John Gilstrap - At all costs

To Jake, Harry would forever be a jailbird, even as Carolyn worshiped every step the old man took. As the only girl among a sea of boy cousins, Carolyn had always been Harry’s “Sunshine,” and the real estate mogul played his role to the hilt, bringing her silver dollars and chocolate bars every time he saw her. There was an unbreakable bond there, part of the great mystery that was Carolyn’s childhood.

Distasteful business practices aside, Jake recognized loyalty when he saw it, and while he detested much of what Harry Sinclair stood for, there was no denying that the old man had come to Jake and Carolyn’s aid at a critical time. As the entire world bore down on the Donovans in 1983, Harry provided them with everything they needed to disappear, from identities to cash-all just months after Harry himself had been released from prison and stood to lose a great deal in the transaction.

Sitting there in the van outside the diner, Jake shook his head in disbelief. This was the man from whom Travis was soliciting assistance? The punch line of an old joke popped into his mind, making him squirm in his seat: We’ve already established what you are, madam, now we’re just haggling over price.

As he waited for Travis to return, Jake let his thoughts drift back to his second meeting with Harry Sinclair-Jake’s first in the role of fugitive. The old man had sent a car to pick up Jake and Carolyn at a prearranged spot downstream from Buford. He remembered the driver’s name to this day. Thorne: a sinewy, large-torsoed military type who rarely said a word but whose dark eyes continually cast a threat. The pickup had been late at night, as Jake recalled, and they drove straight through till morning to a house somewhere in southern Illinois.

Jake had slept most of the way, finally awakened by the heat of the rising sun. Carolyn was already awake, sitting upright and talking in hushed tones to Thorne. Jake stretched noisily, and slowly worked his way up to a sitting position.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Carolyn said happily. “About time you woke up.”

“What time is it?” He was too sleep-dumb to think of checking his watch.

“About nine. We’re almost there.”

“Correction,” Thorne interrupted. “We are there.”

The only building in sight was a largish farmhouse planted in the middle of a huge expanse of green farmland. Thorne slowed the Cadillac nearly to a halt to catch a rutted dirt path. The house was gorgeous, in a uniquely midwestern way. Probably dating back to the 1920s, it vaguely resembled a squatty Aztec pyramid, anchored at its base by a huge, wraparound porch, and rising two more stories in classic Victorian style to a slate roof and an intricate collage of gables.

Harry was waiting for them at the front door, and Carolyn started to cry the instant she saw him. The years in prison had been hard. Heavy creases had invaded his boyish face. Last time they’d seen each other-could it possibly be eight years? — his hair, which now resembled a disheveled cotton ball, had been a lush auburn mane, carefully coiffed and proudly displayed. Despite his ever-present paunch, he’d always been obsessive about his wardrobe, sporting the very latest in men’s fashions. Now his clothes just looked rumpled and old; not unlike the man wearing them.

Carolyn was out of the car as soon as it pulled to a stop, and she became a young girl again as she glided up the manicured path and into Harry’s outstretched arms. “Little Sunshine,” he whispered gently, “I’ve missed you so much.” As she buried her face in his shoulder, he stroked the back of her head.

“Shh, Sunshine,” Harry cooed. “Shh. Settle down now. Everything’s going to be just fine…”

Jake watched it all from the driveway, trying to ignore Thorne, who seemed to regard Sunshine’s husband as a threat. As Jake felt the driver’s eyes burning through him, he found himself oddly aware of his hands, feeling fidgety as he fumbled for an appropriate, nonthreatening place to put them.

A minute passed before Carolyn pulled away from her uncle, and even as she did, he continued to hold her at arm’s length, examining the face he hadn’t seen in so long. “You’re beautiful,” he said. “You look like a Sinclair. You have your mother’s eyes. And her mouth, too.”

“So, her mom cussed, did she?” Jake quipped, trying to be recognized as something more than a lawn ornament. He smiled, but no one else did.

Harry’s scowl spoke his mind: Haven ’t you left yet?

Jake extended his hand and stepped forward, bringing Thorne in close behind. “Hello, sir. Nice to see you again. You look well.” Again, he smiled alone.

Carolyn half turned, keeping one arm wrapped around Harry and beckoning her husband with the other, as if to include him in a group hug. “You remember Jake, don’t you, Uncle Harry? We dated back in high school? You had him to dinner once…”

“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.”