Elixir. Part 32

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 bulls.h.i.t. 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 h.e.l.l 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, G.o.dd.a.m.n 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, a.s.shole."

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 a.s.saulting 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 carca.s.s.

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 b.a.s.t.a.r.ds 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 h.e.l.l," 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 gla.s.sy, 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 h.e.l.l 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 h.e.l.l 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.

The guard stumbled to his feet when Wally reached for the keys and tossed them to Roger who bolted through the door, locking it behind him.

Before he dashed out, Roger gave Wally a last look. "Sorry."

Wally shrugged weakly. "All rock and roll while it lasted."

The guard reached for a remote control switch on his belt. Before he could trigger it, Wally rolled off the cot full-body onto him.

By the time the alarm went off, Roger was out the front door and into his car, feeling as if his heart would break.

They moved Wally to another cell in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the building. He did not let on how bad he felt. Even if they brought him to a hospital, they could do nothing for him. The antidote for his condition lay in a dried up puddle on the floor upstairs.

He slept most of the afternoon. At suppertime a different guard brought him a tray of food. He didn't touch it. When the guard asked if he was feeling okay, Wally nodded that he was fine, just tired. The guard asked if he wanted to call anybody-his lawyer, friends, wife-but Wally grunted no. He just wanted to be left alone to sleep.

In a semi-dozing dream state, he imagined Roger had returned, this time disguised as a guard and quietly giving him his stabilizing shot. So convincing was the dream that he fell into a deep peaceful sleep. And for several hours, n.o.body again disturbed him. Sometime the next morning, which was Monday, he would be taken to the Madison courthouse for arraignment. Then he would be released on bail.

A little after midnight, Wally shook himself awake from an awful dream of being eaten alive by lice. He woke up clawing his face and ears. He pushed himself up. His whole head felt inflamed and swollen including his eyelids, which were so thick he could barely open them. And when he did, his vision was fragmented, as if looking through cracked lenses.

Worse, his ears were filled with a high-pitched tinnitis that over the minutes became louder, as if somebody were turning up the audio.

Soon the sound was unbearable, condensing into hot filaments of pain shooting through his brain; yet he could not stop it with his fingers. It was coming from inside his skull-as if a million insects were filling his head with mad music.

What's happening to me?

He heard himself yell, but it seemed to come from somebody else.

In his mind he floated high above the cell. He banged his head so hard against the ceiling that he was sure his skull was crushed. But it wasn't, nor did the cluttering stop. Nor did he pa.s.s out as hoped.

He dropped to the floor screaming. Blood trickled over his brows and into his eyes from where the skin split. He rolled around the floor as a strange hot pain twisted the muscles and tendons of his limbs, throbbing in agony as if turned on a rack. Voices yelled at him.

"Cut the f.u.c.king noise."

"The sumb.i.t.c.h woke me up."

"Somebody shut him the f.u.c.k up."

His brain was a noisy animal thing that couldn't hold awareness. He'd focus on a thought, and suddenly it was gone as if holes were opening up in his brain like bubbles in cheese.

Help me.

For an instant, he was in his dorm suite at Pennypacker, playing bridge and drinking a Haffenreffer because it was the cheapest stuff at the package store, and when you're low on cash a good beer is whatever you can afford. And the Beatles were singing "When I'm Sixty-four," and Wendy and Chris were dancing naked, and Sheila was sitting on his lap kissing his new hair.

Somebody opened the window, and hot yellow pus poured over the sill.

His mind screamed, Help me. Chris gotta help me.

Lungs filled with wet air. He was having trouble breathing, flushing out the sacs. As if the old tissue had lost its suppleness.

Drown. You 're going to drown.

He rolled to his side and spit up stringy fluid. His lungs were filling up. He couldn't get air.