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.
They were halfway across the bridge when the driver slowed.
"What's the problem?" Zazzaro asked.
"Those trucks. There wasn't supposed to be any oncoming traffic till we got across."
Through the windshield they could see two eighteen-wheelers in the oncoming lane. One continued pass them, but the other slowed and turned a sharp left coming to a stop, blocking both the lanes on the far side of the crest.
"What the hell?" The driver checked his rearview mirror. "Aw shit!"
Behind them the other truck screeched into a jack-knife, cutting off the trail of cars about five back.
They were trapped.
Before they knew it, the rear doors of both trucks opened up and out poured dozens of people with automatic weapons firing.
A screech of tires and the motorcycles skidded sideways. Two drivers were thrown to the side, the other ended up with his leg pinned under the machine. As he rolled in agony to pull free, somebody shot him dead. A chatter of guns and the others were killed.
Laura's scream filled Roger's head.
Zazzaro and Brown instantly had their weapons drawn, and behind them the men produced Uzis. But they were far outgunned.
From behind came a volley of automatic weapons as men from the rear truck unloaded their magazines at the escort vehicles and at the first press cars. Windshields shattered and people screamed as the bullets sprayed the convoy.
"They're killing everybody," Brett cried.
Ahead Roger could see a wall of people with guns marching slowly in formation toward the Hummer. They were all wearing white jumpsuits. And red shoes. All holding weapons.
And in the lead wearing a flowing white robe and clutching something to his chest was Lamar Fisk.
Brown was on his radio phone calling for support. But they didn't have a chance to get here in time.
Zazzaro opened the door with his Uzi raised.
"Don't!" Roger shouted. "They'll wipe us all out." From the dashboard he snatched the mouthpiece to the outside loudspeaker flicked it on.
"Fisk, this is Roger Glover. Stop shooting," he shouted. "Hold your people back. I've got what you want. I'll bring it, just stop shooting."
Laura grabbed him. "Roger, they'll kill you."
Through the windshield they could see Fisk raise his hand. The mob stopped. So did the gunfire.