“We did listen to you,” Jake seethed. He found himself concentrating on his words, controlling his voice. “We did every goddamn thing you told us to do, and look where we are today.”
“You didn’t listen!” Harry yelled.
To hell with self-control. “We did listen!” Jake shouted back. “You said to run. We ran. You said to change our names and appearances. We did that, too. For fourteen years, Harry, we’ve done every goddamn thing you told us to do! And yes, we had a son…”
Suddenly, the words caught in Jake’s throat, and he paused, as if choking. And the horror of it all became clear. “I had a son,” he repeated, and now his voice was barely a whisper. He’d just used the past tense.
Oh, God…
“He’s the only thing we ever did right, Harry, and I think I killed him.” He looked at the phone curiously for a moment, bringing it down to waist level, where he folded it shut and let it drop to the floor. The last person he owed an explanation to was Harry Sinclair.
With his elbows wedged into his knees, he leaned forward and ran his fingers deeply into his hairline. The hopelessness of it all took his breath away.
What kind of animal am I? he wondered. Killing my own son, and sacrificing my wife, just to save my own skin?
“Oh, my God,” he whispered. “Oh, sweet Jesus, I’m so sorry.”
And he came apart. He pressed his fists against his eyes to keep the sadness from spilling out, but it wouldn’t be stopped. It gushed out of him in breathless, choking sobs, and suddenly, in his mind, he wasn’t in Arkansas anymore. He was with his little boy, holding him steady as he pedaled his bicycle for the first time. Then he saw the pained expression that invaded Travis’s face every time they told him that it was time to move to another town. The tenements they’d lived in, the roach-infested trailer parks. The bruises when Travis yet again refused to back down from the local kids who wanted to see what the new guy was made of.
God, Jake had tried so hard to be a good father, but in his zeal to keep his son in line, he’d never truly gotten to know the boy as a friend. The thought of it brought genuine pain. Suddenly, it was hard for him to take a breath.
And in his most heroic moment-when he was hoping to save our lives-all I could do was yell. And strip him of his dignity.
Jake wanted his family back. He wanted a group hug from the old days-a sandwich hug, where he and Carolyn were the bread and Travis was the jelly. The thought of never touching them again was more than he could bear. His mind played out a horror show, in which his only child lay trapped forever inside an airtight box, covered over by a ton of dirt, while his mother prayed for the moment when she could join him, every day suffering the torture of prison rapes and beatings.
Such a pillar of virtue, that Jake Donovan. Always willing to let women and children suffer in his place. There were words for people like him in our society: coward-the most exclusive group of villains; people who throughout history have willingly stepped aside to let others die in their place. Deserters and draft-dodgers came to mind. Or ship’s captains who take the last lifeboat while their passengers drown.
Like falling down a well, Jake found himself tumbling deeper and deeper into the blackest misery he’d ever known. And the well of misery had no bottom; just more blackness. Everything he’d ever loved was gone now, and it was all his fault. How could a man live with knowledge such as this? Knowing that he’d killed his own blood, how could he ever face a mirror again? How could he face another dawn?
“Jake!”
The harshness of the voice startled him. It was Nick, and he seemed agitated. “What?”
“Are you coming or not?”
Jake felt disoriented, mentally numbed; as if a chunk of time had passed without his notice. He checked his watch and was shocked to see that a full half hour of his life had somehow evaporated.
“Coming where?” As he spoke, his throat felt thick.
“To the kitchen,” Nick said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. His face turned grave. “Are you okay?”
Jake stood uneasily, unsure whether to trust his balance. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just zoned out.” A few seconds passed, and then his head cleared. He followed Nick into the foyer, then stopped. “What’s in the kitchen?”
Nick clearly felt uneasy. “I wanted to take a look at these remains before we ship them off to Chicago. The best place I can think of to do it is in the kitchen.” He responded to Jake’s curious glare with an offhanded shrug. “Don’t worry about it. Just something I noticed in the magazine. Probably nothing, but I thought we should check it out.”
“What is it?” Jake pressed as he followed down the hall.
Nick remained evasive. “I’ll tell you after we take a look. Like I said, probably nothing at all.”
Body language alone told Jake that it was useless to press further.
The kitchen was huge; like something that belonged in the back of an elegant downtown restaurant. Stainless-steel appliances shined like mirrors. Copper pots and pans hung from the ceiling, suspended in midair, it seemed, over a gleaming six-burner stove. The black and white tile floor was so clean that Jake found himself stepping carefully, lest he find that it was still wet.
The orange body bag lay in a heap in the right-hand rear corner, placed there with all the care and respect that one would show to a throw pillow.
“What is this place?” Jake asked to whoever would care to answer.
“This house belongs to a physician friend of Mr. Sinclair’s,” Thorne explained. “He offered to let us use it for a while.”
“Where is he?”
Nick smiled knowingly at the question. Apparently, this ground had been covered once before.
“Away,” Thorne said. He spoke with an annoying, sanctimonious grin, as if responding to a joke that he alone had heard. Every move the man made seemed designed to keep people on edge. This was a man to be feared.
“What about contamination?” Jake asked.
Nick shook off the concern easily. “Don’t worry. We’ve got some Saranex suits and some respirators. Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Not us,” Jake corrected. “The room. This is somebody’s kitchen, for crying out loud.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Thorne advised. “You need the room, you use the room. Our host won’t mind.”
Jake shared a look with Nick, but neither of them said anything.
“The stuff you said you needed is in the boxes over there.” Thorne pointed. “Do you need me for any of this crap, or can I go sit down?”
As Thorne departed, Nick knelt to open the boxes. “Looks like it’s all here.” He lifted two sets of white, hooded coveralls out of the largest box and handed one of them to Jake, leaving ten in the box. “God, there’s enough stuff here for an army.”
“Easier to borrow by the box, I suppose,” Jake mused. He rubbed the fabric of the coveralls between his fingers and shot a curious look. “What is this stuff?”
“Saranex,” Nick said. “See what happens when you drop out of the industry for a while? It’s basically a Tyvek garment with a Saran Wrap coating. Terrific stuff for low-level dust hazards.”
Jake examined it more closely. “Feels kinda like Pampers,” he said, drawing a chuckle. He flapped the garment with a loud snap, then thrust one leg into his coveralls. He had to push hard against the stiff folds. Suddenly, he stopped, realizing he’d forgotten something. “Thorne!”
It took a while, but in his own sweet time, Thorne reappeared at the kitchen door.
“See what you can find out about Carolyn and Travis, okay?”
The big man cocked his head and planted his fists on his hips. “And how do you want me to do that? Maybe I should just call the FBI and ask.” Shaking his head with disgust, he turned and disappeared again toward the front of the house.
“Prick,” Jake spat under his breath.
“He’s all personality, that one,” Nick concurred.
Dressing for this level of protection was a far less complex task-more like dressing for surgery, but with a full-face respirator instead of a surgical mask. The respirator resembled a pilot’s oxygen mask, with the addition of
