Authors: John Gilstrap

At All Costs (35 page)

BOOK: At All Costs

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C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-SEVEN

Jake was shocked that Nick’s plan had worked so well. In all the confusion back at the Rescue Squad, his friend had transferred the orange body bag and the two money bags from the trunk of the Cadillac to the back of Bob and Barbara’s Toyota pickup truck, which was parked, keys inside, just off the back ramp. No one seemed to notice as they turned off the tiny access road and back onto the highway, passing within thirty feet of the ambulance as it sat there on the front ramp, swaying ever so slightly from the frantic efforts to save Travis’s life.

They traveled in silence. Nick didn’t know what to say, and Jake, in a move to preserve some semblance of composure, simply allowed himself to become mesmerized by the yellow hash marks in the road. They flashed by endlessly, brilliant yellow dashes in the wash of the headlights, stretching forever, in a trajectory so straight that he wondered how a driver could stay awake.

Nothing mattered anymore. With Travis dying and Carolyn off to prison, this business of revenge and of staying ahead of the police seemed tragically irrelevant. Their only chance for a life together now rested squarely on his shoulders, but he had grave doubts that he could handle the burden. Giving up, giving in, just seemed so much easier. A relief, even, from the pain that grew like a tumor in his heart.

Why did I have to be so harsh with him?

He felt exhausted, unable to remember the last time he’d been without fear. It undercut everything. Even the most joyous moments over the years had been dulled by a pervasive sense of dread that it would be their last moment to laugh together. Thankfully, it hadn’t been as bad the last year or two as it had been in the beginning. He’d finally gotten to the point where after a few months in one town, he’d achieve a certain sense of relief that they’d “made it” yet again, but then it would be time to move on, and he’d remember that their survival was only as secure as the first person who might recognize them.

The worst time came back in 1990, when one of the reality-based television programs did a piece on the Donovans and their years-long flight from the law. Millions of people watched that show, just as they did every Saturday night, yet, apparently, no one made the connection. Still, the pressure was crippling: walking through the grocery store or helping customers when he knew in his heart that half of them were searching their minds for a clue as to where they’d seen him before.

For Carolyn, the pressure had proved to be too much. That TV program, combined with the emptiness of anonymity and the demons from her childhood, had driven her to booze. He’d hated her for her weakness back then. How selfish, he’d thought, for her to try to drown out the miserable existence she’d helped him build, only to make it worse for the people she’d left behind to cover for her. Travis fared worst during those times, yet Jake knew without doubt that it was the sight of the boy’s suffering that had convinced her to dry out.

He now realized and admired the courage it must have taken for her to shut down her only escape route. And he hated himself for never telling her.

If only he could just turn the clock back a few days. If he’d argued with Travis for just a little longer that morning of the drug raid, then none of this would have happened. If he hadn’t taken a shortcut to avoid some of the traffic, or if he’d just stopped for a bite to eat, then the feds would have arrived before him, and he’d have driven on past the gathered knot of police cars. The randomness of life mocked him. After so many years of calculated planning and strategic moves, he sat now amid a giant clusterfuck, facing the prospect of never again seeing the two people who gave his life meaning.

Curiously, he and Nick passed only two cop cars on their way to the airport. About fifteen minutes into the journey, the cops came barreling down the road in the opposite direction, doing about a million miles per hour, lights flashing, sirens whooping. Nick said something at the time, but Jake hadn’t heard it.

The plan, as relayed to Nick earlier in the day by his stone-faced driver, called for them to drive past the entrance to Little Rock Airport, to a strip mall located a few miles down the road. They were to park in front of a sporting goods store and wait for someone to pick them up. From there, presumably, they’d be ferried off in Nick’s favorite Gulfstream to some new destination.

Problem was, their designated chauffeur would be looking for a white Cadillac sedan, not a royal-blue Toyota pickup. After sitting for five minutes without being approached by anyone, Nick suggested that they move outside, to sit on the hood, where whoever was watching could catch a glimpse of who they really were.

Another five minutes passed. Then ten. Finally, a car approached from the far end of the parking lot. At first, the driver appeared to be lost, cruising slowly down the line of shops, just a pair of headlights against the night. Then, without warning, the high beams flashed, and the big car took a hard turn to head right for them. Nick slid off the hood and retreated a few steps, while Jake slid his hand under his jacket to rest on his pistol. If it turned out to be the cops, everything would come to a noisy end right now. If it was marauding kids, they’d be sent scurrying on home. He hoped it was neither.

The vehicle slowed as it neared the Toyota, and dimmed its lights again as it pulled to a halt. There was a
click
as the door unlatched, and in the wash of the interior light, Jake recognized Thorne’s familiar face. The big man uncoiled himself from the car’s front seat as Jake slid off the hood of the pickup.

“Where’s Sunshine?” Thorne asked. His thick midwestern accent sounded somehow incongruous with his narrow eyes and V-shaped frame.

“The cops have her,” Jake said grimly. “Travis got hurt, and Carolyn stayed with him.”

“Mr. Sinclair is gonna be pissed.” Thorne’s tone made the observation sound like a threat.

“That’d just break my heart,” Jake growled. Of all the ramifications inherent in Carolyn’s capture, her Uncle Harry’s being “pissed” didn’t rank among the top one hundred.

“And what’s this piece of shit you’re driving? Where’s the rental?”

“We had to leave it behind. We boosted this from a couple of paramedics.”

Thorne’s features twisted into a look of utter disgust. “And what about your package? Where’s that?”

Nick reappeared, leaned over the edge of the flatbed, and hoisted the body bag. “It’s right here. Looks like a small child.”

Thorne didn’t give a shit what it looked like. His expression never changing, he opened the trunk for Nick, then closed it again after placing the body inside. “Have you had those gloves on the whole time?” he asked Nick.

In all the confusion, Nick couldn’t say, but he chose to think optimistically. “Don’t leave home without ’em.”

Thorne rolled his eyes. “Get in.”

They did. Jake sat in the back with Nick, the two soft-sided money bags stacked between them.

As it turned out, the airport was merely a convenient meeting place. Their true destination lay about forty-five minutes farther out and was accessible not by plane, but by car; down a series of progressively smaller, more primitive roads. Finally, the forest opened up again to reveal an antebellum mansion, rising like a medieval castle out of an endless expanse of cleared fields. Bright lights illuminated the facade of the brick residence, making it look like something from an amusement park.

“What’s this?” Nick asked, but Thorne said nothing.

They swung the turn into the half-mile-long driveway, crunching gravel as the mansion grew to fill the entire windshield. Jake thought back to the last time he’d dealt with Harry’s people, and he remembered the much more modest digs similarly located in the middle of nowhere.

“So much for keeping a low profile,” Jake grumped.

“It’s not about profiles,” Thorne grumped back. “It’s about protection. Out here, anybody comes, you can watch ’em for miles.”

The driveway ended in a lazy circle surrounding a gaudy fountain which, as best Jake could tell, featured a flock of barfing swans.

“Go on in,” Thorne instructed as he threw the transmission into park. “No need to knock. I’ll take care of the package in the trunk.”

Nick and Jake exchanged uneasy glances before climbing out of the car and scaling the wide marble steps leading to the double front doors.

Jake handed the gym bags to Nick and reached for the doorknob. He paused, then drew the Glock from its holster and let it dangle by his leg. He’d learned a long time ago to trust his instincts, for all the good they did him, but his instincts were unanimous in their advice to run back to the car.

He opened the door slowly, hesitantly. He checked first to see if anyone was concealed on the hinge side before stepping in. A shimmering, polished brass chandelier dominated the ceiling over the ornate foyer, whose sparkling walnut floors had been inlaid with an ebony and pearl family crest.

“Serious money here,” Nick mumbled under his breath.

They moved softly in the heavy silence of the giant house, working their way to the right—toward the doorway of a small yet fabulously decorated room. Two lush, forest-green leather chairs framed a gorgeous fireplace, across from which sat a silk-upholstered sofa. Jake assumed this was what one would call a parlor.

“Hey!” a voice boomed from behind.

Jake led with his gun as he whirled to find Thorne walking briskly through the front door, dragging the body bag with one hand and carrying a cellular phone in the other. “Jesus, Thorne,” Jake spat, breaking his aim. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Thorne paused at the sight of the weapon and regarded Jake with disgust. “Put that thing away,” he commanded. “I told you, the estate is clean. We’re safe here.” He dragged the orange bag across the foyer and thrust out the phone. “Here,” he said. “Mr. Sinclair wants to talk to you.”

Mr. Sinclair can kiss my ass,
Jake didn’t say. He reached for the phone.

Thorne turned to Nick. “The rest of your shit’s in the kitchen. That’s where I’ll put this.”

Nick nodded and followed the other man down the hallway, to disappear behind the dramatic, sweeping stairway.

Jake brought the phone to his ear. “Yeah, Harry, this is Jake.”

“Where’s Sunshine?” the old man demanded, his words like daggers.

Instantly, Jake’s hatred for this bully tycoon bubbled to the surface, just as pure and as bitter as it had always been. “Carolyn’s not here,” he said. The tone that he’d hoped would sound defiant sounded soft instead, like that of a child confessing to a parent. This was, after all, the man to whom he’d sold his soul in return for an easy way out. “I had to leave her behind.” He took a minute to tell the story.

“So you just ran away,” Harry charged. “You just left her to those pigs.”

“There was no choice, Harry.”

“There’s always a choice.”

Jake said nothing, merely sat down heavily on the elaborate sofa. Of course there were choices, but what else—

“It’s that goddamn kid of yours!” Harry roared. “I told you no kids! And you deliberately ignored me! Why didn’t you listen?”

Jake was stunned, struck dumb. Whereas just seconds before, he’d felt his self-worth swirling down the toilet, now he was ready for a fight.
Goddamn kid?
How dare he! For a long time, he stared at the phone, his mouth agape.

“I asked you a question, Jake,” Harry’s voice buzzed from the earpiece.

“We
did
listen to you,” Jake seethed. He found himself concentrating on his words, controlling his voice. “We did every goddamn thing you told us to do, and look where we are today.”

“You
didn’t
listen!” Harry yelled.

To hell with self-control.
“We
did
listen!” Jake shouted back. “You said to run. We ran. You said to change our names and appearances. We did that, too. For fourteen years, Harry, we’ve done every goddamn thing you told us to do! And yes, we had a son . . .”

Suddenly, the words caught in Jake’s throat, and he paused, as if choking. And the horror of it all became clear. “I
had
a son,” he repeated, and now his voice was barely a whisper. He’d just used the past tense.

Oh, God
. . .

“He’s the only thing we ever did right, Harry, and I think I killed him.” He looked at the phone curiously for a moment, bringing it down to waist level, where he folded it shut and let it drop to the floor. The last person he owed an explanation to was Harry Sinclair.

With his elbows wedged into his knees, he leaned forward and ran his fingers deeply into his hairline. The hopelessness of it all took his breath away.

What kind of animal am I?
he wondered.
Killing my own son, and sacrificing my wife, just to save my own skin?

“Oh, my God,” he whispered. “Oh, sweet Jesus, I’m so sorry.”

BOOK: At All Costs

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