"You can't put willpower in a bottle, lady," he said in his best John Wayne. In the mirror he patted his new hair, still in disbelief. God, it felt good to be alive!
"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were getting younger."
Gulp! he thought.
"I mean it. It's amazing."
"It's you, my dear. You bring out the boy in me." Then he broke into a few bars of "You Make Me Feel So Young."
"Bull! It's ninety minutes a day on the StairMaster and old Menudo tapes you've been hiding."
He laughed happily. "Aw, she saw through my cover."
"So, how old did you say you were?"
It had become a game: He, the coy older companion; she, the insistent young inquisitor.
"Why is knowing my age so important?"
"Just curious. Besides, it's women who don't tell how old they are, not guys."
"I'm liberated."
"I'd say forty-four."
"Forty-four!" He slapped his chest in mock horror.
She laughed. "Okay, forty… maybe thirty-nine."
"That's better," he sniffed.
"You're going to hate me, but when you first joined the club I thought you were about sixty."
He made a sharp swerve of the car.
She chuckled again. "Surely, I erred, but you know what I'm saying-the weight and the hair."
"Yes, I do," he smiled. Tomorrow he would meet Roger for his next shot-the first of three large dosages spaced a day apart. The high critical period, Roger had said. "I'll make a deal with you."
"Try me."
"I'll tell you my age if we can let the evening extend beyond a simple bon soir at your doorstep."
"Wally Olafsson, that's bribery."
"Or sexual harassment, depending on how badly you want to know my age."
She smiled and thought about it for a few moments.
In the rearview mirror he fixed his hair again and noticed the same big SUV behind him, its headlights like twin suns bearing down on him. These days every other car on the road was some kind of sports utility vehicle. He felt like an immigrant in his Porsche.
As he flipped the mirror to night mode, he felt Sheila's hand rest on his leg.
"Your place, or mine?" she asked.
The rush of joy returned Wally from the mirror. The big Jeep Cherokee could have driven over his car and he wouldn't have noticed. "Which is closer?" he gasped.
She laughed and gave him a great big kiss on his part. "Yours."
28
Roger had just turned down Margaret Street for his next delivery when he spotted a green SUV two cars back.
He couldn't see the faces of the two men, but it looked like the same Jeep Cherokee. If it was, then this was no casual surveillance. They had come up with evidence and had a warrant to take him in.
His first thought was Laura. She was shopping for food and a present for Brett whose graduation from Pierson middle school was in three weeks. He pulled out his cell phone. It would be a call he dreaded almost as much as getting caught.
The SUV kept a couple cars back. Traffic was light on the main roads so he could hold them in the mirror. If it was the Feds, they had come up with something. Something Wally had nothing to do with. He was far into treatments and having too good a time playing New Age Playboy. Something else.
On the floor sat a cooler containing four dozen ampules of Elixir. Since the day the Feds first dropped by, he had stashed the supply in the Igloo under a layer of ice, some insulin, and a couple cans of Pepsi. Another thirteen dozen ampules were in the freezer of their Minnesota condo. Except for the three year supply in the emergency tube around his neck, the remaining supply was buried miles from here. The Igloo went wherever he did, just in case. Even a man on death row is allowed his medicine.
Roger made two turns through the heart of town. And they stayed on him.
He slammed the wheel with his hand. This was not supposed to happen.
He punched Laura's number on the cellphone. They each had one registered under aliases. In thirteen years this was the second Red Alert. The first was a false alarm. God, that this was another.
He heard her voice, and muttered a prayer of thanks. "Where are you?"
"In the car. I just finished shopping."
"Where are you exactly?"
She told him the street. "Why?"
"I'm being followed. I think it's the Feds."
"Oh, Jesus, no."
He tried to keep his voice even, soothing. "Laura, don't panic. It may not be the real thing. But just in case, pick up Brett."
The first place the Feds would check was their house. They'd ask around and one of their neighbors would remember that Brett had a game at Pierson. He could hear her fighting the terror. "Laura, do you understand? Get Brett and head for the condo."
No matter how measured he kept his tone, the mention of their safe house made it more real. Their condo was in Minneapolis, a hundred miles from here.
"Laura, do you understand?"
He heard the catch in her voice. She took a deep breath to steady herself. "Yes. I'm okay. I'll get him." The thought of Brett being left parentless had steeled her resolve. "What about you?"
"I'll be there tonight."
"Tonight? Why tonight?"
He wished she hadn't forgotten. "I told you, I'm meeting Wally in Black River Falls."
If it weren't critical mass, she would blast him. From the start she had resented his treating Wally, even if it meant buying him off. She resented the very sight of the ampules. It was what had gotten them into this nightmare twenty years ago.
Before he hung up, he said, "Laura, we'll be fine."
But she clicked off.
For a moment, his mind was lost in the silence of the open line-a silence crackling with frightened disbelief that it was happening again. What they code-named the Awful-Awful. But all he heard was fear and anger.
The light at Fenwick turned yellow, and Roger floored the accelerator. The van careened across the intersection and made the first left down a side street. The Jeep must have pulled out of line and run the red light, because it appeared in Roger's mirror about a hundred meters back. He took three more turns then crossed the river and headed for the airport. The Jeep stayed with him several cars back.
He cut to an access road, weaving his way through traffic, then pulled into an industrial park consisting of rows of warehouses separated by long driveways where trucks pulled in for deliveries. Because it was Saturday, there was no traffic in the complex.
The streets were potholed from all the trucks, yet the Jeep barreled after him as if on the Interstate.
Ahead, Roger spotted the familiar yellow sign that hung over the narrow alley separating Triple E Sheet Metal from DeLaura Display.
He floored the accelerator until he was maybe a hundred feet short, then slammed the brakes and cut the wheel, sending the van into a screeching slide that flung him into the alley. Luckily it was clear, so he floored it. A couple moments later, the Jeep turned in behind him. The alley was wide enough for a single truck. Behind it lay a spacious lot with trucks and half a dozen cars including a 1992 dark blue Toyota Canary which he stored for just such a contingency.
At a point near the alley's end, Roger slammed on the brakes and cut the wheel, sending the van into a sideways rest. Even if the Jeep decided to ram through, the van was too heavy for a single shot to clear. It might also incapacitate itself.
Roger grabbed the cooler and bolted across the lot to the Toyota.
He heard no crash as he sped out the rear exit. But he could see the agents run after him in frustration. The one with a cell phone to his ear he recognized. Number 44 from the Town Day Race.