"But nothing!" He shot to his feet. "Get out of here," he said and opened the door. He hoped that someplace out there Roger was keeping watch-that as soon as they were gone he'd appear.
But the agents did not move.
"Get out, goddamn it. You have no right to detain me. Get out."
And before he could stop himself he grabbed Zazzaro's arm and pushed him outside. When Brown tried to restrain him, Wally lost control. He swung at Brown, belting him on the side of the head. With a chop to the neck, Zazzaro brought Wally to his knees and slapped cuffs on him. "Now you have no choice, asshole."
Wally let out a cry of agony. "Please let me go. You don't understand."
They pulled him to his feet. "You can explain it to us at the office."
The FBI agency office was in Madison-three hours away.
They arrived around nine-thirty.
Because there was no holding cell on the premises, they had summoned a U.S. marshall's car to take Wally to the Madison County jail where he would officially be booked for assaulting a federal officer. As Brown explained, he would be held for the next two nights until sometime Monday when he would be taken to the courthouse for formal arraignment.
That could mean a minimum of forty hours before he'd be granted a bail release. Possibly days before he was free to see Roger again.
While he waited for the car to arrive, Brown said he could call his attorney. They uncuffed his hands to dial, while Brown remained in the room.
The wall clock said 10:20.
It was almost funny how the ironies piggybacked each other, he thought. Here he finally had a chance to leave a message at Roger's safe number, and it was on an FBI phone with an agent just ten feet away. Even if he left a cryptic code, the call would be traced with all their fancy technology, and wherever it was, authorities would swarm down on Roger like vultures on a zebra carcass.
Instead, Wally called his attorney, briefly explaining the situation, telling him to meet him in court tomorrow.
They drove him across town to the U.S. Marshall's office where he was uncuffed and locked in a single cell with a toilet bowl, sink, and bunk. He took to the bunk.
He let his mind drift to Todd. Would he ever see his son again?
He thought of Sheila. At long last he had emerged from the oppressive despair of the last years to discover love, happiness, and a state free of the universal condition of mortality, only to find himself cut at the knee on the very threshold of paradise.
It was funny.
He blanked his mind, trying to determine if he were entering any form of withdrawal. Except for the itchiness of the bedding and a headache, he felt nothing unusual. Nothing but fear wracking his bowels.
Fear which an hour later began to make him drowsy. His hope was that the judge would dismiss charges as a spontaneous misdemeanor and release him. Then he could contact Chris and arrange a quick rendezvous.
Chris/Roger. Where was he?
Evading apprehension.
He could be in Mexico by now.
The cell was quiet and sometime a little after midnight, still not registering any problems, he fell into a deep sleep.
He was awakened the next morning about seven by the guard delivering his breakfast. He still felt weak and only nibbled on the wedge of toast.
By midmorning, his arms and legs were beginning to ache. He also had developed a strange sensation in his head, like a migraine but in the frontal lobe.
By eleven, his skin began to itch even worse, as if he had come down with a case of the hives.
Sometime before noon, the guard came in to tell Wally that his lawyer, a Harry Stork, wanted to see him.
The name meant nothing to Wally. His lawyer's name was Michael Craig. But Wally said to show him in.
Wally waited on his cot with his head propped up on the pillow and stared through the bars while he scratched his arms and chest, his eyes fixed on the security camera over the barred door.
The sound of footsteps made his heart quicken. A moment later the guard unlocked the door. "Fifteen minutes," he said, and let in Harry Stork. It was Roger.
"It's about time," Wally protested. "I'm paying you bastards good money."
"You're not my only client who spends his weekends in a cellblock."
The guard left.
"Harry Stork?" Wally whispered.
"Don't ask."
"Christ, you have a name for every occasion."
"Something like that."
"What's happening to me?"
"You'll be okay," Roger whispered.
Although this was a low-security holding cell, they had a ceiling mounted security camera for suicide watch. And Roger felt it gawk at him.
The guard had frisked Roger thoroughly and checked his briefcase. But he had missed the syringe and vial of Elixir which were wrapped in gauze and wedged into his crotch under his underwear.
Somehow with his back turned Roger had to unzip his fly and reach into his pants and extract the packet without drawing attention. He tried not to imagine what his movements would look like from the rear, but if the guard were watching the monitor he would become suspicious.
"I feel like hell," Wally whispered. "Weak, blurry vision, itching all over."
"We'll get you back."
Roger pretended to converse softly while Wally lay on the cot with his head propped up. He looked jaundiced. His eyes were out of focus and glassy, and his mouth was white and dry. His fingers were trembling. He was in pain. But he had to hide it or they would call in a doctor. What he needed were the four cc's of what rested uncomfortably in Roger's pants. He had to be quick.
With his back to the camera and pretending to huddle, Roger undid his fly and slipped his hand into his pants. With a clean motion he pulled out the packet, and unfolded the contents. There was no time to swab Wally's arm and tap for his vein.
He pulled the cellophane wrapper off the syringe with his teeth and in one clean motion, stabbed the needle into the septum, sucking out all 4 ccs of fluid.
Somebody shouted something, and Roger froze. Sudden commotion from down the corridor.
Shouting and the sound of feet. The guard. Jesus! He had been watching the whole time.
"What the hell you think you're doing?"
The guard was at the door, fumbling with his keys. Roger glanced to see the man throw open the door and charge at him with his baton raised.
"What the hell you doing? What've you got there? You guys shooting dope?"
But Roger didn't stop. He dove at Wally to plunge the needle into him, hoping to hit flesh and not end up on a rib or collarbone before the baton came down on his skull.
But that never happened. The guard caught his arm and slammed him into the wall. The syringe flew out of Roger's hand.
Then Roger felt the baton smack the back of his knees, instantly folding him. Then a vicious blow across his shoulders that pancaked Roger to the floor.
A moment later he heard a sickening crunch as the guard's foot came down onto the needle. It was the only needle he had.
Wally let out with a cry-the kind of sound an animal makes when it's been treed for the kill.
The guard pulled Roger up by the shirt. His pants were wet from the puddle of Elixir on the floor.
As the guard went for his cuffs, Roger chopped him on the windpipe. Instantly he fell backward and landed on the toilet bowl, gasping for air.
The cell door was still open. Roger looked at Wally and held open his hands to say there was nothing he could do. He had the emergency supply around his neck but no way of getting it into Wally's bloodstream.
The expression on Wally's face said that he understood. "You tried," he whispered. Then he noticed the guard catching his breath. "Go! Go!"
Roger had only a moment before the guard was on his feet and calling for help. It sickened him to the core to leave Wally but he was in no condition to run.