And he poked his hands through and removed a clutch of glass ampules.
A wave of dismay rose from the crowd as they watched Brett and Roger load the ampules into two black plastic containers, then seal and affix the locks.
As they walked away, reporters scribbled notes and jabbered away into their microphones as the cameras zoomed after them and the federal agents on their way to the Hummer. The Hummer would take them to helicopters, which would transport them to FBI headquarters in New York City for processing.
When they got to the vehicle, a man in a dark suit appeared from nowhere. He was surrounded by several others, including FBI jackets.
"Mr. Glover, I'm Ken Parrish, Director of the FBI. And this is Dr. Janet Jamal of Gordon Medical School and Dr. Warren Castleman."
Castleman held out his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you finally, Dr. Glover."
Parrish had left out Castleman's affiliation because Roger would recognize the name. He was the FDA commissioner. Roger did not release his grip on the carriers.
"We'll unburden you of those," Parrish said.
Zazzaro stepped forward, but Roger pulled back. "That was not the agreement. It's going to Doctor Nathan David of Public Citizen."
Parrish's face hardened. "What agreement?"
Roger felt as if a tremor had passed underfoot. "The agreement I made yesterday with President Markarian."
Parrish's face did not crack. "I can assure you that they will be in safe hands."
"I give you my word," Castleman added. Jamal agreed.
They were trying to pull a fast one, Roger thought. Like most medical research universities, Jamal's lab at Gordon Medical was funded almost entirely by the federal government and overseen by the FDA whose commissioner, Warren Castleman, had been personally appointed by the president. They had no intention of turning Elixir over to the Public Citizen. They didn't give a rat's ass about determining the enzymes that prevented cancer cells from replicating. What they were thinking was social security and demographics and avoiding huge tax increases for younger voters, and who knew what else. Maybe the foreign crazies were right about genetic imperialism.
"I don't give a damn about your word. It stays with me until I see Nathan David in person." Roger could feel Laura nudge him toward the car.
Parrish's face flushed in anger, but he was also aware of the wall of cameras humming at them. He made his best conciliatory smile. "Fine." And he backed away to allow them to get inside the Hummer.
Brett jumped in with Laura.
But Roger did not follow. Instead he walked across the yard by himself to the media people. He found the TV 4 woman with the red hair. While the feds stood waiting by the cars, he pretended to shake her hand while slipping her the audiotape of his conversation with the president.
Discretely she closed her hand around it. She pressed toward his ear. "What's this?"
"Protection for my wife and son."
"Gotcha," she said.
Then Roger went back to the Hummer and got in the back seat between Laura and Brett, the two carriers in hand.
Brown took the front seat beside the driver. Zazzaro, Pike, and another agent took to the rear.
Outside Parrish and his men stood stonefaced as they pulled away. Laura took Roger's hand. "If looks could kill," she whispered.
Roger nodded.
He was sitting directly behind Brown with the other agents behind them. Nobody said anything, but all he could think about was the firepower under the jackets of the men in back, and the naked vulnerability of their own three heads.
The Hummer fell behind police motorcycles and three escort vehicles. Behind them pulled two more FBI vehicles, and tailing the procession were several press vans forming an extensive caravan. Roger wondered how far the authorities would allow the press to dog them.
With the escorts, the trip to the heliport on the Vermont side of the Crown Point Bridge would take less than an hour.
Outside, the blanket of snow had already begun to melt.
As they proceeded to Route 10, Roger considered his gut instincts: What if, when they arrived in New York, the Feds decided to prosecute in spite of the promise? Who would stop them even with the news footage about an agreement? All they had to say was that such matters would be determined in a court of law, which had outstanding warrants for their arrest on a battery of charges beyond murder and sabotage.
What if Janet Jamal and associates apply for a patent of some production process and market Elixir?
Or if some sleazeball creep like the late Quentin Cross decides to process a few hundred ccs of his own on the side?
Or if the stuff got out like Laura's renegade Russian nukes scenario? The Antoine Ducharmes of the world were a dime a dozen.
Where was the control? Where were the watchdogs? Who would prevent the horrors from becoming global?
Then he began to raise some hard questions regarding their own future. He knew in some primitive way that he was a liability. The Feds would have to monitor a sustaining supply for him indefinitely. That was inelegant. And it was risky. It made the three of them vulnerable. And him expendable.
What if the Feds had a.38-caliber slug with his name on it-one to be put through his brain one evening while walking to his car? The papers would momentarily lament just-another-senseless-act-of-violence.
Worse-and the question he kept coming back to, the one that had been snapping at him for days: What if somebody decided to go after Brett and Laura to get at his dole?
The brutal conclusion that Roger reached as they made their way to the FBI choppers was that he was as much a liability to them as was Elixir. That Laura and Brett were in danger for their lives as long as he remained alive.
The realization was stunning. And, yet, it had been squatting there all the time licking its chops.
From a back pocket of his mind he heard a familiar voice. The treatment comes with a cyanide pill.
An even worse punishment for them, because he wouldn't just die. They'd find him one morning like Wally and Abigail.
Roger put his arms around his wife and son and tried to blank his mind of all but thoughts of them.
Because the local police had been alerted, the traffic was stopped at the few intersections for the motorcade to pass without sirens.
While Brett checked out the scenery through the windows, Laura relaxed her head against Roger's shoulder. He kissed the top of her head.
Her hand slid to his shoulder as she kissed him on the mouth. Suddenly her head picked up. She could not feel his emergency ampule. Her eyes widened for an explanation. Before she could say anything, he pressed his finger to his lips and shook his head so Brett wouldn't know.
But she wanted to know why it was missing. He hadn't removed it all these years. Never. Even when he showered.
He shook his head to say he'd explain later.
But what would he say? That he did it for Brett's sake, a gesture of closure? A renouncing of temptation? He could always get more. There were 204 amuples between his feet. They would arrange regular maintenance dosages with medics from Public Citizen to keep him alive.
Or was it motivated by some darker impulse he was only beginning to understand?
"I love you," he whispered.
Laura nodded and kissed him.
There were age spots on the back of her hand.
The caravan rolled through small villages to Port Henry. Outside people looked in wonder at the motorcade this far upcountry, and the long line of news vehicles dogging them.
In the distance they could see the high arching steel bridge spanning the southerly end of Lake Champlain from Port Henry to an open field on the Vermont side where several helicopter transports waited. The bridge was a high steel structure of two generous lanes. Two New York state cruisers waited by the side to keep the lane open.