Fleeing the Past . Christopher LaGrone

to Germany, Austria, Switzerland, France, the Netherlands and Czechoslovakia. I mean the Czech Republic,” Layne rattled off.

      “Why, what were you doing?” Edward asked with his mouth slightly open.

      “I was backpacking after I graduated from college,” Layne said.

      “Backpacking?”

      “My parents bought me a Eurail pass and a plane ticket to Munich for a graduation present,” Layne explained.

      “When was that? How long were you there?” Edward asked.

      “Five years ago. I was there a month.”

      “By yourself?”

      “Yeah—well, no. I hung out with an Australian guy from Perth for a week or so in different cities, Paris,” Layne said as he transferred his weight to his right buttock.

      “Why would you want to do that?” Edward asked, perplexed.

      Layne considered the best way to explain that some people found museums like the Louvre interesting, and that it was peculiarly satisfying to witness foreigners within their native cultures going about their daily lives. But he elected to simplify his answer. “I wanted to be fulfilled. It’s hard to explain; you just kind of fall in with people you meet.” He hoped Edward wouldn’t ask about Amsterdam; he had thought about saying Belgium instead, but there was a Dutch stamp on his passport.

      Edward leaned slowly back in his chair and sighed. He continued to sift through papers while Layne regretted his nervous mouth. Matt told him they were primarily concerned with a candidate’s susceptibility to bribery as well as ties to foreign countries. Layne’s time spent abroad had just tripled the amount of research involving the case Edward had been handed. He prayed Edward wouldn’t ask him about his work history. When employers saw that he called in sick every other Monday, they knew he wasn’t really ill. But Matt had reassured him.

      “Besides past employers, there’s gonna be people they find that will talk trash about you. They expect that; everyone has enemies. As long as you don’t have a police record, you’re good. Don’t worry about drinking. The Border Patrol lives by the three W’s—Whiskey, Women and Wets.”

      Edward pulled him out of his trance. “Well, I think that’s about all I need for now. When do you take the Oral Board Exam?”

      Layne stood up after he was sure that Edward was getting up. “I take it in two weeks.”

      As he walked Edward to the door, he put his hands in his pockets and noticed that he was still trembling. His rear had fallen asleep and tingled with numbness.

      “What happens if I don’t pass the Oral Board?” Layne asked.

      “They will terminate the background investigation,” Edward said, as if he expected Layne to know the answer.

      Layne tried to chat some more in an attempt to revive the feeling of camaraderie they had begun with. When he sensed that Edward had heard enough, he removed his hands from his pockets and reached out to shake his hand again. Edward fumbled with his briefcase while he closed the door behind himself. Layne took a deep breath. He got a cup of water from Fabiola’s water dispenser and returned to the blinds to watch Edward take the path back to the parking lot.

      He began to chew the nail on his pointer finger. Getting past this guy was still going to be the longshot he had foreseen. Edward would disregard the people he had listed as references; he would know they were friends and would only speak favorably about him. Matt had warned him of that. Edward would seek out people from his past that he was not in contact with for good reason. He hoped that would not include his former college coaches or anyone in the St. Louis organization.

      He allowed the metal blind at eye level to spring back into place as he examined the nail on his finger. It was gnawed to the quick. He involuntarily put the nail of his middle finger between his teeth as he returned to Fabiola’s chair to sit and think.

      LAYNE FOUND A PARKING SPACE CLOSE TO the entrance of the Rocky Mountain Hotel and took a deep breath as he turned off the engine. He checked his tie in the rearview mirror. This was the first time he had ever worn a suit. He hadn’t even known where to look to buy one, and had to ask Fabiola for help. She took care of the rest; he had done no more than serve as a mannequin for her.

      His hands were already shaking, but he had planned ahead. He reached into his right pants pocket and removed his secret weapon, a blank prescription bottle containing two ten-milligram tablets of Valium. He washed one down with the remainder of his lukewarm coffee, then opened the car door and stepped into the cold morning sun of November in downtown Denver.

      He knew instantly that he was in the right place when he entered the lobby. A group of eight young men wearing suits was huddled uncomfortably in cool, thick-cushioned chairs in the lounge. One young man was standing off to the side, wearing a dark blue Air Force dress uniform with a necktie and beret. The lobby was empty except for them. Only two or three were talking, but with hushed voices; the others were quietly observing. They acknowledged him and he sat down in a vacant chair; they resumed talking after he was seated. They were trying to make conversation with one another, but at a volume between a whisper and normal speech.

      “What kind of things do they ask you?” one of them said.

      “There’s no way to know, but I hear it’s brutal,” another responded.

      “Have any of you done your interview with your investigator yet?”

      They were talking about what most recently had been concerning Layne, and he couldn’t refrain from asking them, “Did you guys put down everything on your SF-86?”

      A lanky blond in his mid-twenties who was fueling the conversation, said, “I put down everything I know they will find out about. I was in the Army—you don’t even want to know about the stuff we did.”

      Layne let out a nervous laugh. He knew what he meant; he had heard bizarre stories of deployed soldiers smoking spice and guzzling Robitussin. But to know that others who had applied probably had checkered pasts, as well, didn’t quell his worry.

      All the other applicants had crew cuts. They looked like they didn’t belong in suits, like defendants in court. Layne wondered if he was the only applicant who wasn’t active military or a veteran, another concern in addition to the background check and most imminently, the Oral Board Interview.

      One of the quiet ones, a solid-looking Hispanic who appeared to be in his late 20s, spoke up. “You guys should be careful what you say. I hear the agents doing the exams bug the lobby.”

      Everyone became silent for a few heartbeats, then the conversation shifted awkwardly to a topic of no consequence, as eyes wandered.

      “How long did it take you to get here?” one of them asked another.

      “It was a nightmare, about eight hours on I-70. Me and the wife stayed in a motel last night.”

      “Where did you drive from?”

      “Kansas City.”

      Layne was surprised; he had assumed they were all from the Denver metro area. The realization that applicants had traveled from other states brought home all at once the critical nature of what lay only moments ahead.

      He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and noticed the dampness in the armpits of his Oxford cloth shirt. He looked at his wristwatch—it was five minutes past 8 a.m., bedlam was imminent.

      His eyes scanned the ceiling and potted plants for surveillance equipment. Then, before he realized a change, the focus of his thought shifted to the fruity sweetness of his gum. His scalp relaxed and seemed to expand. It had been roughly twenty minutes since he had taken the Valium. The drug began to overwhelm his nervous system like hot fudge over ice cream. He sank into the cushions of the seat, enjoying the temperature of the fabric while he welcomed a general sense of well-being heedless