“I hope to God you’re right.”
“Twenty minutes,” Donovan said, and hung up.
He took another turn, onto a four-lane highway that stretched back toward the Chicago River. A sea of taillights confronted him, but he didn’t slow down. Instead, he weaved in and out of traffic, making a game of it.
A woman with one face-lift too many throttled the horn of her BMW as he breezed past her and cut in, narrowly missing her front bumper. Another driver showed him the finger as Donovan switched lanes and cut him off, kicking back a torrent of rainwater.
No matter how he tried, he couldn’t get the image of that Polaroid out of his head-Jessie looking so helpless, so vulnerable. The sight of her lying there exposed to Gunderson’s camera made him sick to his stomach. What kind of animal would subject a child to that?
What kind of devil?
Snapping to attention, he realized he was coming up fast on a lumbering SUV. He braked and looked to the right, but the lane was jammed tight. No way to force himself in. Craning his neck, he looked to the left, past the SUV, checking the opposing lane for a break in the oncoming traffic. The river was directly ahead now, cars braking slightly as they approached the bridge that spanned it.
But again Donovan didn’t slow down. Spotting his break, he whipped the wheel, cutting across the double yellow line, letting his fury blind him to the risk he was taking. Picking up speed, he pulled onto the bridge, rainwater spraying out from beneath his tires as he again tried to block the image of Jessie from his mind.
Then, without warning, a large container truck changed lanes up ahead and barreled straight at him, headlights blazing. Donovan gripped the wheel, ready to cut back to his side of the road, but there was no room-he hadn’t yet cleared the SUV.
The truck was coming up way too fast. Donovan hit the brakes and — there it was, a gap in his lane — but just as he turned the wheel, the bottom seemed to drop out of the Chrysler. It hit a puddle and hydroplaned, sending him into a rudderless swerve.
The truck’s horn blasted mournfully as Donovan pumped his brakes and fought the wheel. He struggled to regain some traction, but the street below him seemed to have vanished.
The Chrysler washed diagonally across the oncoming lanes. A chorus of horns blasted through the rain as Donovan spun toward a guardrail. Seeing what was coming, he threw his arms up as if to ward off evil spirits. With a deafening, metallic crash, the Chrysler smashed through the rail and plummeted.
The next thing Donovan knew he was vertical, headed nose first toward the icy blackness of the Chicago River. The surface of the water rose toward him like a wall of cement, shattering the windshield as he hit.
Donovan had just enough time to suck air into his lungs as what felt like subzero water flooded in, hammering him mercilessly. He fumbled for his seat belt, struggling to unhook it as the Chrysler sank like a brick in a well.
A final tug and the latch clicked open. Freeing himself from the harness, he kicked back against the seat, then shot forward through the window frame and swam, his legs and arms pumping furiously toward the surface.
But his lungs could only hold so much air and they were on fire.
Hold on, Jack, hold on. You can make it.
But could he? Not with this current tugging at him. Not with this freezing water slicing deep into his bones, numbing his arms and legs to the point of uselessness.
Not with his lungs about to burst.
He fought with every bit of strength he had, but he knew it wasn’t enough. Not even close.
He’d once read that Harry Houdini had conditioned himself to hold his breath underwater for a full five minutes. But Donovan was no Houdini, and he’d be doing pretty good just to hold his breath for one minute, let alone five.
Sixty-three seconds after the river crashed through his windshield, a final, searing jab of pain claimed Donovan’s lungs, feeling much like Willy Sanchez’s knife to the kidney…
Then everything went black.
Part Three
29
If you had asked him before this moment what he thought about life after death, he would’ve told you it doesn’t exist.
Death, he would have said, is a dark vacuum where all memories cease and all senses are cut off as cleanly and abruptly as the power company switches off electricity to your home.
He had never held the illusion that there was something waiting for him in the great beyond. Heaven and hell were fairy tales, a promise and a warning, created by superstitious men. Religion was nothing more than politics dressed up with symbols and sacraments-and too often used as justification to conquer and control.
He lived in a world where evidence was king, and the promise of life after death had not lived up to scrutiny.
Faith was a sucker’s bet. A fool’s game.
And while he certainly wasn’t perfect, by any means, he’d never been a fool.
Or had he?
When he opened his eyes, he was standing on the bridge. The container truck was gone, as were the cars. And the people driving them. The sky was dark and restless, but the road was dry, no sign of the rain that had washed him away.
The only sound was a distant, howling wind.
In front of him stood a mangled mass of steel that had once been a guardrail, sporting a huge gap where the Chrysler had crashed through.
But if the Chrysler was down there…
… how did he get up here?
Had someone pulled him out?
Moving closer to the gap, he stared at the black river and watched as a body crested the surface of the water like a fishing bobber. Somewhere in the distance, a boat horn gave off three short blasts. A distress signal.
Jesus, he thought, that guy looks dead. I hope they get to him soon.
Then, just as he began to realize, with growing anxiety, that it wasn’t just any body floating in the water-but was, in fact, him — a sudden rush of wind enveloped him and a black, turbulent wormhole opened up overhead.
Something grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him upward. In a few short seconds, both bridge and river were little more than pinpricks below as he was sucked into an endless, swirling corridor of light and sound.
Fear blossomed in the pit of his stomach as a surreal barrage of images hurtled toward him at lightning speed, much too fast to decipher. He sensed that he was seeing his life play out before him, some sort of high-speed chronicle of where he’d been and who he’d known in his thirty-nine years. His parents, his sister, his marriage, Jessie Gunderson…
Above him, at the far end of the corridor, a bright circle of light flickered.
Was it a star of some kind?
All he knew was that there was something compelling about it. And soothing. His fear and apprehension suddenly sifted away as an odd sense of warmth vibrated through his body — a warmth like nothing he’d ever felt before.
There was no pain, no pleasure, just-and this seemed strange, considering the frenzied activity swirling around him-just calm.
Then, the faint murmur of voices filled his head, calling his name, beckoning to him.
Were they coming from the light?
He couldn’t be sure.
Before he had a chance to find out, invisible hands took hold of him again and yanked him toward a shadowy fold in the corridor wall.
He found himself lying on a small patch of earth, staring into darkness.
Pulling himself upright, he looked around, waiting for his eyes to adjust. After only a moment, he could make out the vague shapes of other human beings, their faces gradually becoming clear, full of shell-shocked confusion-a look he was certain reflected his own.
They were surrounded by rocky terrain. The distant mountains looked as sharp and impenetrable as razor wire, and the sky was not simply restless, but somehow threatening. Hungry.