Desperate Measures (50 page)

In Dr. Minick's kitchen Frank and Graham Minick were reminiscing about things they missed. Frank had let Minick and Alex talk him into staying for dinner, and now it was memory-lane time.

“Fried pies,” Frank said. “You ever have a fried pie?”

Dr. Minick nodded. “My mother made them with dried fruit. Prunes, apricots, peaches, and apples all mixed and cooked with brown sugar.”

“God, I haven't given fried pies a thought in fifty years,” Frank said. “That's how my mother made them, too.” He turned to Alex. “You make a circle of dough, fill half of it with the fruit, and fold it over, crimp the edges, and fry it in lard. God, they were good! My mother always burned them just a little bit. Better that way.”

“And butter,” Dr. Minick said. “Everything dripped with butter. Biscuits, corn bread, pancakes, strawberry shortcake, all dripping with sweet butter. We used to dip our buttery fingers in the sugar bowl and lick it off.”

Frank nodded. “So why aren't we dead?”

His cell phone rang, and he had to find his jacket in the living room to answer. “Holloway,” he said.

“Mr. Holloway, Alan Macagno. The woods next to Minick's place are burning, and there's a truck down here at the road, with a few guys hanging out. You'd better get 911 on the line, and then get out of there.”

Frank hit the automatic dial for 911, and at the same time snapped, “There's a fire in the forest next to your place. We have to get out of here. Now.”

Alex dashed to his studio, and Minick ran to the front door and pulled it open. Smoky air rushed in. He ran to his room. Keeping the phone line open, Frank looked around the kitchen, made sure the stove was turned off, then hurried to the front door. He could see the glow of fire through the trees; still some distance away, it would fan out as it went, he well knew.

“Come on, Alex, Graham! We have to get out of here!”

Alex came out with his blue computer and a bag, and Minick followed close behind him with his laptop and a briefcase with papers sticking out the top. Frank grabbed his own briefcase, and they all ran from the house.

“Get the van turned around and heading out. I'll follow you,” he called. He could see flames now, and the crackling and hissing of fire filled the air. Sparks were flying, and where they landed new fires were ignited, grew, raced onward.

He started his Buick, cursing. The van backed into the rhododendrons, made the turn, and started down the driveway; he drove into the bushes to turn, and followed. Fire was coming in closer to the driveway; a laurel bush exploded into flames twenty feet away and the air became hotter, and fouler, thick with smoke and ash, flying embers. The smoke was so thick, he could no longer see the van, just the glow of taillights, and then the moving lights stopped and he nearly ran into the van. The fire would jump the road, be on both sides any minute, he thought desperately, and he pulled his door open and got out to run to the van, which had come to a stop twenty feet short of the old road. Alex was at the wheel.

“Truck in the way,” he said, then coughed.

Frank ran around the van and saw Alan moving toward a pickup truck.

“Don't come any closer!” Alan yelled at someone at the truck; he was holding a semiautomatic pistol, and was spotlighted by the truck headlights. Frank saw another figure approaching Alan from behind. A man with a club.

“Alan, behind you!” Frank yelled.

Alan whirled around and shot once, and the man screamed and fell. Facing the truck again, Alan shot out the headlights, and there was a scream of rage from the side of the truck. In the shifting light from the van and the flames, Frank could see two men with clubs. One of them threw the club at Alan, and yanked the cab door open, and Alan shot again. Both men ran behind the truck, out of sight. Alan dashed the remaining few feet to the truck, slid in and started the engine, gunned it, turned the wheel hard, then jumped out as the truck jerked forward, ran into the boulders on the side of the road, steamrolled its way through, and plunged into the nearly dry stream.

Someone else was shooting now. Another car had been behind the truck. Alan shot at it, then yelled to Frank, “Get in the van! Move!”

Frank turned and started to run, but the smoke was thicker than ever, and he was blinded. He stumbled, fell to one knee; he could feel the heat of fire on his back, on his face, his hands, and he tried to hold his breath. There was another gunshot, and a scream, and he fell facedown in the driveway.

Alex had frozen behind the wheel of the van. The nightmare had come to life, not waiting for sleep, a living, waking nightmare, combined now with the memory of the beating from the gang at Central Park, laughing as they hit him with baseball bats. They would roll him over like a log to be tossed on the fire. He coughed and leaned forward, trying to see what was happening, and he saw Frank stumbling in the wrong direction, toward the burning woods, then falling to his knees, all the way down. Alex's eyes felt on fire, and his throat was closing; he couldn't breathe. He coughed again, then wrenched open his door and flung off Graham's hand on his arm, trying to restrain him. He jumped from the van and raced to Frank. He heard someone yell, “There he is!” and there were more gunshots.

Dimly, as if dreaming, Frank knew he was being rolled over, that people were lifting him. He wanted to cry out, “Don't throw me on the fire!” Then he knew nothing.

Between them, Alex and Alan heaved Frank from the ground and hauled him to the van and dumped him in. Alan slammed the door and took a shot at the road as Alex raced around the van to get behind the wheel again. Dr. Minick slid around the seat to get to Frank sprawled on the backseat, and Alan yelled, “Get out of here! I'll follow.” Alex started to drive. He scraped Alan's car as he passed it, then sped up. Behind him, a moment later, he could see Alan's taillights following; he was backing out.

At ten Barbara said that for her the party was over; it was time to head back to the office. “Give you a drink there,” she offered. Eugene parties were always nonalcoholic, and they all deserved a drink now. Sweaty, smoky, tired, and thirsty, they went to her offices, where Chris Romano met them on the stairs.

“Ms. Holloway,” he said, rising, “Bailey sent me. There's been an accident. Your dad's in the hospital.”

She felt her blood drain. “Oh, God! What happened?”

“I don't know. Bailey just said to bring you over to the hospital when you got home.”

In the emergency room they were directed to a small room where Dr. Minick, Alex, and Alan Macagno were waiting. They were all red-eyed and filthy with soot and ash.

“Where's Dad?” Barbara said.

Shelley had gone straight to Alex and pulled a chair close to him. She took his hand. “Are you all right?”

“Okay,” he said. He did not remove his hand from hers.

“They're treating Frank for smoke inhalation,” Dr. Minick said. “They won't be much longer. He'll be all right. I doubt they'll keep him overnight.” His face was drawn and gray. He appeared ten years older than he had looked that morning.

Barbara sank down onto a hard plastic chair. “What happened?”

“I got there in time to interrupt an ambush,” Alan said. “One truck, one car, four guys. The woods were on fire. I called your old man on the cell phone and told him the score, then got out and waved my gun around a little.”

He told it almost dreamily, as if it had been a pleasant day in the woods. A faint smile played on his lips, vanished, returned. He looked like a college freshman—and most often was mistaken for one—but this was his other side, the side that Bailey hired and trusted.

“So, the van was coming and the truck was still in the way, and I said to move it, or I'd shoot the first person in my line of fire. They didn't, and I did. I ran the truck into the creek, and that made someone sore, I guess, and he had a gun, so I had to shoot him, too.”

Shelley gasped.

“Did you kill him?” Barbara asked coldly.

“Nope. Shoulder.”

“Shit! You need more practice.”

Alan grinned. “The guy that was shooting didn't hit anything. Talk about practice, tell him. So your old man came around the van and the smoke got to him and he fell. Alex got out, and between us we hauled him back to the van and shoved him inside. I followed the van to the hospital and confessed to the cops.”

“Where's Bailey?”

“Helping the cops inspect the van and my car. Burned, dented by rocks, maybe bullet holes. A real mess. Both of them. Your old man's car is a goner. Left to burn up.”

The detectives returned with Bailey before Barbara was allowed to see Frank. “We'll be investigating tomorrow,” one of the officers said. “I'm afraid they couldn't save your house,” he said to Minick. “Where will you be tonight, over the weekend?”

“My place,” Will said. He gave the address. “And they need a police guard.”

The detective nodded. “We'll see to it.”

Barbara caught Bailey's eye. He would see to it also, their exchanged looks said.

“I'll buy you some new berets,” Shelley said in a low voice to Alex.

“I got them out,” he said. “Them and the computer. That's it.”

“I'll be around to get statements, but it will keep until tomorrow,” the detective said. “Ms. Holloway, if they release your father, will he be at his place?”

“Yes.”

“I'll see him tomorrow, too, then. And that's it for now. You folks had a bad day. Try to get some rest.” Then he gave Alan the first hard look he had shown them. “And we'll want you to hang around. Fill in some details.”

“Not going anywhere,” Alan said. “Can I have my mouthpiece with me when you bring out the rubber hoses?”

The detective's face froze. “Crap, just what we need, a funny guy.”

When Barbara was permitted to go to the examination-and-treatment room, Frank was dressed and tying his shoes. “I'm okay,” he said. He was very hoarse, and his eyes were red and teary; he looked ghastly.

“Can't turn my back on you for a minute,” she said. “You get bashed in the head, nearly burned up, smoked like a sausage….” She swallowed hard, then burst into tears, surprising them both very much.

42

Frank was at
the dinette table reading the newspaper and eating when Barbara went down the next morning. She had spent the night, as had Bailey, who was not in sight.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Okay. Sore throat. I'm having a soft-boiled egg; do what you want about breakfast.”

She put bread in the toaster, poured juice and coffee, then sat down opposite him. He was pale, with several abrasions on his cheek, and he looked mad as hell. Being mad was fine; he had a right.

“They're comparing it to dragging a man behind a truck, or stringing up a man on a fence and letting him freeze to death,” Frank said. “Hate crime. Vigilante stuff, lynch-mob psychology.”

“Cops calling it that?”

“No. Commentators. Op-ed pieces. The police are investigating, no other comment.”

She shrugged, got her toast and jelly, and sat down again.

“The phone's been ringing all morning,” Frank said sourly. “Reporters, friends, neighbors, God knows who all. I turned the ringer off·”

“We'll have to hand out a statement of some sort. Want me to call Patsy, let her be our official spokeswoman?”

They were still at the table when the doorbell rang. Barbara went to see who it was, and admitted Bailey and a county detective.

“They're getting Alan's life story,” Bailey said. “This is Sergeant Oleski; he'll get your father's life story. Got coffee?”

She led them back to the dinette and poured coffee for Bailey; the detective said no thank you very politely. Excusing herself, she went to the study to listen to the phone calls on the answering machine.

After the detective left, she rejoined Bailey and Frank, whose mood had not improved a bit. “Tell him we'll both represent him,” Frank said fiercely. “With all the resources of two offices.”

“Now what?” Barbara asked.

“Alan,” Bailey said. “Two guys, one with a bullet hole in his shoulder, one shot in the leg, are charging Alan with assault, attempted murder, destruction of private property—the truck and the car—and with being a maniac in general.”

She snorted.

“No kidding,” Bailey said. “See, they're mill workers, laid off until operations can start again, and they were killing time, drinking a little, and then started cruising around peacefully looking for fires to put out, when this maniac showed up waving a gun at them and shooting everything in sight.”

“Did they send an arson crew out there?” she demanded.

“Sure did. No report yet. The fire's still going strong, a whole crew out handling it, smoke jumpers and everything, and they're sore. You start burning down houses, they get mad. Minick's and two others so far. Besides, it's too close to home.”

She turned to Frank. “The judge called. I called back and told him you're fine. He's sore, too. And Will's going to drop over this afternoon to clear his press release with us. But mostly, I think, to avoid dinner with Dolly and Arnold. He said she's quote fit to be tied unquote. Cousin Herbert is going to make dinner for them all. Will's going shopping with Dr. Minick for clothes for the homeless, and afterward he'll come over. I said I'd be here.”

“You don't have to hang out here,” Frank said irritably. “I'm not a target. They wanted Alex. They were going to force him and Graham to leave, stop them at the road, and grab Alex; probably planned to load him in the truck and take him somewhere and beat him to death.”

“I know,” she said. “It just happened that you were in the wrong place at the wrong time twice now. But I want to hang out here. Okay?”

“Sure,” he said gruffly.

Will came around that afternoon and showed them a copy of his press statement. It was a marvel of lawyerly double-talk, using a lot of words to say very little. He would have no further comment until the police concluded their investigation.