Deep As The Marrow
by F. Paul Wilson
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
DEEP AS THE MARROW Copyright 1997 by F. Paul Wilson
A Tor Book Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc. 175 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10010
ISBN: 0-812-57198-3
To Meggan and Coates upon the start of their life together
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Robert Surgent for sharing his treasury of Stupid Car Tricks.
Also, thanks to Mary, Meggan, Coates, Parvez Dara, Harriet McDougal, Steven Spruill, Al Zuckerman, and the National Drug Policy Foundation.
Fear by day and night, fear as deep as the marrow.
—James Baldwin, The Fire Next Time
Contents
Wednesday
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8.
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
Thursday
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
Friday
1
2
3
4
Saturday
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
Sunday
1
2
3
4
5
6
Monday
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
Tuesday
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
Wednesday
1
“… and then you know what Jimmy did?” John Vanduyne struggled to concentrate on his six-year-old daughter’s story about the baddest boy in her kindergarten class. It wasn’t easy. His gaze kept shifting back to the angry face on the screen of the little TV on the kitchen side counter.
“No, Katie,” he said. “What did he do?” Katie slurped up a big spoonful of her Lucky Charms and chewed as quickly as she could.
Morning was the brightest part of the kitchen’s day, but even now, with the spring sun cascading through the windows, it was still fairly dim. A 1970s kitchen, with dark-oak cabinets and furniture, a Congoleum floor, and harvest-gold appliances and countertops. If he ever decided to buy the place, he’d want to brighten it up. But each year he put off the decision and renewed his lease.
He watched Katie swallow convulsively. She was really into this story. Excitement shone from her bright blue eyes.
My eyes, he thought. The round face, clear skin, and long, dark, glossy hair are her mother’s; and she’s going to be petite like Mamie. But those are Vanduyne eyes.
She said, “Well, he took his pencil and he…” John heard the words “racist” and “genocide” and couldn’t help glancing at the TV again.
A very angry black congressman, his jowls trembling with rage, was letting the President of the United States have it with both barrels.
John knew him—or at least knew of him: Floyd Jessup.
DNY flashed through his mind and he had to smile at the reflex… a natural response after you’ve been in Washington awhile.
No surprise about Jessup’s reaction. The President had made his official announcement last night, and here was the congressman, not twelve hours later, venting his considerable spleen on Good Morning America. His staff hadn’t wasted a second.
“… and to think that we supported this man, we helped put Thomas Winston into the White House! And what does he do? He drives a knife into the back of the already oppressed African-American community!” John ripped his attention back to Katie and found that he’d missed what bad boy Jimmy Clifton had done. He tried to cover.
“Oh, wow. Did he get in trouble?”
“Yep!” Katie said with a quick nod and a satisfied smile that revealed a gap on top. She’d lost her first tooth just last week. Her upper right-front incisor now belonged to the Tooth Fairy. “Had to go down the hall and see Sister Louise.”
“Is that bad?”
Katie stared at him as if he had two heads. “She’s the principal. Daddy.”
“Oh, right. Sister Louise. Of course.” Despite the fact that he’d been raised a Baptist, John had opted to enroll Katie in a Catholic school—Holy Family Elementary in Bethesda. It had a great reputation as one of the best primary schools inside the Beltway. Even had a waiting list.
John was delighted Katie was getting along so well in school. She’d suffered some separation anxiety at first— perfectly understandable, considering what she’d been through—but now she looked forward to catching the school bus and riding off with her friends every morning. Made it worth all the strings he’d had to pull to get her in.
Pulling strings… the name of the game around here. When he’d been a practicing internist in Atlanta he hadn’t known a thing about strings. But he’d learned fast: a couple of years as a Health and Human Services deputy secretary and he could pull with the best of them.
He glanced at his watch. “Oops. You’re going to miss the bus.”
She grinned. “And then I’ll be Latie Katie.”
“Yes, you will. Did you take your pill?”
She searched the tablecloth around her cereal bowl for it. “No, I—”
“I have it.” John looked up as his mother approached them from the far side of the kitchen, holding up an amber vial.
“Thanks, Nana,” Katie said, sticking out her hand.
Nana—she was still Helga to her peers, and she’d once been “Ma” to John, but she became “Nana” to the family once Katie began speaking. Not a day passed that John didn’t thank heaven that his mother had come to Washington to stay with them. He and Katie couldn’t have got along without her.
She shook a pink, red-speckled tablet into her granddaughter’s upheld pal
m.
John watched his mother and realized how much she’d aged within the past few years. Seventy-five and looking every minute of it. Two or three years ago her hair had been just as white, but she’d looked sixty-five. Living proof that stress makes you old.
But her slide seemed to have slowed and halted since she’d begun yoga classes last fall. He’d noticed a new spring in her step over the past few months.
Tall and trim—John’s father had been tall, as well— and just beginning to develop a dowager’s hump, she still took impeccable care of herself, keeping her thinning white hair softly permed; she was never without a touch of pink lipstick, even this early in the day. Her natural high coloring accentuated the blue of her eyes.
She didn’t have a full closet but she bought good quality clothing and then wore it to death. No housecoats, no polyester, and God forbid she ever appeared in an outfit that didn’t match. This morning she wore lightweight wool beige slacks and a blue-and-beige turtleneck.
Katie popped the pill into her mouth and washed it down with a gulp of orange juice. The tablets were chewable but she’d never liked the flavor, so she’d learned to swallow them whole. She was an old pro at it by now.
One of those tablets, twice a day, every day, for… how long? John wished he knew. He did know what would happen if she missed a dose or two.
His throat tightened and he had to reach out and touch her, smooth some fly away strands of her shiny, dark hair. So fine… baby fine. Nana combed out the knots every morning and braided it into a pair of pigtails. Katie tended to prefer a single, looser French braid like the bigger girls‘, but Nana didn’t think that was neat enough. Nana liked things neat.
Katie looked at him. “What’s the matter, Daddy?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“You look funny.”
He crossed his eyes. “Is this better?”
“No!” She laughed. “Now you look goofy!”
“And he will look even goofier,” Nana said, ever the voice of reason, “if you miss your bus and he has to drive you to school.”
John checked his watch and got to his feet. “Can’t do that. Got an appointment with Tom this morning.”
“About this mess he has created?” she said, nodding toward the television.
“No. His regular checkup.”
Her lips were tight as she shook her head. “Well, Tommy has really done it this time.”
He nodded. “That he has. Mom. That he has.”
John buttoned Katie’s navy-blue uniform blazer over her plaid jumper. Here was another thing he liked about Holy Family Elementary: the uniform. No daily contretemps over what to wear, what the other kids were wearing, and why-can’t-I-wear-that-too tantrums. All the girls wore one-piece blue-and-gray plaid jumpers over a white blouse with a neat little Peter Pan collar, blue knee socks, and saddle shoes; all the boys wore blazers of the same plaid with blue slacks. And that was that.
But no rules on hats, so Katie was allowed to wear her favorite: a red beret. After she adjusted it over her hair, they began the predeparture ritual: “Got your lunch box?” he said.
She held it up. “Check!”
“Morning snack?”
“Check!”
“Afternoon snack?”
“Check!”
“Got your pencil case?”
She held that up. “Check!”
“Got your emergency quarter?”
She felt in her blazer pocket. “Check!”
“Then I guess you’re ready to go. Say good-bye to Nana.” He watched his mother and his daughter exchange a quick hug and a kiss; then he took Katie’s little hand in his and led her out the door.
A crisp April morning—spring was here but winter wasn’t letting go. One of those days it felt good to be alive.
And for John, this was the best time of day, the time he felt closest to Katie. He wanted that closeness, needed it, and knew she needed it too—desperately. He’d worked hard to let her know she was loved and cherished and that no one was ever going to hurt her again.
When they reached the corner, they stopped and waited for the bus.
“Do you think Jimmy Clifton’s going to get in trouble again today?” he said.
She shrugged. “Maybe. I hope they don’t kick him out.”
“Ooh,” he teased, nudging her with his hip. “That sounds like somebody I know likes Jimmy Clifton.”
“I do not!” she said. “I just think he’s funny.”
Methinks the lady doth protest too much, he thought, but he didn’t push Katie any further. She seemed genuinely worried that the boy would be kicked out.
John doubted that that would happen to Jimmy, being Senator Clifton’s son—but you never knew. Those nuns weren’t easily impressed. And they had about fifty other kids on a list waiting to take his spot.
“If he’s really funny,” John told her, “maybe Sister Louise will keep him around just for laughs.”
“He’s not that funny,” Katie said.
As John laughed, the yellow Holy Family Elementary bus rounded the far corner and made its way down the street.
He squatted next to her, pulled her close, and gave her a big hug.
“Daddy loves Katie.”
She threw her free arm around his neck. “Katie loves Daddy.”
He held her tight against him, cherishing the moment. In a few years she’d become self-conscious and find such public displays of affection too embarrassing for words. But for now, she was delighted to be hugged by her daddy.
He released her as the bus pulled to a halt at the curb. He let her run to the open door by herself. A few seconds later she was waving and smiling from one of the windows.
When the yellow bus and the red beret were out of sight, he headed back to the house.
Not a bad house, he thought as he approached it. A twenty-year-old brick federal in a neighborhood of colonials and other federals on small, wooded lots. A neighborhood that screamed Washington, D.C. Nana— Ma—tolerated it. Said the layout was out of date, with no flow for company. But when did he ever have company?
If he bought it he’d have to do some heavy renovation. He bought it.
When he’d come to Washington he hadn’t known whether he was going to like it around here. Still wasn’t sure.
When his old boyhood friend Tom Winston became President of the United States, he’d asked John to come along. Said he wanted some Georgia boys around him in Washington, that John was already treating his high blood pressure and he wanted him to keep on doing so.
But John guessed the real reason was that Tom had known how he was hurting, how his life had fallen apart, and had offered him a breather.
John had come to Washington looking for more than a change of routine and a change of scenery—he’d been hoping for a whole new life. He didn’t know if he’d found that. But he had found a peace of sorts, and that was a start. A good start.
2
Michael MacLaglen was fully into Snake mode now.
Last night he’d been sitting in front of the tube—or rather the eight-by-twenty-foot wall screen of his projection TV—watching President Winston commit political sepukku, when the call came. He’d been expecting it.
One word: “Go.” The word had begun the transformation. He’d called Paulie and told him the snatch was on and going down tomorrow. He’d gone online, spent some time lurking the hacker boards, then went to bed.
When he’d hit the pillow he was still mostly Michael MacLaglen. But upon opening his eyes this morning, he was all Snake. The adrenaline had begun to flow—just a mild buzz now, but he knew it would build throughout the day to a rush that would last the duration of the snatch.
And this one could go a couple of weeks—easy. He licked his lips. He hoped so.
Snake had been following the yellow bus for about a mile in his new Jeep Grand Cherokee. He tapped on the steering wheel and acted impatient, looking like any one of the other dozen or so agitated commuters trapped behind the school
bus.
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.
“… can break the backs of these criminal empires. We can pull the economic rug out from under them by denying them the tens of billions of dollars—not tens of millions, tens of billions of dollars—they rake in annually from their illegal activities. And we don’t need to mobilize our military, we don’t need to mount an armed assault on them. All we need to do is change a few laws…”
She glanced up at him. “Has that Tommy Winston gone crazy? Was he sipping at the schnapps before he went on TV last night?” John could tell by the rhythm of her speech that she was upset. His Dutch-American father, raised all his life in the south, had married a girl from the old country. When she was upset her voice jumped half an octave and a Dutch accent began to creep into her otherwise perfect English.
F Paul Wilson - Novel 04 Page 1
