Deep as the Marrow

by F. Paul Wilson

  He wandered into the front room. This was way too weird. He couldn’t have Poppy going off the deep end in the middle of a job. They had to pull together on this—at least till it was over.

  I don’t get it, he thought, staring back into the guest room as Poppy began to hum to the kid. She always said she hated kids, and now she’s acting like she’s the kid’s mother or something.

  3

  John arrived at the northwest corner of Franklin Square at quarter to nine. No one was using the phone, but who knew how long that would last. Any minute now, one of the local pushers might commandeer it for the day.

  To forestall that, John picked up the handset—it smelled like vomit—and pretended to punch in a call. Then he stood there with the greasy receiver to his ear, pretending to be in animated conversation while keeping the switch hook depressed with his free hand.

  Around him, workers were spewing from the Metro’s MacPherson Square stop, and the homeless were beginning to shuffle from their hidey holes to begin the day’s panhandling chores. The sun climbed through the hazy air, warming the park and enhancing the rancid smell from the handset.

  John’s stomach turned. The aftertaste of his quick cup of coffee sat on his tongue like swamp scum.

  God, how long could he stand here and pretend to be in earnest conversation with nobody? Seemed like he’d been here all morning.

  And then the phone rang, startling his hand off the switch hook.

  “Hello!” he said. “This is Vanduyne.”

  “Hey, that was quick.”

  John recognized the voice: the one from the Metro station yesterday.

  “I’ve been waiting. I promised to cooperate. I got your e-mail. You said to be here at nine, so here I am.”

  “Tears all dried up?” The mocking tone made John want to lunge through the receiver, but he set his jaw. Why give Snake the satisfaction.

  “Yes. What do you want to tell me?”

  “Let’s not be in too big a hurry here. I’m going to send you to another phone.”

  “Is this a game?”

  A cold laugh. “Don’t worry. I’ve seen those movies too. No, just taking precautions. I’m sending you to another park—Lafayette Square. Know where that is?”

  That one John did know. “Across from the White House.”

  “That’s it. Northeast corner across from the VA Building. A mere four blocks from where you stand. Be there in five minutes.” The line went dead.

  John checked his watch: 9:02. Four blocks in five minutes. He could do that walking backward, but he broke into a jog anyway. No sense in taking chances.

  He reached Lafayette Square and found the phone in two minutes, but his heart sank when he spotted someone using it. A heavy woman in beige polyester slacks with a just say no!/winston must Go! button on her white polyester turtleneck was yakking away, one of the horde of protesters still thronging the square and marching up and down before the White House.

  He waited an agonizing minute and a half, watching the time tick toward 9:07. And still she talked.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, “but I’m expecting a very important call on that phone in a couple of seconds.”

  She glanced at him but said nothing.

  “Please, ma’am. It’s very important.” She covered the receiver and glared at him.

  “Yeah?” she said in a New York accent. “What’s this? Your office? Find another phone. They’re all over the place.”

  “You don’t understand. I can’t go to another phone. I’m receiving the call on this phone.”

  “Stop bothering me or I’ll call a cop.” That was the last thing he needed—but he had to get her off the phone. As she waved him off and started to turn away, he had an idea.

  “Look,” he said, digging into his pocket. “I’ll pay you for that phone.”

  Now he had her interest. “You kidding me?” He pulled out some of the cash he’d grabbed on his way out the door, found two fives, and waved them in her face. He watched her eyes narrow. She wasn’t thinking of holding him up for more, was she? He didn’t have time, dammit.

  “Ten bucks for the phone, lady. Now or never.” As she stared at the bills, John thought, Take them, lady, before I rip that phone out of your pudgy little fingers and drop-kick you onto the White House lawn.

  “You got a deal,” she said.

  With those words, John reached past her and slammed his hand down on the switch hook.

  “Hey!” she cried. “I didn’t say good-bye!”

  “Deal’s a deal.” He snatched the receiver from her hand and replaced it with the two fives. “Thank you very much.” Then he elbowed her out of the way and took over the booth.

  She waddled off, muttering about “men.” John didn’t care if she thought he was Attila the Hun—he had the phone.

  Ten seconds later it rang.

  “Vanduyne.”

  “So, you made it. All right. Let’s get down to business. This is all very simple. We need you to perform a small service for us. You do that, you get your kid back.”

  “A service. Yes. But what service?”

  “Again, very simple. Nothing the least bit criminal. All you have to do is give a dose of medication to one of your patients.”

  John leaned against the booth. “Patients? I’m not in practice. I think you’ve got the wrong man.” Could it be? Could this all be a horrible mistake?

  “Really? How’s your sense of direction. Doc?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I want you to face south. Can you do that?”

  John glanced around. “I’m already facing south.”

  “Good. What do you see?”

  He saw the telephone. The booth was facing north, and he was facing the booth. He couldn’t mean— A chill of foreboding inched through him.

  He stepped to his right and saw it. Beyond the square and the promenade, behind its wrought iron fence…

  “The White House?” He had to force the words past his throat.

  “You got it.”

  “But…” The words and thoughts ground to a halt in his brain, frozen in the freon blasting through his arteries.

  “No buts about it. Doc. You’re the President’s personal physician and you’re gonna give him a dose of antibiotic before the week is done.” John still could not speak. He could only stand and stare at the White House.

  “You listening. Doc? If you don’t—”

  “Yes, I know!” he blurted. He knew the ultimatum. He didn’t need to hear the details.

  God, they’re after Tom.

  He felt as if he were drowning. He groped for something, anything to keep him afloat. And one of Snake’s words popped to the surface.

  “Antibiotic? Did you say antibiotic?”

  “That’s right. Chloramphenicol.” He said it carefully. “You got that, Doc? Chloramphenicol.”

  “Yes,” John said dully. “I got it.”

  “You’ve heard of it?”

  “Of course.” Chloramphenicol… an old-time antibiotic rarely used anymore except for typhoid fever and maybe an occasional meningitis. “But why… ?”

  And then he remembered… maybe a dozen years ago, when Tom began setting his sights on the presidency, asking his old buddy John to comb his entire medical history for anything that might someday be used against him. While going through Tom’s pediatric records he’d found “NO CHLORAMPHENICOL” written in big red letters across the top of each sheet. He’d searched back and learned that little Tommy Winston had almost died of aplastic anemia at age three. The culprit: chloramphenicol.

  John had mentioned it in his summary but did not consider it of any consequence. Tom’s campaign strategists thought otherwise. They said any sign of physical impairment—even potential impairment—could be damaging.

  John thought it was ridiculous, and so did Tom, but he was paying for their expertise so he took their advice: Those old pediatric records became “lost.” Or so they’d all thought. How on earth had Snake or wh
oever he was working for unearthed them?

  God, who cared? What mattered was what would happen to Tom if he had another dose of chloramphenicol.

  His immune system was still carrying the antibodies that had caused all the trouble when he was three. They were like sleeping guard dogs now, penned up, quiet, forgotten. But they’d awaken and burst free the instant they sniffed a chloramphenicol molecule. Trouble was, these were mistrained antibodies. They attacked their master last time—blitzkrieging his bone marrow and shutting it down—and they’d do the same again if set free. Maybe worse this time.

  Probably Tom would survive. Hematology and immunology had come a long way in the four decades and more since Tom’s first reaction—new drugs, bone marrow grafts, so many more treatment options were available. But people still died from aplastic anemia.

  Tom could die.

  He moved his mouth but no words formed. This was monstrous. They couldn’t ask him to choose between Katie and Tom, couldn’t expect him to—

  “You still there. Doc?”

  “No!” he said. The word exploded from him and he was aware of people nearby glancing his way. He lowered his voice. “I won’t do it.”

  “Then you’ll never see your kid again.” Snake’s cold, matter-of-fact tone rocked John. He sagged against the phone booth.

  “No. Wait. Please. He might die.”

  “That’s the whole idea. Doc.”

  “Yes-yes. But on the other hand, he might not die.” John’s mind was suddenly in high gear, looking for an angle, a way out, anything so he wouldn’t have to do this. “It didn’t kill him the first time, so there’s a good chance it won’t kill him this time.”

  “Then you’ll have to give him another dose. And another. And another. Until he’s either dead or so sick he has to resign. One way or another, we want him out of office.”

  “You can’t ask me to do this.”

  “I already have.”

  “I need some time.”

  “Sure.” The word dripped with sarcasm. “Take all you want. Just make sure he’s too sick to make the drug summit next week.” The Hague meeting… that was when legalization would become official U.S. policy.

  “So that’s what this is all about.” John looked around at the antilegalization protesters swarming around him. Were they involved? Were some of them watching him right now?

  “Yeah, Doc. That’s what it’s all about. Your old pal President Winston shows up at The Hague, you can forget about ever seeing your kid again.”

  “Oh, God!”

  “And don’t think of trying anything cute, like having your buddy play sick. Believe me: We’re very connected. We’ll know. And that will end it for your little girl.”

  “Please. I’ll pay you. I’ll sell everything I own and give you every penny, just don’t hurt Katie.”

  “This isn’t Let’s Make a Deal, Doc. You either dose your pal or you don’t. What’s it going to be?”

  John stood there paralyzed, staring at the C&P insignia on the phone while his numbed mind tried to formulate an answer. He had to say yes. If he didn’t Katie would die. But how was he going to deliver? How could he poison Tom?

  As he was trying to frame a reply, a hand flashed in front of him and depressed the switch hook.

  “What?” John jerked around and saw the polyester fat lady from before.

  He ripped her hand off the switch hook and began shouting into the receiver. “Hello? Hello are you there? Hello?” All he heard was a dial tone.

  He slammed the handset down on the hook and turned to the woman. He fought the rage swelling inside him. He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry, he wanted to rip her head off.

  “Do you know what you just did?”

  “I want my phone back,” she said, waving a bill in front of her and chattering like a machine gun. “Every other phone around here’s taken, so I want mine back.”

  “You cut off my call!”

  “So? You cut off mine. Fair’s fair. Now here’s five bucks back. I figure I should keep half the money because I let you use the phone but—”

  John felt his lips pulling back from his clenched teeth. If half of him wasn’t praying for Snake to call back, he’d be grabbing the handset and shoving it down her throat.

  “Get out of here,” he said in a low voice.

  Her chatter cut off. She took a faltering step back.

  “Hey. What’s eating you?”

  He leaned toward her, still speaking through his teeth, enunciating with slow precision. “Get away from me or I will kill you.” He’d never threatened anyone with harm before, let alone death. But right now he meant it.

  She must have sensed that. She backed up another step, then hurried away. “I’m calling a cop!”

  John turned back to the phone. “Please ring,” he whispered. “Please call back.” He slammed his fist against the side of the booth. “Please!” But the phone remained silent. John waited in the morning sun, amid the milling people, clinging to the booth, a hand on each side, guarding it as if it were his personal property.

  After five minutes he began losing hope. When fifteen minutes had passed, he knew Snake wasn’t going to call back, but still he hung on, waiting. He couldn’t leave.

  He looked up and saw the polyester lady walking his way with a cop in tow. He couldn’t get involved with the police right now. What if Snake had someone watching him? If Snake got a report that he was seen talking to a cop, no telling what he might do. John released his grip on the booth, turned, and forced himself to walk away, to get lost in the crowd.

  He told himself it was useless to stay by the phone. Snake wasn’t calling back. John’s best bet was to get to his computer and send Snake an e-mail explaining what had happened. The sooner, the better.

  Still, in his soul, he felt as if he’d just abandoned his daughter in Lafayette Square.

  4

  He hung up!

  Snake, sitting in traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue, still couldn’t believe it. John Vanduyne, M.D., supposedly this loving, devoted father, and he hangs up on the guy who’s holding his daughter. What the hell was he up to?

  Snake had to admit he’d been rattled for a moment after the line went dead. He’d told him. Either you dose your pal or you don’t. What’s it going to be? And Vanduyne went and hung up on him.

  After being so high last night, barely able to sleep, that had brought him down. He’d known this guy was going to be a problem.

  Maybe it had been some sort of a reflex. After all, he’d verbally pole-axed Vanduyne with what he had to do to get his kid back. He had to smile. Hell of a choice, wasn’t it. Here was the stuff myths were made of: Choose between your old buddy, the leader of the free world, and your kid. Something almost cosmic about that. And Snake was calling the cosmic tune.

  Except Vanduyne wasn’t dancing the right steps. Another example of the guy’s instability. He was a wild card.

  But Snake knew just the thing to get him in line. He’d have Paulie take care of that…

  Right after he met with Salinas.

  Snake patted the audio cassette in his jacket pocket and swallowed. He’d be walking a very thin line in the next hour or so. This meeting had to be handled just right.

  5

  “And so, Miguel, how did the good doctor take the news?” Carlos Salinas sat behind his desk, leaning back in his enormous leather chair.

  His suit was charcoal gray this morning. A small, amused smile curved under his mustache.

  “Not well,” Snake said. He felt like pacing but forced himself to remain seated. He and Salinas had the office to themselves. No sign of Gold this trip. “We shook him up pretty good.”

  “And you did not have to explain to him about his friend’s previous reaction?”

  “Nope. He seemed to know all about it.”

  “Bueno. So, how do things stand at this moment? He has agreed to our ultimatum?”

  Snake debated telling Salinas the whole truth—about Vanduyne hanging up on him�
��but held back. He didn’t want Salinas to have the slightest doubt that he was in complete control.

  “He’ll do it, but he’s a bit shell-shocked right now. I’ve decided to send him a little persuader to get him focused. By tomorrow morning he’ll be falling all over himself to get some of that chloramphenicol into Winston.”

  “Excellent!” Salinas slapped his weighty thighs. He was grinning now. “Miguel, I am so very glad I put you in charge of this matter.”

  You may not be so very glad in a minute. Snake thought. He cleared his throat.

  Here goes.

  “Speaking of’this matter,” he said, “it’s much bigger than I’d ever imagined.”

  Salinas’s eyes narrowed. “I hope you are not going to ask for more money. We have a deal—”

  Snake raised his hands, palms out.

  “Absolutely not. A deal is a deal. No. What I’m saying is, this matter is so big that you might not want me around after it’s over and done with.”

  “Yes,” Salinas said slowly, nodding and smoothing his mustache. “I can see how you might fear such a thing. But it is not my way.”

  “Trouble is, I don’t know your ways. We haven’t known each other that long.”

  “Miguel, if I killed everyone who did a job for me, I would have been out of business a long time ago.”

  “Right, but this isn’t some routine pick-up-and-deliver gig. This is major league. This is the biggest thing you’ll ever do in your life, or I’ll ever do in mine. I just don’t want it to be the last thing I do in mine.”

  “It is not you I am concerned about. Paul Dicastro and Poppy Mulliner, however…” It didn’t surprise him that Salinas knew their names— he seemed to know everything—but it bothered him.

  “I can see how they’d be considered a liability. I just don’t want to be lumped in with them.” Salinas was staring at him—like a cobra eyeing a mongoose.

  “I have a feeling that all this is leading somewhere.”

  Snake reached into his pocket and pulled out the cassette. He leaned forward and placed it on Salinas’s desk.

  “What is this?”