It was like self-amputation in razor slices.

When he was done the fire roared.

Laura took his hand as they watched for a moment. When he was satisfied, he said, "Let's go."

As the others started out, he yanked the golden ampule from his neck and tossed it into the fire.

He then he fell behind Laura, passing Brett who hadn't seemed to notice and who waited to close up the rear as they all moved out of the cave.

Brett did not shoot them. He was more interested in returning to the cottage.

They had parked the Subaru in the woods out of sight from the road. But the men had found it. The seats were slashed, the ceiling vinyl torn out, glove compartment cover pried off, the floor trap opened. They had even gone through the engine compartment looking for containers of the serum.

Luckily, the engine still worked. Brett rode in the rear with the machine pistol trained on the three men. Laura drove, and Roger nursed a bleeding mouth beside her.

As they headed back to the cottage, Roger tried to get Brett to come out of his daze, but to no avail. It crossed his mind that he might have to overpower his own son when the car stopped. It also crossed his mind that the men might try something desperate to escape.

"Brett, that's not a regular gun. Squeeze the trigger and thirty rounds will come out."

Brett didn't respond, but Roger was certain he got the idea. From the way the men sat frozen, they got it too.

They drove the rest of the way without another word. Yet Roger couldn't help but feel irrational pride in his son.

At the head of the logging road was a clutch of police and news vehicles. Uniformed officers waved them to stop.

As Laura braked, Brett shouted, "No! Don't stop!"

Laura leaned on the horn and motioned frantically that they were coming through. The police recognized them, but before they could force Laura to pull over, two agents of the FBI glanced inside.

"It's them," one of them shouted.

Roger recognized Number 44 from the Town Day race.

"Pull over." Guns drawn, the two agents tried to open the locked doors. They wanted them to surrender right here and get into the waiting black Hummer.

But that was not the agreement. Nor was Brett going to let them. "Keep going!" he shouted to Laura.

Laura lowered the rear window so the agents could see Brett with a TEC-9 machine pistol trained on the three men.

"They tried to kill us. We're not stopping."

Number 44 wore an FBI photo ID: William Pike. The man with him was Eric Brown. Roger recognized the name. Brown sized up the situation, then shouted for the police to let them through.

Instantly three motorcycles pulled out to escort them to the cabin, several vehicles pulling behind.

At the bottom of the road was an even larger swarm of people and vehicles-unmarked cars, news vans, police cruisers, people with cameras, even some locals with kids. Maybe a hundred or more people.

On the lake floated two pontoon TV helicopters and a seaplane. It was insane, Roger thought. How the hell did they assemble so fast? And up here in the middle of nowhere! The nearest major town was Lake Placid.

Somehow the word had leaked, no doubt from the broadcast people to keep the story breaking from minute-to-minute.

Roger would bet his life they were here not to clap eyes on the FBI's most wanted man but the guy who wouldn't die.

What bothered him was all the people moving in and out of their cabin. Men in uniform and in plainclothes. They had probably torn the place apart for Elixir. He scanned the front yard and whispered a thanks the old fridge had broken down.

As Laura pulled near the broken lawn fountain, one reporter kept up a monologue into his microphone as he trotted alongside:

"The lakefront house was deserted, and wild speculation was that the Glovers had either taken off or were abducted. But as we speak, they are returning in a black Subaru Outback…"

The police waved them into the drive, and the crowd made a path. In the distance Roger spotted a frontend loader waiting in the event that he announced the Elixir supply was buried.

People were shouting and pressing around the car with cameras while the police tried to keep them back. But it was impossible. They had not expected the media blitz.

Laura parked as police and FBI jackets made a wall around them. Agent Brown carried his gun low but he wanted Brett to surrender the weapons.

Roger pushed his way to Brown. "Get these people away."

He didn't know what kind of trauma Brett was suffering, but he was not responding to him or Laura. And the charge of the crowd might make him start firing. "Don't touch him, and he won't hurt anybody," Roger shouted. He was smeared with blood. "These are the bad guys." And he pulled Ducharme and the others out of the car.

Brown barked some orders for the police to clear a path.

Reporters shouted questions and cameras were jamming for shots. Brett looked at the breaking point. His eyes were still wild, yet he stuffed himself behind the men and pushed them to the steps of the cottage.

Somebody made the mistake of pushing into Brett. He flashed the pistol at him in reflex, and the guy jumped backward. Nobody else interceded.

The crowd parted like a school of fish for the three bound men and the boy in the weird trance with both hands gripping the large black gun.

Without a word, Brett marched the men single file to a step shy of the porch where he commanded them to turn and face the crowd.

He then climbed onto the porch behind them and held the gun to the back of Ducharme's head.

"Brett, no! Don't do it. Please!"

But he did not hear Roger. Nor his mother's cries.

Nor did he see the marksmen on the old woodpile, their high-powered rifles trained on him.

"Tell them," Brett said to Ducharme.

The crowd hushed and pressed in, a wall of humming cameras and directional microphones all gawking at the boy and his hostages.

"Tell them!"

"Tell what?" Ducharme asked.

"Tell them how you killed Betsy Watkins and blew up the plane."

Ducharme made a bemused smile. "If I don't, are you going to kill me in front of the whole world?"

Brett pushed the barrel of the gun to the base of his skull. "You bet your friggin' life I am."

Ducharme looked over his shoulder. When he saw Brett's face his smile fell.

"One…" counted Brett.

The crowd gasped and police marksmen raised their guns, not certain where to aim, or what to do. They couldn't shoot a boy on global broadcast.

"Two…"

"Brett, don't," Laura pleaded. "Not this way."

"Three!" And he rammed Antoine's head with the gun again.

"Okay," he said and swore in French. "What do you want me to say, you crazy kid?"

"The truth. Tell them the truth."

"Christopher Bacon did not kill Betsy Watkins…"

"Keep going," Brett warned. "The plane…

"He did not plant a bomb on flight 219. It was associates of Quentin Cross."

"And you."

There was a long pause.

"And you!"

"And me."

"Louder."

"And me."

"Louder."

"And me!"

The crowd exploded, reporters jabbering all at once. Brett looked over to his father and for a second he flashed his father a smile.

"Friggin' cool," Roger said.

Ducharme ignored the questions and looked over to Roger. "So you have a boy do your bidding for you."

"Like his dad, he's older than he looks."