One man even speculated that the original project was intended to grant prolonged life only to "the chosen." It reminded him of Dr. Strangelove where only top government officials, military brass, and scientists were allowed into bomb-proof shelters. "The public be damned."

Somebody else complained about how the government always kept secret "the really good stuff" like Roswell, New Mexico, and Area 51.

Markarian shook his head. "This makes one yearn for Oliver Stone."

"When asked again today about a government coverup, the president flatly denied the claims, saying that the media is to blame for the wild rumors. 'Democracy survives on honesty, not deceit,' the president said."

The scene switched to a reporter in Lexington, Massachusetts, trying to get a statement from Quentin Cross, president of Darby, on way to his car.

Cross acknowledged that Christopher Bacon was a former employee wanted for murder but that there was no substance to the Elixir rumors. "It's all nonsense. We never had any fountain-of-youth drug." And he got into his car and drove off.

"Get somebody on this guy," Markarian said.

"We already did. He knows nothing."

Antoine Ducharme checked his watch.

He knew it was around six-thirty because the news was on and the sun was slanting on the sea. He also had a finely tuned internal clock that was always within a few minutes of the actual time.

He lay down the mystery he was reading. He had loved mysteries ever since he was a boy in Marseilles, where he exhausted the library's collection of Georges Simenon. It was how he now filled his time when he wasn't at one of his health clubs or at the computer.

He clicked up the volume on the television.

"A goddamn feeding frenzy," Vince Lucas said.

"And it's going to get worse."

They were sitting in the entertainment salon of his estate located on a bluff overlooking Caliogny Bay. Called Vita Nova, the stunning structure in stone and glass enjoyed hundreds of feet of ocean frontage. Out the window spread the Atlantic, behind them a lush garden grotto with flowers in outrageous bloom. Beside the gazebo he had constructed a waterfall that filled the backyard with a cascading rush. The place was his own private little Eden.

Antoine was wearing a green workout suit that he had designed himself for his HealthWays Clubs, a large chain spanning eleven states. He had selected green because it was the color of nature and money.

At sixty-one, he would not go gently into that long night. So, he maintained a vigorous workout schedule and abandoned old eating habits for a miracle Hawaiian diet consisting of taro, poi, and seafood. He had also bought himself an industrial-strength juicer with which he made all sorts of healthful concoctions. At the moment, he was sipping a seaweed-broccoli-mango cocktail.

Vince flicked off the television. "We'll be stumbling over every law agent in the country."

"What do we know about the wife's sister?"

"Divorced, daughter age sixteen. Her ex got out of Marion Federal last year. She moved out of her place in Kalamazoo."

The Glovers could not have managed to disappear without her help. "But you don't know where."

"We're working on it. We figured it's the Midwest still." He picked up a sheet of paper. "We've got nearly a hundred Jennifer Kaminskys in a four-state area we're running down."

"So are the feds, if they haven't already found her."

And when they did, they'd wring her dry. The difference was that the authorities were bound by democratic measures in arriving at the truth. Antoine wasn't.

He walked to the sliding glass door and pressed a button so that it hummed open.

Fresh cold sea air rushed into the room before he closed the door again.

He loved the sea. He had lived by it all his life in France, and then in the Caribbean. It was in his blood, which was why he could never settle in Chicago or Las Vegas or any inland locale. He needed that view, its constant rhythm, the fishy brine.

Since the news of Glover had broken, Antoine had played the videotape of the elderly Jamaicans rejuvenating. He almost wished he hadn't because it heightened his urgency to find the compound. And toward that end he had summoned every resource at his command including technicians who could worm their way into banks and corporate databases. But the wife's sister Jennifer had eluded them. He looked out across the shimmering blue, thinking how he possessed more than any mortal being could make use of in a lifetime. He owned estates on Hilton Head, Jamaica, and Corsica. He owned every mode of transportation. He owned an array of businesses plus a percentage of the cocaine coming into North America from Columbia. At last count his net worth was over 2.8 billion dollars. He had the fortunes and power of King Midas.

There was nothing in the material world that he did not have. Nothing he needed. Nothing he envied in another man, now or ever.

Except one.

It was 6:55, but he checked anyway. "I'd like to meet him face-to-face, this Roger Glover."

"How come?"

"I want to meet the man who stopped wearing watches."

The media confirmed his parents' story. But, understandably, Brett was still in shock.

For two days he did not talk to them. He felt betrayed, even a little scared. They were not the parents he had thought they were. Not the parents who had brought him up. They were Wendy and Christopher Bacon who were sought by the FBI for mass murder. They had lived a dozen years of make-believe.

At one point Brett asked Roger point-blank, "Did you blow up that plane?"

"No, we did not."

"Then who did?"

Laura had been through this with him the first night, yet Roger felt compelled to let Brett hear it from him. "I think a guy named Quentin Cross had something to do with it." He explained who he was and told him about Betsy's death and the drug connection.

"But why didn't you tell the police?"

"We never got the chance. We were afraid we'd be next, so we took off. Then they bombed the plane we were supposed to be on and blamed it on us. Now we had the police and bad guys after us, and no one to turn to. You were just a baby, and our only concern was keeping you safe."

Roger did his best to assure him of the truth of his words. But past truths did little to ensure a future.

What helped Brett come around were the TV news reports. Before his eyes perfect strangers made horrific pronouncements about his parents-pronouncements that had nothing to do with the mother and father who had raised him lovingly for fourteen years. When Quentin Cross denied reports of an eternal youth drug but claimed that Christopher Bacon had committed murder, Brett exploded. "That's a lot of crap, you friggin' idiot. You did it."

The outburst was music to Roger's ears.

Brett was also impressed to hear Wendy Bacon described as a "promising new mystery author" and Chris as a "brilliant scientist."

When one geneticist said that Bacon might have discovered "the silver bullet" of human mortality, Brett gave Roger a pat on the shoulder. "Way to go, Pop!"

The center still held, Roger thought, at least for the moment.

On the fifth day, following Roger's suggestion, Laura called Jenny who now lived in Prairie, Indiana. "Jenny, we need help."

"Help. What kind of help? I don't have any money, if that's what you mean."

"We need a place to stay for a few days."

Instantly Jenny was flustered. "A place to stay? You don't mean here? That's impossible. Why do you need a place to stay?"

Jenny hadn't heard the news, which would have been incredible but for the fact that she didn't own a television or radio, nor, apparently, did she read newspapers. "The police are after us."