If it was the Awful-Awful, her son's life as he knew it was over.
The meeting was set for two P.M. Wally was on the highway by noon and heading for their rendezvous.
He had awakened that morning a little before nine with Sheila beside him. The real measure of attraction was gauged by how you felt about that person in the morning-before the mouthwash, shower, and brush worked their wonders.
And she had looked beautiful asleep-the small perfectly straight nose, long feathery eyebrows, a ridge of tiny freckles across her nose, full pale lips, shiny brown hair pooled on the pillow like liquid chocolate. He wanted to kiss her awake and make love again. But he felt out of phase. Maybe it was all the champagne they had drunk. And the fact he had gotten only five hours sleep. They had made love four times until Sheila fell asleep from exhaustion.
Wally stepped into the bathroom. He felt lousy and looked it. The bloom was missing from his face. His eyes were glassy and red. Maybe the alcohol. Maybe he needed the stabilizing shot.
After a long shower, he felt a little better and made coffee and breakfast. By the time he drove Sheila home, the slump was back. But he took refuge in recollections of the night. And what a night it had been.
They had driven to his new pied-à-terre high on a bluff overlooking the Mississippi. He had moved in three weeks ago after the furniture arrived, including a king-size bed and an elegant entertainment unit that housed a state-of-the-art sound system. For the occasion he had on ice a bottle of Grand Dame Veuve Clicquot.
It had started on the white leather couch in the dim light of the living room overlooking the boats on the river, and rapidly proceeded to the bed in the next room, leaving a Hansel-and-Gretl trail of clothing.
He could still see her sitting on the bed with her legs up to her chin, waiting for him to select a CD from the rack. And while he did, all Wally could think was Thank you, God. Thank you, God.
Sheila had jokingly suggested Ravel's Bolero as in the movie 10. Wally didn't have that, thinking that there was a time when "Old Man River" would have been his speed.
"Will you settle for 'The Sabre Dance'?"
"My God, what am I in for?"
Sheila's musical laugh still chimed in his heart.
This was heaven, he had told himself, and he put on some vintage Sinatra which seemed about right. Sheila agreed.
And somewhere in the middle of "In the Wee Hours of the Morning," she put her arms around Wally's neck, and he knew he had found forever.
Around one-thirty, he pulled into the parking lot of the Black River Falls Best Western Motel on Route 94. As usual, he had made the reservation once Roger had called in the time.
As with all previous meetings, Wally phoned from the room to Roger's safe number and left a cryptic message signaling that he had arrived without notice. To kill time, he inspected himself in the bathroom mirror. He still looked like the image of himself from maybe twenty years ago, although tired, pale, and a little full-faced. Excessive consumption and debauchery, he told himself. The scourge of a Puritan God.
He lay on the bed and closed his eyes, thinking of Sheila Monks. Also Barbara Lopez, the new marketing manager at work, Cyetta McCormick, the condo agent who sold him his place, Julie Goodman, whom he had met at the Black Swan last month, and Barbara Fleishman, Todd's foxy English teacher.
All single, all available.
So many women, so much time.
At 1:50 the telephone rang. Paranoid that he was, Roger always called to check that all was well before arriving.
Wally answered, but there was nobody there. Just the sound of the open line, then a click and the dial tone.
An hour later, and Roger still had not shown, nor called. It was not like him to be late. They had met nine times over the last three months and he had always shown up at the agreed hour.
By four o'clock, Wally had grown anxious and was feeling worse. Roger was two hours overdue, and timing was critical.
Wally's mind raced over the possibilities. Maybe he had hit traffic-but on a Saturday? Or his car could have broken down. Or maybe there was an emergency in his family.
Or maybe he suspected a plot to trap him.
Then an even darker thought shot up: What if Roger had decided not to show? Sure, get him dependent on the stuff then abandon him when critical-a convenient way to eliminate the one person who knew his secret. But why? Did he suspect Wally would leak? Was he afraid he might tell Sheila or his son?
But Roger wouldn't do that. Not his old pal. Their bond was too special. Friends for life.
But, what if?
Wally was nearly breathless with panic when he heard a knock at the door. A rush of relief shot through him as he leapt off the bed and threw it open.
"What the hell…?"
Standing there were Agents Eric Brown and Mike Zazzaro. They walked in and closed the door, Zazzaro keeping his body against it.
"Who were you expecting?"
"Who said I was expecting anybody? And what the hell you doing following me?"
"Mr. Olafsson," Brown said, "we'd like you to come down to headquarters."
"What for?"
"We've located other photographs of someone we think is Christopher Bacon, and we'd like you to identify them."
"I thought we cleared that up weeks ago," he protested. "It was all a mistake. Ask him." He nodded at Zazzaro.
"I saw the tape, and frankly, we think it was Bacon you saw."
"I don't believe this."
"They're one and the same man, as you'd said," Zazzaro replied. "So we're asking that you come down to the office."
Things were backfiring horribly. Roger had probably picked up their tail. "You mean you're calling me a liar?"'
"We didn't say you were lying, but if you are you could be covering for him."
"Covering for him? That's bullshit." For good measure he added, "If you're so interested in who Roger Glover is, why don't you go ask him?"
Zazzaro flashed a look at Brown, and Brown took the question. "He's missing, and that's another thing we want to talk to you about."
Wally suddenly felt faint. "Missing?"
"So are his wife and son. I won't go into details, but they appear to be evading apprehension. We found that telling. We also found it telling that two days after you filed your original complaint you showed up to retract it."
Wally was nearly frantic. The clock radio read 4:22. The window was shrinking by the minute.
"We have fingerprint matches. They're the same man."
Roger was on the run, which meant he could be anywhere in a three-hundred-mile radius. JESUS CHRIST!
He had to get these guys out of here so he could call in a message. "Maybe the prints just look alike."
Brown sighed. "They're identical."
"But he's too young." It was all Wally could think to say.
"If you have knowingly been in contact with this Christopher Bacon, you'd be liable to charges of aiding and abetting a fugitive of a federal crime which if convicted is punishable by life in prison."
"Now I've heard enough." It was a last-ditch effort at righteous indignation. "This is pure bullshit. You have nothing on me. Even if it is the same guy, you can't threaten me with a federal indictment. I know my rights. You've got nothing on me. Nothing."
"So far we haven't."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"We're not threatening you. We're simply asking you to come down to answer some questions."
Wally felt himself heat up. "Do you have a warrant for my arrest?"
"No, but-"