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.”