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  He looked away as the needle stung him. He knew it was silly, but he felt as if some alien creature were attaching itself to him, sucking his blood. Tamara taped the port to his chest, then pushed the syringe into the port’s seal, and the hormones rushed into his bloodstream, hot and strong.

  Tamara smiled down at him and said, “I ought to get some lollipops to give you after each injection.”

  Luke smiled back, weakly, glad that the little ordeal was over. But he couldn’t work up the courage to actually look at the port, inserted into a blood vessel in his chest.

  * * *

  YOLANDA PETRONE WAS at her desk, staring unseeingly at her morning’s schedule on the computer screen. She had called the clinic first thing in the morning, from her home, and learned that the very feline Dr. Minteer had stayed there last night, while Luke had driven back to whatever motel he was staying at.

  Good, she thought. They’re not sleeping together. Not last night, at least.

  Hardly thinking of what she was doing, Petrone fished the card Agent Hightower had given her out of her desk drawer.

  If I call him, she thought, Luke might end up in jail. But if I don’t, he could very well kill his granddaughter. Then she realized that Dr. Minteer was just as guilty of kidnapping as Luke was.

  She picked up the phone.

  Boston FBI Headquarters

  “DR. PETRONE,” SAID Jerry Hightower. “How are you?”

  Petrone’s voice sounded shaky, uncertain, as she said, “Exactly what are the charges against Dr. Abramson?”

  Hightower leaned back in his creaking desk chair. His office was so small that some of the other agents teased him about it. “You’d have more room in a teepee,” they’d wisecrack. Hightower, who had spent his childhood on the Navaho reservation in a mobile home jacked up on cinder blocks, merely smiled patiently at his colleagues and replied, “Agents work out in the field, not in their offices.”

  He cleared his throat before answering. “Actually, Dr. Petrone, there are no formal charges filed. Not yet. We just want to talk to Dr. Abramson about bringing his granddaughter back to her parents.”

  “I see.”

  Hightower waited patiently for the rest. At last Petrone said, “He’s at the Kennedy Clinic. With his granddaughter and her attending physician.”

  “Will he be there all day?”

  “For several days. Maybe longer.”

  “All right. I’ll fly down this morning.”

  “Are you going to arrest him?”

  “Not if he cooperates.”

  “And the attending physician?”

  “Same deal. Our main interest at this point is the safety of the little girl.”

  Petrone’s voice seemed a little stronger. “All right. He’ll be there when you get here.”

  Hightower said, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell him I’m on my way.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Petrone.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  * * *

  SITTING IMPATIENTLY IN the clinic’s quiet little waiting room, Luke glanced at the mirror on the wall. The port made a slight bulge beneath his shirt. As far as he could tell, his chest wasn’t sore. Damn things caused infections, he knew. But Tamara was careful, she had swabbed the area down good.

  Still, he felt uneasy about it.

  He’d been in the waiting room all morning. For a while he’d paced nervously, like an expectant father. Then he’d read through every magazine in the waiting room. Now he sat, feeling tired and anxious. He remembered other waiting rooms, when Adele was going through chemotherapy and radiation treatments. All in vain.

  Only one other person was in the room, an elderly dark-skinned man sitting sour-faced and unhappy on the couch along the far wall. The room was tastefully decorated in cool pastels. A large flat-screen TV showed some idiotic game show, muted.

  Elderly man, Luke thought. Who the hell am I to call him elderly? Still, the guy looked like a cheerless grump, lean and disagreeable in a dark pinstriped suit. Luke was in his shirtsleeves. Maybe he thinks I should be wearing a jacket, Luke guessed.

  Tamara came in and Luke jumped to his feet.

  “How is she?”

  “The good news is that the tumors haven’t metastasized,” she said, her voice low.

  “And the bad news?”

  Tamara plunked down in the chair next to Luke’s. She looked tired, defeated. He sat down, too. “The bad news?”

  Shaking her head wearily, Tamara said, “The growths are spreading through her brain. She’ll start losing motor function in a few days. Then…”

  “Then?”

  “They’ll start to affect the autonomous nervous system. She won’t be able to breathe on her own.” Bleakly, Tamara concluded, “I don’t think she’s got more than a couple of weeks left.”

  Luke knew it was too soon to expect any results from the telomerase inhibitors. I need another few days, he thought. At least. Maybe a week.

  “Where is she?”

  “They’re taking her back to her room. She slept through the whole battery of scans.”

  He got to his feet slowly, his knees creaking. No results from his own injections yet, he realized. As he and Tamara walked out of the waiting room and into the corridor, a large, bulky man in a suede jacket strode purposefully toward them, pulling a little billfold from the rear pocket of his slacks.

  Flipping it open, he said to them, “I’m Special Agent Jerome Hightower, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  Damn! thought Luke. Yolanda finked on us, after all.

  Hightower asked, “Where is Angela Villanueva?”

  Feeling as if half the world had fallen on his shoulders, Luke replied numbly, “On her way upstairs, to her room.”

  “Let’s go see her.”

  Silently, Luke led Tamara and Agent Hightower back to Angela’s room. The FBI agent looked like a professional wrestler, big in every dimension. His skin was a light tan. Native American? Luke wondered. He’s got a ponytail.

  Angela was still sleeping, the IV in her arm, the monitors on the side wall blinking steadily.

  Hightower took it all in with one sweeping glance, then turned to Luke. “How is she?”

  Tamara answered, “Terminal.”

  “Unless I can save her,” Luke interjected.

  Hightower sighed heavily. “Her parents want her back.”

  “They gave up that right when they signed the admitting papers at University Hospital,” Luke said, his voice low but firm.

  “I’ve read those papers,” said Hightower. “They don’t give you the right to transport the child out of Massachusetts.”

  “They don’t say anything about that.”

  Almost smiling, Hightower said, “Yes, they do. Down in the fine print. Technically, you could be charged with kidnapping. That’s a federal offense.”

  “She’s going to die unless I can treat her,” Luke said.

  Hightower turned to Minteer. “Is that right?”

  Tamara looked at Luke before answering. “She’s certainly terminal now. Professor Abramson’s treatment is new, untested, but it can’t do the child any harm at this stage.”

  “Look,” Hightower said, “my job is to get this kid back to the hospital you snatched her from. That’s what her parents want.”

  “Her parents won’t let me treat her,” Luke snapped. “You’ll be killing her.”

  With a slow, ponderous shake of his head, Hightower said, “You’ve transported the child across state lines. Her parents want her back with them. If you don’t cooperate I’ll have to file a kidnapping charge against you. You don’t want that.”

  “I don’t want my granddaughter to die!”

  Tamara suggested, “Why don’t you tell her parents to come here? She’s in good hands; this is a first-rate facility.”

  Hightower blinked at her. “I suppose I could ask them.”

  Brightening, Luke said, “Call them!”

  Pullin
g his cell phone from his shirt pocket, Hightower flipped it open and tapped out a number. Luke marveled that his thumb could press individual buttons: It looked much too big. The agent’s hand engulfed the tiny phone.

  “Mr. Villanueva? This is Agent Hightower. I’ve found your daughter—”

  Luke could hear the excited babble coming from the phone. Hightower explained where Angela was. After a pause, Lenore came on the phone; Luke heard the high-pitched exhilaration in her voice.

  Hightower handed him the phone. “She wants to talk to you.”

  “Daddy? How is Angie?”

  Luke glanced at Tamara before answering. “She’s holding her own.”

  “Are your treatments helping her?”

  “It’s too early to see any results, Norrie.”

  “Bring her home, Daddy. Bring her back to me.”

  “But—”

  “I want her here for Christmas. I want her to be with us for … for her last Christmas.”

  “If you let me treat her…” But Luke knew she wasn’t listening. Lenore had broken down into wracking sobs.

  Del came on the phone, his voice hard, bitter. “You bring Angie back to us, Luke. Now. Today.”

  Luke told himself, If I do I’ll be killing her. Aloud, he pleaded, “Let me treat her, Del. Let me treat her long enough to have some effect.”

  “Lenore’s been a wreck since you kidnapped Angie,” Del raged. “It’s bad enough our daughter is going to die, but you’re killing Lenore, too!”

  Seeing the expression on Luke’s face, Hightower took the phone from his hand.

  “This is Agent Hightower again. Yes, we’ll bring the child back.” Del’s voice chattered angrily. “Kidnapping is a very serious charge, you know.” More ranting from Del. “All right. All right. I’ll get started on it right away.”

  He clicked the phone shut and gave Luke a somber stare. “Your son-in-law wants you in jail.”

  “He’s an asshole,” said Luke.

  Shrugging his massive shoulders, Hightower said, “I’m going to make arrangements to fly all of us back to Boston. Don’t try to leave this clinic. I’ll post some security at the door.”

  Luke’s shoulders slumped. Tamara looked frightened.

  Hightower went to the door. Turning back toward Luke, he said, “For what it’s worth, I think your son-in-law is very worked up about this.”

  “Thanks for the news flash,” Luke growled.

  Kennedy Clinic

  AS SOON AS Hightower left Angela’s room, Luke turned to Tamara. “We’ve got to get her out of here.”

  “What? You can’t do that! You heard what he said, there’ll be security at the door.”

  “Then we’ve got to get out before the cops come.”

  “No, Luke. You can’t.”

  “The hell I can’t. Pack up everything. I’ll grab a gurney. The two of us can handle this.”

  Without waiting for Tamara to reply, Luke bolted out of the room and hustled down to the nurse’s station. He spied a gurney along the wall beyond and went to it.

  “Sir?” called the nurse. “Can I help you?”

  “I can manage,” Luke said as he wheeled the gurney past her station.

  The nurse got to her feet. “Where are you going with that? You can’t take it, that’s not allowed.”

  “I’m just taking it to my granddaughter’s room. We need to bring her downstairs for more tests.”

  Trotting behind him, the nurse said, “Nobody’s told me she’s scheduled for more tests.”

  “Her attending physician’s in the room with my granddaughter. She’ll tell you.”

  Luke worked the gurney into Angela’s room. The nurse stood uncertainly in the corridor for a few seconds, then turned and headed back to her station.

  “She’ll be calling security,” Luke told Tamara. “We don’t have a second to waste.”

  He saw that Tamara was busily packing medications and IV equipment into one of the suitcases they’d brought with them. She looked doubtful, though, worried.

  “Luke, don’t you think—”

  “Help me move her,” Luke commanded.

  Angela stirred as they lifted her out of her bed. “Grandpa? Where is this?”

  “We’re going for a little ride, honey. It’ll be fun.”

  A puzzled-looking security guard in a blue uniform was talking to the nurse as they wheeled the gurney and IV rig out into the corridor.

  “Sir,” said the guard, walking toward them. “Just what are you doing, sir?”

  Tamara answered, “I’m this patient’s physician. We’re taking her downstairs for further scans.”

  From behind her station’s counter, the nurse said, “There’s no tests on the schedule.”

  “I’ll fill out the paperwork when we get there,” Tamara said.

  “But Doctor—”

  Luke got an inspiration. “Call Dr. Petrone, over at NCI. She’ll okay it.”

  The nurse looked uncertain, but she picked up her phone. Luke pushed the gurney past her, toward the elevator, thinking, By the time she gets to Yolanda we’ll be out of here.

  “I’ll help you,” said the security guard. He was middle-aged, overweight, and out of condition. Rent-a-cop, Luke thought. Some security.

  “That’s okay,” Luke replied. “We can manage.”

  The elevator doors slid open and he pushed the gurney inside, Tamara wheeling the IV stand beside him. Angela was looking around, smiling as if she were at an amusement park and going on one of the rides.

  As the elevator doors slid shut, Tamara muttered, “What now?”

  “They must have a loading bay in the back of the building. We’ll go there and I’ll get the van.”

  There was another security guard sitting at a tiny desk at the loading bay, younger, dark-skinned, in much better shape than the one upstairs. Otherwise the area seemed deserted.

  Getting slowly to his feet, the guard frowned perplexedly as they approached the garage-type overhead sliding door.

  “What’re you doin’?”

  “Taking our patient out of here,” Luke said. “How’s the weather outside?”

  “Damn cold. Whyn’t you goin’ out the front, like regular?”

  “No time to explain,” Luke said, heading for the glass-paned door next to the overhead.

  He heard Tamara talking to the confused guard as he stepped through the door and into the bright afternoon. It was cold, crisp, and clear. Luke sprinted around the corner of the hospital building to the parking lot where he’d left the van.

  He tooled the SUV back to the loading dock, swung its rear hatch open, then ran up the steps and inside again. Tamara was still talking earnestly with the security guard, who was shaking his head warily.

  “I don’t know. This is awf’ly irregular.” He pulled his two-way from his shirt pocket.

  Luke swung a savage backhand chop at the nape of his neck as hard as he could, and the guard collapsed to the floor.

  Tamara looked totally shocked. Angela’s eyes went round, too.

  “Come on,” said Luke, puffing slightly. “We’ve got to get out of here before all hell breaks loose.”

  They wheeled Angela down the ramp and lifted her into the makeshift bedding in the rear of the SUV.

  “Wow, Grandpa, you really whacked that guy,” she said.

  Luke made a tight grin for her. “Army training. I wasn’t always an old grandpa.”

  Two more security guards popped out of the door, waving and yelling, as Luke gunned the van’s engine and roared out toward the road.

  On the Road

  “SO WHERE ARE we going?” Tamara asked.

  Luke glanced at her. She looked tense, almost angry. Can’t blame her, he thought. I’m dragging her into a frigging FBI manhunt.

  Then he realized. “I don’t know.”

  They were headed for the Beltway. But after that, where?

  “I was planning to get to San Antonio,” Luke said, “but if the FBI’s looking for us, they’ll proba
bly check out all the people I know.”

  Without an instant’s hesitation, Tamara said, “Get the child back to her parents, Luke. You can’t go running around the country like a maniac. Think of your granddaughter’s well-being!”

  “Take her back and let her die? Hell no.”

  “Then what?”

  “Let me think.”

  Tamara puffed out a disgusted sigh, then unbuckled her seat belt and clambered back toward Angela.

  Luke was thinking furiously as he drove through the heavy Beltway traffic. Don’t go over the speed limit, he told himself. Don’t give them an excuse for stopping you. That’s all they’ll need.

  He wondered if the two rent-a-cops at the clinic got his license plate number. Probably not. I was starting to turn the corner when they came out of the building. Maybe they could make out what state the plate’s from, but I doubt it.

  Then he realized, Security cameras! Could they read the license plate?

  Got to find help! But who? If the FBI got to Yolanda, they’ll be contacting everybody else I know. I need to get Angie into a safe facility. But where? How?

  By the time Tamara scrambled back into the seat beside him, Luke had hit on the one person he could think of that could help him: Quenton Fisk.

  Without being asked, Tamara reported, “Angie’s okay. Sleeping again.”

  “Is she warm enough back there?”

  Nodding, she said, “I tucked the blankets around her. She’ll be all right.” Then she added, “For now.”

  “I need to call Quenton Fisk,” Luke said.

  “Who’s he?”

  “Big-shot industrialist. Financier. He’s funding my work on telomerase.”

  “You think he can help you?”

  Luke nodded. “He’s got money, connections. Owns factories, research labs. And I don’t think the FBI would connect him with me. Not right away, at least.”

  “But will he help you?”

  With a shrug, Luke replied, “We’ll find out.”

  He knew that he couldn’t use his own cell phone: The FBI would track any calls he made. Probably Tamara’s, too, Luke reasoned. At a rest stop along the highway he pulled in to the minimart and bought another throwaway cell phone and a hundred minutes of calling time. He didn’t have enough cash in his trouser pocket and had to sprint back to the SUV, unzip his suitcase, and pull a handful of bills from the wad he had stuffed inside the suitcase’s lid.