Robert Browne: Kiss Her Goodbye

Her body bucked beneath them, flopping lifelessly, as Donovan watched, his heart in his throat.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please wake up.”

But Jessie remained motionless, no sign of life.

The paramedic shouted, “Clear!” a second time and brought the paddles down, her body again bucking beneath them.

A single moment seemed to stretch into eternity, then suddenly her eyelids fluttered and she stiffened, abruptly coming awake, staring up into Donovan’s eyes as she sucked in precious life.

Everyone around them began cheering and clapping, and in that moment, Donovan felt what seemed like a lifetime of pain leak away.

He’d found her and she was alive.

“Thank you, God,” he said. “Thank you…”

And as tears began to gather in her eyes, he pulled her into his arms and hugged her close, feeling as if he’d never let her go.

The fallout from the hunt for Jessica Lynne Donovan wasn’t pretty.

After forensic tests revealed that the blood on the carpet in Luther’s room at the Wayfarer Inn was indeed Bobby Nemo’s, the Fredrickville sheriff launched a search for an unknown assailant.

When a woman named Carla Devito came forward with some illuminating information, Agent Jack Donovan became the prime suspect.

Sheriff’s investigators concluded that a distraught Donovan had followed Nemo to the motel and, after a particularly brutal interrogation into the whereabouts of his missing daughter, had executed all three men. The removal of Nemo’s body was, they explained, a pathetic attempt to stage the event as a murder-suicide.

Unfortunately, they had a couple of things going against them: no murder weapon and a fairly unimpeachable alibi.

Jack Donovan’s registered firearm, a Glock 19, was, according to all accounts, lying somewhere at the bottom of the Chicago River. No mention was ever made-by Al Cleveland or anyone else-that Donovan had been given a replacement, and a search of his apartment and locker proved to be a complete waste of time and manpower.

The alibi came from Sidney Waxman, who claimed to have been with Donovan for the major part of his surveillance, leaving him only in the wee hours of the morning, shortly after they’d lost Nemo in the rain. Donovan hadn’t asked Sidney to lie for him, and Sidney never explained why he did.

He was, Donovan realized, a better friend than he deserved.

When it turned out that the motel’s owner/manager, one Charles Arthur Kruger, was a registered sex offender known for his fondness for nine-year-old girls, the investigation quickly fell apart due to lack of interest in the law enforcement community.

No prosecutor, particularly one from a nearly bankrupt municipality, was willing to test the reputation of a top-flight ATF agent against that of a stripper and three known, now deceased, felons. Especially when the Feds had made it perfectly clear that they’d rather the whole thing just go away.

Thankfully, the news played up the happier aspects of the case. Father and daughter blissfully reunited as the world watched. Mother and stepfather rushing home from the Caymans to be with their little girl.

As for Donovan, Waxman, and Franky Garcia, their stunt with Bobby Nemo did not sit well with the Treasury Department brass. All three were suspended from duty pending departmental hearings into the matter.

Garcia quit and moved to Hollywood. Waxman suggested to Donovan that they take Garcia’s cue and start their own security consultant firm, a business that would surely be more lucrative than a government job.

But while Donovan didn’t dismiss the idea, he didn’t jump at it either. Right now, all he wanted was time. Time alone with Jessie. And Rachel.

Over the next few weeks, as both Jessie and Donovan struggled to regain their strength, they spent many a night watching The Simpsons together. Jessie was, Donovan discovered, an incredibly brave young woman-certainly scarred by the experience, but not overwhelmed by it. And with her and Rachel’s help, he managed to overcome the guilt he’d carried with him for so long.

Guilt about Jessie. The divorce.

And about his sister’s suicide.

Lead with your heart, Jack.

Glass half full.

I ’m going to bed,” Jessie said.

It was nearly two months since the rescue and Jessie was staying for the weekend. She and Rachel had just finished a game of gin rummy, Rachel the victor. Jessie rose from the sofa, stretching her arms and yawning.

Donovan, who sat in his favorite armchair working a crossword puzzle-one he fully intended to finish-looked up at her.

Her therapist had told him she was making good progress, but, to Donovan, she still looked frail. Vulnerable.

“It’s kinda early,” he said. “You feeling okay?”

Jessie heaved an exasperated sigh. “I’m fine, Dad. Rachel, will you please tell soon-to-be-ex-agent Donovan here to stop worrying about me all the time?”

“A lot of good it’ll do,” Rachel said, gathering up the cards. “You go on to bed. I’ll keep him occupied.” She reached across and stroked Donovan’s knee.

“Gross,” Jessie said, then leaned down and gave Donovan a hug. “Love you, Dad.”

The words were like a song. He smiled. “Me, too, kiddo.”

Watching her head toward her room, he thought about what they’d been through and how deeply he loved her.

She was fine. She’d be okay. There was nothing to worry about.

A year from now, that prom photo he’d wondered about as he stood inside Grandma Luke’s apartment would adorn his mantel. And many more would follow.

The nightmare was over.

Finally over.

Jessie lay in bed, unable to sleep, wondering if she should tell her father about the headaches. They’d become more frequent lately, and stronger. And after all that had happened, all that she’d survived, she wondered if fate was playing the irony card, giving her a big fat tumor.

She could see the headline now: RESCUED GIRL SUCCUMBS TO BRAIN CANCER.

Get a grip, Jess. You’re overreacting.

The headaches were merely the result of tension and anxiety. Nothing more.

But she hadn’t told her therapist about them either.

Despite her brave front, Jessie wasn’t nearly as strong as she pretended to be. Or as happy, for that matter. When she could sleep, she often dreamed of her time on the other side, of the few moments she’d spent there before the paramedics had brought her back. Most of it was lost in a haze, but she couldn’t help wondering if the headaches were somehow related.

Massaging her skull, she tried wishing the pain away, but it did no good. It was bound to get worse before it got better.

Realizing this was going to be another long night, that she’d never get to sleep, she climbed out of bed and went to the dresser. Pulling open the top drawer, she dug past a few layers of panties and pulled out her secret stash: a can of air freshener and a pack of Marlboros.

Maybe she’d go for lung cancer instead.

Shaking one out, she lit up the cigarette and inhaled deeply, instantly feeling her headache subside.

Ahh. Just what she’d needed.

Exhaling, she spritzed the air with freshener and studied her reflection in the dresser mirror, noting with mild surprise how dark and lifeless her eyes looked.

It was almost as if they belonged to someone else.

Taking another deep drag, she exhaled, spritzed the air again, then slowly smiled at herself and said:

“Give us a kiss.”