He thought about all the horrible things he’d said and felt about them on their last day together, and in that moment, he knew he’d never see his parents again.
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?”