What Have We Done (42)
The hum of an amp through the PA signals that the band’s about to go back on. Reeves seems to be bracing himself.
That’s when Donnie sees him. Sitting at one of the tables. He catches Donnie’s eye and gives him a nod.
The FBI agent from the hospital. The one asking about Donnie’s fall from the ship. The one investigating Ben’s murder. Agent Rodrigo. Or was it Rodriguez?
What in the hell is he doing here? Is he following Donnie? And why would he be doing that?
A woman appears; she’s holding a pen and a napkin. “Can I you sign this for me?”
Rock Star Donnie instinctively says, “I’ll do anything you want, darlin’.” The sound of those words, the familiarity of it all, makes Donnie’s hand shake, his heart palpitate.
“Donnie, are you okay?” Reeves says, a concerned look on his face.
“I need to go,” Donnie says. He thinks he’s going to be sick. Not from the booze. But from the terror.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
JENNA
Jenna pulls into a McDonald’s parking lot. She gets some looks at her gown heading into the place.
But soon she’s out of the bathroom and into the black athletic gear. She carries the Elie Saab gown in the garment bag and her stomach growls again; it’s the smell of the grease. She decides a cheeseburger and hot fudge sundae are in order. She smiles, thinking about Simon. On many a family road trip, Jenna lamented about how McDonald’s ice-cream machines are always broken. Ever the analytical mind, Simon researched it. It turns out it wasn’t Jenna’s imagination. Simon explained that the machines require a complicated four-hour cleaning regimen daily and often employees don’t have the time. Also, the machines require specialized training to repair them, so getting someone in to fix them takes time. A heavy sadness overcomes her, but she beats it back.
She orders her food. Of course the machine isn’t working tonight.
She takes the white bag and sits in the car and inhales the burger. She can already feel the grease saturating her pores. But damn, it’s good.
She starts the car and heads down Wisconsin Avenue. She stops when she sees a Salvation Army store. It has a metal receptacle for donations out front. She pulls over and shoves the gown and shoes inside. Maybe someone shopping will find a gem. Or at least something they can sell online.
A half hour later, she makes it to Cabin John Parkway, then to River Road, and finally to Highland Farm Road and its horse fences and old-growth trees.
She passes the estate and sees that it’s lit up. Someone in the security hut peers at the car.
No one travels this road unless they’re visiting the estate. There’s a gate and a stretch of lawn.
Then another tall iron fence. The first lawn serves as a security moat for extra protection. Most intruders wouldn’t make it to the second fence alive.
She takes a left and travels about a mile and pulls the car onto a side road surrounded by woodland. She kills the lights. In the dark, her mind flashes to an image of Willow’s terrified face on the dirt road. Could that have been only last night?
Jenna gets out. Stretches. She tucks the gun in the waist of her leggings. It’s uncomfortable, but there’s nothing to be done about it.
Then she starts her jog.
The night is moonlit and air crisp. Like Chevy Chase where Jenna lives, Potomac, Maryland, isn’t far from downtown D.C., but it feels like it is. Fresh air, large compounds, a sheltered life for the kids.
She’s exhausted and the running doesn’t revive her like usual. No amount of endorphins can regenerate her after all that’s happened.
She reaches the road leading to the estate. At the edge of the iron fencing, she finds the darkest spot and scales the barrier. Years of gymnastics before her parents died, supplemented by field training from Sabine, still come in handy. But this is the decorative security. She needs to survive the moat, then get over the second fence.
Stalking low to avoid the obvious spots for motion lights or alarms, she makes it across the well-manicured lawn and to the next barrier fence. She looks up at the razor wire—this one won’t be so easy to scale. She spots the guard station and the outline of two figures on the roof of the estate. That’s when she hears the growl behind her.
She turns slowly. Two Dobermans stand erect, baring teeth.
Jenna smiles. “Axl.” The first dog tilts its head to the side. “Slash,” she says to the other. “It’s me, my babies.”
The two dogs charge her. Now she’s on the ground, the beasts licking her, their nubs for tails moving a thousand miles an hour. She helped raise them as puppies. There’s another stab of anguish, thinking about her family’s dog, Peanut Butter.
She snuggles the Dobermans, tries to quiet them when she hears the creak of the security fence coming to life, an SUV pulling into the compound.
If she can make it before the gate closes, she can slip in. But there’s no chance she’d go unseen.
The vehicle pulls to a stop on the half-circle driveway. Two beefy men get out of the SUV and open the back door. Out steps Michael. He’s put on some weight but still looks svelte.
The front door to the estate opens. A woman stands in the doorway. Even from this distance, Jenna can see she’s beautiful. But that’s not a surprise. What takes Jenna aback is the two kids, three or four years old, standing in front of the woman in their pj’s.