Robert Browne: Kiss Her Goodbye

The connection was solid.

Gunderson howled, grabbing himself, and fell back.

Donovan choked and coughed, sucking air into his lungs. Rolling over, he got up on his hands and knees, then staggered to his feet.

He glanced toward Gunderson, expecting to find him curled up in a fetal position — but Gunderson wasn’t there.

And before Donovan could pull himself fully upright, a boot connected with his ribs, jolting him with pain, knocking him down again. Looking up at the sky, he found Gunderson silhouetted against it, circling like a predator.

“Not bad, hotshot. You’re starting to catch on. Unfortunately, it’s too little too late.”

He punctuated his words with another kick to the ribs.

“You see, Jack, while you’re still trying not to piss all over yourself, I’m already hitting the bowl.”

Donovan struggled to get up, but another kick sent him sprawling.

Gunderson continued circling. “You should’ve seen Sara the day we met. She was a lot like your little pea pod-all ripe and ready to wear. What do you think a mind like hers would be able to do with a sweet fifteen-year-old body?”

Donovan tried to catch his breath. “… What are you talking about?”

Gunderson smiled. “I didn’t take Jessie just to piss you off, Jack. That’d be a tad shallow, don’t you think? I had plans for her from the very beginning.”

“What plans?”

“Ever hear of a little thing called controlled metempsychosis?”

Donovan shook his head.

“It’s just a bullshit word for a very simple process: the transmigration of souls.”

Donovan suddenly remembered the conversation he’d had with Bobby Nemo. About Gunderson’s stoned monologues on reincarnation, mind control, the swapping of souls…

“Most religions believe in transmigration,” Gunderson said. “Even the Christians were into it before they got civilized. But my nasty old aunt, as crazy as she was, always believed it was a lot more than religious psychobabble. She was convinced that there were certain people in the world-people like you and Jessie-who, with the right conditioning, could be used as vessels for migrant souls. Kind of like a car with the driver’s door hanging open and the key in the ignition.” Another smile. “Guess she wasn’t so crazy after all.”

Donovan tried to rise again and got another boot to the ribs. Pain blossomed and he clutched his side.

“Unfortunately,” Gunderson said, “that fat fuck cop put a stop to the wheels before they really got rolling. And I gotta tell you, I thought the coins had let me down.”

“Coins?” Donovan had no idea what Gunderson was talking about.

“The I Ching, Jack. The Book of Changes. You really need to expand your mind.” There was a flicker of disgust in Gunderson’s eyes, then he continued, “So after the cop did his deed, I had to improvise, and, surprise, surprise, the coins weren’t wrong after all. Turns out the improv is so much better than the original.”

The boot came up again, knocking Donovan backward.

“While you were incapacitated last night, I was a busy, busy boy. Stopped by to see Sara. Her nurse tried to bitch me out of there, but I hung around long enough to give her a message.”

Donovan could barely breathe. “A message?”

“She may look dead to the world, but she’s still got a channel or two on receive mode. You just gotta know how to tune her in.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Nothing special. Just that we have a prime opportunity here. A chance to start over. And just as I expected, you took the bait. Now, the first order of business in my shiny new, federally franchised body is to pay Sara another visit.” He grinned. “And pull the plug.”

The sparks from the abyss were reflected in his eyes. “Invasion of the Body Snatchers, Part Two, hotshot. Leave no child behind. It might take us a while to get over the father-daughter thing, but I think we’ll manage. Don’t you?”

Wong was smoking another cigarette, thinking he might actually be able to make his student-loan payment this month, when the girl said, “He blinked.”

Wong jerked his head toward her boyfriend on the table. Motionless.

He looked up at the girl. Damn, she was cute.

“Impossible,” he said. “He ain’t taking an afternoon nap.”

“I swear I saw his eyelids flicker.”

She’d been on edge ever since she’d stepped foot in the room. Now she was getting agitated. She was also seeing things.

“Situation like this,” he said, “sometimes your imagination gets the better of you.”

“No. Something’s wrong. Bring him back.”

Wong checked his watch. “He’s still got a couple-”

“Bring him back,” she said, her voice rising.

There was a fierceness in her tone that Wong wasn’t about to argue with. Cute, but no pushover. He liked that.

Doffing an imaginary cap, he said, “I aim to please,” then stubbed out his cigarette and went to work.

Clutching his battered ribs, Donovan struggled to get to his feet, but the celery sticks were back, as rubbery as ever.

Focus, Jack. You did it once, you can do it again.

Donovan may not have been much of a father, was certainly a failure as a family man, but one thing he’d always excelled at was shutting out the world around him and focusing in on the task at hand. Why should it be any different now?

Willing strength into his legs, he pulled himself upright and stood. He swayed slightly, but the harder he concentrated, the steadier he got.

Gunderson circled toward him. “Like I said, Barney. Too little, too late.”

And all at once, he was gone — only to appear, a split second later, behind Donovan. But Donovan hadn’t missed it this time, had sensed the move before Gunderson made it. He wheeled around and blocked another blow to his ribs, then immediately countered with a backhand to the jaw, once again feeling the solid connection of tissue against bone.

Gunderson reeled, stumbling back, but caught himself, steadied his feet. Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he found blood. “You should play tennis, Jack. That’s a helluva backhand.”

Behind Donovan, the abyss crackled and sparked hungrily.

“Unfortunately for you,” Gunderson said, “it’s forty-love and I’ve got the serve.”

He brought his hands up, holding his palms outward.

A sound rose in Donovan’s ears, like a thousand bees swarming inside his head. What looked like a ripple in the surface of the air emanated from Gunderson’s palms, radiating straight toward him.

It hit him with the force of a small tsunami. His feet flew out from under him and he felt himself falling backward — straight into the abyss.

Rachel watched Wong work, his hands roaming over Jack’s chest and head, finding and massaging pressure points.

For the first time today, Wong looked worried.

Nothing was happening.

“What’s wrong?”

“He’s not responding. If anything, he seems to have gone deeper.”

“What? What does that mean?”

“Shut up and let me concentrate.”

He continued to massage Jack’s chest, then suddenly balled his fists and pounded on it. “Pump, you piece of shit!”

“The defibrillator,” Rachel said. “Use the defibrillator.”

Wong glanced at the ancient machine. “You’re kidding me, right? Thing hasn’t been fired up in decades.”

“What?”

“It’s part of the sales pitch. I tell every client the same goddamn thing. I’ve just never seen one go this deep before.”

“You son of a bitch,” Rachel said, crossing to the defibrillator. She found the plug and shoved it into a nearby socket. Grabbing the paddles, she searched the control panel for the power switch and flicked it on.