“Chest pains.”
Another lie, but their lives were infested with them.
“Where is he?”
“In the hospital.”
“Memorial’s the other way.”
“Another hospital.”
“There are no other hospitals this way. You’re heading for the Interstate.”
“Minneapolis.”
“Minneapolis? That’s a hundred miles from here.”
“He was on business there.”
And another, she told herself. But at the moment survival was all that mattered, not truth. That might come later when she heard from Roger. If it turned out to be a false alarm, they could stall a few more years.
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 kingsize 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—”
“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.”