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Authors: John Gilstrap

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BOOK: At All Costs
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“Of course.” Harry took Jake in with an extended glare as he shook his hand. His face twitched a bit around the eyes, as if he smelled something unpleasant or was perhaps enduring a sudden gas pain. The look prompted Jake to take a look at himself. At once, it seemed, everyone realized just how filthy the new arrivals were.
“Thorne,” Harry commanded, “send somebody to get my niece and nephew some new clothes, will you? Plain vanilla, understand? Nothing fancy. What size shoes do you kids wear?”
“I’m a ten-D,” Jake answered. “I think Carolyn’s a five.”
“Five and a half,” she corrected.
Thorne looked from one visitor to the other as they spoke, and then back to Harry, who dismissed him with a nod. “Please come in,” Harry offered.
“Nice place,” Jake said. Dominated by tasteful yet not extravagant antiques, and accessorized with cloth wall coverings and Oriental rugs, the farmhouse felt lived in; well loved.
“Thank you,” Harry acknowledged. “It’s not mine. Actually, it belongs to a friend of mine. He agreed to let me entertain you here.” He led the way into a spacious living room, where he lowered himself into a wing-backed chair. Overhead, one of the three fans churned the heavy air to create the illusion of a breeze. “Carolyn, why don’t you and Jack sit on the sofa there?”
“It’s, um, Jake, sir.” Harry looked at him oddly. “As opposed to Jack.”
Harry smiled. “Right. And you can call me Harry. So . . . what have you kids heard about the media’s take on all this?”
“We haven’t seen or heard a thing,” Carolyn said. Since the explosion at the plant, she and Jake had been so immersed in staying beyond the reach of the police, they’d suffered a virtual information blackout.
“Hmm.” The old man inhaled deeply through his nose and leaned back into the cushions of his chair, interlacing his fingers across his chest. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but you
are
the news. Very hot news, indeed. The minute you ran from that motel room in Buford, I’m afraid you lost any benefit you might have gained by turning yourselves in.”
“But we didn’t do anything!” Carolyn protested. “My God, surely we can prove that much!”
Harry inhaled deeply again, searching for the words that would cause this all to make sense. “While it
should
matter whether one is guilty or innocent, I’ve had some conflicts with the authorities myself, as you know, and I can tell you that culpability is frequently irrelevant. What
is
relevant is that you two seem to be the victims of a rather sophisticated conspiracy. Having kept one eye on the television for the last twelve hours, I’ve heard the words ‘airtight case’ dropped at least a dozen times.”
“But how can that be?” Carolyn said. “If we just—”
“Obviously,”
Harry cut her off, “someone
wants
the world to believe that you did these horrible things. And it appears that they’ve accomplished that goal. Accomplished it in a way that is beyond refute. Since your guilt is assumed, you must behave accordingly. Remember: the police don’t differentiate between guilty fugitives and innocent fugitives.”
Harry let the words hang in the air, allowing time for the Donovans to absorb them. Jake noted the old man’s smile as Carolyn unconsciously sought her husband’s hand and squeezed it lovingly. Clearly, it was important to Harry that she be happily married.
“So what do we do?” Carolyn asked.
Harry broke eye contact. “You disappear,” he said to his hands. “You evaporate; cease to exist.”
“For how long?” asked Jake.
Harry looked up. “Assume
forever.
There’ll be a huge investigation, of course. Motives examined. Evidence sifted. My hunch is, the finger will still be pointing at you when they’re done. Something about this smells. It’s too neat and tidy. The game is rigged.”
The enormity of what Harry was suggesting pressed down on Jake like a block of granite. “But what about our friends?” he blurted. “All our things are back at the apartment, and the car . . .”
“
Forget
about them. Forget about everything but survival.” Harry had made it sound so effortless, so ordinary. Like pumping gas or buying an apple at the grocery store.
Carolyn shook her head fiercely, on the edge of panic. “There
has
to be another way.”
“There
is
no other way,” Harry insisted. “You asked for my advice, Sunshine, and now I’m offering it to you. There is no other way.”
“What about money?” Jake asked. “And jobs? How are we going to support ourselves?”
Harry seemed pleased by these questions, as if comforted by the thought process behind them. “Thorne will bring you a briefcase in a moment,” Harry explained. “In it, you’ll find eighty thousand dollars. I’m sorry it can’t be more, Sunshine, but what with my recent vacation courtesy of the IRS, my business is not what it once was.”
Eighty thousand dollars!
Jake’s mind screamed.
And he’s apologizing for it?
Harry saw their looks of wonder and worked quickly to bring them back on track. “Listen to me, you two,” he said, extending a reproachful forefinger. “This will be your survival money, and you must dispense it wisely. If either one of you spends it on a fast car or a night in Vegas, I swear to God I’ll beat you both.” What might have sounded like an empty threat coming from someone else sounded like the most sincere of promises.
“Now, I can help you to establish new identities,” Harry went on. “Thorne, he has contacts who can take care of things. But from that point on, you’ll be on your own, do you understand?”
Carolyn nodded, but her mind had already left the conversation, racing ahead to God only knew what complications lay in wait. People couldn’t just cease to exist! They had fingerprints. They had faces, and as Harry pointed out earlier, those faces were plastered all over every media outlet.
“Sunshine, you’re not listening,” Harry barked. “We don’t have a lot of time here.”
“What about our faces?” There, she asked it.
“Creating a new face is not as difficult as you might think. Or so I’m told. A new nose here, some collagen there, a new hairstyle—you’d be surprised how easy it is. The paper trail is the hard part—giving you not only a present to live in but a past to explain it. But don’t worry about that. Thorne’s friends will take care of you there. What’s important is how you behave. You must never buy or produce or even own anything that you can’t walk away from in a heartbeat. Even with the identity work we’ll be doing for you, you must never forget that a single mistake can bring it all down. No homes, no stocks, no pets, and no kids.”
“No kids!” Carolyn objected. “But we were planning a family!”
Harry laughed; a release of frustration. “For God’s sake, Carolyn. You were planning a lot of things. And none of them involved any of this. Open your eyes. Kids weigh you down; slow you down. When it’s time for you to move, you’ll need to move instantly. You won’t have time to run by the grocery store for Pampers and formula.”
“Come on, Harry,” Jake interrupted. “We’ve got to have some semblance of a life. What you describe—we’d be as well off going to jail.”
Harry’s eyes turned to ice, and he set his jaw angrily. “What I’m giving you
is
a semblance of a life. I’m trying to show you how not to blow it. You say you want kids. That’s terrific. How screwed up do you want them to be? Here’s the one absolute truth in your life from now on, and never, ever forget it: whatever you had planned for the next sixty years or so doesn’t mean anything anymore. You’re going to have to move every year, some years more than once. You’ll never get a job that requires a background check, ’cause that would be stupid. You’ll never get another job in your chosen field, because you’re more likely to run into people you know. And when we’re done, you’ll never be called Donovan again. Whatever family you have, you’ll never talk to them again. Got a best buddy? Maybe the best man at your wedding? Well, to him, you might as well be dead.
“Are you understanding me, kids? You can’t afford friends anymore. I know it’s a raw deal, but it’s all you’ve got. And if you can’t have friends, then how the hell can you have kids? Don’t you see? It’s stupid.”
Again, he let the words hang in the air. This was their first great lesson, and with it the weight bearing down on Jake seemed to increase a hundredfold. As he listened to Harry’s speech, Jake realized for the first time the abiding injustice of it all. In the ensuing years, he and Carolyn would search repeatedly for the Greater Good in all of this, but the bottom line—and the point Harry had been trying to make—was that there was no Great Plan; no acceptable reason for it all. It just was the way it was. Period. It was a lesson for which they hadn’t been prepared; a lesson that Jake’s complacency would ultimately allow him to forget.
“And Jake,” Harry concluded, aiming a finger between his eyes, “don’t ever assume that prison is an alternative to anything, do you understand? I’m tougher than you’ll ever be, and it damn near broke me after five years. You two are looking at spending the rest of your lives there. If it comes to that, you’re better off dead, do you understand? Dead is
better
than prison.”
Jake and Carolyn both looked away. They held hands tightly enough to turn their knuckles white. Harry softened his voice, and as he did, his eyes moistened. “Sunshine, you know I’d rather cut off my arm than see you go through this. You know that, right?”
She nodded glumly, her eyes still cast downward.
“Now, there’ll be temptations. Come Christmas, or maybe your anniversary, you’ll want to call home; or maybe even call me. But you can’t. The FBI is going to turn the world inside out looking for you, and the search won’t stop in the next year or two or five. They’ll know more about each of you than you know about yourselves, and every one of your friends and relatives will be watched. They’ll be warned. The picture that the U.S. Attorney is going to paint of you will be so awful that there won’t be a friend or relative who isn’t tempted to turn you in. You can trust no one. Ever. Remember that.”
Thorne arrived at the archway to the living room, briefcase in hand, waiting to be recognized. “Give us another minute,” Harry said, and the assistant retreated.
Harry scooted forward in his chair and held his hand out for Carolyn’s. She took it, linking herself to the two men she loved more than anything else in the world. “If there were another way, I’d take it,” Harry said, his voice thickening. “Any other way in the world. But there isn’t. The feds hate me, you know. Enough to be a risk to both of you, so I have to leave. If you get jammed up one day—I mean, really boxed in, and there’s no other alternative—you call this number.” He handed them a blue slip of paper, produced from his shirt pocket. “Read it, memorize it, and destroy it. I’ll do whatever I can for you, but remember that the IRS and the FBI are likely to be watching me all the time. It’s not impossible that a call to me would cause more problems for you than it would solve.”
Cupping Carolyn’s jawline tenderly with his fingers, Harry’s eyes filled with tears. “Sunshine, if things go well, we’ll never see each other again, sweetie.” His voice disappeared entirely as he leaned forward and gave her another long, tender hug. Then it was time for him to go. He pushed Carolyn away.
As he stood, he extended his hand to Jake. “You can’t imagine what your bride and I have been through together, Jake. You take good care of her.”
Jake rose as well. “I’ll do my best, Harry,” he said.
Harry fixed him with a menacing glare. “Do better than your best. You protect her at all costs. From here on out, she’s all you’ve got.”
He exited quickly, leaving the Donovans alone in the living room. “Oh, my God, Jake,” Carolyn said through bitter sobs. “What are we doing?”
Jake chewed on his lower lip, trying to come to grips with it all. “I guess we’re surviving.”
“Excuse me, folks,” Thorne interrupted, startling them both. “Mr. Sinclair said it was important to move quickly. We have some new clothes for you upstairs, if you’d like to change. And there’s time for a shower, too, if you’d like.”
Unable to think of a proper response, Jake just nodded, his expression blank. He looked like a man who’d just been handed a death sentence, his brain too overloaded with emotion to deal with the facts one at a time. With his bride tucked tightly next to him, he followed Thorne out of the living room and into the future.
C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN
Travis’s heart pounded furiously as he crossed the parking lot, stifling the urge to shoot a glance back toward his parents. This was his idea, after all, and he refused to look as frightened as he felt. In less than twenty-four hours, everything about his life had changed, and he was sick and tired of not having a role in it. This was his contribution. At least now they’d all go to jail together.
As he climbed the four steps to the front door, he reviewed what he was supposed to say one more time in his head. Much of it made no sense to him, but his parents had assured him that it wouldn’t matter; that Uncle Harry—whoever the hell he was—would know everything.
The aroma of bacon grew stronger as he approached the top step, and as soon as he pulled the door open, that aroma mingled with stale cigarette smoke and the sulfury odor of eggs. Homer and Jane’s was packed and noisy, filled with people who looked like they might be on their way to work.
Travis paused in the doorway, holding up traffic for a few seconds as he surveyed the place and tried to locate the telephone.
“Make a hole, kid,” said a man dressed all in denim and sporting a saucer-size belt buckle. Travis stepped out of the way, but the man nudged him aside, anyway. Not a push exactly, but it wasn’t friendly, either.
A stern-faced woman approached from the other side of the diner, wearing a grease-stained waitress uniform and a scrungy hairnet. “Can I help you?” According to the guy who just asked for more coffee, her name was Peggy.
Travis smiled politely, trying to look the part of a wayward kid. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I’m wondering if you have a pay phone?”
Whatever the waitress saw in the boy garnered more suspicion than empathy. “Are you here alone?”
What difference does that make?
he didn’t say. “Um, no, ma’am. My folks are out in the car waiting for me.”
Peggy’s eyes narrowed, as if to shoot him with X rays. Apparently, he looked like a vandal or something. Finally, she pointed to the right rear corner of the dining room, where he could just make out the image of a telephone through the thick haze of smoke.
He forced another smile. “Thanks.”
Far from a culinary expert, Travis nevertheless surmised that this place was a dump. Every booth was either torn or tilted, and most bore more gray duct tape than aqua Naugahyde. He tried to look calm and impassive—friendly, even—as he strolled down the center aisle, surrounded by a dozen pictures of his parents, held up high for everyone to see while they read the morning news.
The telephone hung from the wall just outside the rest rooms, and, judging from the looming stench, someone had just pinched off a pipe-choker. Certain that everyone was watching, he lifted the receiver from its cradle and punched “0” plus the telephone number he’d memorized in the car. He used the same mnemonic, in fact, that his parents had used over the years to keep the number burned into their brains.
“I’d like to make a collect call to Harry Sinclair, please,” he said to the operator after she’d picked up.
“Who’s calling, please?” the operator asked.
Travis’s heart stopped. What should he tell her? Mom and Dad didn’t mention this question. He kept the operator waiting long enough for her to ask if he was still on the line. “Huh?” he said, startled by the voice’s intrusion into his frantic thoughts. “Um, yeah. Yeah, I’m still here. Tell him it’s Mr. Donnolly.”
“Mister
Donnolly?”
“No, Donovan!” he corrected himself quickly.
Shit!
“Uh-huh. Which is it, sir?” Clearly, the operator trusted him about as much as Peggy did.
“It’s Donovan,” he said firmly. “Travis Donovan.”
What the hell.
At this point, he’d sound suspicious no matter what he said. He tucked the phone in tight against his shoulder and looked around to see if anyone was watching. So far, so good.
A gruff voice answered on the fourth ring. “Yeah?”
“I have a collect call from Travis Donnolly for Harry Sinclair.”
“Donovan!” Travis countered.
She did that on purpose!
The line was quiet for a second. “Travis Donovan?” the gruff voice asked. “We don’t know no Travis Donovan.”
“I’m Sunshine’s son,” Travis added quickly.
More silence.
“Will you accept the charges?” the operator pressed.
The answer came slowly, suspiciously. “Yeah, we’ll accept.”
Travis let out a breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding. “Thank you,” he said gratefully. After the operator left them with a
click,
the boy said, “Uncle Harry?”
“No,” the voice said sourly. “I’m a friend of his. Who are you really?” The threat in his voice was heavy; palpable even eight hundred miles away.
The sound of the voice launched a shiver down Travis’s spine. “I’m really me,” he insisted. “I’m Sunshine’s kid.”
“This isn’t a joke, is it, kid?” the voice pressed. “This is the wrong number if this is a joke.”
Travis swallowed hard. “N-no, this isn’t a joke,” he stammered. “M-my mom and dad need Uncle Harry’s help.”
Again, the phone line filled with silence. “Okay,” the voice said finally. “Hang on a minute.”
Travis nodded absently. “Okay,” he said. Fact was, the guy on the other end had unnerved him enough that he’d stay right there all day and into the night, if he had to.
“Holy shit, we got ’em!” Paul Boersky whooped, drawing Irene’s attention away from her mountain of paper. “The tap on Harry Sinclair’s phone. Not three hours old, and we already got a hit!”
“Where?” Irene’s voice buzzed with excitement. She had a call scheduled with Frankel in an hour and a half, and this was exactly the kind of scoop she prayed for.
Paul turned his attention back to the telephone and relayed Irene’s question. “They don’t have it pinned down completely, but it looks like it’s from West Virginia. Some place called Winston Springs.”
“Hot damn!” Irene rejoiced. “They’re recording everything, presume?”
“As we speak,” Paul announced. The room came alive, with war whoops and high-fives all around.
While Paul stayed on the line for updates, Irene set herself to the task of siccing the West Virginia State Police onto her fugitives.
Harry Sinclair realized he probably should have mentioned his suspicions to Thorne. Truth be known, he’d been expecting the call since the news first broke yesterday, and while entirely unsure how he could be of much help, he remained committed to doing whatever he could.
He hadn’t counted on the Justice Department, however. Periodically, they put taps on his phones, but never before at a time when they could do any real harm. Thankfully, Harry knew when the taps were to go into place, courtesy of a well-placed associate in the Chicago District of the U.S. Attorney’s Office. Harry grew up with the guy’s father back in the old days on the South Side and invested a few bucks in the deli he owned downtown. When the friend got hammered by the Health Department on some technical violations, Harry made a couple of calls to the Mayor’s Office and got him off the hook. Even fronted the money to make the necessary repairs. Kids from the old neighborhood still knew what loyalty was all about.
The timing of Travis’s call could not have been worse. As soon as Thorne told him who was on the line—and after he got over the shock of it being a kid—Harry knew they’d lit a short fuse. How short, exactly, he couldn’t tell.
As Thorne brought the news, Harry instinctively checked his watch. “How long has he been on the line?” he asked.
Thorne shrugged. “Three minutes, maybe?”
Harry nodded. “Okay, scramble the call for a couple of minutes, then bring it up on the digital phone.”
Over the course of the next three or four minutes, the kid’s call would be transferred electronically all over the world, ultimately ending up on a private line in Harry’s Dallas office—officially listed as the residence of a priest—and his staffer there would transfer the call at random to one of four digital phones at the house whose crystals were changed every four days, making them virtually impossible to track. Such precautions were a pain in the ass, but Harry had learned the hard way just how adept his competition was getting at electronic eavesdropping. Just two years ago, in fact, he’d lost a billion-dollar communications contract by a margin of less than a thousand dollars to a wiseass Texas redneck, and he knew then that the rules of engagement had changed. Now this business of call-scrambling was more the rule than the exception. That it also frustrated the occasional eavesdropper-with-a-badge was just so much icing on the cake.
The phone tap shouldn’t have been a surprise, he supposed. God knew they’d slapped them on before, with far less cause. Nothing pissed off the Justice Department quite as much as the act of making a lot of money while employing thousands of workers. If you could do that, then you had to be doing something illegal. Unless you contributed to the president’s reelection campaign, of course, and Harry would light a bonfire with his fortune before he gave a dime to that S.O.B. He’d already slept in the White House, thank you very much, and truth be told, the Four Seasons was a hell of a lot more comfortable.
The instant he got word of the tap, he’d set his lawyers to work getting it quashed. These things took time, though, and the FBI had undoubtedly snagged a recording of the kid’s call being accepted by Thorne. That could be a problem. Didn’t take much these days to establish enough probable cause to cut a warrant, and with that paper in hand, they’d tear his place apart looking for Sunshine. He sighed. The Justice Department lived for moments like this.
Harry’s war with the feds dated back to the midseventies, when Chicago’s congressional representative woke up one morning and realized to his horror that Harry was buying up much of the most valuable real estate in the city and that every penny of the tycoon’s generous campaign contributions was going to the wrong party. Alleging unfair competitive practices, the congressman told an all-too-sympathetic president, who in turn whispered a few words to the attorney general.
And so it was, a few years later, that Harry Sinclair was sentenced to federal prison for income tax violations that would have netted anyone else in the country a wrist slap and a fine.
As outrageously unfair as it was, the experience proved a real eyeopener. Five years was a long time to live in a concrete room, denied privacy and sunlight, while choking down the double-fried slave shit they called food—although not nearly as long as the eight they’d slapped him with initially. Those were years that he’d never get back; places he’d never visit, deals he’d never close.
These days, Harry enjoyed the simple pleasures, rarely making an appearance in his palatial offices downtown. When the mood struck, he’d take a float in the pool or maybe indulge in a round of golf. He had managers now to handle the day-to-day crap. The time had come for him to reap the benefits of his empire.
Freedom meant everything to Harry; he wouldn’t wish jail on anybody. Now his Sunshine’s freedom was at risk again, and he couldn’t bear the thought. He felt an emotion boiling in his gut that he hadn’t felt in years—not since he’d stepped away from the negotiating end of the business. He felt himself bracing for war.
When he heard the chirp of a digital phone, Harry stood from behind his desk and strolled to the blue leather sofa along the opposite wall. Always a man of considerable girth, there was a jiggle now to his ample gut, where once it appeared to have been made of stone.
Thorne handed him the telephone. “Thank you,” he said, then motioned for the other man to stick around. Pausing a moment to find the proper demeanor, he punched the connect button. “Yes?”
“Is
this
Uncle Harry?” a boy’s voice said from the other end of the line, frustration growling in his throat.
“It is.”
“Finally!” Travis blurted. “God, I thought I’d never get through to you. Jeeze!”
Harry said nothing while the boy ranted, waiting instead for him to settle down to listen. He caught on quickly. The flurry of words ended, replaced with an uncomfortable silence.
“Hello?” Travis asked. “Are you still there?”
“Are you finished?” Harry’s tone carried a stern rebuke.
“Huh? Oh, yeah, sorry. I just . . .” Travis stopped himself in midsentence, and as he did, Harry watched in his mind as the boy calmed himself and got to the business at hand. “Okay, Uncle Harry, I’m Travis Brighton . . . No, I’m not, dammit . . . oh, sorry . . . I’m Travis
Donovan.
You don’t know me, but . . .”
Harry interrupted. “I know who you are, son. Now, tell me what you want.” Another deep breath from the other end and then a nervous chuckle. Finally, the kid found the handle for his tongue, and he recited the information that his folks had given him.
Two minutes into the monologue, Harry stood again and began to pace the carpet. This was the craziest thing he’d heard in a long, long time.
BOOK: At All Costs
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