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ass.
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    Five
    Pepperoni and Cheese
    After a few days of zig-zag driving, I found a trucker's motel in a part of Ohio called "Buckeye Lake." The names kept getting better and better. Whose job was it to name towns in Ohio, anyway? I mean, who looked at a dirty puddle and thought, "lake," then attached that grandiose description to a name that belonged to a one-eyed pirate? This is but one of the many mysteries that had gone unsolved during my lifetime.
    Actually, the place wasn't so bad. The bed was pliable, the bathroom was scum-free, and the towels weren't too stiff. The room even had a TV--the fancy push-button kind, with giant rabbit ears. Not that I planned to watch anything except the local news. I dropped my shopping bag on top of a battered bureau which doubled as a desk, and unpacked. A six-pack of Fresca, a package of store-brand crackers, a pound of Cracker Barrel sharp cheese, a slab of imported pepperoni, and a copy of a local newspaper. I walked over to the sink and found a cheap plastic tray with a plastic ice bucket and two plastic glasses wrapped in clear plastic. The guy in The Graduate was right about plastic, I guess.
    I took the tray and brought it back to the desk, then used my Swiss Army knife to chop the pepperoni and cheese. I opened one of my Frescas, and took a sip to prime the system. Then I tore into the pepperoni and cheese. It was the best meal I'd had since the FBI coffee the day before--and I was going to need my energy if I was going to do a full face reconstruction. I only wished I had a Budweiser instead of a Fresca.
    I pushed the bureau closer to the bed, so I could have a proper seat. Checked the local paper, but couldn't find a mention of the Woody Creek incident. Stuff on the Ford assassination attempt was all over the place--something about a Manson family freako chick named "Squeaky." (Seems like Sheriff Alford was on to something about those Manson folks, after all.) I didn't think I'd see something about Brad Larsen, or about the Woody Creek incident. Nevins had made it clear this venture was quashed, effective immediately.
    But during the last 10 hours of solid driving, my mind started playing tricks on me, and I'd hallucinated headlines like ROGUE FBI AGENT ON THE RUN. In reality, there was nothing. Whatever manhunt I'd caused, it was being conducted in secret. Which made sense, from a public relations point of view.
    The best part: soon, I was going to be safe. The Feds were looking for Special Agent Kevin Kennedy--gaunt-looking male in his late 30s, with a sharp jaw and receding hairline. Height: 5'11". Weight: 175 pounds, soaking wet. Light blonde hair, green eyes. While the height and weight still applied, no other similarities remained.
    Soon, I would have ice blue eyes, rich, reddish-brown hair, and a baby face that didn't need to shave often. I was going to lose at least 10 years in the transaction, too. The only way it would backfire would be if some enterprising Feds put Brad Larsen's face out on the wire, but why would they? For all they knew, Brad Larsen was sitting in the middle of Woody Creek with his baby face blown to smithereens.
    Right Brad? I thought.
    Brad wasn't answering. During the drive, I would pull over from time to time, close my eyes, port myself into the Brain Hotel, and peek into the interrogation room where Brad lay sleeping. Not a peep. He looked like a college kid sleeping off a hangover. I wanted to check on him again, but wasn't looking forward to more disappointment. Besides, he'd come around soon enough. All souls did.
    * * * *
    I stuffed a few slices of meat and cheese into my mouth. I wasn't hungry, but I had to keep my strength up, just in case I had to skip out and drive another ten hours. I was trying to pry a thick hunk of cheese from the roof of my mouth when I saw the sirens flash through the slats of my window blinds. My body snapped to attention and I dove across the bed, reached into my jacket for my pistol, then rolled on the carpet