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  But Luke knew that their suitcases were still in his SUV, parked in the Nottaway garage. They were going to arrive in Oregon with nothing but the clothes on their backs and the two laptops Tamara had brought with her. Assuming we make it to Oregon, he told himself.

  At least I’ve got my money with me, he reminded himself as he patted the bulging wallet he’d slipped into his jacket pocket. Merriwether didn’t notice the gesture; he was fully focused on driving his pride and joy.

  Now Luke and Tamara hunched together as they stared at the display screen showing the results of Angela’s brain scan.

  “No trace of the tumors,” Tamara murmured, almost as if she were afraid to say the words too loudly.

  “They’re gone,” said Luke. His voice was shaky, too.

  Running a lacquered fingernail along the screen, Tamara observed, “But these arteries have thickened.”

  “Atherosclerosis,” Luke muttered.

  “One of the symptoms of HGPS.”

  “Like we need a scan to tell us she’s got progeria.”

  Tamara straightened up, rubbed her eyes. “We can stop the inhibitor treatment.”

  Luke shook his head. “Not yet. Give it another week.”

  “Another week?”

  “I want to make sure the damned tumors are dead.”

  “But the progeria!”

  “Another week,” Luke said, with a firmness he didn’t really feel.

  Tamara sat silently for several moments, her fingers working the laptop’s keyboard to record the test results. Luke thought he could see the wheels turning inside her head as she typed.

  At last she looked up and said, “Stop the treatment now, Luke. Don’t let the progeria advance any further.”

  Before he could object she went on. “If the tumors reappear we can put her back on the inhibitors.”

  It was Luke’s turn to fall silent. He sat there, turning over the possibilities in his mind. At last, “You’re right. We’ll stop the inhibitors and give her a chance to recover.”

  Tamara breathed out a relieved sigh. “Good,” she said. “Now, how do we get out of here?”

  “Merriwether’s downstairs, in the waiting room,” said Luke. “So we go out the back way. I’ll carry Angie; you phone for a cab.”

  They went to the recovery room where Angela lay sleeping and wrapped her in several blankets. The two nurses on duty helped; then one of them pushed a wheelchair to the child’s bed. Tamara stuffed her laptop and Luke’s, together with a case full of medications, into her tote bag while Luke tenderly lifted Angela into the wheelchair. She stirred and muttered something incomprehensible.

  “Thanks,” Luke told the nurses as he wheeled Angela toward the elevator. “We can handle her from here.”

  The nurses looked uncertain but didn’t try to stop them. As the elevator doors closed, Luke grinned at Tamara. “Next stop, the airport.”

  Angela stirred and murmured sleepily, “Mommy?”

  “I’m right here, Angel,” Luke said.

  “I feel tired,” the child said weakly. “Can we go home now?”

  “Soon, honey,” Luke said, hating himself for lying to his granddaughter. “We’ll have you back home real soon now.”

  But when the elevator doors slid open, Merriwether was standing there, waiting for them with a sly grin on his face.

  “Goin’ somewhere?” he asked.

  Luke nodded. “To the airport. You’ve been very good to us, Lonzo, but we’ve got to get Angie to a first-rate medical facility.”

  Spreading his long arms, Merriwether said, “You’re in one right here.”

  Luke said, “We’re leaving.”

  “No you’re not. You thought you were pretty fucking clever, doing your talking out on the verandas, where we couldn’t hear you. But you weren’t clever enough. I know what you’re up to.”

  “Let us go, Lonzo,” Tamara pleaded.

  He shook his head. “Fisk wants to you to stay at Nottaway.” His smile widening as he focused on Tamara, he added, “And that’s what I want, too.”

  Luke let his shoulders slump and began pushing the wheelchair with Angela half asleep in it.

  “Down this way.” Merriwether pointed in the opposite direction. “My car’s parked at the main entrance.”

  Luke saw that the corridor was empty of other people at this time of night. Probably security cops at the entrance, he thought. If I’m going to make a move it’s got to be now.

  Lorenzo Merriwether was more than a head taller than Luke, maybe thirty years younger. He’s in good physical shape, Luke thought. Former athlete, he’s still trim and fit, works out in his gym.

  Luke’s brief career in the Army had been as a very junior lieutenant in an intelligence unit in Tokyo. ROTC had paid his way through college, and in return he’d pulled a tour of duty in Japan during the Korean War. He’d taken a routine course in hand-to-hand fighting, nothing more. And that was a lot of years ago.

  Surprise counts for a lot, he remembered from his training. He heard the grating growl of his drill instructor’s voice. “Catch ’em by surprise, get the first shots in, and make ’em count.”

  Luke sucked in a deep breath, then swerved Angela’s wheelchair into Merriwether’s legs. He stumbled, grabbed the back of the wheelchair for support.

  Luke smashed a karate chop at Merriwether’s neck, but the man was quick enough to partially block it with an upraised arm. He slid to the floor, but before Luke could get around the wheelchair to kick him he bounced to his feet.

  Grinning, Merriwether crouched as he faced Luke.

  “I was wondering why an old fart like you was working out in the gym,” he said. “Give it up. There’s no way a guy your age is gonna get past me.”

  Knees, Luke remembered. Knees are vulnerable, and exposed. He edged closer to Merriwether, who stood his ground, waiting for him. Luke feinted a punch at Merriwether’s head, and when the man’s hands came up reflexively to block it, Luke kicked at his left kneecap as hard as he could.

  Merriwether yelped in pain and collapsed to the floor, but he grabbed at Luke’s leg, pulling him down to the tiles beside him.

  “Motherfucker,” Merriwether growled as he rolled over on top of Luke, his fist raised like a hammer.

  Tamara swung her oversized handbag at him. It hit Merriwether’s head with a loud clunk! His eyes rolled up; then Luke hit him under the chin with a cupped hand and his head snapped back. Tamara clouted him again and he slumped to the floor, unconscious.

  “What the hell do you have in that bag?” Luke asked as he scrambled to his feet.

  “The kitchen sink,” she replied tightly.

  Luke realized she had both their laptops in the bag, along with God knows what else.

  “Come on,” he said, “the taxi ought to be waiting for us at the rear entrance.”

  Airborne

  “YOU’RE DAMNED LUCKY I was available,” said the twin-jet’s pilot. Luke was surprised when the pilot stuck his head through the open hatch and invited him to come up and sit with him in the cockpit’s right-hand seat.

  “Yeah,” the pilot said as he leaned back in his chair with a pleased, relaxed smile on his face, “most guys would’ve wanted a copilot to make the flight with them. With me, you only need to pay for one man.”

  Luke, Tamara, and Angela had made it to the airport just as the sky began to turn milky white. Don’t have to worry about being late for the flight, Luke told himself. We’re chartering our own business jet, and it’ll wait for us to show up.

  He was surprised that the general aviation terminal was busy so early in the morning. A smiling executive of Bayou Air Services greeted them curbside and took Tamara’s weighty tote bag from her shoulder.

  “No other luggage?” he asked.

  Luke was carrying the sleeping Angela in his arms. Shaking his head, he replied, “Nope. Just us.”

  The executive looked nonplussed, but he led them into the company’s office, off the terminal’s main room. He was wearing
an open-necked sports shirt and a white blazer that bore the company’s logo.

  His eyes went wide when Luke pulled a bulging billfold from his own jacket and peeled off three hundred one-hundred-dollar bills.

  “Cash?” he squeaked.

  “You don’t take cash?” Luke asked.

  Recovering some of his composure, the executive said, “Oh, sure we do. But it’s usually from young punks in the drug business.”

  Luke grunted. “We’re flying my granddaughter to Oregon for medical treatment. And we’re in a hurry.”

  “Certainly, certainly. We’ve laid out our best plane for you, it's spanking new. And our best pilot to fly it.”

  The pilot’s name was Jason Kleiner, a skinny youngster with long, sweeping blond hair and a cocky grin, wearing Levi’s and a leather jacket over a white T-shirt. Luke wondered how good a pilot he really was until he asked about the golden wings clipped to the breast of his windbreaker.

  “Navy pilot, man,” said Kleiner. “You haven’t lived until you’ve tried to land an F-18 on a carrier at night.”

  They settled Angela comfortably on the padded bench that made up the last row of the passenger compartment, with Tamara sitting next to her. Takeoff was smooth, and they were soon at cruising altitude. Then Kleiner had invited Luke up to the cockpit.

  “Yep, you’re lucky I was available,” Kleiner repeated as the jet flew high above an unbroken layer of silken white clouds.

  “I had the day off,” he explained. “Was going down to New Orleens for a night of fun and games. Then the office called and asked me to take this last-minute job.”

  “There weren’t any other pilots available?” Luke asked.

  “None as good as me.”

  Luke let the guy talk for a while, then said, “I’m going back and take a snooze. I’ve been up all night.”

  Kleiner laughed. “I was planning to be up all night myself, until your job came through.”

  Luke unbuckled his safety belt and got up from his seat.

  “I’ll call you when we land at Rapid City.”

  “Rapid City?”

  “Refuel,” Kleiner explained. “We’ll only be on the ground for half an hour or so.”

  Luke nodded and headed back into the passenger compartment. Tamara had cranked her seat back and was sleeping soundly. As was Angela.

  He didn’t realize he had fallen asleep until the sudden noise of the plane’s wheels being lowered startled him awake. Tamara was sitting tensely in the seat across the aisle.

  “This doesn’t look like Portland,” she said, with a worried frown.

  “It’s Rapid City, South Dakota,” Luke told her. “We need more fuel to get to Oregon.”

  “Oh.”

  The plane landed smoothly and taxied to the terminal, where a fuel truck stood waiting. Kleiner ducked through the cockpit’s hatch, smiling happily.

  Pointing to the hatch at the rear of the passenger compartment, he said, “There’s sandwiches and coffee in a cooler back there. Soft drinks, too. Compliments of the company.”

  Then he got a good look at Angela, who was stirring from her sleep.

  “Jesus! What’s wrong with her? How old is she?”

  Tamara answered sternly, “It’s a condition called progeria. We’re taking her to Oregon for treatment.”

  Kleiner stared. “She looks like she’s a hundred years old, for chrissakes.”

  “She’s eight,” said Luke.

  Looking at the cast on Angela’s wrist, Kleiner asked, “What happened to her arm?”

  “She fell. It’s nothing serious.”

  With a visible effort, Kleiner tore his eyes from Angela and went back to the main hatch, at the front of the passenger compartment. Once the ladder unfolded, he clattered down the steps and into the cold morning air. It was cloudy outside, and piles of dirty gray snow were banked along the edge of the tarmac.

  Luke saw Angela stir and wake up, peering with bloodshot eyes out the plane’s window.

  “How do you feel, Angie?” he asked.

  “Tired,” the child replied.

  “Are you hungry?”

  She shook her head slowly, as if it were too much of an effort to speak.

  “I’ll get a nutrient preparation for her,” said Tamara, reaching into her capacious tote bag.

  Angela went back to sleep before the plastic bag was half emptied. Tamara and Luke munched on the limp sandwiches and drank lukewarm coffee.

  She appraised him with narrowed eyes. “Have you done anything to your hair?”

  “Anything?” Luke asked, sitting sideways on the plane’s chair, his legs in the aisle. “What?”

  “It looks darker.”

  He shrugged. “Fountain of youth.”

  She smiled. “You took on Lonzo like a superhero.”

  “Some superhero. He’d have beaten my brains out if you hadn’t slugged him.”

  “Conked him with our laptops,” Tamara said. “I hope I haven’t damaged them.”

  “I’ll buy you a new one.”

  Kleiner ducked through the hatch. “You guys warm enough in here?”

  Nodding, Luke said, “It’s not bad.”

  His face totally serious, Kleiner said, “Could you come up to the cockpit for a minute, sir?”

  Luke glanced at Tamara, then got up and headed forward, suddenly worried. What’s he want?

  Kleiner gestured to the right-hand seat and, as Luke slid into it, closed the hatch. Then he sat in the other chair.

  “Something wrong?” Luke asked.

  “The flight dispatcher back in Baton Rouge told me you’re toting around a big wad of bills.”

  Tensing, Luke said, “So?”

  “So here in Rapid City one of the clerks watches those TV reality shows about cops tracking down crooks. She tells me the FBI has a bulletin out for a Professor Abramson, who’s traveling with a sick child and a Dr. Minteer. They want him on suspicion of kidnapping.”

  Luke couldn’t think of anything else to say except to repeat, “So?”

  “That’s you, isn’t it?”

  His pulse thudding in his ears, Luke said, “It’s no business of yours.”

  “Yes it is,” said Kleiner.

  For a long moment the two men stared at each other wordlessly, practically nose to nose.

  Then Kleiner smiled thinly. “Hey, I’ve flown crooks and runaway husbands. I’ve taken tax evaders to Mexico. No skin off my nose, as long as they pay the fare.”

  “I’ve paid for this flight,” Luke said tightly.

  “Narcotics guys pay best. They carry suitcases full of money, you know that?”

  Luke saw where Kleiner was heading. “How much?” he asked.

  “How much you got on you?”

  “None of your damned business.”

  “Hey, don’t get hissy with me, man. You ain’t getting to Oregon unless you pay the bill.”

  Trying to hold on to his temper, Luke repeated, “How much?”

  “Twenty thou?”

  “Ten.”

  Kleiner smiled easily. “Let’s meet in the middle. Fifteen thousand and I’ll fly you to Portland quick and clean and keep my mouth shut.”

  Luke nodded. “I’ll have to go back to my seat and get the money.”

  “Sure.”

  Luke went down the aisle to where Tamara and Angela were waiting. Keeping his back to the open cockpit hatch, he reached into his jacket, pulled out his billfold, and counted out fifteen thousand dollars worth of bills. He didn’t want Kleiner to see how much was left. Then he realized that there was less than ten thousand remaining. I’m going broke, he said to himself.

  Tamara, watching him, asked, “What’s going on?”

  “Highway robbery.”

  Luke went back to the cockpit and handed the bills to Kleiner. “Don’t spend it all in one place,” he growled.

  The pilot laughed.

  Once they were airborne again, heading for Portland, Luke wondered if Kleiner was an honest extortionist. Would he
stay bought?

  Fisk Tower

  “HE GOT AWAY from you?” Quenton Fisk bellowed.

  In the wall screen’s view, Lorenzo Merriwether seemed to be sitting in bed, with some sort of white medical horse collar around his neck.

  “The two of them jumped me. I got a concussion, man. And a herniated disk!”

  Fisk demanded, “A seventy-five-year-old man and a woman beat you up?”

  Merriwether’s expression hardened, but he said nothing.

  “Where’d they go?”

  “To the airport.”

  “Where did they fly to?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  His anger mounting, Fisk fairly shouted, “You just let them get away from you?”

  “No sense hollering, man. You want them, you’re gonna have to go find them.”

  “Thanks to you.” Furious, Fisk slammed a fist on his desktop phone console, cutting off Merriwether’s call.

  For several minutes he sat there, feeling his heart pounding beneath his ribs. Abramson got away. He’s on the loose. Where is he? Where’d he go?

  Then he asked himself the ultimate question: How can I find him?

  The FBI’s looking for him. Maybe I should call that agent, whatever his name is. But then I’d have to admit that I was hiding Abramson, protecting him.

  He’s signed the privacy agreement. With that and the funding contract he agreed to, I own his work. He can’t publish anywhere unless I permit it, and he can’t go to work for anyone else.

  But then Fisk realized, The man’s a wanted criminal! Do you think a couple of scraps of paper are going to hold him to you? He’s on the loose; God knows where he’s gone.

  I’ll have to get my own security people to chase him down, Fisk concluded.

  Then he brightened. Maybe I can use the FBI to help, after all.

  Almost smiling, he tapped his intercom and told his assistant to get the FBI agent on the phone.

  “Agent Hightower, sir?”

  “Yes, Hightower.” That’s his name, Fisk recalled. The big redskin.

  As he waited for his assistant to reach Hightower, Fisk began to compose the story he would tell the FBI agent. Stick to the truth as much as possible, he reminded himself. But don’t let him know that you were deliberately hiding Abramson.