Deep as the Marrow

by F. Paul Wilson

  And that little girl… the terror of being snatched from the street or wherever it was and kept prisoner by strangers. He swallowed back a surge of bile.

  God, he hoped they were treating her all right, that they’d let her go unharmed when this was all over.

  But he had no control over any of it. He’d fed the stuff to that human slug, Salinas, and that was it. Dan had made suggestions as to how to best put it to use, but the final decision was up to Salinas.

  He tried to concentrate on Danny. This was a sort of farewell trip to his favorite park. Carmella was taking their daughter and the grandchildren to their Florida condo for a couple of weeks. Dan would have loved to go along, to sit in the purifying rays of the sun and try to forget what was happening here. But he had to stay. Especially now that Winston had dropped his decriminalization bomb.

  And now, when the wheels were in motion and he couldn’t reverse them, he had to ask himself whether he’d do the same if he could go back and relive the past couple of months.

  Yes. He doubted he’d change a thing. Because too much hung in the balance. This was so much bigger than the well-being of one little girl. A whole nation was at stake, a nation full of little girls like Katie Vanduyne… and little boys like Danny.

  “Don’t blame me,” he whispered to no one.

  Blame that lousy, spineless excuse for a president. The country was already in the toilet, but legalizing drugs would pull the plunger. Tom Winston couldn’t be talked out of this mad crusade—God knew how many people had tried—so he had to be taken out.

  Even if it meant colluding with people Dan despised more than the President. It was, quite literally, a deal with the Devil, and if he burned in hell for it, so be it. Somebody had to stop Winston.

  Daniel Keane sent up a prayer—not for himself, but for that little girl. He prayed that this crazy, brass-balled scheme would work out with no one getting hurt…

  Except the President.

  9

  The computer screen said no mail.

  John pounded his fist on his thigh. He’d have much preferred to slam it on the desk, but that would bring his mother running, asking, “What’s wrong? Has there been any word? Do you think she’s all right? Why aren’t they telling you what they want?” And a million other questions.

  He’d lied to her on his return from Lafayette Square, telling her the kidnappers hadn’t phoned him, that he’d stood around looking stupid, waiting for the phone to ring.

  A good lie. It kept Nana’s anxiety at its current, just bearable level.

  And it explained why he’d rushed in and gone straight to his computer to send off e-mail to the kidnappers. As far as Nana knew, it was to ask why they hadn’t called. In reality, it was to explain why they’d been cut off and to arrange another call.

  A lie was the only way. How could he tell Nana what they wanted him to do? And worse, that the call had been interrupted by some imbecilic woman in the park?

  She’d go to pieces.

  The phone rang.

  John stared at it. Who was it this time? Phyllis again? He’d called in sick this morning, telling her he had a bad case of gastroenteritis and didn’t dare get far from a toilet. Highly unlikely he’d be in tomorrow either. See you Monday.

  But that hadn’t stopped her from calling about confirming this meeting with that committee and luncheons with various advocacy groups and a number of speaking engagements. Somehow he’d managed to sound coherent, though he didn’t know how long he could keep it up. If this was Phyllis again he’d have to tell her whatever it was would have to wait. He was too sick to think.

  He picked up, but instead of Phyllis he heard Terri’s voice.

  “You don’t sound too sick.” He had to think a minute. Had he told her about it? He was new to this lying thing. Had to keep his stories straight. And keep his voice light.

  “You should be here listening to my intestines rumble. But how’d you know?”

  “I called your office. Phyllis said you were out with an intestinal flu. Anything serious?”

  “I don’t think so. Probably one of those two-or three day viruses.”

  “Then I suppose our date’s off tonight, huh?”

  John fumbled for a reply. Date? What date? Oh, God. He was supposed to have dinner with Terri tonight. He’d completely forgot.

  “Food? Don’t even mention it. I’ve been holding off on calling you, hoping the symptoms would ease up, but they haven’t. I was just about to pick up the phone.”

  “Want me to come over and pat your hand and put cold compresses on your head?”

  “That sounds great, but I’m going to try the sleep cure. And besides, I don’t want to expose you to this. Believe me, you don’t want what I’ve got.” No one in the world wants what’s ailing me.

  But he wished to God he could sit her down and open up to her. He wished he could share this crushing burden with somebody. If he could bounce a few ideas off Terri, and get some feedback, maybe he could come up with a way out of this.

  But how safe would it be to burden her with this? With Terri knowing the President was a target and her seeing Bob Decker or other Secret Service agents a dozen times a day, how long could he expect her to keep mum?

  No. He had to keep this to himself—all to himself.

  He fended off her offer of chicken soup and rescheduled their dinner for next Tuesday, then got off the phone.

  Next Tuesday. How would he get out of that? This virus story would carry him through the weekend. Come Monday morning, he’d have to come up with something new.

  He checked for e-mail again. And again, nothing.

  Damn!

  He glanced at his watch. When had he got back this morning? 10:30, maybe? Here it was 4:30. Six hours since he’d e-mailed Snake and still no reply. Had he received the message? Why wasn’t he replying? Was it over? Had they decided John wasn’t going to do what they wanted and so they were disposing of Katie?

  He couldn’t think about that. No, that couldn’t be. And that wouldn’t be. Snake was playing games. Letting him twist in the wind awhile before he made contact again. Well, he was twisting, all right. And damn near strangling with worry.

  But when Snake did make contact, what would John tell him? Could he agree to poison Tom?

  Yes. What choice did he have but to tell Snake what he wanted to hear? Say all the right things, then find a way to fake it.

  But how, dammit? Snake had already warned him: “Don’t try any tricks. We’ll know.” John had to respect that. Anyone who could ferret out Tom’s reaction to chloramphenicol had world-class sources.

  But there had to be a way. If John could relax just long enough to get his thoughts together, he knew be could come up with a way to save Katie and Tom.

  10

  “Yes!” Poppy said.

  She circled the article and pulled the sheet free of the rest of the newspaper. As she rose from the kitchen table she felt her spirits lifting. She’d spent the day in some kind of long dark tunnel, and now she’d spotted a light at the end.

  She stepped into the front room and found Paulie sitting and watching the phone. He’d stationed himself on the inside end of the couch in the corner, as far as possible from the phone, like he was afraid it was going to come to life and bite him or something.

  “You finally finished with your reading?” he said. Snarled was more like it. “You up to date on all the local news now?” She’d sent him out for all the local papers the Washington Times, the Post, the Banner, everything available in the 7-Eleven. And then she’d begun combing them.

  “Yeah, I’m finished,” she said.

  She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning like an Appleton. She’d found the solution to all their problems. Okay, maybe not all, but at least the major one that was dogging them right now. She was so damn proud of herself she wanted to dance. But first she wanted to have some fun with Paulie. He’d been no help at all, so he totally had it coming.

  “Good,” he
Said. “Now maybe you can think of some thing I can tell Mac when he calls. And he’s gonna call any minute, you can bet your sweet dimpled ass on that.”

  “Oh, I’ve got no doubt at all he’ll call.”

  “So what do I tell him? ‘Sorry, Mac. No persuader on this one. Poppy won’t let me.’ Right. Next thing you know he’ll be busting down that door.”

  “You just tell him everything’s under control and the persuader’s ready for delivery.”

  He made that sour face he did every time he thought he heard something stupid. “Oh, right. And when it’s not delivered? What then?”

  “Oh, don’t worry. You’ll deliver it. Right on schedule.”

  He sat and stared at her a second or two, eyes bugged, jaw dropped. Oh, this was good. It was all she could do to keep from busting out laughing. Then he jumped to his feet, arms spread.

  “How, Poppy? For Chrissake, have you gone crazy? Where am I gonna get a little girl’s toe?” Okay. Enough was enough. She shoved the paper toward him.

  “Here.” As he grabbed it and stared at it, she said, “I circled what you want.” He read some, then looked up at her. “But this is… I’ll have to…”

  She shrugged. “Who’s the best B-and-E guy around if it ain’t you, Paulie?” He didn’t seem to want to argue about that, so he kept on reading. Finally he looked up at her and the half angry, half-worried look he’d worn all day had changed.

  He actually smiled—just a little.

  “You know something. Poppy. I think this might work.”

  “I know it will.”

  He was grinning at her now—staring, nodding, and grinning. “You’re pretty smart for a girl.” She punched him on the arm.

  “Smart? I’m totally brilliant!”

  He hugged her and they laughed. He seemed proud of her, and to tell the truth, she was pretty damn proud herself. When was the last time she’d felt this way?

  Then he pushed her to arm’s length, suddenly serious.

  “But Mac can never know. Even after this is all over, we can never let Mac even suspect what we did.”

  “After this is all over, we’re never gonna see Mac again. Right?”

  “Right. When he calls, we ain’t home.” Poppy hugged him. She felt like the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. She put her lips against his ear.

  “Better get going.”

  11

  It took Paulie longer than he’d figured to find the place. After all, he didn’t know diddly about Arlington, Virginia, but people were pretty helpful when he asked for directions, and he only got lost twice. He passed a Home Depot along the way and picked up a sturdy pair of pruning shears. The sweet young thing at the check-out counter set him on the right course for the final leg of his journey to the Lynch-MacDougal Funeral Home.

  Two wakes were in progress. Paulie figured he was pretty much dressed for mourning, being all in black. He wandered in, looking appropriately somber, and checked out the place’s security system—or, like they said in the movies, “cased da joint.” He felt very much at home looking for electric eyes, motion detectors, window magnets. Breaking and entering used to be his bread and butter before he started baby-sitting for Mac.

  Still came in handy when the till ran low between gigs. Clean work. You get in when the place is empty, boost whatever’s lying around, and get the hell out. In and out. No fuss, no muss. You go in empty, you come out with some cash and jewelry.

  This time he’d be coming out with a toe. Weird, man.

  He found the control panel near the back door and it looked like a single-zone setup. The whole security system was pretty basic: windows, doors, and that was about it. Nothing that would keep him out if he’d had his tool kit—but that was back in Brooklyn. He needed an edge here.

  He checked the name in the newspaper Poppy had given him. Edward Hadley, age seven. According to the obit, little Eddie was here “as a result of injuries sustained in a motor vehicle accident.” Sorry about that, kid. Let’s just hope they didn’t run over your feet.

  He saw the Hadley sign so he stepped inside for a quick look-see. A bad scene. Lots of weepy parents and confused-looking grade-school kids. He did a fly-by on the coffin. Little Eddie—at least the front of his top half that was visible—looked pretty good.

  He moved to one of the windows and checked it out. Just wired at the sill. Christ, all he needed was a glass cutter and a suction cut and he’d be in. He glanced through at the parking lot. Nah. Too many lights and too many buildings around. He’d be exposed for too long. And besides, he wanted to get in and out with no one being the wiser.

  He slipped back out the door into the hallway where he saw this suit with a big red Irish face directing mourner traffic. That gave Paulie an idea. He stepped up to the guy and saw the name tag on his lapel: MICHAEL L. MACDOUGAL. One of the owners. He should be able to answer Paulie’s question.

  “Wonderful job you’re doing,” Paulie said.

  “Thank you. We try. We try. But it’s so difficult when they’re so young.”

  “I can imagine. Say, where’s—?”

  “So many dying so young these days.” Michael L. MacDougal was shaking his head. “We just received a new beloved only hours ago. Barely out of her teens. They’re all so young. What’s happening?”

  “I wish I knew.” And I wish you’d let me get a word in. “Where’s the men’s room, by the way?”

  MacDougal pointed past the Hadley sign. “Make your first left and it’s right at the bottom of the steps.”

  “Downstairs?” Paulie said, moving off. Outstanding!

  On his way, Paulie passed a horse-faced woman in a tweed suit and a frilly blouse. Her name tag said EILEEN LYNCH. The other owner. Husband and wife? he wondered. Or maybe a brother-and-sister act. Like, who’d want to be married to that?

  He hurried down the stairs and found a small paneled room with a couple of worn couches. Half a dozen people were sitting around, puffing on cigarettes. A fan in the ceiling sucked off the smoke.

  A smoking lounge. How thoughtful.

  Ahead were two rest room doors and a third marked private. He stepped inside the men’s room and found he had it all to himself. Over the toilet in the stall was a small casement window with no sign that it was connected to the security system. Beyond it, the rear parking lot stretched away at eye level.

  How very thoughtful.

  He undid the latch and yanked on the handle. It gave a little, then stuck. Hadn’t been opened in years, but he couldn’t see anything blocking it. All it needed was a little muscle from the other side and it would swing all the way up.

  He stuck a piece of toilet tissue in the latch, left it in the open position, and stepped over to the sink to wash his hands. He smiled at himself in the mirror.

  Piece of cake.

  And then he frowned, remembering Poppy alone at the house with that kid. He hoped to hell Mac didn’t decide to pop in for a personal visit to check out the persuader. That could be big trouble.

  Poppy adjusted her Minnie Mouse mask and then untied Katie’s hands and removed her blindfold.

  “You have to go to the bathroom, Katie?” She shook her head and said nothing. She looked so down, poor kid. Poppy sat beside her on the bed and massaged her wrists.

  “There. How’s that? That feel better?” Katie looked at her with those big blue eyes and nodded glumly, then looked back at Poppy’s hands.

  “How come your fingernails are all black?”

  “ ‘Cause I paint them that way.”

  “Oh. When am I going to see my daddy?”

  “Soon. Real soon.” Again she wondered why she didn’t ask for her mommy.

  Of course. Poppy had always been real close to her dad too. Mom had the regular job, working a register at Kmart, so she wasn’t around most days. Dad did seasonal work and sometimes he’d be home for weeks at a time. Since he loved basketball and she was his only kid, he’d taught her the game early. They’d spent countless afternoons going one-on-
one.

  Dad… I didn’t even know you were sick.

  She looked at Katie and saw that her fine, dark hair was all tangled. A case of terminal bed head. But what’d you expect when the kid was tied to her bed all the time?

  “How about I fix your braids?” Poppy said.

  Katie brightened. “Could you do a French braid? My Nana never lets me have a French braid.”

  “Nothing to it. One French braid, coming right up.” Katie’s smile, missing tooth and all, sent a shiver of pleasure through Poppy. If that’s all it takes to make you happy, little girl, you’ll get a million French braids.

  And then the smile faded.

  “You’re not going to make my hair like yours, are you?” Poppy felt her hair where it fell from behind the mask.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “The color’s weird.”

  “Weird?” Poppy had to laugh. “That’s Deadly Nightshade, honey-bunch. The coolest color around. You rinse it into dark hair like mine and it comes out looking like red wine.”

  “I still don’t want it on my hair.”

  “Don’t worry. We won’t change your color, just your braids. Now, turn around and let me brush it out.” As she worked with Katie’s hair, Poppy couldn’t help thinking about Glory, and wondering if this is what might have been…

  “What’s your name again?” Katie said.

  Before she could give it a thought, her real name slipped out.

  “Poppy.” Damn me! What an Appleton thing to do! Jesus, what am I gonna do now? The kid knows my name.

  “That’s a pretty name,” Katie said. “Isn’t a poppy a flower?”

  Oh, well. The damage was done. But maybe it wasn’t so bad. Anybody asking her would like figure Katie’s kidnappers would use fake names, so they’d pay no mind to “Poppy.” She hoped.

  “Yep. It’s a little flower. That’s what my daddy used to call me. His little flower. Until I got tall. Then he called me his sunflower.”

  “Where’s your daddy now?” Poppy’s eyes misted for an instant.