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along its expanse.
    He pulled up beside a black stanchion and stopped. He rolled down the window so that the camera could get an unobstructed view in order to run its facial-geometry and thermal-sensing scans. In years past, the gate security system had consisted of palm print and retinal scanners, but even those had been somewhat vulnerable to subterfuge, whereas the new system, based on the recognition of the thermal heat pattern of a person’s face, was virtually impossible to circumvent. Additional cameras on the passenger side and thermal scanners embedded in the asphalt beneath the vehicles assured that no other occupants or stowaways were entering without being cleared first.
    There was a soft beep , and a pleasant female voice said, “Welcome, Mr. Brockemeyer. You are authorized to proceed.”
    The steel gate rolled back. He drove down the asphalt roadway that wound through the trees for a half mile before it opened onto a wide, grassy plain of gently rolling hills. A stark, silver-mirrored building that was four stories tall and almost a quarter-mile long stretched across the clearing, its exterior bathed by a multitude of floodlights ringing the perimeter.
    He passed the turnoff to the large circular drive in front and followed the road around back, where a second, identical building, offset by some thirty yards, paralleled the first. Driving alongside the second building, he turned down the ramp into the parking garage. At the bottom, he repeated the security check and then waited for the gate to rise.
    He drove across the empty parking garage to a concrete wall at the end. Looking toward the roof of the van, he waited while the thermal scanners verified his signature. A deep boom echoed within the garage as the steel bolts retracted. A section of the wall slowly rolled aside, revealing a hidden bay of the garage. There were two moving vans similar to the one Nathan was driving and a red Corvette parked inside. He parked the van, leaving the tool belt draped across the chair in the back, the keys in the ignition. He walked to a panel in the concrete wall before him. After he opened the panel, he removed a foam-filled canister from its cradle and inserted the silver vial. He replaced the canister and pressed a small red button. There was a whistling, humming sound, and the canister vanished as it was sucked into the vacuum-tube system. After he closed the door on the canister panel, he turned and got in the Corvette.
    With a squeal of rubber, he raced from the garage.
    Nathan took Highway 29 south toward Washington. The growl of the engine and the tires humming across the pavement provided a hypnotic effect, threatening to lead his mind down roads best left untraveled. Struggling against the memories that tugged at his mind, he rolled down the window and sucked in great gulps of the cold night air as beads of perspiration trickled down the back of his neck. He changed the radio station, turning up the volume until his ears rang, but the image of the boy continued to haunt him.
    A lone vehicle approached on the opposite side of the highway, its headlights momentarily blinding him like the burst of a camera flash.
     
    He is eight years old. He huddles in the corner of his closet on a hot summer night, clutching a half-sized, autographed baseball bat and rocking back and forth as the voice of the Oriole’s play-by-play announcer echoes within the darkness. The volume is turned all the way up in an effort to drown out the shouting and screaming emanating from the living room.
    He imagines stepping up to home plate, a sea of fans wildly cheering him. The green grass of the outfield is bathed in the glow of the silver-haloed floodlights. There’s the smell of pine tar and chalk as he scoops up a handful of dirt from the batter’s box. He rubs his gloves together as he stares down the pitcher. He is not afraid. He is in control. He’ll show them who is boss. And they will scream in adoration as he rounds the