"Cut the fucking noise."

"The sumbitch woke me up."

"Somebody shut him the fuck 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.

More yelling.

Then hands were on him. Turning him. Wiping his forehead.

"It's only superficial. Put a Band-Aid on it."

"Chris? That you?"

"What he say?"

"He wants to know if you're Christ."

"Yeah, J. Christ himself at your service."

"We get a screamer once a month, which is why we got this."

Somebody pulled his arm and pushed up his sleeve.

"His buddy came in yesterday and tried to shoot him up. Bopped Clint in the throat, and this one held him down while needle man got away. Want a little fix?" he asked Wally. "Well, here you go."

Wally could barely feel the prick of the needle.

Thank you, Chris… Roger.

He heard his mouth mumble something.

"What he say?"

"Thislicksa?"

"He wants to know if you lick it."

"Yeah, lick this, pal."

Jab.

"A lick sir?"

"Yeah, a lick, sir, and a promise, buddy boy. Now go to sleep."

"Frensfalife."

"Yeah, friends for life. You'll feel better in the morning."

Monday morning came six hours later.

Outside a cold sun rose over the horizon and sent shafts of light through the window of the guard's office.

The Monday day deputy was Lenny Novak. On the docket filled out by Clint Marino, a weekend night guard, was the name of the men being held. In cell number four was one Walter P. Olafsson, age fifty-seven, brought in two nights ago for assaulting a federal officer. He was to be taken to the courthouse in the center of town by 9:30 where he would be arraigned.

Every morning Lenny would slip in a breakfast tray. He was a new guy who made an effort to say good morning to the inmates. At cell three, he said, "How you doing this morning, Tom?"

Tom shuffled to the tray slot. "Be doing a lot better if that asshole didn't keep me awake half the night." He nodded to the cell on the other side of his wall.

"Happens sometimes. The walls close in, and they flip out."

Lenny pushed the cart down to the next cell. "Hey, Mr. Olafsson, breakfast." And Lenny pushed the tray into the transfer slot.

No response.

"Time to get up. I'm taking you to courthouse at nine."

Nothing.

Lenny called again. Still no response. Not even a stir. It must have been the sedative they'd given him.

He checked his watch. It was 7:38. He had to be fed and ready to go in little over an hour.

"Hey, pal. Rise and shine."

Nothing.

Because Olafsson was sleeping on his side against the wall, Lenny could not see his face.

He took out his keys and unlocked the door, automatically dropping his hand onto the handle of his baton. It was an unnecessary precaution in this case, because the guy was probably still dopey from the shot. Lenny put his hand on the man's shoulder and shook it. "Come on, guy, time to get up."

Still the man did not stir.

What hit Lenny first was the odor. A sweet sick smell of dead meat. An instant later it registered that Lenny had felt no heat from the man's body.

In one smooth movement he tore off the blanket and pulled the man onto his back.

The man was dead, all right. Lenny's first thought was that he had the wrong prisoner. The docket said the man was supposed to be Caucasian. But this guy was black.

He flicked on his pocket flash. "Jesus Christ!" Gooseflesh spasmed across his scalp.

The man's head did not look human. It was twice the size of normal and covered with dark red lesions. The eyes were swollen balls. His nose looked like a huge deformed black potato covered with lichens. One exposed ear had doubled in size-a fat ragged leaf with dark liquid running out of the canal.

What nearly stopped Lenny's heart was the realization that those scaly lesions were moving. No trick of the light-the skin on the man's face-if you could call it skin-was actually rippling as wet new growths continued to bud off from the man's flesh like some alien organism.

The next moment, Lenny was bounding down the hall for the phone, concentrating all his might to hold down the scream pressing up his throat.

29

Laura tried to conceal her panic so Brett wouldn't think Roger's condition was critical. Yet she did a feeble job of it.

When he turned on the radio, she snapped it off, fearful there would be a police report on their escape. Brett protested, saying he would keep it low, but she refused. When he asked what the problem was, she exploded. "'No' means NO! I don't want to listen to the damn radio, okay?"

A moment later she apologized. He had never seen her so anxious.

"Mom, tell me the truth. Is Dad going to die?"

She looked at him. His gorgeous tawny eyes were so wide with fright that she nearly burst into tears. So damn unfair. "No, honey, he's going to be fine. It's probably just muscle spasms. They're doing tests."

It was the best she could do. To elaborate would thicken the lie and make her feel worse. Her objective was simply to minimize his fear.

He didn't respond, and she wasn't convinced he believed her.

Someplace near Hudson on Route 94, she pulled into a gas station to fill up. Before the attendant stepped out, she stuffed a twenty into Brett's hand and dashed into the restroom.

Inside she dialed Roger. The sound of his voice filled her with relief.

He was just approaching Black River Falls. She told him how she had picked Brett up and the excuse she used to get him out of the game. He listened, then trying to sound calm, he told her that it was the feds and he had gotten away in his safe car.

When they clicked off, she threw up into the toilet. The Awful-Awful had begun.

"Whose house is this?"

"A friend of Dad's."

"What friend?"

"Nobody you know. One of our growers. He uses it for business associates when they're in town."

Brett seemed to buy the answer. Laura thought grimly how good she was getting at deceiving her son. She could now do it by reflex.

But there was no way she could tell him that it was their place or he'd want to know why they never mentioned it or brought him before. She also couldn't pass it off as a rental or he'd wonder why Roger didn't save money and get a hotel room. They had always treated Brett with respect, so he trusted that they held few secrets and never dissembled. He accepted her explanation without question.

When eventually he learned that the last thirteen years had been a grand lie, she wondered if he'd ever trust them again.

She also wondered how long she could maintain the illusion before cracking up.

The condo was located on the west end of Minneapolis-a five-room place in a large, anonymous complex occupied by young business couples. They had selected it because its residency included few retirees who might be around all day to keep tabs on them.