John Gilstrap - At all costs

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.”

Melissa Thomas loved her big old house. She just wished she had the money and time to take care of it the way her mother and father had. The house and its surrounding six and a half acres of woods were her parents’ legacy for their only child. And their curse. Her parents had been dead nearly ten years now, yet Melissa still couldn’t afford to replace the furniture she’d known as a child. Wisely invested, her inheritance would spin off enough cash to pay the property taxes every year, with enough left over for three college educations. But that defined the limit of the Thomas family’s solvency.

Still, the place was home for her; the repository for all her good memories. And, more recently, for her bad ones as well. Although solidly built at a time when carpenters took pride in their work, the place was beginning to show serious signs of age. The roof needed replacing, the walls screamed for a coat of paint, and the soil had begun to erode away from the foundation out front. It was a real worry. They couldn’t afford to have the work done by a contractor, and Nick was worthless with tools. He couldn’t drive a nail if it had tires and a steering wheel. So the repairs went undone, waiting for that time when they’d find themselves with a few dollars they didn’t already owe to someone else. Nick’s solution was just to sell the place. Typical. Address a temporary problem with a permanent solution. Kill a fly with a shotgun.