The money for their alternate lives came from trust funds Sam had set up for Chris when he was in college. Before they disappeared, Roger had transferred the full content to a blind account. Several months after establishing residency in Eau Claire, he again transferred the funds into a new account-a little over $1,200,000-some of which they used to become the Glovers, the remainder of which he converted to cash and buried for an emergency getaway. That was his third option.
The fourth required a gun.
Roger was in the back room working on a funeral arrangement when an agent from the FBI entered his shop.
He knew the guy was a Fed because earlier that morning he had spotted him through field glasses sitting with another man in a green Jeep Cherokee with tinted glass across the street. His suspicions were confirmed when they later followed him across town on deliveries.
The man who looked in his thirties was of average build and dressed in jeans and a Chicago Bulls jacket. He did not identify himself. Nor was Roger surprised. Unless they had probable cause, he could not be arrested on resemblance to a fugitive. And unless they had an arrest warrant for Roger Glover, they could not bring him into custody. For the time being, he was safe. This was a reconnaissance check to verify any resemblance to file photos.
The agent pretended to examine the Boston ferns, but Roger caught him studying his face, knowing full well that his appearance was too young for a matchup. After several minutes, he brought a plant to the counter. Hanging conspicuously on the wall by the cash register was a large blowup of a smiling Roger at a surprise party three years ago. A banner hanging over his head said HAPPY 35TH BIRTHDAY. In the photo Roger was displaying a copy of an old Life magazine.
The man peered at it as he got his money out. "Looks like John Glenn in his space capsule."
"Yes, it is," Roger said brightly. "It was the issue that came out the week I was born."
The man nodded. "Must have been '62 or '63."
"Sixty-two."
"Nice birthday gift."
"Yes it is. Will that be it?"
The man nodded, and Roger wrapped the plant.
All throughout the transaction, Roger wore his tinted lenses and surgical gloves. When he finished, he placed the plant on the counter and removed the gloves. While the man fished for his money, Roger lathered his hands with lotion from a dispenser by the cash register. Then he slipped the gloves back on. "Chapped hands. A real drag in this business," he said and gave the man his change.
The man left, but not before he helped himself to a business card.
Through the windows Roger watched him go to the car and drive away.
He would tell his partner about how Roger had worn gloves because of a skin condition. They would have the pot and wrapping paper and business card dusted for fingerprints. It was possible his or Laura's could be on them, as well as those of any number of customers, assistants, distributors, and manufacturers. But they had nothing on file. The agent would also tell his partner about the photograph-how in spite of any resemblance, Glover was too young to be Bacon, even with the graying hair.
Roger did not go home that evening. Instead, he slipped out the back and let the air out of a tire of his van so it looked like a legitimate flat. He then cut through some back lots to a street several blocks away where he caught a cab. When he was certain he wasn't followed, he had the cab leave him off at a municipal parking lot where he had a rental spot for a black Jeep registered under one of his aliases, Harry Stork. He then left town without being followed, and drove for over an hour.
The house at number 213 Chestnut was a handsome modern structure with a two-car garage. A car was parked in one of the bays. The lights were on and the television pulsed against the curtains.
Roger drove up and down the road twice, then parked under a tree. He approached the house. In his right hand he carried a briefcase. In the inside pocket of his jacket he carried a Glock nine-millimeter pistol.
When he was certain there was nobody else inside, he stepped up to the front door. There was no peephole, just narrow side windows along the door. But the hat and scarf hid much of his face.
Roger rang the doorbell. In a few moments the door swung open.
"Hi, Wally. It's me, Chris Bacon."
24
Wally's face drained of blood. "I'll be damned."
"Can we sit down?" Roger asked. "We have a lot to talk about."
"Yeah, thirty years worth." Wally caught his breath and nodded. "Heck, I knew it was you the moment I saw you." He tried to sound neutral. "But how come I'm fat and bald and you look like you did back in school? Must be the genes, huh? Man oh man, don't you wish we were back there again?" He was struggling to maintain a casual reunion air.
Roger followed Wally into the living room but did not take a seat.
"Can I get you a drink?" He inched toward the doorway leading to the kitchen.
"No, I'm fine."
"How did you find me?"
Roger did not answer.
"Well, make yourself at home. I'm going to grab myself a beer. Jeez, it's good to see you."
Roger knew what he was planning-go to another room and punch 911. He put his hand up to block him. "Wally, I'd prefer if we talked first."
Wally stared at him for a moment. "That's what gave it away. You're the only person I'd ever seen with two-tone eyes."
Roger smiled, feeling a flush of warmth for his old friend.
Hey, Chris, are you ambivalent?
Yes and no.
Wally's manner suddenly shifted. "Chris, what's this all about-this Roger Glover stuff?"
He was playing dumb, and Roger couldn't blame him. "Let's sit down and talk a bit, then you can get us the beers."
Wally moved to the couch, and Roger took a chair by the doorway. He lay his briefcase on the floor. The gun inside his jacket pressed against his ribcage. If Wally tried to make a run for it, Roger would pull it. Too much was at stake.
As they faced each other, it struck Roger how much Wally had aged. Most of his hair was gone except for an apron around the back of his head and a few strands plastered across his scalp. His gut bulged over his belt like a sack of flour. His shoulders were broad but thin like his arms from lack of exercise. His face was gray and fleshy and the skin was pocked on the nose and cheeks-looking like old melanoma scars. His eyes still held the reef-water blue Roger remembered, but they looked tired and unhappy. It was sad to see what the years had done to his old friend-a guy who had been lean and handsome like a young Alan Ladd.
"Wally, I have just one question, then I'll explain things."
"Okay."
"What did you tell the FBI?"
Wally flinched. "The FBI? What FBI? What are you talking about?" His sincere bug-eyes weren't convincing.
"Wally, I'm here to be straight with you. And for old time's sake I want you to be straight back. You visited the Madison office two days ago at ten-thirty and spoke for an hour and forty minutes with agent Eric Brown."
Wally looked nonplussed. More mock-shock. "He's an old friend."
"No, he's not."
"What the hell do you mean, 'No, he's not…'?" Now he was playing the indignation card.
"Because when I called your office later and told your secretary I was Eric Brown, she asked from what company. Any executive secretary worth her salt knows the names of the boss's old friends."