I wipe perspiration from my forehead and consider leaving. Then I get out and slam the door.

She’s at the table, and as I almost stutter-step over, she smiles. She approves. I kiss her gently on the cheek and sit down, and for a long time we just look at each other. Finally, I say, “Well, what do you think?”

Vanessa shakes her head and says, “Pretty astonishing. I would have never known. Got any ID?” We both laugh and I say, “Sure, but it’s all bogus. It says I’m Max now, not Malcolm.”

“You look thin, Max.”

“Thanks, and you too.” I caught a glimpse of her legs under the table. Short skirt. Funky high heels. She’s dressed for action.

“Which do you prefer?” I ask.

“Well, I suppose I don’t have a choice now, do I? I think you’re cute, Max. I like the new you, the whole ensemble. Whose idea was the designer eyeglasses?”

“My consultant, same guy who suggested the slick head and four days of stubble.”

“The more I see, the more I like.”

“Thank God. I’m a nervous wreck.”

“Relax, baby. We’re in for a long night.”

The waiter takes our drink orders—a martini for me, diet soda for her. There are a lot of things I don’t want to discuss, namely my sudden exit from prison and witness protection. The brother she visited in prison got out but is already back behind bars, so we leave him out of the conversation. I ask about her kids, a daughter who’s twenty and in college and a son who’s eighteen and drifting.

At one point, as I’m talking, she stops me and says, “You even sound different.”

“Good. It’s a new speech pattern I’ve been practicing for months now. A much slower delivery and a deeper voice. Does it seem genuine?”

“I think so. Yes, it’s working.”

She asks where I’m living, and I explain I’ve yet to find a home. I’m moving around, trying to avoid getting trailed by the FBI and others, lots of cheap motels. I’m not a fugitive, but I’m not exactly in the clear. Our dinner arrives, but we hardly notice.

She says, “You look a lot younger. Maybe I should see your plastic surgeon.”

“Please, don’t change a thing.” I talk about the changes—primarily the eyes, nose, and chin. I amuse her by describing the meetings with my surgical team and our efforts to design a new face. I’m also twenty pounds lighter and she thinks I need to put on a few pounds. As our nerves settle we relax and talk like a couple of old friends. The waiter asks if our food is okay, since we’ve hardly touched it. We hit a number of topics, but in the back of our minds we’re both thinking the same thing. I finally say, “Let’s get outta here.”

The words are barely spoken and she’s reaching for her purse. I pay cash for the meal and we’re in the parking lot. I don’t like the idea of her apartment and she agrees. It’s rather small and bare, she explains. We check into a hotel I spotted down the street and order a bottle of champagne. Two kids on their wedding night could not possibly exert more energy than Vanessa and I. There was so much ground to cover, so much catching up to do.

CHAPTER 29

While Vanessa is at work, I run a few errands around Richmond. At one store, I spend $70 on a cheap prepaid cell phone with one hundred minutes of call time, and at another I buy the identical phone and plan for $68. I’ll give one phone to Vanessa and keep the other. At a pharmacy, I load up on prepaid credit cards. I have an appointment with a man who owns a camera shop and calls himself a videographer, but his fee is too high. If I’m lucky and get an interview, I’ll need two people—a cameraman and a gofer. This guy says he works with a full crew or doesn’t work at all.

Vanessa and I have a sandwich for lunch in a deli not far from her office. For dinner, we go to a bistro in the Carytown section of Richmond. Our after-dinner routine is remarkably, and wonderfully, similar to the night before, and in the same hotel room. This could be habit forming. Our plans for the third night, though, are derailed when her son calls. He’s passing through town and needs a place to stay. She figures he’ll need some money too.

We’re finishing dinner when the cell phone in my pocket vibrates. The caller ID says “Unknown,” but then all calls to this phone are unknown. Expecting big news, I say to Vanessa, “Excuse me,” and step away from the table. In the foyer of the restaurant, I answer the phone.

A vaguely familiar voice says, “Mr. Reed Baldwin, this is Nathan Cooley. I got your letter.”

I tell myself to speak slowly and deeply. “Yes, Mr. Cooley, thanks for the call.” Of course he got my letter—how else would he have my phone number?

“When do you want to talk?” he asks.

“Anytime. I’m in Washington right now and we finished filming today. I have some downtime, so right now is perfect. What about you?”

“I’m not going anywhere. How did you find me?”

“The Internet. It’s hard to hide these days.”

“I guess so. I usually sleep late, then work at the bar from about two until midnight.”

“How about lunch tomorrow?” I say, a bit too eagerly. “Just the two of us, no cameras or recorders or stuff like that. I’m buying.”

A pause, and I hold my breath. “Okay, I guess. Where?”

“It’s your neck of the woods, Mr. Cooley. You pick the time and place. I’ll be there.”

“Okay, at the Radford exit off Interstate 81 there is a place called Spanky’s. I’ll meet you there at noon tomorrow.”

“I’ll be there.”

“How will I recognize you?” he asks, and I almost drop my phone. Recognition is a far greater issue than he’ll ever realize. I have subjected myself to surgery that radically altered my face. I shave my head every other day and my beard once a week. I have starved off twenty pounds. I wear fake tortoiseshell glasses with round red frames, along with black T-shirts, fake Armani sport coats, and canvas sandals one would find only in Miami or L.A. I have a different name. I have a different voice and delivery.

And this entire charade has been carefully put together not to mislead the people who want to follow me or kill me but to conceal my real identity from you, Mr. Nathan Cooley.

I say, “I’m six feet tall, black, thin, a slick head, and I’ll be wearing a white straw hat, Panama style.”

“You’re black?” he blurts.

“Yep. Is that a problem?”

“No. See you tomorrow.”

I return to the table where Vanessa is waiting anxiously. I say softly, “It’s Cooley. We’re meeting tomorrow.”

She smiles and says, “Go for it.” We finish dinner and reluctantly say good-bye. We kiss outside the restaurant and act like a couple of teenagers. I think about her all the way to Roanoke.

I arrive fifteen minutes early and park so that I can watch the vehicles as they turn in to the Spanky’s lot. The first thing I’ll see is his car, or truck, and this will reveal a lot. Six months ago he was in prison, where he had served a little over five years. He has no father, an alcoholic mother, and no education past the tenth grade, so his choice of vehicle will be interesting. As we talk, my plans are to make a mental note of everything I can possibly see—clothing, jewelry, watch, cell phone.

The traffic picks up as the lunch crowd rolls in. At 12:03, a sparkling-new silver Chevrolet Silverado half-ton pickup arrives, and I suspect it’s Nathan Cooley. It is, and he parks on the other side of the lot. He glances around nervously as he walks to the front entrance.

It’s been four years since I’ve seen him, and he appears to have changed little. Same weight, same blond shaggy hair, though he once shaved his head in prison. He looks twice at the Florida tags on my car, then goes inside. I take a deep breath, put the Panama hat on my head, and walk to the door. Be cool, you idiot, I mumble to myself as my bowels flip. This will take a steady hand and nerves of steel.