Deep as the Marrow

by F. Paul Wilson

  “And so you must give now! Give whatever you can so that we can get these petitions moving, so that we can send our deacons into every city and town in the nation for signatures calling for the impeachment of President Thomas Winston!” During the next burst of wild cheering. Gold turned to Carlos.

  “An impeach-a-thon! You’ve got to let me call in a pledge. A big one. I’ve got to do this.”

  “How big?”

  “Ten. You want to buy insurance, here’s a good way.”

  Carlos was taken aback. “Ten grand? What for?”

  “I need five figures to get his attention. You’ll see. It’ll be a killer.”

  “Very well. Go ahead.”

  On the screen, a long-robed choir was singing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” as Carlos watched Gold dial the 800 number. When he started speaking he suddenly had a thick southern accent.

  “Hello? Is this the Reverend Whitcomb? Well, Ah want to speak to the Reverend Whitcomb his own self. Don’t tell me what ain’t possible, darling.‘ A’course it’s possible. Ah got ten grand says it’s possible. That’s raht. Ten grand to donate to gettin’ that Satan-speakin‘, cokesnortin’, dope-smokin‘, drug injectin’ heathen outta the White House, but you ain’t a-gonna git it unless Ah speak to the reverend real personal lahk. That’s raht. It’s Sinus… Billy Bob Sinus. All raht. All raht. Ah’ll do that.”

  Grinning and giggling like a school boy, he put his hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Carlos.

  “It’s working! I’m on hold while they go get him!” Carlos wondered if his young financial whiz had been sampling the product.

  Gold snatched his hand away and spoke into the receiver.

  “Yes? Turn down mah TV? Okay.” He covered it again and spoke to Carlos.

  “They must be on delay. I’ll go into the next room. You watch the TV.” As Gold left, Carlos noticed that he hit the record button on the VCR.

  A moment later, on the screen, the choir suddenly broke off in mid-chorus as the camera cut to Reverend Whitcomb. The rage of a moment ago seemed forgotten as he beamed from the screen.

  “Praise the Lord! We have a righteous soul on the line willing to give it all for the cause.” He lifted a receiver to his ear. “Hello. To whom am I speaking?” Carlos barely recognized Gold’s voice coming over the line.

  “Reverend Whitcomb, is that really you? Praise the Lord! What a thrill this is! This is Billy Bob Sinus from Washington, D. C., and Ah watch your show all the tahm. Truly you are the voice of the Lord!”

  “Thank you, Billy Bob.”

  “And Ah want to help you in your faht agin that Satan in the Waht House.”

  “That’s very good of you. Billy. What did you have in mind?”

  “Ah want to contribute ten thousand dollars.” The audience erupted into frenzied cheering as Whitcomb raised his arms and gazed heavenward.

  “Praise the Lord!”

  “Faht him, Reverend Whitcomb” Gold could be heard saying over the cheering. “Faht him till he’s cast back into the fahrs of hell whence he came from!”

  “I will. Billy Bob!” the reverend said. “And with the generous help of righteous people like you, we will win!”

  “Stomp him. Reverend Whitcomb. Stomp that Satan president into the earth and sow the land with salt so that he’ll never rahse again!”

  “Thank you, Billy Bob. That will—”

  “Chew him up. Reverend. Chew up that Anti-Chrahst and spit him out and then—”

  The camera cut back to the choir, which picked up right where it had left off as Gold stumbled back into the room. He collapsed on the sofa, kicking his feet, laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

  Carlos allowed himself a laugh as well, a brief respite from the tension that so relentlessly knotted the muscles of his back. So much riding on this… so much…

  When Gold finally stopped laughing, he sat up and wiped his eyes. “Oh, man! I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun!”

  “The stakes are rather high for ‘fun,’ no? Will you still be laughing if your President succeeds?”

  “Not a snowball’s chance in hell of that.”

  “I hope so,” Carlos said. But I cannot sit back and rely on telethons, he thought.

  23

  John drove around for an extra half hour before heading home. His surroundings were a blur. He drove on autopilot, unable to think of anything but Katie and was she alive and how were they treating her. If asked later where he’d gone, he doubted he’d be able to say.

  Finally he forced himself to think, to focus. He had to pull himself together and come up with cover stories for his mother as to why he’d left his office early and why she wouldn’t be picking up Katie from the bus stop this afternoon. They had to be damn good. One look at him and his mother would know something was wrong.

  By the time he pulled into the driveway, he had an explanation for why he was home. But as for Katie’s whereabouts…

  If only he could think!

  Nana hit him with questions as soon as he walked in. She stood in the door to her bedroom dressed in her yoga outfit—he would never get used to the sight of his mother in a black leotard and white tights.

  “John? You’re home? Is something wrong?”

  He rubbed his stomach. “A little gastroenteritis. It’s a bug that’s been going through the whole department. Hit me just after I got in.”

  “You look terrible,” she said, her dark eyes searching his face.

  “Believe me, I feel worse than I look.”

  “Can I get you anything? Some soup?”

  “Thanks, but I couldn’t eat a thing.” That at least was true. “I think I’ll just sip some V8 and lie down.”

  “You go upstairs. I’ll bring you some.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll bring it up with me.” He went to the kitchen and poured himself half a glass from the two-liter bottle in the refrigerator. His mother hovered over him every step of the way.

  “I’ll be fine, Ma. These things only last about twenty four hours; then they’re gone like they never were.” He left her standing at the bottom of the stairs, staring up after him, anxiously rubbing her hands together.

  “I know some yoga positions that might help,” she said.

  “That’s okay, Mom.” What was he going to tell her about Katie? She was no dummy. Having her around to help with Katie every day had been such a blessing. Now he wished she were back in Atlanta.

  A thought occurred to him. He turned at the top of the stairs.

  “I think I’ll lie down on the couch in the study,” he told her. “There’s this Senate hearing I want to follow and I can catch it on C-SPAN.”

  “I hope you’ll be all right,” she said, still rubbing her hands together.

  “I’ll be fine, Ma.” John closed the door to the study and went directly to his computer. His old Dell 486 was no longer up to the minute in speed and power but was still more than adequate for his needs at home.

  Soon after assuming his post at HHS, he’d arranged for a remote link to the department’s network so he could access his files from home. He hadn’t used it much, but now it would be a godsend.

  As soon his machine was up and running, he logged into HHS, plugged in his ID number, and waited for the e-mail icon to appear.

  No e-mail.

  Just as well. He’d thought of a number of things he hadn’t included in his first message.

  For cover, he turned on the TV and, switched it to C-SPAN; then he began typing.

  What he needed most was proof that Katie was alive. Devastating enough that she was gone, but the fear that she might be dead… that was crippling him.

  He had to know. And the only way was to speak to her. How hard could that be to arrange? Get her to a phone, have her speak a few words, and that was that. He’d know she was alive and then he could concentrate on getting her back.

  He decided on a tough, businesslike tone.

  Snake— Addendum to previous e-mail: I must have proof
that Katie’s alive. You say you want a “service” from me, fine. But in return for that service I want my daughter back—alive and well. For all I know right now, she could be dead and buried somewhere.

  He had to lean back and take a deep, shuddering breath. Please, God, don’t let that be true.

  I will perform =no= service of any sort unless I have conclusive proof that my daughter is alive. If you cannot supply that proof I will have to assume that you’ve murdered Katie. I will go immediately to the FBI.

  He wanted to add that he would drop everything else in his life and personally pursue whoever was behind this to the ends of time and space, but that would be too provocative.

  It was a fact, though.

  He had to soften his tone now, and try again to humanize Katie to this monster.

  But if Katie is alive and well as you say, please treat her gently.

  She’s a fussy eater but likes Lucky Charms cereal and Doritos and McDonald’s cheeseburgers. You can imagine what an awful experience this is for her. I know she’s terrified. Please don’t be angry if she cries a lot. She didn’t ask to be kidnapped. Be gentle. =Please= be gentle.

  That was it. That was all he could write without breaking down again. He forwarded the e-mail to Snake’s return address.

  If only he could call the FBI. He wondered if they could trace the e-mail back to Snake’s hole in the ground.

  But he didn’t dare. If Snake had access to his phone line, what else did he know? He might have somebody watching him. He couldn’t risk it… not with Katie’s life at stake.

  He stood at his window and stared out at his quiet neighborhood, at people going out for lunch, coming back from shopping, walking their dogs, playing with their toddlers, going about their normal, everyday lives while his had been turned upside down and ripped inside out.

  Don’t they know? Can’t they sense it? Katie is gone!

  She’s all right, he told himself over and over in a prayerful litany. She has to be all right.

  Behind him, as C-SPAN broadcast the current doings in Congress, John stayed at the window, trying to numb his feelings, trying to think, trying to keep from screaming.

  24

  “You hear that?” Poppy said.

  She sat across the kitchen table from Paulie, the remains of a turkey sub between them. She was still furious at him, but also wishing he’d shave off his beard and dye his hair back to black, so he’d start looking like his old self again.

  “Hear what?” Paulie said.

  “Shhh!” She got up and turned off the TV. “Listen.” She heard it, softly, coming through the front room from the master bedroom. The sound she’d known would come, the sound she’d dreaded hearing.

  Muffled crying.

  “The kid’s awake.”

  “Better go check on her,” Paulie said.

  “Why me? This was your idea.”

  “C’mon, Poppy,” he said. “You’re not gonna be like this the whole gig, are you?”

  “I’m not taking care of no kid,” she told him. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “Fine,” he said. “We’ll let her cry.” He took a bite of his sub and started flipping through the copy of Blue Blood he’d brought along.

  If that was the way he wanted to be, she’d do the same. She picked up The Star and opened it. She tried to concentrate on the page-three continuation of the cover story on Sharon Stone but gave up after reading the same paragraph half a dozen times.

  The muffled sobs filled her brain.

  “Damn it!” she said. She stood and threw the paper across the table at Paulie. “And damn you.” Paulie looked up at her and smiled but said nothing.

  Poppy stomped out of the kitchen and went straight to the master bedroom. She retrieved the Roseanne mask from the couch and slipped it over her face.

  But she hesitated at the door. A crying kid. What was she like going to do with a frightened, crying kid? More than Paulie, that was for sure, but that wasn’t saying much.

  Oh, hell. Let’s get this over with. She pushed the door open and poked her head inside.

  The kid was lying on her back on the bed, both hands tied to the bed frame above her head. The blindfold and gag were in place, but her beret had fallen off and she’d kicked off the blanket.

  What skinny little legs she had.

  And she was crying. This totally sucked, frightening a little kid like this.

  She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. The crying stopped as the kid stiffened, listening. Better not scare her anymore than she already is. Better say something.

  “Don’t be afraid…” Hell, she didn’t even know her name. “It’s okay. You’re all right. No one’s gonna hurt you.” Poppy moved closer until she was standing over her.

  Even in the dim light of the darkened room, Poppy could see tears glistening on the cheeks below the black sleep mask they used as a blindfold.

  “Listen, if you promise not to yell, I’ll like take that gag out of your mouth. Is that a deal?” The kid nodded.

  “Promise not to yell, now.” Another nod.

  Poppy removed the gag.

  “Where am I?” the kid said, her voice wavering through a sob. “Who are you? Why am I tied up? Where’s my daddy?”

  “You’re going to be staying here awhile.”

  “I want my daddy. Why isn’t he here?” Might as well lay it out for her: “He doesn’t know where you are.”

  She started crying again, the sobs becoming progressively louder. More tears flooded from under the blindfold.

  “I want to go home!”

  “Remember our deal about not yelling. I’ll have to put that gag back in if you yell.” The kid bit her lower lip in an attempt to muffle her sobs. The sound was so pitiful, it damn near tore Poppy’s heart out. She knelt beside the bed.

  “Hey, look,” she said softly. “Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you. No one’s going to hurt you. You’re just going to be visiting with us for a few days.”

  “I wuh-want my daddy!”

  Poppy had to get her off that subject. “What’s your name, kid?”

  “Kuh-katie.”

  “Kuh-katie, huh? I never heard a name like Kuh-katie before.”

  “No. Kay-tie.”

  “Oh. Katie. I’ve heard of that. That’s a cute name. Look, Katie… are you hungry?”

  She shook her head.

  “Have to go to the bathroom?”

  A nod. “Your voice sounds funny.”

  “That’s because I’m wearing a mask.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want you to see my face.”

  “I can’t see anything.”

  “I know. But just in case the blindfold slips. We’re like very careful about that here.” The kid shrugged—either she didn’t understand or didn’t care. She’d better care. It was important.

  “Okay. Here’s how we’re gonna work this. I’ll untie your hands and take you to the bathroom. You go in there and like do your business; then knock when you want to come out. Got it?” Another nod.

  “Okay, then.” Poppy began untying the cords around her wrists.

  Bathroom detail was usually Paulie’s job, mainly because up till now all their packages had been totally guys. She’d never like actually done this, but she knew the procedure. Paulie had a handcuff routine he used with the guys—in case they got any wise ideas. Poppy didn’t think that would be necessary now.

  “Here’s how this works, Katie. Your blindfold comes off only in the bathroom. Once you’re finished up in there, you put it back on and like knock on the door. I’ll let you out then. You understand? You never take the blindfold off unless we tell you to.”

  “Why not?” Poppy was taken aback by the question. No one had ever asked that before. Of course, all the other packages knew the answer.

  “Because I don’t want you to see my face.”

  “I thought you were wearing a mask.” What is she? Poppy thought. A lawyer?

&nbs
p; “I am. But I don’t want you to see that, either.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because… because I don’t, that’s why,” Poppy said as she undid the last knot. “There. Now you can sit up.” She grabbed the kid’s shoulders and pulled her up. Through the fabric of her blazer and her uniform. Poppy could feel her bony little body trembling.

  And she remembered feeling just like that at times when some guy she’d been with suddenly turned mean and began beating on her. She remembered that trapped, terrified feeling, with nobody to turn to for help. Probably the worst feeling in the world… and probably just what this kid was feeling.

  She had a sudden urge to wrap her arms around Katie, to hug her close and absorb those tremors. No way. Keep her totally at arm’s length. No telling what a scared kid might try.

  But a little reassurance couldn’t hurt.

  “Don’t be scared, Katie. You’ll be fine. Think of this as a little vacation with some like really weird relatives.” Yeah, Poppy thought: an Appleton vacation. She shuddered. “And after it’s over, you’ll be going home.”

  “I wanna go home now.”

  “Not now. But soon, okay?” An unhappy nod, then, “What’s your name?” Another question that caught her by surprise. No package she’d baby-sat before had asked that. But she had an answer.

  “Jane,” Poppy said. “Jane Doe. And I’m here with my husband John Doe.” She and Paulie always called each other Jane and John when they were baby-sitting a package. “You can call me Jane, okay?”

  A nod. “Okay.”

  “Good. Now, let’s get you to that bathroom. Stand up and I’ll be behind you with my hands on your shoulders. I’ll steer you right to it. Remember: Go inside, do your business, and knock when you’re ready to come out.” Poppy guided the kid to the john and closed her in.