“Don’t start thinking like that. This is all Gunderson.”
“Is it?” He looked up at her now. “I knew what he was. I should’ve protected her. If I was any kind of father…”
“Stop,” Rachel said. She moved around to his side of the desk, perched on the edge. “Let’s just concentrate on finding Jessie.” She reached over and squeezed his shoulder, a gesture of comfort, but somehow more than that. “You will find her.”
Donovan nodded absently, but she could sense that he didn’t quite believe it.
“When I was in that train car,” he said, “Gunderson asked me how it felt knowing I’d abandoned my own daughter. What do you say to a question like that? Truth is, when Jessie needed me most, I let her down. Made her feel like she didn’t matter.”
“For God sakes, Jack, quit beating yourself up. You’ve changed things, you’ve tried to make up for it. None of us can claim sainthood.”
He stared at her a moment, offered her a wan smile. “Guess I’m way beyond grumpy now.”
She returned the smile, held his gaze.
He didn’t look away.
Then the door flew open and Sidney Waxman burst in, flushed with excitement. “We just got a call from CPD.”
They both looked up.
“They found the Suburban.”
26
It was raining when he got there. The weather reports had promised a presummer storm, but nobody had believed it until the first drops started falling.
By the time Donovan was on the road and headed across town, his wipers were churning full blast. He couldn’t help feeling as if he’d stepped into an old movie, where the weather always served to underscore the main character’s mood. All he needed to top things off was the plaintive wail of a jazz trumpet.
The Suburban was parked at the side of a narrow, two-lane road about fifty yards from a highway underpass. It sat next to an empty parking lot that was surrounded by a chain-link fence. A faded, rain-drenched banner across the fence said ALL DAY PARKING — $6.50.
The other side of the road held a couple of forties-era Quonset huts with roll-up doors: JUNIOR’S AUTO BODY. A handful of cars in various stages of disrepair were parked out front.
Before the night was over, someone from the Chicago Police Department would be contacting both the parking lot attendant and Junior’s team of fender pounders to check if anyone had witnessed the Suburban being dropped off. There was only a thin hope they’d have anything significant to offer, but it had to be done.
The street itself was crowded with patrol cars and cops in yellow rain slickers, the crime-scene carnival at full tilt. The Suburban sat with its doors hanging open, protected from the rain by a canvas canopy, as forensic technicians went through it with meticulous care.
Donovan watched them as he pulled up, knowing they wouldn’t find much. A few cigarette butts, a couple of stray candy-bar wrappers. Judging by the litter in Gunderson’s train car, he’d been addicted to both chocolate and nicotine, two demons Donovan himself had never fallen prey to.
He killed his engine and got out. A uniformed cop stood nearby, clutching a handful of leashes, straining to hold back a pack of search dogs.
A voice called out behind him. “Agent Donovan?”
Donovan turned as a lanky plainclothes detective carrying an umbrella approached.
“Ron Stallard,” he said, shaking Donovan’s hand. “Just heard about A.J. Can’t believe it. Under any other circumstances I’d be celebrating Gunderson’s send-off with an Irish coffee and a big fat cigar.”
Donovan nodded, involuntarily summoning up the image of A.J.’s mutilated corpse. It was an image he’d just as soon relegate to a part of his brain he never used, but he knew it would take him a while to get it there. In the meantime, he had no desire to talk about it, even if Stallard did. Better to stick to the business at hand. “You got anything for me?”
Stallard seemed to sense Donovan’s mood and didn’t push it. Reaching under his raincoat, he brought out an oversized evidence bag containing a blue cardigan sweater. A machine-stitched Bellanova Prep logo was visible beneath the plastic. “Found this in the Suburban. Your daughter’s?”
Donovan nodded again. The first time he’d seen Jessie wearing it, he’d complained that it was half a size too small, a comment that had provoked an exasperated sigh.
“Rain’s a bitch,” Stallard said. “But it looks like the dogs’ve managed to pick up the scent.”
Donovan felt his heart accelerate. “So what the hell are we waiting for?”
The dogs led them straight to the underpass. They barked and whimpered, dragging their handler behind them, as Donovan and Stallard followed. The underpass was high and twice as wide as the road, a nice respite from the rain. Its cement walls were scarred by graffiti-names, gang symbols, and crude drawings of male and female genitalia lit up by their roaming flashlight beams.
Traffic crawled by overhead, stalled by the sight of all the cop cars and flashing lights below. Horns honked, echoing faintly through the underpass.
The men said nothing as they walked. Donovan’s heart pounded in his chest, anticipation pumping through his veins like a hit of speedball. Could it be this simple? Could Jessie really be here somewhere?
They were nearing the middle of the underpass when Waxman and Cleveland caught up to them, raincoats dripping.
“Where you been?” Donovan asked. “I thought you left right after me.”
Waxman grunted. “A coupla honchos from D.C. showed up just as we were about to leave. Making a lot of noise.”
“What kind of noise?”
“The kind you don’t need to hear right now.”
“Give me a little credit, Sidney.”
Waxman sighed. “They wanted details on what happened between you and Fogerty. Had questions about your state of mind.”
“And?”
“I get the feeling they’re thinking about putting you out to pasture on this. They even brought a Bureau psychologist along.”
“Jesus,” Donovan said.
“For what it’s worth,” Stallard told him, “you’re quite the celebrity back at the house.”
“Meaning?”
“The tune job you did on Fogerty. That’s something a lot of us have wanted to do for a long, long time.”
The dogs came to an abrupt stop at a large manhole, barking and sniffing and scratching at the cover. Stallard gestured for the dog handler to back off. The cop jerked their leashes and led them away.
Donovan gestured to Waxman and Cleveland. “Give me a hand with this.”
The three men crouched and tugged at the manhole cover, but it was wedged in tight and refused to budge.
“Anybody got a pry bar?” Waxman asked.
Cleveland grunted. “What d’ya bet we’d find one in the Suburban?”
“Fuck that,” Stallard said, joining in. They kept at it, huffing and straining until the cover finally scraped free. They dropped it to the blacktop, the heavy clang bouncing off the underpass walls.
Donovan shone his flashlight into the hole. A rusted metal ladder disappeared into blackness.
He knew exactly where it led.
“Freight tunnel,” he said, then slipped the flashlight into his coat pocket and climbed onto the ladder. “You boys wait here.”
“Easy,” Cleveland told him. “If Gunderson was down there, it could be booby-trapped.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
Donovan started down, then stopped a moment to look up at Waxman. “Tell your buddies from D.C. if they think they’re getting me off this, they’re the ones who need that psychologist.”
The Chicago tunnel system was built in the early 1900s, when the country was in the midst of a great electric-railway boom. Sixty-two miles of intersecting tunnel and track were laid forty feet below street level in hopes that businesses citywide would utilize the system to haul coal, ashes, mail, and assorted dry goods. Pint-size locomotives ran day and night, chugging beneath the city like worms in dirt.
It was, however, an interesting idea that never quite worked, largely because getting the freight into the tunnels in the first place was a labor-intensive pain in the ass. It made more sense to throw the freight onto a truck and drive it across town…
The Chicago Tunnel Company teetered on the verge of bankruptcy for several decades until it finally gave up and abandoned the tunnels in 1959.
Since then, a handful of the drifts had been refurbished and used by ComEd to stretch electric cable to its customers. The rest were left to neglect. Access to the system was restricted and scattered throughout the city, mostly via manhole, but here and there you’d find a building that had a freight elevator connected to the tunnels.
Donovan knew this because one of his first assignments as a uniformed cop was to patrol certain accessible sections of the tunnels to make sure no trespassers were skulking around.
It didn’t surprise him that the trail from the Suburban led down here. He was convinced that Gunderson and his crew had used the tunnels to avoid capture after the Northland First amp; Trust robbery.
The ladder descended into the blackest darkness Donovan had ever known. Dropping to the ground, he silently cursed as he sank ankle deep into icy water.
Scavengers had long ago stripped the tunnel system clean, taking the much needed reciprocating pumps along with them. Without the pumps, rain and river water had seeped into several of the drifts and remained there, stagnating.
The water sloshed, echoing through the darkness, as Donovan turned and took his flashlight out, flicked it on.
He was in middle of a grand union, a three-way intersection of tunnels. The tunnels were no more than seven feet high, probably less than that in width, and made of nonrein-forced concrete.
The question was, which one to take?
His shoes sucked mud as he moved. Lifting a foot out of the water, he shone his light on it, wondering if this was where Gunderson had picked up the mud on his work boots. Could he have been making preparations down here before he grabbed Jessie?
The mud might explain the boot prints on the bus-but what about the fertilizer? Where had it come from?
Maybe A.J. had been right, maybe Gunderson had been cooking up a combustible, and Donovan wondered if he should take Al Cleveland’s warning a little more seriously. Like the train yard, this place might be booby-trapped.
Yet, as he moved forward, fanning the narrow beam of his flashlight over the seamless tunnel walls, he felt no threat. Except for the mud and the water and the missing trolley wire that had been stripped away by scavengers, the place seemed undisturbed. He doubted much had changed down here since the system was abandoned. And despite Gunderson’s love of explosives, the idea of a booby trap just didn’t feel right.
Not here, at least.
So what, then, was this all about? Why had the scent from Jessie’s sweater led him here? Gunderson had told him that she was buried somewhere. Had he been speaking only figuratively? If so, forty feet below street level would certainly qualify.
But what about the oxygen tanks? The air down here was cool and a bit musty, but plentiful enough to keep someone alive. So why had Gunderson warned that Jessie would soon be gasping for breath?
It didn’t make sense.
As Donovan stood there, trying to puzzle it out, the slosh of the murky water gradually subsided and he thought he heard a sound.
He stood perfectly still. Listened.
Yes.
It was faint and muffled, coming from somewhere far off. It sounded like…
Like someone crying.
Donovan’s heart kicked up a notch. Jessie?
He wanted to move, to spring into action, but the noise of the splashing water would make it impossible to determine which direction the sound was coming from.
He shone his light toward the two adjoining drifts, wishing he had the dogs down here to pick up Jessie’s scent. Listening intently, he tried to trace the source of the sound and finally settled on the tunnel to his left, knowing he could double back if he had to.
He pressed forward, traveling several yards into it, feeling the floor beneath him angle downward. He sank deeper into the water as he progressed, until it was nearly at waist level. The crying grew louder with each step.
It was Jessie. He was sure of it.
Who else could it be?
The burial, the oxygen tanks, were a lie. Gunderson had been playing him, that’s all. Instead of putting her into the ground, he’d left Jessie alone down here-cold, frightened, and unable to find her way out in the dark.
The crying was still muffled, but he was close enough to recognize her voice.
“Jessie!” he shouted, sweeping the flashlight beam wildly.
The crying continued unabated.
“Jessie, it’s me! It’s Dad! Can you hear me?”
No answer. Just the crying.
Donovan tried to pick up speed, but the water was like a living force, slowing him down. He half expected something dark and malevolent to reach up and grab his legs.
Then all at once he was at the end of the tunnel, blocked by a concrete bulkhead. The bulkhead housed a steel door that looked like something from a German U-boat. Doors like this had been placed in the drifts that dipped under the river. A safety precaution in case of a collapse.
The crying came from beyond the door.
“Jessie, can you hear me?”
No response.
“Jessie?”
She was probably in shock. Possibly drugged.
“Hang on, kiddo. I’ll have you out of there in a heartbeat.”
Clenching the slender barrel of the flashlight between his teeth, Donovan gripped the wheel mounted in the center of the door and — Al Cleveland’s warning flashed through his mind again:
Booby-trapped.
What if the thing was booby-trapped?
He froze, stopping just short of turning the wheel. Grabbing the flashlight, he shone it along the seam of the door, looking for telltale wires.
Nothing.
The lower half of the door was submerged in at least three feet of water. Popping the flashlight between his teeth again, he crouched, sinking to his shoulders, a pungent stench filling his nostrils as he ran his hands along the seam.
No wires. No molded bits of plastique. No signs of anything unusual. Satisfied, he stood up, his clothes now plastered to his skin, the chilly air enveloping him.
Jessie’s sobs continued unbroken.
“I’m coming, kiddo, I’m coming.”
Donovan shivered. There was a chance that Gunderson had rigged the other side of the door, but he decided to trust his initial instincts.
He grabbed hold of the wheel.
It groaned as he spun it three-quarters of a turn, then a latch clicked and the seal was broken.
So far so good.
He pulled on the door and the water around him began to swirl, shifting toward the adjoining tunnel, where it remained at waist level.
Jessie’s sobs were much clearer now. Very close.
He shone the Maglite into the darkness. “Jessie?”
Still no response.
As he crossed the threshold, his left foot got caught on something solid and he stumbled, plunging face-first into the murky liquid. Momentarily seized by panic, he did a quick half twist, then found the floor and stood up, drenched now from head to toe.
Sonofabitch.
The flashlight flickered, threatening to go out. Donovan banged it against the heel of his hand, brought it back to life.
Jessie’s cries were behind him now.
Turning, he shone the light back the way he’d come. “Jess, where are you?”
The crying continued.
He swept the beam from side to side. The walls were rougher here, still bearing the impression of the wooden arches that formed the tunnel, as if the final coat of cement had never been applied.
Jessie was nowhere in sight, yet the crying continued.
“Talk to me, Jess. Say s
omething.”
Still nothing.
“Goddammit, Jessie, where the hell…”
Then it struck Donovan. Now that he was this close, now that he was past the barrier that had muffled Jessie’s sobs, there was something odd about the sound.
An unreal, hollow quality.
The bulkhead door clanged shut and he immediately shot the Mag beam toward it, saw a flash of blue and white just above it: clothing hanging from a rusty piece of trolley wire.
A skirt and blouse.
The rest of Jessie’s uniform.
Donovan pushed toward them and ripped them free, feeling something hard and weighty as the blouse fell into his hands. Jamming his fingers into the pocket, he brought out a digital recorder, the kind reporters use for on-the-spot interviews-the kind with a built-in microphone and speaker.
Donovan shone his light on it. The tiny LED readout said it was set to repeat mode. Jessie’s sobs rose from the speaker, vibrating against his hand.
Heart sinking, he felt something else in the pocket and dipped his fingers in, bringing out a single Polaroid photograph.
It was Jessie, naked, feet and hands duct-taped, staring into the camera with wide, terrified eyes. She was lying inside a crude wooden coffin, an oxygen mask covering her nose and mouth.
And written on the narrow border of the photograph in neat block letters were the words:
NICE TRY, HOTSHOT
NO CIGAR
27
Wake up, Jessie.
Jessie… wake uhhh-up.
… Jessie?
She awoke to rain.
It was faint, but unmistakable-even through the wood and God knew how many layers of dirt piled on top of it: the muffled, but steady tattoo of water against-what?
Metal of some kind? Aluminum, maybe.
It didn’t matter. It was raining and she could hear it, and that one small link to the real world was enough to make her realize that she was still alive, still had a chance. She just hoped the water didn’t seep down here. She was already shivering.
Then she thought about how thirsty she was and changed her mind. Any kind of liquid would do right now. Even dirty rainwater.
Kiss Her Goodbye Page 11