At all costs

by John Gilstrap

  “Please,” Nick begged winningly. “It’s humiliating enough for a man my age to be delivering pizzas. I could really do without a lecture to go with it, you know?”

  Another look. And a joint sigh. “Okay,” said Bobbsey Right as she tapped the keys on her computer. “Just don’t get us in trouble, okay? Room 405.” She looked up and pointed across the lobby. “You can take those elevators over there.”

  Nick smiled and thanked them. He wandered over and pushed the call button, but it seemed forever before anything happened. Even the elevators in this old barn were tired. Fortunately, he was the only passenger. After the big doors rumbled shut, Nick pushed the buttons for both the second floor and the fourth, so that the floor indicator in the lobby would go all the way to Agent Rivers’s floor, even after he exited on the first stop.

  The hallway was bright enough, if somewhat narrow, in the style of old downtown hotels, and he encountered his first dilemma in trying to figure out what to do with the damn pizza box. Finally, he gave up looking for a trash can and just slid it under a Coke machine.

  That done, he took the stairs down to a preselected side entrance on the first floor. Checking one more time to make sure that the stairwell was empty, he opened the door and nearly screamed. Jake was standing right there, not two feet away on the other side. “Jesus! You scared the shit out of me!”

  Jake looked at him like he was crazy. “I told you I’d be waiting here.”

  “Yeah, but…” Oh, the hell with it. “She’s in room 405. How’re you gonna get in?”

  Jake shrugged and craned his neck to peer up the stairwell. “I don’t know yet. But I’ll make it.”

  They climbed the first two floors together before Nick broke off to retrieve his elevator. “I’ll wait for you in the car,” he said. But his face said something else entirely.

  Jake smiled. “I’ll be there.” He sounded none too convinced himself.

  It was nearly two by the time Irene returned to her hotel room, exhausted. Her body was whipped, but her mind whirled way too fast to permit sleep. She’d hoped that the martini before dinner and the two glasses of wine with the entree would take the edge off, but it was no use. Slice by slice, her career had been whittled away to virtually nothing these past few days, and all the alcohol had accomplished was to give her a world-class case of heartburn.

  A hot bath was her last hope. She preferred them just this side of scalding, where the skin of her fingers and toes would prune up in minutes and the heat would suck away her ability to concentrate on anything but sleep. None of the worry mattered, anyway. Even with his wife and son in jeopardy, Jake Donovan still remained out of reach. That part surprised her. She’d thought for sure he was more of a family man than that.

  Still fully clothed, Irene plugged the tub and cranked the faucet all the way to hot. After a few seconds, she eased it back a bit, then closed the door behind her as she strolled back to the bedroom to change out of her suit.

  They knew for certain now that Donovan was getting help from someone. The local cop in Newark reported a third party, as did the paramedics at the Rescue Squad building. Crime scene technicians had confirmed glove smudges in the Faylons’ Toyota, but no extra prints yet. The Caddy was a rental-under a fictitious name-and as such had hundreds of fingerprints all over it. They’d run them all through the computer, of course, but it was a giant step between having rented a vehicle and being a suspect in a crime.

  Agents from the Chicago field office had been following through on Irene’s pet theory involving Harry Sinclair, but after a day of turning his house inside out, no one had found a single piece of evidence to implicate the old man. Old Harry had even shown up at the house again, after a day of what he called “alone time.” Apparently, occasional stretches of unaccountability helped him cope during his periods of heavy thinking.

  Ted Greenberg in Chicago had sent a tape of Sinclair’s interview via courier to George Sparks’s office in Little Rock. Irene had listened to a copy in the car on the way to dinner. It was funny, really, hearing Ted work to trip up the old man.

  “So, how do you explain the phone call from Travis Donovan?”

  “I suppose he wanted to talk to me.”

  “Did he?”

  “Why don’t you tell me.”

  “Look, Mr. Sinclair, it’s in your best interest to cooperate here.”

  “Consider me the poster child of cooperation.”

  “Fine. Did you speak to Travis Donovan?”

  “I’m afraid our connection was broken.”

  “So you didn’t speak to him?”

  “If the connection was broken, how could I?”

  “Please answer the question, sir. Yes or no.” The frustration in Greenberg’s voice jumped right out of the cassette. “Did you or did you not speak over the telephone with Travis Donovan?”

  “That would be very difficult without a connection, don’t you think?” Equally obvious was the amusement in Sinclair’s voice.

  And so it went, for forty-five minutes, with Harry Sinclair neither incriminating nor perjuring himself. It occurred to Irene that the old man would make a great politician. In all likelihood, the interview would have continued ad infinitum had Sinclair’s attorney not shown up and put a stop to it. He’d already talked an appellate judge into nullifying their warrant and slapping a stay on their wiretap, due to a lack of evidence.

  What the hell? she told herself. It was a dead end, anyway.

  She undressed quickly and clumsily, kicking off her shoes and wriggling out of her suit. She paused a minute to check a spaghetti spatter on the front of the blouse and made a mental note to send it out to the cleaners first thing tomorrow, before it had a chance to set. Next came her weapon, a black S amp;W. 40-caliber semiautomatic, which she unclipped from the waistband of her skirt and dropped with a thunk onto the dresser. In less than a minute, she was naked, ready to soak. On her way back toward the bathroom, she paused for a moment to view herself in the mirrored closet doors, first full-face, then profile.

  “Not bad for forty-two,” she told herself. Then, to remember what she looked like at twenty-two, she sucked in her stomach until she couldn’t breathe. “It sucks to grow old,” she grumbled. Hearing the vernacular, she reminded herself how much she was beginning to sound like her kids.

  I’ve got to call them, she thought. First thing tomorrow. It’s been two days. And two days alone with their father was more than anyone should be asked to endure.

  By the time she finished brushing her teeth, the water level had reached the danger line, and she had to take care as she lowered herself into the steaming bath not to slosh anything over the sides. It was wonderful; better, even, than she’d hoped. In the oversize tub, the water came past her breasts, just high enough to tickle the underside of her chin. The tension and the worry drained away as she leaned her head back against the tile and closed her eyes. This was heaven. If only she’d thought to turn out the lights, she could’ve fallen asleep right there.

  In fact, she’d nearly nodded off when she heard the bathroom door open.

  “Don’t scream,” Jake warned as he took aim at Irene’s left eye. “In fact, don’t say anything. If you try to call for help, I’ll kill you.”

  Irene didn’t move, other than to begin trembling in the scalding water.

  “Do you believe I’ll kill you?” Jake asked.

  The fugitive’s face was blank, yet his eyes remained warm. The contrast petrified her. She nodded. Yes, she believed him.

  He nodded along with her. “Good.” He pulled a towel off the metal rack next to the sink and handed it to her. “Here,” he said. “Cover yourself up.”

  She reached for the towel too quickly and caused a wave of water to arch over the porcelain edge and slap down onto the black and white tile floor. As she tucked the towel around her body, she realized with a shudder that she was staring down the barrel of her own gun. A humiliating end to a humiliating day.

  “What do you want?” she demande
d. The strength she heard in her voice surprised her.

  “How’s my son?”

  She glared at him, her fear dissolving quickly into anger. “Who do you think you are, charging into my hotel room-”

  “You know who I am,” Jake interrupted. “And if you truly believe all the bullshit they say I’ve done, then you should be scared shitless right now. If you don’t believe it, then you should know just how angry and unstable I have a right to be.” He helped himself to a spot on the vanity and drew one knee up to help support the weight of the pistol. “Either way, it seems that you should think twice before pissing me off.”

  She continued to glare. There was fear in his eyes now, and combined with the complex assortment of other emotions he projected, she didn’t know what to make of his stability. Perhaps it was, indeed, time to be careful.

  He took a deep, shaky breath and tried again. “I’m not asking you for state secrets, Rivers. I’m a father whose son is sick. Now, please answer my question. How is he?”

  The way she broke eye contact said more than her words ever could. His shoulders sagged.

  “They say he’ll live,” she said softly. “But it’s too early to tell the full extent of the damage to his lungs.”

  Jake felt the sadness return and closed his eyes. At least he’s alive, he told himself. This was a time to focus on the positive.

  He heard movement in the water and his eyes snapped open, freezing Irene in midlunge. If her foot hadn’t slipped, she might have made it.

  “Don’t!” he yelled, more loudly than was prudent this late at night. His finger was half a pull away from killing her, and she seemed to know it, her full attention focused on the barrel of the pistol. “Sit down!” he commanded sharply. “Dammit, Rivers, don’t do that to me!”

  She did, indeed, sit back down, and she watched as Jake struggled with his emotions. Sure as hell he’d have killed her, and from all appearances, that fact scared him nearly as much as it scared her.

  A full minute passed before anyone said anything. Then he asked, “Have you seen him? Travis, I mean?”

  She nodded. “Yes, I’ve seen him. He seems to be resting comfortably. They’ve got him in pediatric ICU, and he’s on a respirator, but he doesn’t seem to be in any distress.”

  He considered that, then nodded to himself. “That’s good,” he said. “It’s good he’s comfortable. We can handle anything as long as he’s alive.” Another long pause followed. “Do you have children, Rivers?”

  The question made her uneasy, but there seemed to be no threat in it. “Uh-huh,” she said. “Two daughters.”

  He nodded again, though she wasn’t at all sure he’d heard her answer. “Kids are a hoot, aren’t they? Nothing makes you laugh as hard or cry as hard as a kid.” Again, he seemed to disappear into a distant room in his mind.

  “Why are you here, Donovan?” she said, interrupting his thoughts. “No offense, but for an intelligent guy like yourself, this is a stupid place to be.”

  He looked up again and chuckled. “So I’ve heard. Well, I’ll admit it seemed a much better idea when I was planning it than it did once I got here. But sooner or later, I figured I had to trust someone. You’re it. What does that tell you about my available options?”

  “How did you get in?” Get him talking about himself, she thought, remembering her hostage negotiation training. As long as he felt like he had a friend, he’d be less likely to harm the hostage. She must have skipped the lesson on what to do when the negotiator and the hostage were the same person.

  “You’d be surprised how many master keys they’ve got lying around the Housekeeping Department at this hour,” he said.

  “That’s smart,” she said. “I’m not sure I would have thought of that.”

  The comment brought a smirk to Jake’s face, and then the smirk turned to a smile and the smile to a laugh.

  “What?” Clearly, she didn’t like being laughed at.

  “Why, Agent Rivers, I believe you’re trying to suck up to me. Is that one of the lessons in Hostage 101?” He laughed again.

  She scowled. “I don’t know-”

  “Please,” he interrupted with a wave. “Spare me. If it sets your mind at ease, I don’t want anything from you except conversation, okay? If you just stay put and do what I tell you, I’ll be on my way in a little while. As you might imagine, I feel a little exposed here.” He eyed her towel and chuckled again. “Well, okay, maybe not as exposed as you, but still…”

  She smiled in spite of herself and pulled the towel a little closer.

  “So, tell me, Rivers, do you really believe that we killed all of those people back in 1983?”

  Her eyes narrowed as she searched for the right answer.

  He sighed. “Relax, okay? This isn’t a quiz. It’s a fact-finding mission.”

  She shrugged. “Well… yes.”

  He considered the answer. Certainly, it was no surprise. “That all makes perfect sense to you, does it? That my wife and I-neither of us with the slightest hint of a violent past-would shoot our friends, blow up half the state, and then leave a note?”

  She shrugged. “With all due respect, Donovan, crooks have been known to do some pretty stupid things. Zealots, in particular, have a long history of stupidity.”

  “Zealots.” He said the word softly, as if testing its flavor. “So that’s what we were, huh? Zealots? I suppose the record is full of documented examples of our zealous causes? Or was this environmental thing our first?”

  “Look Jake…”

  “No, you look, Irene,” he pressed. “Have you found any evidence at all to substantiate this zealot crap? Registration cards for the American Nazi Party, maybe? How about-oh, damn, who was it that burned all the campuses in the sixties? — SDS, that’s it. Students for a Democratic Society. Have you found that? How about the NRA? Have you been able to dig up a single example of Carolyn or me being zealous about anything?”

  Irene rolled her eyes. “Come off it, Donovan. Even Fidel Castro had a first time. The evidence speaks for itself. Frankly, this little campaign of yours to dream up a conspiracy about some skeleton is kind of sad. Maybe if you’d come forward at the time, but really…”

  He recoiled a bit at the mention of the skeleton, but then he realized that she must have interviewed Carolyn. “That proved to be a dead end,” he said. At this point, honesty could only help.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The skeleton we came after turned out to be a dog. Must have wandered in and died before any of this happened.”

  Now she was really confused. “So, what-”

  “But getting back to the note,” he said, gesturing with the gun as if it were an extension of his forefinger. “You’re telling me you don’t find that even a little absurd? A little convenient? Jesus.”

  She didn’t know where this was going, so she remained silent. She figured he’d get to his point sooner or later.

  “Have you investigated many arsons, Rivers?”

  She shrugged with one shoulder, the abrupt change of subject putting her on edge. “My share, I suppose.”

  He nodded approvingly. “I thought so. I remember seeing on television once that sometimes arson is used to cover up an entirely different crime. Has that ever been your experience?”

  She regarded her visitor for a long moment before answering. “Let’s say I’ve heard similar rumors.”

  “Okay, fine. Let’s say that. It wouldn’t be out of the question, then-I mean, it wouldn’t be inconceivable-if you found out that such was the case in Newark back in ’83, right?”

  Irene didn’t like being cross-examined by a murderer. “The water’s getting cold, Jake. Please get to the point.”

  “Fair enough.” It was time to play the Big Bluff. “Living underground as I have these past years, I’ve developed some interesting friendships with people who have access to information you wouldn’t believe.”

  “And Harry Sinclair is one of them,” she interrupted.

 
Jake was ready for that. “Who?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Right,” she groaned. “Go on.”

  He shrugged it off. “Well, this information, I’ll admit, is not always put to good use, but it’s proved to be very reliable.” He paused for a reaction, got none, then moved on. “These friends have recently given me proof that your boss, Peter Frankel, was up to his elbows in illegal activities back in the early eighties…”

  “Oh, please!” she scoffed. “I don’t even need to listen to this.”

  “Hear me out,” he insisted.

  She looked poised to argue but then seemed to give up. “I guess I don’t have a lot of choice, do I?”

  Okay, here we go. It was time to sell guesswork as fact.

  “Frankel was a senior guy in Little Rock, wasn’t he, back in ’83?”

  “Are you telling me or asking me?”

  “I’m trying to get you to open your mind.” Jake barked.

  She smiled smugly. “Then you’re wasting your time here.”

  Okay, fine. False start. He tried again. “Well, if you do some research, you’ll find that he was in charge of the whole investigation back then. Fact is, he was senior enough to be involved in just about everything coming out of your Little Rock office.”

  “As the supervisory agent in charge is wont to do,” she interrupted.

  Bingo. Guess number one confirmed. “Well, my people tell me that your boss knew all about the chemical warfare shit that was stored back in that magazine but had reason to keep it a secret from everybody-including his bosses.”

  “And what reason might that be?” She pretended to be amused, even as a tiny light came on in her brain.

  “Lots of money to be made in illegal weapons sales, you know.”

  Irene’s heart skipped a beat as she recalled George Sparks’s recent mission to Iraq. To Jake, the recognition registered only as a slight tic in her right eye and a slight parting of her lips. Like a silent sigh. She said nothing, and she recovered quickly.

  “So he’s having this regular yard sale out of Uncle Sam’s general store, when bingo! up pops the EPA and slaps a lock on the door. He’s cut off from his supplies, and all the evidence in the world is just sitting there waiting to convict him.”