At all costs

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 reporter 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.”

Irene regarded her for a long moment, the exhaustion of the preceding days weighing on her like an anvil. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said finally. The words sounded hollow even to herself.

Carolyn was done talking; Irene recognized the signals now. The agent closed her eyes and tried to massage away her booming headache. An odd mix of fear and guilt boiled in her gut, making her wish for the first time that she’d chosen a different career. The Bureau was supposed to be the good guys, dammit. If her suspicions were correct, this poor woman who lay tied helplessly to her bed had endured more hardship than anyone should ever bear.

Over the course of her career with the Bureau, Irene had absorbed a lot of hate from a lot of fugitives, but never before had she felt crippled by it. She wanted to tell Carolyn that she believed her story now; wanted to tell her all about Frankel and to apologize on behalf of the federal government. But that was out of the question. Fact was, they couldn’t prove anything. Yet.

As if on cue, a gentle rap on the door drew her head around. Paul Boersky beckoned her into the hallway and from there, hustled her into an empty room.

“I gather from all this stealth that we guessed right?” Irene opened.

Instinctively, Paul looked over his shoulder. “This is scary as shit, Irene,” he whispered. “Looks like the Donovans nailed it. I talked to a guy in Records-you owe him a hundred bucks, by the way-who dug into Frankel’s files for me. Your rag mag was right. From 1981 to early ’82, our fearless leader ran an investigation out of the Little Rock office into arms sales shenanigans out of Newark. Apparently, there were a few leads that seemed to head back toward the last Army commander of the place-your suicidal buddy, General Albemarle. Seems that the case dried up, though, all of a sudden like.

“Then Albemarle-a freakin’ war hero, from the Second World War through Korea and even a touch of Vietnam-blew his brains out in 1982, just after the EPA discovered this weapons stash. His note said it was the pressure of the investigation.” Paul looked up from his pad and sighed. “It’s just too close, Irene. I think we got him. He blew up the magazine to cover the missing inventory, and the people to deflect the attention.”

Irene stared off to a spot on the floor, lost in the meaning of it all.

“You still with me?” Paul asked.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure. Just getting a headache.”

He snorted. “Yeah, well, tape it up, because this gets better. Remember Tony Bernard? The guy at the motel?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“Okay, well, listen to this. He was the only son of a couple of flower children. Real doper types, who dragged baby Tony through all kinds of hippie shit at Berkeley, and later got his picture in the Chicago Tribune as a-and I quote-‘young rioter’ during the Democratic convention back in ’68.”

She looked confused. “I don’t get it.”

“Sure you do. What better bio to hang a ‘crazy environmentalist’ tag on? He was the one who was supposed to go down for the whole thing, not the Donovans. They just got tagged because they had the poor taste to survive it all. With them alive, Frankel had no choice but to kill Bernard. Whatever holes the sudden change left in his plan, he just covered over with a little hysteria.”

Irene’s eyes got wider, and she took a deep breath. “Holy shit,” she said.

“The holiest,” Paul cheered, still at a whisper. “Here we were worried about career damage control, and instead, we strike gold!”

Irene shot him a glare.

“What?”

“You’re nuts,” she declared. “We don’t have squat here.”

“Bullshit.”

She realized she’d made him defensive, and she waved it off. “No, that’s not what I mean. It’s a good case, and I think we’ve found the answer, but Frankel’s not just going to cave. Christ, he’s got a confession and a truckload of circumstantial evidence. Certainly as much circumstantial evidence as we have.”

Paul shrugged. “Reasonable doubt, right?”

She laughed. “Oh, yeah, this is great news for the Donovans. They’re home free, if we ever get them to trial. But you were talking about your career. If we can’t put Frankel away, then all we’ll do is set the Donovans free and shoot ourselves in the feet.”

Paul opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again. “Shit.”