At all costs

by John Gilstrap

  “Hey!” Sparks yelled. “What the hell…” The instant the man turned, Sparks knew he was no doctor, and the rest of the situation crystallized. He reached for his weapon.

  The attacker moved with remarkable speed, launching a vicious kick to Sparks’s hand, just as the pistol cleared its holster. The weapon skittered across the floor. A second kick-really a continuation of the first-folded Rubie’s knee backward onto itself, rendering him instantly useless.

  Sparks tried to brace for a fight but, in reality, never had a chance. He saw something moving in the doctor’s hand, and then George’s whole world flashed red. His head erupted in agony as the syringe needle came around in a horizontal arc and buried itself into his right eye. He heard a snap as the point impacted bone and broke off. He screamed; an inhuman howl that rose up from a place deeper than his throat as he clutched his hands to his face and fell helplessly to the floor.

  “Oh, God! My eye! My eye!”

  Rubie was screaming, too, as he squeezed his ruined knee with both hands, as if he could clamp off the flow of pain. The scream ended abruptly; cut short by yet another kick that at once crushed his larynx and drove his lower jaw with jackhammer force into his upper jaw, severing his tongue in the process.

  Rubie collapsed backward onto the floor. Struggling for breath, but choking on blood instead, he was dimly aware that someone had lifted him by his hair, but felt nothing as the doctor smashed his head like a melon against the hard tile floor.

  Everything was moving too fast for Travis to process it all. He didn’t see it all in detail, but he saw the blood and he heard the screaming, and he found himself wishing more than anything that he could scream, too. So much noise. So many people, all running in to see what was going on.

  “Oh, shit!” someone yelled. “Jesus Christ! Get us some help up here!”

  God, there was so much blood! Travis was mesmerized by it all. And so were the hospital staffers, until they realized that their real patient was a naked little boy, whose color suddenly matched that of his disheveled bedclothes. All at once, they descended on him, shouting orders to each other as they reconnected his respirator, yanked out old IVs, and went about the business of establishing new ones. No one talked; everyone yelled. But for his role as a pincushion, he might as well have not been there.

  Where is he? Travis’s mind screamed as he searched the assembled faces for the man who’d tried to kill him. He slapped at each of the hands that approached him, fearful that the murderer was still there. He didn’t see him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t lurking around somewhere, waiting for his chance. He’d done it once; he could do it again.

  The hands fought him back; they were all over him, pushing and prodding and poking all the places they’d pushed and prodded and poked before. Everyone talked at him, told him to relax, but no one even seemed remotely concerned about what happened to the asshole who did all of this.

  They had more pressing matters to worry about: like the guy on the floor whose screams sounded more animal than human; and the other one, whose brain matter formed a slick coating under people’s feet.

  Travis closed his eyes and wished for it all to go away. He wanted his mom and his dad. He wanted to go back to Farm Meadows to smell the mildew and the accumulated trash. He wanted to die-quickly and easily this time. He wanted to be anywhere but here.

  Somewhere, from outside his darkness, a hand gently touched his cheek, and a voice said, “Travis, honey, are you okay?” It was his mother’s tone but someone else’s voice. He opened his eyes, and there was Jan. She gave him her warmest smile. “I only got as far as the cafeteria,” she explained softly. “I was worried about you.”

  He reached up to hold her hand, but someone told him to hold still. He tried to shake his arm free, anyway, but whoever was working on him down there fought him back.

  “Let them do their job, Travis, okay?” Jan soothed, stroking his shoulder. “You’re okay now. I’ll be right here. Nobody can hurt you if I’m right here, now, can they?”

  He relaxed and closed his eyes again. He felt her hand in his hair, petting him gently and whispering about things that didn’t matter. Her touch reminded him of how his mom would sit with him all night long whenever he’d get sick as a kid. He thought about his dad’s laugh; how he’d always howl at the dirty jokes that his mom would pretend to be offended by.

  He thought about all the horrible things he’d said and felt about them on their last day together, and in that moment, he knew he’d never see his parents again.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Irene made sure that her badge was showing from the waistband of her skirt as she wandered with Paul into the emergency room at St. Luke’s. From the level of activity, she expected to see the carnage of a train wreck. People ran in all directions, shouting orders, and in general creating bedlam out of disorder. She tried twice to ask a hospital staffer what was going on but was soundly ignored.

  Across the way, she noted the still form of Carolyn Donovan, unguarded and likewise ignored by medical personnel as she lay on her back on a gurney, both wrists cuffed to side rails. “They just leave her there unguarded?” she asked Paul incredulously.

  He answered with a question. “What the hell is going on in here?”

  One thing was certain: she was going to have a long talk with the Little Rock police chief about his chain-of-custody procedures. Leaving a fugitive like Carolyn Donovan alone was inexcusable.

  “Look there.” Paul pointed.

  The commotion seemed centered around a bank of elevators, where Irene saw a cluster of doctors and nurses waiting for the doors to open. A cop nearby had his weapon drawn, and she suppressed the urge to draw her own. She was still twenty feet away when the doors opened, and the waiting crowd came alive. Amid the cluster of legs, she could see the wheels of a gurney being brought off the elevator, and above their heads, she could make out the characteristic slumped posture of someone in the midst of performing CPR while straddling his patient on the cot.

  The knot of people moved as one down the tile floor back toward the trauma rooms, leaving a thick blood trail on the tile floor. As they passed, she thought she saw a police uniform shirt in a heap at the foot of the gurney.

  The other cop-the one with his gun still drawn-looked like he needed to sit down but followed the procession, anyway. She snagged him as he passed, snapping the badge from her waistband and holding it up where he could see it. “What’s going on?” she said quickly. “And why don’t you put that weapon away?”

  The cop looked scared to death. He glanced first at the badge and then to her face. Finally, his eyes fell to the gun in his hand, and he sheepishly slid the weapon back into its holster. “Somebody killed him upstairs,” he said, clearly dazed by it all. “Guarding some kid. Got one of your guys, too.” He shook himself free of her and hurried to rejoin the group.

  Irene looked to Paul. “One of our guys?”

  They got it at the same instant. “Sparks!”

  Bleary-eyed and numb after his fitful three-hour nap, Jake had just lifted himself out of an overstuffed chair in the lavish TV room, on his way back to the kitchen for a second cup of coffee, when the Special Report graphic caught his attention. Flanked by pictures of Carolyn and Travis, the local Little Rock newscaster nodded slightly to acknowledge his cue and started right into the story.

  “Police sources confirm that they foiled an attempt this morning to suffocate the teenaged son of the famed terrorists Jake and Carolyn Donovan as the boy lay in the intensivecare unit of St. Luke’s Hospital, recovering from injuries sustained yesterday as he reentered the Newark Hazardous Waste Site…”

  Jake froze, his mouth agape, as he zeroed in on the announcer’s words. The station cut live to a young reporter on the scene at the hospital, who used the most graphic, sensational terms he knew to describe the details. As the reporter spoke, the screen showed closeups of blood smears on the tile floor of the Emergency Department.

  “Ironically,” the repo
rter went on, “this attack on young Travis Donovan happened on the same morning that his mother reportedly attempted to hang herself at the Adult Detention Center…”

  Jake’s breath escaped in a rush as he sat himself heavily onto the arm of the chair. This isn’t happening…

  Back to the announcer in the studio. “Brian, we’re receiving reports in the newsroom that Carolyn Donovan had alerted hospital officials of the attack on her son, but that nothing was done about it. Do you have any details on that?”

  “Well, Perry, as you might imagine, rumors fly like snowflakes during times like these, and we’re working as hard as we can to separate truth from fiction. We’ve heard those reports, too, but we’ve thus far been unable to confirm them. Frankly, just in the last half hour or so since this story broke, police and FBI officials have started to clamp down on hospital personnel, and it’s getting harder and harder to get confirmation on anything…”

  The reporters continued chatting like this, mostly repeating themselves to fill time, but Jake stopped listening, as if his brain was already full, unable to process another word.

  Clearly, Frankel now knew that his secret was out. And he was trying to shut the Donovans up.

  “I’ll kill him,” Jake seethed. Deep in the pit of his gut, disbelief transformed to anger, and anger to fury, as it dawned on him that a peaceful solution was no longer possible. “That asshole is dead.”

  When he turned, the figure of Thorne standing in the doorway startled him. “I heard the news,” he said. “I’m sorry. At least they’re still alive.” He filled the entire door frame, his legs spread, fists on his hips, intentionally blocking Jake’s exit. “Maybe you should sit down.”

  Jake glared, his jaw locked. “You can’t stop me,” he growled.

  Thorne cocked his head curiously, looking for all the world like he was suppressing a laugh. “Actually, I can. I will, in fact.”

  “I’m gonna kill him,” Jake repeated.

  Thorne stepped closer. “Who, ace? Who you going to kill?”

  Jake’s eyes locked onto Thorne’s and wouldn’t let go. “Frankel.”

  The big man cocked his head to the other side. “Right. The deputy director of the FBI, and you’re just gonna walk up and blow his ass away?”

  Hearing his thoughts spoken by someone else made Jake feel stupid. He set his jaw and looked away. “It won’t be easy, I’m sure, but I’ll get it done.”

  “Uh-huh. You really think it was him, do you? The most famous guy in law enforcement, and he just walked into St. what’s-his-name’s and tried to kill your kid?”

  “He tried to suffocate him, Thorne!” Jake yelled.

  “No, he didn’t!” Thorne yelled back. “Somebody else did! And my money says it was the same somebody who tried to hang Sunshine.” An eyebrow twitched. “Unless you think she really tried to kill herself..”

  Jake scoffed and waved off the very thought as ridiculous.

  “What’s going on?” Nick shuffled into the TV room barely conscious, his hair standing erect on the left side of his head.

  Jake took ten seconds to catch him up, while Nick fell into a sofa. “Oh, my God… what the…” He was trying to absorb it all.

  “You’re angry, Jake,” Thorne cautioned, clearly bothered by his version of the story. “You can think till the cows come home that Frankel is responsible, but thinking doesn’t make it so! And you can’t just walk up to a guy as powerful as him and blow his brains out. The world already thinks you’re a nutcase. Why prove them right?”

  Jake’s shoulders slumped as he felt the wind leave his sails. Thorne’s words made sense, and he hated him for it. “So what do you suggest? Just sit?”

  Thorne mulled over his answer before offering it. “Yeah,” he said finally, with a shrug. “Until you can prove some of this stuff you think you know, you’re stuck in neutral. Try anything, and they’ll throw away the key and the ring with it.” He pulled on his lower lip as he considered a thought. “What we need is to get our hands on the guy who actually worked the hits. I bet he could tell us everything we want to know.”

  Jake shook his head in disgust. “And how likely is that?”

  “Pretty damned, I’d say.” Nick’s sudden contribution brought heads around in unison to see a face transformed into a mask of dread. “Especially since we know where he’s going next.”

  Thorne didn’t see it yet, but Jake did. “Oh, my God.”

  “Frankel knows I’m involved,” Nick explained, his voice barely audible as he rubbed his temples with his fingertips. “Once I went into the computer, he knew. What he doesn’t know is how much I’ve said, and that seems to be his biggest fear.” His eyes widened as he raised them up to lock onto Jake’s. “My family’s next.”

  Consciousness came instantly, without transition. “Where’s Travis?” Carolyn shouted to the room.

  Her answer came from very close by. “He’s fine,” Irene said. She was perched on an examination stool, next to the bed, and she looked as tired as anyone Carolyn had ever seen. Her normally fine features were ravaged by deep lines tracking across her forehead and down both sides of her mouth.

  “Someone’s going to attack him,” Carolyn announced, oblivious to the hours that had passed.

  Irene looked at the floor. “He already did,” she said heavily. “But Travis is fine. Quite a resourceful young man you’ve got there.”

  But I don’t have him, Carolyn thought bitterly. You do. She didn’t know whether to rejoice or to scream. She’d told them, and no one would believe her. No one would even listen, not for a minute!

  “I’m sorry your warning wasn’t taken seriously,” Irene said.

  “Was it the same guy?”

  The question drew Irene’s eyes back up to meet Carolyn’s. “Same as the one who came to your cell last night?”

  “So you know?”

  Irene nodded. “Well, we know now. The coincidence of your suicide and the attack on your boy was too much, so we checked back at the jail. We’ve got a picture from the security camera, so there’s a good chance we’ll be able to identify him. Fact is, he got away.”

  You won’t identify anything, Carolyn thought. “At least your capture rate is consistent,” she snarled.

  Irene grew visibly more tired as she sat there. “I know you’re upset,” she said measuredly. “God knows you’ve got a right. But you should know that this animal who attacked your son also killed a seven-year-old girl.” Her voice became stronger. “Doctors say he gave her a massive injection of potassium chloride-the same stuff they use in executions. She never had a chance.”

  The words hit Carolyn hard. “Why?”

  Irene shrugged. The conversation was mother-to-mother now. “Who knows for sure? We think it was because he wanted to direct attention elsewhere while he attacked your boy.”

  “But wasn’t there a guard-”

  “He was killed,” Irene interrupted. Then added, just to make a point, “Trying to save Travis. And a very good friend of mine was horribly wounded. Their efforts are the reason why your son is still alive.”

  “And your vendetta is the reason he was there in the first place.” It was the wrong time and the wrong place to pander for Carolyn’s sympathy.

  Irene absorbed the barrage and changed the subject. “Your husband came to see me last night,” she said, drawing a distrustful look. “He told a very interesting story about your innocence and about arms being sold out of a magazine in Newark.”

  Carolyn listened with her eyes closed, hoping her face remained impassive-bored, even-as her mind raced to figure what she was talking about. “So where is he now?” she asked.

  Irene gave a wry chuckle. “As you say, my capture rate is consistent.”

  The sale of weapons out of the magazine was an interesting twist, Carolyn thought-one she hadn’t considered.

  “He wanted me to tell you he loves you.”

  The words brought Carolyn’s eyes around, searching for the scam. This Rivers lady was good. She
almost looked sincere. But Carolyn had played the mind game with her once before, and she wasn’t inclined to do it again. She listened silently as Irene told of Jake’s theories and of her own efforts to verify them.

  “Your situation is really very desperate,” Irene concluded. “People are trying to kill you and your family, and the only way we can protect you is to have you in custody. You and Travis are safe now-we’ll see to that-but as long as your husband is out on his own, he’s in very grave danger.”

  Finally, Carolyn had to laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding. After fourteen peaceful years on the run, the only time my family has been attacked is when we’ve been in your custody. From where I sit, there’s no more dangerous place in the world.”

  Carolyn’s face darkened as her eyes burned a hole through her captor. “This sympathy simulation is a nice try, Rivers. And deep down, I’d like to believe you might actually give a shit. But you put it best yesterday. We all have jobs to do. I’ve failed at mine, so here I am. Now it’s all on Jake. He’s my last hope for getting our lives back. I just don’t believe you have as much incentive.”

  Irene looked for a moment like she might argue again but then stopped. Interpreting the silence as a victory, Carolyn decided to press. “Now, I’d like to see my son. Please take me to him.”

  Irene glanced toward her prisoner again, then looked away. “I only wish I could. The doctor doesn’t want you moved with your neck injury.”

  “Then bring Travis to me.”

  Irene pressed her lips together and shook her head. “I can’t do that, either. He’s still tied to the respirator and the monitors.”

  Carolyn felt the anger flare in her belly, burning off the hazy cobwebs left by the drugs. Threats and furious invectives flooded into her brain, but in the sudden clarity of the moment, she knew such words would be wasted; maybe even harmful. She took a deep, silent breath, and when she spoke, she made sure her tone was the very essence of reason. “He’s my son, Rivers. My only child, and someone is trying to kill him. You have to let me see him.”