point, then. I have a niece who’s in a bit of trouble right now, and she seems to think you can help her out. Her name is Carolyn Donovan. Ring any bells?”
For a moment, Nick could think of nothing to say. Then the words tumbled out: “I, um… I knew her a while ago, yes.”
Harry smiled broadly at the recognition that was so plainly displayed on Nick’s face. “I’m guessing you don’t play a lot of poker, Nick,” he said with a laugh. “Since you know her, I’ll assume you know the nature of her problem as well.”
Nick nodded, abandoning all efforts to be coy or elusive.
“Well, according to her son-they have a son now, by the way-whom I talked to this morning, Carolyn and her husband, Jack… do you know Jack?”
Nick scowled. “You mean Jake? Yes, certainly.”
Harry stood corrected. “Jake, then. Whatever. Do you think they’re guilty of the crimes they stand accused of?”
Nick’s eyes narrowed. Obviously, there was only one right answer for this one. Happily, it doubled as his honest take on it all. “No,” he said at length. “No, I never have. In fact, I told the FBI at the time…” He shut himself up abruptly. The time had come to answer the question, and nothing more.
“That’s good,” Harry said. “Because they vehemently deny any wrongdoing. In fact, confidentially, I must tell you that they wanted to turn themselves in from the very beginning; to prove their innocence. Alas, my faith in the judicial system was weaker than theirs, and I prevailed on them to disappear for a while. It’s the sort of decision that can’t be unmade. Now that events have taken this unfortunate turn, they feel that they can prove their innocence in this hazardous waste mess if they could just regain access to the site in Newark where it all happened.”
Nick’s jaw dropped. “No way,” he said without hesitation. “You mean inside the magazine?”
Harry shrugged. “Presumably.”
“No way. Absolutely not. The toxicity levels in there would knock down an elephant. They wouldn’t even let me recover the bodies, for crying out loud.”
“They?” Harry seemed suddenly intrigued.
Nick rolled his eyes. “The FBI jerks. And the EPA. They were so anxious to seal everything-”
“So, given the chance, you would have reentered?” Harry interrupted.
Nick paused, recognizing he’d just wandered into a trap. “Well, not without significant precautions. I mean, the protective equipment alone would…” He saw it. He saw what Harry wanted him to do. “I can’t just requisition a bunch of remediation equipment!” he said. “That stuff costs thousands of dollars. They’d fire me in a heartbeat.”
Deep wrinkles materialized in Harry’s forehead. “Much as they would throw my niece in prison for a crime she didn’t commit,” he said. “She and her husband were hoping you’d be willing to help. That’s why they called me. To see if I could talk you into assisting them in their efforts to exonerate themselves.”
Nick’s sense of dread bottomed out as he realized the choice he faced. One of the most powerful businessmen in the country-hell, in the world, for all he knew-had just confessed to committing a felony and had shared in detail the plans hatched by his own family to vandalize federal property. If he said yes, he’d become a part of the plot-a fellow felon.
“What if I say no?” Nick asked cautiously.
Harry gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Then I’d be very disappointed,” he said. This time the smile seemed slightly less genuine.
Nick searched the old man’s face for the hidden threat, for some sign of what might befall him and his family if he refused to cooperate. All he got for his effort, though, was the smile. If Harry read the fear in his passenger’s eyes, he did nothing to dissuade it. He just smiled.
Men as powerful as Harry Sinclair didn’t climb the ladder one step at a time; they knocked people out of the way, broke the ladder, then rebuilt it under themselves with no rungs on the bottom. A person like Nick meant nothing to a man like Sinclair-just another bug to crush if he got in the way.
This old man was too sharp ever to make an overt threat, and way too savvy to ever let Nick relax. So now Nick had a decision to make, and in the balance lay his entire future. He could fight or he could cave in; no middle ground. Truth be told, Nick was never much of a fighter, anyway.
When he finally renewed eye contact with Harry, he looked every bit as whipped as he felt. “What do you want me to do?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Without any real alternative, the Donovans had parked their van in an abandoned barn about a mile from the diner. It looked abandoned, anyway. Sometimes it was hard to tell in West Virginia. The vehicle barely fit and was still visible through the gaping spaces between the wall planks, but with luck, no one would notice. At least, not for a while.
Leaving the van behind was tough for Jake. That vehicle-and the banged-up VW bus that preceded it-had always been the centerpiece of their escape plan. In casting it aside, he felt as if he were symbolically abandoning a second lifetime of planning and preparation.
Now it was official. They were walking the tightrope without a net.
The van was a storehouse for survival gear-clothes, ammunition, building supplies, food, and toiletries. Now these things were all useless to him. All but a few extra clothes. And the money, of course. Money was always useful. While Travis watched in wide-eyed astonishment, Jake and Carolyn transferred the banded bills into two zippered gym bags from off the shelves in the back.
That done, they chose a spot in the forest and settled in for the endless wait. Knowing they’d have to find their way out in the darkness, they decided to stay in closer to the diner than was probably prudent, still over a half mile from the designated pickup point. Jake had lobbied for a hiding spot further out, fearing the cops would turn the area inside out looking for them, but Carolyn took a different view. The way she saw it, only a crazy person would stay in this close. Therefore, the search would likely concentrate on the highway, some miles distant. A little high-stakes reverse psychology. In the end, of course, her logic prevailed.
Perched high on a hill and nestled in among jagged granite outcroppings, Travis watched in wonder as what seemed like hundreds of cop cars wore trenches into the highway below. “God, look at ’em all!”
Carolyn yanked the back of his denim jacket. “Travis, sit down!” she hissed. “They’re gonna see you!”
Pulling himself free with a single jerk, he scoffed, “Yeah, right. They’re gonna see me through all these leaves.”
“It’s fall,” she countered. “The leaves are getting thinner every minute.”
Travis laughed. “Do you really think-”
“This isn’t a negotiation,” Jake snapped. “Now, get down below the rocks and do what you’re told.”
Travis paused long enough to peek one more time, just to make the point before settling into his spot among the rocks. “This is so boring!”
Jake chuckled. “Under the circumstances, boring is good.” In their hurry to get away from the van, Jake had snatched the wrong ammo bag, leaving the assembled magazines for the Glock on the shelves and taking the empties with him instead. Now, if only to pass the time, he busied himself with the task of loading 9-mm hollow points into his six remaining clips.
“Can I do one?” Travis asked.
“Sure.” Jake felt the heat of Carolyn’s glare without looking but paid no attention. Thirteen-year-old boys were poorly engineered for long periods of stillness, and if playing with bullets would divert him for a while, where was the harm?
The clip and the box of bullets were both heavier than Travis had expected. Watching his dad, it looked like you just slid the rounds into place, but when that wouldn’t work, he looked up for assistance.
“Press down,” Jake instructed. “Then slide in.” He watched his son try it again, with little success. “That’s the right idea,” he encouraged, “but you need to press harder against the spring.”
