At all costs

by John Gilstrap

  Travis turned his back on her to stare down at the road some more.

  Jake watched it all, without a word, respecting the boy’s right to be angry. As husband and father, he wanted to go to them both, to somehow soothe their pain, but he sensed the uselessness of it. Pain was likely to become a big part of their lives, and to get through it, each would have to find their own way to cope. This wasn’t a time for emotions. Maybe later, but not now. This was a time for rational thinking; for action. It was about survival now, not about feelings. Carolyn knew this as well as he, but she refused to stay strong.

  This all had to happen one day, and here it was. This particular brand of resentment was all new to Travis, though. He was only just now tapping into its deeper levels, and as he did, he said hurtful, hateful things. But it would pass, Jake was sure. And if it didn’t, so be it. May his son live long enough to resent him for a hundred years. Fact was, even a century of hate from his son couldn’t begin to match the hatred Jake felt for himself.

  As his vision blurred to a mass of autumn colors, Jake turned his attention back to the business at hand and began to slide bullet after bullet into his last spare magazine.

  By six o’clock, the sun was gone, and a chill returned to the air, driving the Donovans once again into their jackets. The dampness which had felt so soothing in the warmth now brought shivers and misery. Carolyn had thought to stuff a goody bag with crackers and cans of tuna fish before they ditched the van, but forgot to grab a can opener. Thank God for Swiss Army knives.

  Police activity up and down the road had died to practically nothing over the past five hours, luring everyone into a sense of security which Jake warned repeatedly was only an illusion. Each time conversation became animated, or the volume rose, he shushed them. Nothing serious was discussed during those hours, beyond catching Travis up on the real details of his heritage. It was as if they’d declared a silent truce, in which the only rule of engagement was not to engage the present or the future. That left them with only the past-well-worn, benign stories of Travis’s childhood.

  Come nine o’clock, it was time to move out, each of them carrying a bag of something. Travis offered to carry the cash but was relegated instead to hefting the extra food and clothes.

  “Mom’s in charge of the money, just like always,” Travis observed, earning himself a playful shot to the head.

  Darkness proved a formidable adversary as they picked their way cautiously toward the road, down the side of the hill. Loose rocks and coiled vines made footing treacherous, reaching out in the dark to force a fall. Excepting some dusty backsides, they all made it down without incident.

  One of the challenges Jake had feared most was crossing the highway in the open to get to the far side, where the terrain was considerably flatter. A trio of people traveling by foot in the dark was bound to raise suspicion. As it turned out, the road was clear, and they crossed easily, dashing to the cover of the tree line on the other side. From there, they once again battled with darkness to walk the remaining three-quarters of a mile to the end of their journey.

  By eleven-thirty, they were in position, more or less directly across the street from the pickup point. They huddled fifteen or twenty feet inside the tree line, invisible in the mottled moon shadows, and watched as the occasional car passed in front of the sheer rock face that defined the opposite shoulder of the road. Now, if they could just get warm…

  After a day of being patient, the last half hour felt longer than the previous half day. No one spoke now, each choosing instead to listen to the stillness of the night-trying in vain to hear the hum of an approaching engine through the vibrating chorus of night creatures. As a single raccoon foraged for his dinner in a nearby drainage ditch, no one moved. A screech owl pierced the night with its haunting imitation of a crying child.

  “Jesus Christ,” Jake hissed, checking his watch. The luminescent green hands and numbers seemed exceptionally bright. “Where is this guy? He’s late.”

  Carolyn gave him a disapproving glare. “What time is it?”

  “Eleven fifty-seven.”

  “Then he’s not late,” Travis whispered, stealing his mother’s thunder. “He said midnight sharp. It’s not midnight yet.”

  “Close enough,” Jake grumped.

  “Relax, Jake,” Carolyn said, a surprisingly calm tone masking her racing heart and fragile nerves. “Harry won’t let us down.”

  Three minutes later, straight-up at midnight, a late-model white Cadillac pulled to a stop across the street, about a hundred yards short of them. “That’s it!” Jake whispered. “Let’s go.” He tried to step forward, but Carolyn and Travis pulled him back by his jacket.

  “Not yet,” Travis scolded. “He hasn’t lit his cigarette. Uncle Harry said to wait for the cigarette.”

  Jake pulled his jacket out of their hands. “Oh, for crying out loud. It’s him! How many white cars do you think are scheduled to show up at this spot precisely at midnight? Jesus!”

  “But Harry’s instructions were exact!” Carolyn protested. “He said to wait until…”

  Jake was done listening. He was tired, and he was wet. For the last thirty-six hours, he’d done nothing but follow Carolyn’s orders. Do this. Do that. Stop here. Don’t stop here. He was sick of it! Soon, he’d have Mr. Congeniality, Harry Sinclair, to deal with, too.

  He hefted the two money bags and started for the car.

  Fighting the urge to duck and dash around shadows, he opted to stroll out of the woods as normally as possible for the benefit of anyone who might be watching. Halfway there, he turned and beckoned for his family to join him, amazed at how thoroughly the shadows obliterated their images. He motioned, yet they didn’t move.

  “Come on!” he whisper-shouted. “Let’s get this over with!” He waved at them one more time and they finally emerged from their camouflage, looking anxiously over both shoulders as they scurried to join him.

  “Relax, Carolyn. You look like you just robbed a bank.”

  “I feel like I just robbed a bank.” She sounded close to tears. “I don’t like this. Harry said…”

  Carolyn fell silent, and they stopped dead in their tracks as the Cadillac pulled smoothly away from the narrow shoulder.

  “What the hell is he doing?” Jake gasped. He fought the urge to call after him.

  Then they saw it. First, as a wash of headlights, then as a blue and white Ford with a light bar. West Virginia State Police.

  “Oh, shit!” Jake hissed. “It’s a setup.”

  “No!” Carolyn insisted. “Not from Harry.”

  “What are we gonna do?” Travis whined.

  They were completely out in the open, too far from the tree line to make it back without being seen. Whatever they were going to do, they had to get it done in the next five seconds, or this would all be over. “The ditch!” Jake declared, pointing.

  Moving as one, they dashed the three steps to the drainage ditch that ran parallel to the road, and dove in, sliding face-first in the gooey runoff and road trash.

  Jake thought his chest might explode as he lay there, his eyes closed tight against the fear, listening as the cruiser drove past. If the cop spotted them, they were done. Even his gun was useless. He couldn’t get to it in time for it to do any good.

  No one moved, even after the sound of the engine disappeared. A good minute passed before Travis broke the silence. “Is he gone?”

  Jake sneaked his head above the ditch and slipped his hand to the grip of his pistol. Nothing but empty road, twisting out of sight in both directions. “Clear,” he announced at a whisper. “Back to the trees!”

  Jake grabbed Carolyn’s hand, and she grabbed Travis’s as they scurried back to the shadows and collapsed into the bushes.

  “Oh, my God,” Carolyn breathed. “I told you to wait!” She hit Jake in the chest, hard enough to hurt.

  He said nothing. When you’re right, you’re right.

  “Do you think he saw us?” Travis whined.

 
“No,” Carolyn said unequivocally.

  Jake wasn’t so sure. “I don’t know. Even if he saw us, he might not have stopped. We’re armed and dangerous, remember?”

  No one was sure what to do next. Their ride was gone, the police were cruising the area, and they were stuck in the middle of nowhere at midnight, without transportation. Five minutes passed.

  “Do you think he’s coming back?” Jake asked.

  “Who, the cop or our ride?”

  Jake shrugged. “Pick one.”

  Again, Travis answered for his mom. “I’m guessing: ride, yes; cop, not for a while.”

  Jake rumpled his hair, drawing an annoyed look. “I like the way you think.” Two more minutes passed. Then three. Then five. “This isn’t good,” Jake whispered.

  When Carolyn and Travis both missed their cue to argue, Jake’s spirits slipped even further. Suddenly, capture seemed imminent. And what exactly would capture mean? Certain jail time, he figured, for decades, at least, if not life-or maybe even death. For the first time in years, Jake’s mind recalled a tour he’d taken of a police station back when he was a Cub Scout-maybe ten years old. The best part of the tour had been the weapons locker, with all the rifles, pistols, and shotguns lined up like soldiers at attention; but the tour also included a peek at the detention cells, with their peeling paint and their metal beds and their toilets without any privacy. Even after all these years, Jake could clearly remember the tour guide reciting the dimensions of those steel-and-concrete boxes: six-by-eight. He didn’t even know what the numbers meant back then, but he knew that it meant small. And he hated small.

  You could suffocate in a cage that small.

  In fact, of the entire Cub Scout den, he alone refused to cross the threshold to “try the cell on for size,” as the cop had said. He knew how much other kids liked to fool around, and he remembered feeling terrified that one of them might think it would be funny to close the door on him. Even if they’d been able to find a key, there’d have been those minutes-however few-when he would have been locked alone in a tiny room, with everyone watching him and laughing at him as he sobbed and begged for them to let him out.

  But it never happened that way. He’d said, “No thank you,” to the police officer, and the police officer had respected his wishes. Still, the fear he’d experienced back then felt very, very real, even today, nearly thirty years later.

  Neither surrender nor capture was a viable option.

  “How long do you think we should wait?” Travis asked.

  “Till next Thursday, if we have to,” Jake said.

  The Cadillac returned. “There he is,” Carolyn said excitedly.

  The mammoth white car returned to its spot in the road and parked. “This time we stay put until he gives the signal,” Travis ordered. God, he was getting bossy.

  Nothing happened for thirty seconds, and then the interior light came on. Right away, Jake recognized the driver as good old Thorne-the man without a sense of humor. Even after fourteen years, he hadn’t changed a bit.

  While the Donovans watched, the broad-shouldered man pulled himself out of the driver’s seat and closed the door behind him. There was movement, but they couldn’t tell in the dark what he was doing until a lighter flared in front of his leathery face.

  “Now?” Jake prompted.

  “C’mon.”

  They approached the car slowly but not stealthily, walking like regular people down a regular road in the middle of a regular night. “Remember,” Travis whispered. “Don’t startle him.”

  Jake smiled. “God, Trav, if he can’t see us by now, I don’t want to be riding with him in a car.”

  “Just remember, is all.”

  “I’ll try.”

  No one said anything until they’d approached within five feet of the driver, who, on closer inspection, had only one eyebrow, which stretched from ear to ear. He made no moves as they approached, but there was something about the way he smoked the cigarette that didn’t look right. Then Jake realized that the guy was keeping his hands free.

  How reassuring. And the hands wore gloves.

  “Hello, Thorne,” Carolyn said softly. “Nice to see you again.” She gave him a perfunctory hug, and the tightly coiled man returned it, sort of.

  Thorne did his best to squeeze out a smile. “Mr. Sinclair says hello. Your friend Nick will be able to join you tomorrow.”

  “That’s great!” Carolyn exclaimed. “What about Uncle Harry? Will I see him, too?”

  Jake checked his watch nervously. “Shouldn’t we get going?”

  Thorne ignored him. “No, Mr. Sinclair can’t make it. The FBI’s been watching him pretty closely since you guys popped up again.” He seemed a little startled at the sight of Travis, who in turn did his best to keep his father between himself and the cold brown eyes. “What’s this?” Thorne asked.

  “It’s a boy,” Jake answered, his voice weighted with sarcasm.

  Thorne’s mouth smiled, but his eyes did not. His eyes never smiled, in fact. “I’d forgotten what a funny man you are, Jack.”

  “It’s Jake,” Travis corrected defensively.

  Thorne regarded them both as if they were table scraps. “We’ve gotta get going,” he said. He opened the back door and revealed a mess of luggage and newspapers strewn all over the seat and floor. “This spot’s for you, kid,” Thorne instructed. “Climb under all that stuff and cover yourself up good.” He pushed a button on his key chain, and the trunk popped open. “You and your husband have to ride back here for a while, Sunshine,” he explained. “They got roadblocks every place looking for you two. Can’t stop us without probable cause, and with you back here, they got probable nothin’.”

  Jake pulled up short. “I’m not getting in the trunk,” he said.

  “Oh, yeah?” Thorne challenged, clearly amused. “Why not?”

  “I’m claustrophobic.”

  The big man rolled his eyes. “Get over it, then. ’Cause that’s how I’m driving you. It’s that or walk. You choose.”

  Jake watched as Travis burrowed under the trash in the backseat, and Thorne helped Carolyn into the trunk. At least it was a big one.

  Shit.

  In the end, Jake took a deep breath, swung his feet over the edge, and lay down.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Nick Thomas had every right to be at his desk, even if it was after one in the morning, just as he had every right to be grazing through the computer files on his screen. He’d written the damn things, in fact.

  Why, then, did he feel like such a criminal?

  This was crazy, he told himself as he pulled up the documents he needed, and printed them out. Topo maps, prevailing wind patterns, daily work logs-everything that had anything to do with the EPA’s cleanup of the Newark site. The more he thought about this Sinclair character’s explanation of Jake and Carolyn’s theory, the more ridiculous it sounded. Talk about overkill. All of that destruction just to hide a corpse, which could have been hidden, anyway? It was absurd.

  There was a certain logic, he supposed, that a blade of grass is best hidden in a bale of hay, but could the same hold true of bodies? If you stacked bodies high enough and violently enough, could you possibly hope to slip one through a crack somewhere?

  Every twenty minutes or so, he fought a new urge to call the police and bring this all to a stop. To his knowledge, Nick had never before broken a law-unless you counted the occasional speeding violation. Even there, he allowed himself ten percent over the speed limit, no more. Now he couldn’t begin to imagine the number of laws he was preparing to break.

  If he ultimately found himself explaining his actions to authorities, he’d cast Harry Sinclair in the role of villain, threatening his own family with a horrible fate. Given the telephone ruse, he thought it would get him past a lie detector. Without such an excuse, people might figure out the real reason he was going along with this foolishness. And when they did, they’d know something that he’d only just figured out for himself.

/>   The reality of it all smacked him in the head around ten o’clock-long after Sinclair had dropped him back at the headquarters building. The ninety-minute drive was over, and his assignment was clear. As Nick pieced together the plan in his head, he realized that for the first time in years, he felt truly alive. He’d stepped outside of his up-at-five, homeby-seven routine, and the presence of a little danger felt inexplicably invigorating. He felt guilty as hell for thinking such juvenile thoughts, and then he realized that even the guilt felt good. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt true emotion like this, unburdened by second thoughts about what he should be feeling or what he ought to be doing.

  For at least these few brief moments, he was working for himself. The only deadline he faced was the one he imposed upon himself by accepting this assignment, and deep in his heart of hearts, he knew that he was doing a job for which he was uniquely qualified. No one else in this massive sea of bureaucrats could dig up the details of Newark so efficiently-not his boss; not the fresh meat from college. He alone knew what to look for in these files, because he alone knew what he put there.

  Knowing the layout of the storage magazine was crucial-too crucial to be left to memory. He and the Donovans had to know how to get in, and how to get out if something went wrong. Then there were the security concerns. He dove into the project with a zeal he hadn’t enjoyed in years.

  Reflecting further on it, Nick figured that at the end of the day, this was about friendship and about settling scores. About facing the image in the mirror every morning. He’d allowed himself to be railroaded into silence back in 1983, surrendering to the political forces who wanted the Newark Incident to just disappear. In his haste to cover his own ass, he’d sat quietly and allowed the EPA and the FBI to construct an ironclad case against his friends, never once speaking up to declare that the authorities were full of shit. It was too easy to remain silent. Even now he couldn’t point to a single action he could have taken or a single speech he could have made that would have changed anything. But fact was, he didn’t even try-and not only Jake and Carolyn but he himself had paid the price.