John Gilstrap - At all costs

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.

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.