Deep as the Marrow

by F. Paul Wilson

  Alien Gold, who knew all the intricacies of Salinas’s empire, had been sent from the room. That told Snake that Salinas was playing this hand very close to his ample vest. Maybe only he and his bosses in Colombia knew the real target. The only other people who’d know would be Snake and Vanduyne himself. And afterward, they planned to eliminate Vanduyne and his kid.

  Which would leave only one loose end: “Miguel” MacLaglen and his two hirelings. How do you measure the lifespan of three people who know enough to bring down the Cali cartel? Nanoseconds sounded generous. And who would be the first to go? The know-nothing hirelings, or the guy who had worked out all the details with Salinas?

  Snake tossed off the rest of the Scotch. He needed some antifreeze against the ice forming in his veins.

  He glanced down at his shirt-button mike. I hope you’re working today.

  First thing tomorrow, he’d be back with a little present for the big man—he hoped. But right now he had to concentrate on his next steps. This gig was going to be a real balancing act. Everything would have to go down by the numbers. If he screwed up, his insurance wouldn’t mean diddly.

  He cleared his throat. “All right. What’s the next step?”

  “That should be obvious, I think. First thing tomorrow you contact the honorable doctor and tell him that if he wishes to see his precious child again, he must give his friend and patient a hefty dose of chloramphenicol.”

  “How’s he supposed to do that?”

  “We will leave that up to him. He is a devoted father who wants his child back: He will find a way.”

  “And what if—Let’s just say he refuses. What then?”

  “You will tell him that if President Winston shows up at the Hague conference next week—”

  “What’s so important about this conference?”

  “As a symbol, it is of immense importance. It is there that he will place his legalization plan before the world community as U.S. official international policy. That must not happen. And so you will tell the doctor that if Winston arrives at the conference, you will kill his little girl… but not before you do some very nasty things to her. And as proof, you start returning his daughter one piece at a time. I believe you have used that method before.”

  Snake nodded. “It’s very persuasive. I’ve never had to send more than one piece.” Antsy as Vanduyne was, he was so wrapped up in his kid he probably wouldn’t need a persuader. Or maybe he’d need one just to keep him in line.

  “Good. Then you know what to do. Contact me tomorrow after you have spoken to Dr. Vanduyne.”

  “I’ll come by personally,” Snake said. “It may not be something I want to discuss over the phone.” But he intended to deliver more than just a report on Vanduyne.

  “If you wish,” Salinas said. “Llosa will show you out. Good night.”

  Snake guessed that meant the meeting was over. Fine. He’d had enough of Salinas for the evening.

  On the way out he retrieved his pistol from Llosa and figured the beefy bodyguard would probably get the assignment to whack “Miguel” and his people.

  Except Salinas would have to change that part of his plans.

  33

  Once out in the night air, the enormity of what he was involved in body slammed Snake full force. He staggered out of the alley and looked up and down M Street.

  I’m going to put the President—the President of the United fucking States—out of business. Maybe even off him. I’m going to be changing the course of history. Me!

  But not only did he have to keep a close eye on what was going on in front of him, he had to watch his back as well. Much as he loved adrenaline, this might be too much of a good thing. But dammit, he loved this feeling.

  And tomorrow it would get even better. Tomorrow he’d put it to the doc that he was going to have to choose between his daughter and his old friend… his kid and the leader of the free world. How cool was that?

  Yeah, if he could come through it all in one piece, this gig might just ruin him for anything else. Where could he play again for stakes this high? This was it: the mother of all buzzes. He had to soak up every last drop.

  34

  “That poor child!” John held his mother and let her sob against his shoulder.

  The reversal of roles—the parent crying on the child’s shoulder—unsettled him. He’d never seen her like this, not even when his dad died.

  “Don’t worry, Ma. Katie’s going to be fine. We know she’s alive. That’s the important thing. She’s alive and we’ll keep her that way. I’ll find out what they want from me, and whatever it is, I’ll do it. Then we’ll get her back.”

  “Oh, that poor child,” she said. “That poor, poor child.”

  She’d been repeating the phrase endlessly. She was beginning to sound like a stuck record and that worried John. He couldn’t have her going off the deep end now, not when he needed to focus every fiber of his being on getting Katie back.

  “She’s tougher than we realize, Ma. We all are. We got through everything else, we can get through this. They picked up her Tegretol, so at least we know she’s getting her medication.” He hoped that was true, prayed they hadn’t picked up the pills simply for show.

  Please, he thought, whoever you are, follow the directions on that bottle. She’s got to have her Tegretol twice a day. If she doesn’t get it—

  “That poor, poor child!”

  35

  Paulie lay on his back and stared into the darkness of the second bedroom as Poppy dozed with her head on his shoulder. Had this been a great night or what?

  He’d come back from the drugstore run with two pizzas and a couple of magnums of Cook’s champagne. So it wasn’t imported and it wasn’t expensive—so what? He’d guzzled both ends of the price range and got just as looped either way.

  The goodies had worked their magic. Poppy really lightened up when she saw that he’d brought her a sauteed broccoli and eggplant pizza. She was into vegetables these days and that was her favorite combo. He’d bought a pepperoni pie for himself.

  She fed some pizza to the kid, who requested pepperoni—good choice, kid—then they went to work on their own pies and started killing those magnums.

  All of which had the desired effect: Poppy damn near fucked his brains out—once on the living room floor, and then again here in the bed.

  Did it get any better than this? What more did he need beyond food, drink, a roof over his head, and Poppy in his bed? And soon they’d have a humongous wad of cash that, if they were smart about it, could last them a long, long time.

  As he yawned he remembered the pills for the kid. They were still in his coat pocket. He’d forgot to tell Poppy about them. Something about giving the kid one twice a day.

  He closed his eyes and let himself drift into sleep. He’d tell her tomorrow… tell her all about the pills in the morning…

  p>

  Thursday

  1

  “The United states now has over one million one hundred thousand prisoners in its jails. We have a greater percentage of our population behind bars than any other civilized nation in the world. And a good half of them are there for drug-related offenses. Think about it: five hundred thousand people in jail for using drugs, each costing us an average of thirty thousand dollars a year to house them—fifteen billion dollars a year, every year, and rising. Some of them are in for life—life for growing marijuana. The average murderer only serves nine years. And we’re setting more and more of those murderers free to make room for pot smokers. Half a million Americans, most of whom have never harmed anyone but themselves, locked up—for what? For wanting to get high.”

  John opened his eyes in the darkness. Had he been asleep? Heather Brent was on the TV in a replay of some of her remarks on The Larry King Show last night. He saw light seeping around the shades. He searched for the clock. The glowing red numbers said 7:02.

  He sat up, massaging his eyes, his face. He must have fallen asleep watching the TV. The last time he’d
looked, the clock had said 5:30. God knew, he needed sleep— physically and emotionally. Any respite from this incessant sick dread. He was exhausted, yet his mind wouldn’t quit. He’d tried to numb it with the early-morning parade of infomercials.

  He staggered out of bed and down the hall. He stopped at Katie’s door for the dozenth time since he’d gone to bed, and looked in, praying he’d see her there.

  It had all been a bad dream, right?

  Wrong. Katie’s bed was empty.

  He continued down the hall to the guest room and— again, for the dozenth time since he’d gone to bed— logged into the HHS network.

  “Come on,” he whispered as the software wended its way toward his electronic mailbox. “Come on… be there.” He stood and stared at the screen. Why bother to sit? He wouldn’t be staying. Every other time he’d checked for e-mail he’d come up empty, and he expected nothing this time either. Too early. He didn’t see kidnappers as early risers.

  And then he heard the chime from the computer’s speakers: He had mail.

  Mail!

  Slowly, shakily, John eased himself into the chair. He chose the read now? option and waited as the message was downloaded to his screen. His heart picked up tempo as he recognized the anonymous remailer heading.

  He jumped down to the message.

  Go to the phone booth at the northwest corner of Franklin Square.

  Be there at 9:00 A.M. sharp.

  Snake

  That’s it? John hit page down a couple of times to see if there was more, but found nothing. He stared at the message.

  Where the hell was Franklin Square? He’d never heard of it.

  He rifled through the bottom drawer of the desk and pulled out the map of Washington he’d bought when he first came to town. The index guided him to a small park with its northwest corner at K Street and 14th—just a few blocks from the pharmacy that had filled Katie’s prescription yesterday.

  Why couldn’t Snake simply have said K and 14th? What was he doing? Playing games? Toying with him? Yeah, probably. Maybe that was how he got his kicks.

  But why a phone? Up to now Snake had done everything by e-mail. What was different about today? What did he have to relate by voice rather than print? No doubt the “service” he was to perform. A queasy feeling rippled through John’s gut. What in hell could they want from him?

  He glanced at his watch. Plenty of time. A quick shower, force down a little food, and he’d head for downtown. He wanted to be at that phone booth well ahead of the call.

  Before leaving the study he erased the message. No use letting Nana see it. The fewer details she knew, the better.

  He felt his fatigue slipping away. The endless night of waiting was over. He was in motion again. But in what direction? He shrugged off the cold dread enclosing him in its grip. Whatever it was, he’d handle it. The important thing was the sense that he was one step closer to getting Katie back.

  2

  As Paulie rolled out of bed, his left foot tangled in the sheets and he landed hard on the floor. Half stunned, he shook the cobwebs out of his head and looked around.

  He didn’t know where he was. All he knew was that Poppy was screaming his name like someone had taken a cattle prod to her. But she wasn’t here. She was some where else in the house. What house? Oh, yeah the Falls Church place.

  Poppy screamed again and Paulie was on his feet, hurtling into the front room. Empty. He lunged into the guest room and found her standing over the package’s bed, whimpering and crying. She turned and threw herself against him. “She’s having a fit, Paulie!

  What’s wrong?“ Paulie stared at the kid. Her hands were still tied to the bed frame, just as they’d left her, but the rest of her was flopping around on the bed like a beached fish. Her breath was hissing in and out between her clenched teeth and her eyes were rolled back into her head, leaving only the whites showing. He’d never seen anything like this.

  “Make her stop, Paulie!” Poppy was saying, her voice going from a whimper to a scream. “Please make her stop!” And then it was like something out of The Exorcist: the kid gave out this high-pitched sound somewhere between a growl and a scream and arched her back until only her heels and the back of her head were touching the bed. She stayed that way for God knew how long, until Paulie was afraid she was either going to float off the bed or break in two. And then suddenly she dropped flat and lay still.

  “Oh, God!” Poppy whispered. “Oh, God, Paulie, is she dead?” She sure as hell looked dead—pale as a ghost, not moving, not even breathing. He was almost afraid to get near her, but someone had to check her.

  As he stepped forward he was pushed aside by Poppy who dropped down on her knees next to the bed. She had her hands up in the air, waving them around like some holy roller at a prayer meeting. She looked afraid to touch her.

  Finally, she brought her hands down and touched the kid. She grabbed her shoulders and began shaking her.

  “Katie! Katie! Wake up!” Then she pounded on the kid’s chest. “Breathe, dammit!” The kid shuddered, coughed, then took a breath.

  “Thank God!” Poppy said. “Here. Help me untie her.” As she leaned across the kid, she stopped and felt around. “Oh, Jesus. She’s wet herself.” Paulie loosened the cord around one wrist while Poppy worked on the other. The skin was bruised and scratched from all that violent yanking. Poppy massaged the wrist she’d untied.

  “What happened, Katie?” she said. “Are you okay?” But the kid only stared blankly past Poppy. She looked looped.

  Poppy looked up at him. “She’s not gonna start again, is she, Paulie? Tell me she’s not gonna start again.”

  Paulie watched Poppy, stunned. He’d never seen her like this. Usually she was so cool, except when she got mad. But now… man, she was a freaking basket case.

  “Easy, Poppy,” he said, speaking slowly, softly. “Just calm down. She’s going to be all right.”

  “How do you know that?” she said, her voice rising. “What’s wrong with this kid, Paulie? Did Mac tell you anything?”

  Christ, the pills! He felt like a total asshole.

  “Yeah,” Paulie said. “As a matter of fact, that’s why he called me out yesterday. To get her some pills. She’s got epilepsy.”

  “What?” She rose to her feet, and faced him, her face as pale now as the kid’s. And her eyes wide… and very strange. “She’s got epilepsy and you didn’t tell me?”

  “Hey, I only found out about it yesterday afternoon. Snake didn’t find out himself until yesterday. But it’s okay. I got pills for her.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” She was talking through her teeth now. “Why didn’t you give her any?”

  “Hey, well, you know how it was last night. I came home and we ate and drank, then we got it on and I forgot.” Poppy closed her eyes. She looked ready to explode.

  “Get them. Give them to me now!”

  “Hey, listen—”

  “NOW!” Paulie hurried into the front room for his jacket. He knew he was in a bad position here. Not a leg to stand on. Not even a freaking toe. He’d fucked up royally. Bad enough Poppy was doing a number on him, but if Mac found out…

  He got the bottle and handed it to her, then watched her face go from white to red as she read the label. “It says one tablet twice a day, Paulie! She was supposed to have one last night, goddammit!”

  Suddenly she was on him, flailing away at him with her fists, pounding on his chest like it was a conga drum. “You bastard! You stupid goddamn son of a bitch! You lousy—!”

  He grabbed her wrists and shook her. “Cool it. Poppy! You’re acting like a nut! What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  She pulled free of him and turned back to the kid. “Because she could start in like that again. And again and again and again and never stop! And then she’ll die! All because you’re so goddamn stupid!”

  “Hey, look. I didn’t think—”

  “We’ve got to get one of these into her,” she said.

  “
All right, then. Let’s do it.”

  She glanced at him and nodded. She looked sane again. At least for the moment.

  Turned out the pills were chewable, but so what? The kid was out cold. She wasn’t going to be chewing anything.

  Poppy took the bottle into the kitchen and tried to crush a pill with the flat of a butter knife, but her hands were too shaky.

  “Gimme,” Paulie said after she messed up a third time.

  He crushed the sucker on the first try and looked up at her, hoping for a little smile, or maybe a nod of approval. But her stare was still icy, with no sign of a thaw.

  “Do another,” she said.

  “Bottle says she’s only supposed to get one.”

  “I’m making up for the one she didn’t get last night.”

  Shit. Bad enough being in the doghouse, but worse when you know you belong there. He crushed the second.

  Poppy half filled a shot glass with water and dissolved the powder. But getting the mixture into the kid was another story. She wouldn’t wake up.

  Finally they got the kid situated with Poppy cradling her head in her lap. Paulie pried her jaw open while Poppy dribbled the mixture into her. The kid coughed and gagged but Poppy held her head until she’d swallowed.

  Paulie breathed a sigh of relief. “All right! She’s gonna be okay now. No harm done.”

  Poppy glared at him. “You don’t know that.”

  “Sure. She’s got the medicine—”

  “Go away,” Poppy said. “Just leave me with her.”

  Paulie wanted to tell her off, tell her she couldn’t talk to him that way, but it was like he wasn’t even there, like he’d vanished in a puff of smoke. Poppy had pulled the kid onto her lap and started rocking her back and forth, cooing in her ear like she was a little baby. She seemed to be in her own world with that kid.