But inside he was cool, very pleased that the laws kept him behind it, forced him to stop whenever it picked up a kid, forbade him to scoot around it when its red lights were flashing. Nothing easier than following a school bus.

He watched with satisfaction as it picked up the blueblazered package and carried it off to school. Right on schedule, just like every other school day.

As he passed the package’s father, he stole a look. Dr. John Vanduyne. Tall dude—six two. Snake guessed; fortyish with longish brown hair graying at the temples. Looked a little like that Charlie Rose guy on the tube except for the intense blue eyes. Casual, conservative dresser, leaning toward slacks and button-downs and sweaters. Like me, Snake thought. Moved well, walking with a long, easy stride. Maybe a basketball player in high school; a shooting guard, he bet. Trim, good shoulders, probably watched what he ate. Snake knew he worked out regularly, knew he had a fairly set routine for every day of the week.

The doc looked fit on the outside, but Snake had him figured for a mushy core. Still living with his mother. A mama’s boy. A wimp. Good. He’d fold up like wet cardboard and do exactly as he was told.

Which was how it should be. Snake wouldn’t put up with any heroics or ad-libbing from this guy. Because this was already one weird piece of business, what with the cash payoff coming from a third party instead of the package’s family. The family—the doc—would have to buy back his little package another way.

Get ready, doc, he thought as he left Vanduyne behind and continued in the wake of the school bus. Your routine’s in for a big change. Real soon.

3

Back in the house, John found his mother standing before the kitchen TV, watching a replay of key moments from last night’s Presidential address.