Shelter From the Storm

by Peter Sexton

  “We’ll be all right,” Gillian repeated.

  From the doorway, Sarah said, “Come on, Randi. We gotta go.”

  Gillian wiped Lawrence’s forehead, cheeks, and neck with one of the pillowcases. She listened to his la- bored breathing.

  Then he closed his eyes.

  “Don’t do that,” Gillian cried. “Don’t let go.” She gently shook him by the shoulders. “Please, Larry!”

  Lawrence blinked, then held his eyes open and looked up at Gillian. She ran her hand slowly across his cheek. He smiled.

  “Help’s on the way,” Gillian said.

  Lawrence groaned as his shivering grew worse.

  “You’re going to be all right,” she said, not sure if she was saying it more for his benefit or her own.

  He was still for a moment, then looked up at her and frowned.

  “You’re crying,” he said.

  Gillian shook her head, surprised that it was true.

  “Don’t cry.”

  He said nothing more for a time.

  Then Gillian said, “I love you, Larry. Please don’t leave me.”

  He coughed repeatedly for several moments. Then he looked up slowly at her, smiled and nodded.

  Gillian lost the battle with her tears and they came down like a wave.

  “We need more time together,” Gillian said. “You have to stay with me.”

  Sixty-Eight

  Brigadier General Nelson Foster answered the phone on the second ring, knowing before he did who was on the other end, surprised the man was making the call himself. Only a very small number of individuals knew the number for his private line. Until this mo- ment, the man had kept himself out of direct contact with the players in this clandestine operation. He must be starting to panic.

  “Yes, Sir,” the General said. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “Cut the bullshit,” the President said. Then, “You told me you were taking care of our problem.”

  “Yes,” the General agreed. “And I am. It’s being taken care of as we speak. Actually,” the General glanced at his watch, “by now it’s probably done.”

  “Really?” The President paused. “Get to a television and turn it to channel two. Now!”

  The line went dead before the General could voice a response. He exited his office and crossed to a conference room down the hall. After closing and locking the door, he turned on the television as he had been instructed. The words BREAKING NEWS, in bold block letters, filled the bottom of the screen. A male commentator the General didn’t recognize was addressing the viewing audience.

  ...against American troops. The conspiracy does not begin nor end with Edward August, the chemist accused of maliciously tainting several lots of Faber’s brand baby food with deadly levels of caffeine before taking his own life, but with high-ranking individuals within our own government. John Alexander, our Los Angeles corre- spondent, will bring the full story to you on this evening’s edition of World News Tonight.

  “Sweet Jesus,” the General said, as the news report broke off and the network returned to regu- larly scheduled programming.

  Now back at his desk, Foster held his hand on the telephone for a long time before finally picking it up and placing the call. It was answered on the first ring.

  “What does that reporter actually know?” the President asked immediately. “Do they actually have details or are they just blowing smoke?”

  “I’m not sure, Sir.” General Foster hesitated while he considered the possibilities. “I need to confer with my people.”

  The General heard the desperation and anger in the President’s voice, when he said, “If John Alexander goes on the air tonight and starts naming names, I’m fucked. We’re all fucked! It’s much too late in the game now for plausible denial.”

  “I’m not going to let that happen, Sir,” the General said. “You have my word.”

  Sixty-Nine

  “Just tell me where the fuck you are,” General Foster shouted over the phone. Major Toni Lee imagined him pacing back and forth in his office, Cuban cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth.

  “What’s going on?” she asked. “What hap- pened?”

  “Just tell me where you are,” he repeated.

  Lee didn’t answer the question. She said, “Some- one took out Anderson.”

  “What?”

  “Late last night. I had a tracking device planted on Trammel’s car. It was a hunch, but I thought he would lead me to the girl. He was supposed to meet me at Miranda’s uncle’s house in Little Rock. He must have beat me there by at least an hour, because what I found when I arrived was a full-blown crime scene. Anderson had been shot and killed. Lawrence Blackwell had been flown to UCLA Medical Center but was pronounced dead shortly after they wheeled him into the operating room.

  “How about August’s daughter? Is she dead?”

  “Negative, Sir. She and Trammel are MIA. Not sure who else, if anyone, is with them.”

  “Who killed Anderson?”

  “I don’t know, Sir. I couldn’t get a look around. Impossible for me to piece it all together.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Los Angeles. Sitting in my car in the UCLA parking lot.” She paused. “What’s happened? Tell me what’s going on?”

  “I just got off the horn with the man himself.”

  “He called you directly?” Lee asked. She knew that wasn’t a good sign. He must be extremely con- cerned about recent developments to risk making personal contact.

  “The details of our operation are all over the TV.”

  “Names?” Lee asked without inflection, all busi- ness. Meaning did the news report mention any of the key players specifically.

  “Not yet. But we need to act fast.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I need you to get to the CBS studios right now.” Major Lee heard the desperation in her superior’s voice. “It might already be too late.”

  “What do you need me to do once I get there?”

  He explained about the recent claims made by the network, about the upcoming Special Report.

  “They’re bluffing,” Lee said. “All that evidence has been destroyed.”

  “Perhaps, but can we really afford to take that risk? I want to be able to call the man back and assure him the problem has been dealt with.”

  Lee drove nearly a mile in silence, as she contemplated what she wanted to suggest to the General. She didn’t think he’d like it, but it might be the most prudent thing they could do, especially now considering these recent developments.

  She said, “Sir, perhaps it would be best if the operation was postponed until we can clean this mess up thoroughly. A month from now all the potential liabilities will have been removed. The girl and her father will be dead and all evidence linking any of us to the operation will have been destroyed.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not an option,” the General said, “The operation continues as scheduled. We just need to see to it that it runs smoothly.”

  “Maybe not even a month,” Lee continued. “Just a week, a few days. The girl can’t stay a step ahead of me forever. Her luck’s running out. She’s getting tired. I’ll eliminate this television reporter, then do the girl. Another day or two at the most.”

  Lee was back on the 101 now, heading north at over 80 MPH. The phone line had remained silent too long.

  “Sir?” she said.

  “I’m afraid we don’t even have the luxury of a day,” he said. “God help me, Lee, I wish we did.”

  “Sir?” she said again. Never before had she heard General Nelson Foster sound so morose or down- trodden. She waited him out, not wanting to prompt him again.

  Finally, his voice came back on the line, weathered and beaten: “The product was shipped out this morning.”

  Seventy

  “How you holding up?” Sarah asked Miranda. They had driven nearly an hour in silence, Miranda lost in thoughts of Lawrence Blackwell, and, o
f course, Edward August, the man who she would always remember as her true father. She glanced over at Steven Trammel, favoring his right arm as he rode shotgun.

  “Fine, I guess.” She took Steven’s good arm into her right hand, gave it a gentle squeeze. They ex- changed a smile. “I got lucky. If Lawrence hadn’t jumped in front of those bullets...”

  Miranda exited Interstate 5 onto Griffith Park Boulevard and proceeded south. She took St. George to Franklin to Talmadge and was about to turn onto Prospect Avenue, when Trammel told her to stop. She glanced around at the large number of police cars, the two fire engines, and the ambulance. She heard the thwup thwup thwup of the buzzing rotors from approaching helicopters.

  “Oh, shit!”

  “What the hell’s going on?” Sarah asked.

  Miranda scanned the area, uncertain of what exactly it was she was looking for. She turned down Talmadge Street and said, “We need to figure that out.”

  “This can’t have anything to do with us, can it?” Sarah asked.

  Miranda pulled to the curb and put the car in park. “I don’t know,” she said. “But you know what you always say about coincidences.” She stole a quick breath. “We can’t take any chances.”

  Miranda was already stepping out of the car, when Sarah said, “Wait. What are you doing? I’ll go.”

  “I’ve got it,” Miranda insisted.

  “Look at you. You’re covered in blood.”

  Miranda looked down at herself and was shocked at how much blood there actually was on her. Steven’s. Lawrence’s. In all the chaos it had simply not registered. Now the wet, coppery stench over- whelmed her.

  Sarah was right. She couldn’t walk around look- ing and smelling the way she did right now.

  “Okay,” she said. “But be careful. Just find out what’s going on and hurry back to the car.”

  Miranda watched Sarah work her way into the crowds of people milling around on the street. She glanced up at the helicopters that were now hovering overhead, at the patrol cars blocking access onto Prospect Avenue. A detectives’ sedan arrived and plain-clothes individuals stepped out, one male and one female. A uniform officer approached and spoke to them briefly. Miranda realized she had lost track of Sarah. She scanned the various groups of people but couldn’t immediately locate her friend.

  She watched the detectives walk with the officer away from their car. Whatever was happening here seemed to be at an absolute standstill, as though the entire block had been captured in a photograph. Miranda continued to wait, eyes darting from one group to the next. And then she saw Sarah talking with a young woman dressed in a business suit. Minutes later, Sarah was climbing back into the car.

  “Well?” Miranda said.

  “The reporter you talked to earlier, John Alexander, the one your father’s letter was addressed to? He was shot and killed less than thirty minutes ago.”

  “Oh, Jesus! This can’t be happening. How could they have known we were coming to see him?” Miranda closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead with her left hand. “Damn it! We’re not gonna make it.”

  “What are you talking about? You think the people who are after you killed this reporter?”

  “I don’t think I can do this anymore,” Miranda confessed. She let go of a defeated sigh, fought to keep the utter depth of emotion out of her voice, the tears out of her eyes. “Maren, my father, maybe even Lawrence...all dead. The stakes have gotten way too high, Sarah. They’ve won. We can’t stop them.”

  “We can’t give up,” Sarah said. “You can’t give up. There’s still too much at stake. Thousands more lives. We have to stop them.”

  “You know she’s right, Miranda,” Trammel said. “This is much bigger than you; it’s bigger than all of us.”

  “If you give up,” Sarah said, “then they’ve already won.”

  Miranda glanced up at the rearview mirror, made eye contact with Sarah. She looked over at Trammel.

  He nodded.

  “Let’s go,” Sarah said. “I know who can help us.”

  ###

  From a payphone outside a Starbucks, Sarah made a call. Miranda, donning a fresh change of clothes and standing right by her side with gun hidden in the pocket of her leather jacket, watched for trouble.

  “Yeah. It’s Sarah Gustafson. I need to speak with Mr. Gemignani.”

  Miranda turned sharply when she heard her friend utter the name. It hadn’t occurred to her that this was the person Sarah intended to call for help. Just the mention of the name filled Miranda with unease.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  But Sarah waved her off as she started speaking into the phone.

  “Yes, it’s really me,” Sarah said, a soft smile in her voice.

  She listened for a time.

  “Actually,” Sarah said, “I have a friend who’s in serious trouble. We really need your help.”

  Miranda continued to watch for potential danger as she listened to Sarah explain the details of their situation to Mr. Gemignani.

  After a few moments, Sarah hung up the phone, and said, “It’s all set. Let’s go.”

  Miranda followed Sarah to the car, uncertain. “What’s all set?”

  “Mr. Gemignani’s gonna have Jimmy arrange for us to have an escort anywhere we want to go.”

  “Jimmy Gemignani’s in L.A.?”

  “Yeah,” Sarah said, as they climbed back into the Mustang. “He owns a few restaurants out here now, among other things. Mostly legit. But he’s never been completely out of the family business.”

  “I don’t know, Sarah. I think this is a bad idea.”

  “What’s a bad idea?” Trammel asked. “Who’s this Jimmy Gemignani? Talk to me.”

  Seventy-One

  Jimmy Gemignani hugged Sarah as she stepped out of the silver Mustang. He held her close, then placed a tender kiss on the top of her head before pulling away. After a moment, he turned and addressed Steven Trammel.

  “You hit bad?” He pointed at Trammel’s injured arm.

  “I don’t think so,” he said, shaking his head and shrugging. “I got lucky.”

  Sarah formally introduced Miranda and Steven to Jimmy as they all made their way through the main floor of the restaurant to Jimmy’s office in the back. Jimmy closed the door behind them.

  “I have some men on the way,” he said. “Be here momentarily.” He looked from one to the other, then said, “Let me get Franky to fix you something to eat while we wait.”

  “No thank you, Mr. Gemignani,” Miranda said. “You don’t have to go to any extra trouble.”

  Jimmy Gemignani laughed, “That’s funny. In my restaurants, getting food is never any trouble. Just tell me what to have Franky whip up.”

  “Anything’ll be fine,” Miranda said. “Thank you.”

  Sarah asked, “Franky still doing that amazing Penné di Pollo?”

  “You know it,” Jimmy said.

  “Then how about setting us all up with that?”

  “You got it.”

  Jimmy picked up the phone, called into the kitchen and gave Franky the food order. Then added, “And bring us a bottle of Pinot Noir.”

  He hung up the phone, then said to Sarah, “You’re looking good, baby. You taking care of yourself?”

  “Don’t I always?”

  He stared at her for a long time. “So what kind of trouble are you mixed up in? How can I help?”

  Miranda spoke for Sarah, did her best to explain the situation to Jimmy. He listened attentively, nod- ded from time to time. Miranda could tell he was storing all the details, committing them to memory.

  Sarah said, “They blew up my house.”

  “What? The house on Whistler?”

  Sarah nodded.

  Jimmy shook his head. “That wasn’t smart. No, that wasn’t smart at all.” He turned back toward Miranda. “So you don’t know who these people are?”

  “Only that they’re people my father worked for.”

  Sarah said, “Whoever they are, they
’ve definitely got major support. It was a fuckin’ hit squad that showed up at my house. I saw them leaving as I came out of the tunnel at the other house. They were all dressed in black, very organized. They drove off in a pair of black Suburbans.”

  “How’s he fit into all this?” Jimmy asked Sarah, meaning Trammel.

  Again Miranda answered for Sarah. “He used to work with my father.”

  Jimmy’s eyebrows went up. “The same people who are after you right now?”

  “I’m on her side,” Trammel said. “I didn’t realize what they were really mixed up in...still don’t have it all worked out. I just thought they were doing something to cause a big scare and cripple their competition...but it’s a hell of a lot more twisted than that.”

  Jimmy nodded, as though he understood and was satisfied, but said, “Go back to the beginning and run me through it again...step by step. Set me on the same game board.”

  Between the three of them, they filled Jimmy in on everything that they knew and believed. He interrupted twice only to ask for clarification.

  “You sure you can trust him?” Jimmy asked Miranda. She noticed that he had tensed and walked around his desk, opened a drawer.

  “With my life,” Miranda answered.

  Jimmy closed the desk drawer again after a moment. “All right,” he said. Then to everyone, he asked, “Is there a plan?”

  “We were on our way to meet a reporter my father had been in contact with—”

  “The reporter who was gunned down,” Jimmy finished for her.

  “Yeah. We were gonna show him the evidence we have. He promised to talk to a contact he has at the FBI to arrange for us to have help locating and stopping the trucks. If we can’t stop them en route it’s all over. We’ll never be able to find them once they go underground.”

  Jimmy said to Trammel, “So there’s this military base, this well-organized hit squad...these people chasing you are tied to the military?”

  “At this point that’s the only scenario that makes sense.”