOA.”
Before Donovan could respond, a horn blared-a blast so loud and long it startled a flock of pigeons perched on a nearby telephone line.
Lucille Baker had lost her patience.
46
The Wayfarer Inn looked even worse in the daylight. An oblong box with peeling blue paint, a row of dilapidated doors, windows sporting stained curtains.
The parking lot was host to a Crown Victoria convention. More cars than it had seen in over a decade. Sheriff’s cruisers. Unmarked federals. Coroner’s van.
Donovan pulled in and found a spot near a stretch of crime-scene tape, dread bubbling in his stomach as he stared out at the mix of uniformed and plainclothes cops flowing in and out of an open doorway.
What the hell had happened last night?
He thought about the headache, and the odd, erratic glimpses into Gunderson’s mind. He thought about the previous night, his plunge into the river, those few minutes that seemed like hours, stranded beneath a black, turbulent sky as Gunderson reached for him, grabbing his face.
Give us a kiss.
He remembered the serpentine tongue, the heat of Gunderson’s breath burrowing deep into his chest like an invading force, an aggressive, ravenous parasite.
Could it have been more than just a kiss?
Was it possible that Gunderson…
No, Jack, don’t even think it. That’s crazy talk. Follow that whacked-out train of thought and before you know it the men in white will be scooping you up to take you straight to the booby hatch.
Wacky Jacky’s adventures on the other side.
“Hey, Jack! Over here!” Waxman stood near the open motel-room doorway.
Fighting to steady his nerves, Donovan cut the Chrysler’s engine and climbed out. Glancing down, he noticed his shoes were caked with dried mud.
Yet another mystery.
He tapped them against a tire to knock the mud loose, then crossed through the maze of cars. Waxman gave him the once-over as he approached. “You look like hell.”
“I love you, too,” Donovan said.
“Gotta make this quick. Brass could be here any minute, and if they see you nosing around, they’re gonna go ballistic. As it is, our little stunt with Nemo will probably land us both on the unemployment line.”
“Where’s Luther?”
Waxman handed him a pair of gloves and white cotton shoe covers. “Let’s go inside.”
Donovan slipped them on, then stepped through the doorway to find a dingy motel room with decades-old furniture and threadbare yellow carpet, the air ripe with decay.
The place looked vaguely familiar:
Pizza box on the dresser. Carpet stained with blood and vomit.
There were two beds in the room, the far one missing a bedspread. Crime-scene techs hovered around the one closest to the door, where a man about the size of a house was curled up in the fetal position, a gelatinous mass of bloody flesh where the back of his head used to be.
Donovan recognized the paisley shirt.
“Charlie Kruger,” Waxman said. “Manager and part owner of this wonderful establishment. Why he’s in here is anybody’s guess.” He gestured to the blood on the carpet. “Looks like the assailant put a couple in Kruger’s legs, then Kruger stumbled to the bed, collapsed, and got a bullet to the head for his trouble.”
Donovan looked at the stained carpet, then shifted his gaze to the bed. “I don’t see a trail.”
Waxman shrugged. “So sue me. I’m no homicide whiz. But if that isn’t Kruger’s blood, we’re short a body.”
“What about Luther?”
“We’ll get to him in a minute. First I wanna know what the hell happened with you and Nemo last night.”
Donovan looked around at the crime-scene techs. Sensing his hesitation, Waxman nodded toward a corner of the room. They moved into a huddle, keeping their voices low.
“Well?”
Donovan knew he had a choice. He could tell Waxman the truth-that the last few hours had been sucked into a deep black hole-or he could lie.
“I lost him,” he said.
“Lost him?”
“Everything was working like we planned. He went to Carla’s apartment looking for his stash, swallowed the bait, told her he was going after Luther.”
“And?”
“I started a tail, got caught by the rain, and lost him. Spent half the night looking for him, but couldn’t catch a break. You and Rachel were right. I was so exhausted by then I wound up pulling to the side of the road and crawled into the backseat. That’s where I was when you called me.”
“Explains the suit,” Waxman said. “You didn’t think about clueing me in?”
“It was late and I was out of it. You may have noticed I haven’t exactly been thinking straight.”
“No shit, Sherlock. What was he driving?”
“Who?”
“Nemo. Who else?”
“A Honda Del Sol. Carla’s car.”
“You know the tag number?”
“Not offhand,” Donovan said. “You’re thinking Nemo did this?”
