John Gilstrap - At all costs

Irene changed the subject. “So to what do I owe the honor of such personal service?”

“I thought you’d want to know as soon as you got off the plane,” George said, his tone becoming conspiratorial. “Your friends have already struck.”

Irene stopped dead in the middle of the hall and nearly got run over by a frantic woman pushing a stroller. “You’re shitting me.”

He smiled at the frustration in her face. “I shit you not. We got the call about a half hour ago from Arkansas State P.D. Seems the Donovan gang cut through the fence to raid the original bunker.”

She cocked her head, as if she hadn’t heard correctly. “Come again?”

Sparks nodded. “Yep, you heard me. They broke back into the magazine they blew up in the first place.” He started laughing. “Apparently, one of the local cops startled them, but they got the best of him. State boys found him tied to a tree in his underwear.” The story struck Sparks as funny.

Yuck it up, Irene thought bitterly. You’ve still got a career.

“His underwear?” Paul said incredulously.

Sparks gathered himself once he realized that he was laughing alone. “Yeah. Best I can tell from the trooper who called in the details, the Donovans were in there to prove that they’d done nothing wrong. Don’t ask, because I don’t get it, either. Anyway, they had their kid with them, and he must have gotten himself exposed somehow. They stripped him naked, and he refused to go anywhere without any clothes on. So they took the cop’s.”

“His weapon, too?” Paul wanted to know.

George shrugged. “Trooper didn’t say. What difference would that make? They’re loaded for bear as it is, aren’t they?”

They started walking again, in silence now, as Irene tried to make pieces fit. “They broke in? To prove that they’re innocent.” She shook her head and looked to Paul for some help. “I don’t get it.”

Paul shook his head. “I don’t, either. Can’t be much left in there. Certainly not enough to risk a kid’s life…”

“That’s it!” Irene said it with all the delight of a gold prospector. “That’s how we get them!”

Sparks and Paul exchanged confused glances.

“The hospitals!” she exclaimed. “If their kid is injured, they’re gonna have to take him to a hospital, right? All we have to do…”

“… is get an alert out to every hospital in the state to be on the lookout for a sick boy?” Somehow, when George said it, the idea sounded less enthralling.

Paul liked it. “Of course!” he agreed. “Except I’d include the surrounding states, too. Just in case they bolted.”

They exchanged glances again, in silent agreement.

“Okay, then,” Irene pronounced. “That’s our plan.” She took her garment bag back from Sparks. “You two go get that rolling, okay? I’ve got to make a phone call.”

“Who to?”

“Frankel,” she said, turning away. “I’m tired of telling him that we’ve gotten left behind. He needs to know that we have a plan now.” As she hurried off to find a telephone, she congratulated herself on her first big break in the case. Faith will out, after all. She knew if she waited around long enough, the Donovans would do something stupid.

Now, let’s just hope that the kid got hurt. The thought triggered a chill, and a distant pang of remorse that she could even think such a thing.

“Come on, Nick, step on it!” The tone of Jake’s voice had soared past desperation, to touch the outer boundaries of panic.

“I’m going as fast as I can,” Nick shouted back. “Wrapping the car around a tree won’t help anyone.” And neither will getting stopped for speeding, he didn’t say. Nevertheless, each rattling breath from the suffering boy in the backseat brought just a little more pressure onto the gas pedal.

“How far?” Carolyn asked.

“Last sign said twenty miles to Little Rock. I have no idea where the hospital is from there.”

“He won’t last that long!”

Even though his eyes opened from time to time, Travis had long ago lost consciousness. His skin had paled to the point of translucence, and as his breathing became progressively more labored, pink foam gathered at the corners of his mouth and at his nostrils. Jake had climbed in between Travis and the seat back, from which position he kept the boy leaning forward just enough to let the blood and drool drain without choking him. With little else to do, Carolyn used an ancient McDonald’s napkin from her purse to wipe Travis’s upper lip and chin. Every now and then, she’d lean over and kiss his hair.

“Oh, my baby,” she said over and over again. “You’ll be just fine

…”

As the speedometer nudged one hundred miles per hour, Nick tuned everything out but the business of driving. He struggled not to hear the pitiful rattling of the boy’s lungs or the crying and cooing of his parents. His job was to keep the wide-bodied boat of a car on the road and between the lines. Traffic was sparse along this ribbon of highway, and as he bore down on the occasional car in his path, he’d flash his headlights repeatedly, hoping they’d get the hint and move out of his way. Few did, but none of them made any stupid driving moves, either. He could only imagine what they had to say as he blew past them at half again their own speed.

The plan had been to get Travis to the nearest hospital, which everyone assumed to be in Little Rock. Now, a half hour into their high-speed flight, Nick had begun to question the plan’s wisdom. Judging from sound alone, the kid was heading south fast. Without a more concrete set of directions, he feared that they’d simply run out of time.

Under different circumstances, he might not even have noticed the yellow diamond-shaped metal sign as it loomed up out of the distance. He’d seen them on roadsides everywhere, bolted securely to four-by-fours and driven deeply into the dirt, but they’d never had any special significance for him. But then, he’d never had such an immediate use for the service advertised: Rescue Squad.

He hit the brakes hard, struggling to control the speeding Cadillac as he slid into the turn. The deceleration launched everyone in the backseat onto the floor and ignited a chorus of angry, startled protests.

“What’s wrong!” Jake shouted.

Nick gritted his teeth and closed one eye as the car slid to a halt on the front ramp of the Rescue Squad building. “Your boy needs medical attention more than he needs a car ride,” he said.

“Where the hell are we?” Jake demanded, but Nick didn’t answer. Instead, he jumped out of the car and jogged up to the front door for help.

Travis had fallen in a heap on the floor, and Carolyn struggled to help him sit up, but he had landed facedown, and the way his legs were twisted, it was a hopeless effort. “Oh, my God, Travis,” she cried. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. Oh, my baby, my baby.”

Jake planted his feet on the cushions of the backseat and tried to lift the boy, but with little success. Somewhere along the line, his son had gained some weight, and without a shirt to grab hold of, there just wasn’t enough room in the cramped quarters of the seat to get the leverage he needed. In some dark corner of his mind, Jake suspected Travis was dead; totally limp, totally unresponsive. Yet he refused to let the thought come fully to the surface. His son was breathing, dammit. And as long as he was breathing, there was hope.

Jake was dimly aware of the sound of running feet, and then the driver’s-side rear door flew open. He jerked his head to see two people-a man and a woman-standing there in matching white-and-green uniforms. He was a mountain; six-four, with a blond Santa Claus beard and matching gut. She stood maybe five-two if she stretched, and bore the concerned face of a schoolteacher.