Deep as the Marrow

by F. Paul Wilson

  “He’s far away.”

  “Is that where you grew up? Far away?”

  “No. I grew up right around here.” Now that was like a total lie but it ought to throw off anybody coming around later looking for a Poppy who grew up in northern Virginia. No worry about her real home popping out. Poppy never told anyone her real home town.

  Really, how could you tell someone you grew up on Sooy’s Boot, New Jersey? Sooy’s Boot! How could you let those words past your lips?

  “I grew up far away,” Katie said. “In Georgia.”

  “I figured you were from somewhere down South.”

  “How come?”

  “Yo‘ axent, hunny,” she said, mimicking Katie’s drawl. “Lank Joe-jah.”

  “I don’t have an accent.”

  “Oh, yes, you—” Poppy stopped as her hand found a depression in Katie’s scalp on the left side of her head— in her skull. “Hey, what’s this dent in your head?”

  “I… I had an accident.”

  “What sort of accident?”

  “I broke my head.” Poppy’s stomach turned.

  “Shit! I mean, shoot! When did that happen?”

  “When I was little.”

  “When you were—?” Poppy had to laugh. “You’re not so big now. At least you weren’t born that way. If you were I might think you were an Appleton.”

  “What’s a Appleton?”

  “They’re some weird folks from back around where I grew up. Lots of them got weird-shaped heads.”

  “I thought you said you grew up around here.”

  “Yeah,” Poppy said quickly. “Yeah, well, somewhere not far from here.” Not far in miles, she thought. Probably less than two hundred. But so very far in every other way it might as well be like Mars or someplace.

  Sooy’s Boot… a hiccup on one of the roads running through the heart of the New Jersey Pine Barrens. She was born and raised there, which made her like a fullfledged Piney. Which meant “poor hick” to most people.

  But she didn’t remember feeling poor when she was growing up. Mom had the Kmart job in May’s Landing, and Dad worked the pineland’s annual cycle: He cut sphagnum moss in the spring, picked blueberries and huckleberries in the summer, then cranberries toward fall, and cut cordwood through the winter. They had everything they needed.

  Until Mom died. She’d been bothered by the veins in her legs forever, and one day one of her legs got red and sore. She should have seen a doctor, but she put it off and put it off, and then one day at work she grabbed her chest and keeled over. She died on the way to the hospital. Coroner said a giant clot had come loose from one of the veins in her leg and clogged her heart. Or something like that.

  That left Poppy and Dad. She was all he had, and he doted on her. And no doubt Poppy would like still be living in the pines, would have grown up to be another Piney girl married to a Piney guy, raising a bunch of little Pineys… if it hadn’t been for basketball.

  Still brushing Katie’s hair, Poppy smiled. Jesus, she’d been good. Dad had drilled all the fundamentals into her before she was ten, and by middle school she was playing with the boys at recess and giving them a run for their money.

  The coach at the regional high school took one look at her in tryouts and put her in the starting five of his varsity squad. She had to put up with some heavy resentment until they started winning like they’d never won before.

  All because of me, she thought.

  No brag. Truth. She’d been totally awesome in the paint—could dribble circles around anyone who got in her way. And when they walled up to block her out, she hung back and dropped in three pointers. And when they got so frustrated that they started fouling her, she’d sink two for two on her free throws—ninety-five percent from the line.

  By junior year she’d already been offered a full ride at Rutgers. Dad had been ecstatic: Not only was his little flower All State, but she was going to college. That big round ball was going to be her ticket out of poverty and the pines.

  Then she did a real Appleton thing: She fell in love.

  With Charlie Pilgrim, of all people. Even now she couldn’t help wincing at the whole thing. How could she have been so totally stupid?

  Well, one thing leading to another, as it so often does, Poppy had found herself pregnant. And since there was no way she’d have an abortion—after all, this was Charlie’s baby and they were in love—she had to quit basketball.

  Dad was crushed, of course. And seeing his face every day when she came home right after school instead of practicing with the team became a total torture that finally got to be too much to take.

  So she and Charlie had run off to New York City where Charlie was going to find a job and they were going to get married. Except Charlie never did find steady work and they never got around to like getting married. They wound up on welfare, sharing a filthy Lower East Side apartment with two other couples.

  And then the baby had been born. She was beautiful, she was glorious, and so that was what they named her: Glory.

  But soon Glory had started having fits, and the doctors at NYU Medical Center said she had a brain defect, something wrong in her head that gave her epilepsy. They tried all sorts of medications but she kept on having fit after fit after fit—the doctors called them seizures— until her eighty-ninth day of life when she went into a final unstoppable fit that lasted until she died.

  All the doctors had been sorry; some of the nurses even cried. They all said they didn’t know why she had all those fits, but Poppy knew. It was Appleton blood. Some of it was in her. Dad had always said there wasn’t, but what had happened to Glory was proof. Poppy had bad blood. Appleton blood.

  She hadn’t been too easy to be with after that. She totally hated the doctors, hated everyone around her, hated Charlie for getting her pregnant, but like hated herself most of all. Charlie couldn’t take it anymore. He wanted to take her back to Sooy’s Boot but no way could she face Dad again. Not after losing the baby because of Appleton blood.

  So Charlie had left without her. Probably told all sorts of tales about her when he got back. Poppy hadn’t cared. She totally wanted to die. And she damn well might have killed herself if she hadn’t discovered the unholy trinity: grass, speed, and coke. They hadn’t killed the pain, but they’d eased it, made it like bearable.

  Some long, dark years had followed, years that were mostly a blur now.

  She tried not to think about the things she did to get by. She fell in with some bad people, even turned tricks when she was desperate, OD’d a couple times, got beat up more than a couple times, and just might be dead by now if she hadn’t found Paulie.

  Paulie had changed her life, and she liked to think she like changed Paulie’s—for the better, of course.

  Her only regret was that she hadn’t gone back home, just for a visit. She’d been so wrapped up in herself, she never imagined something could have been wrong with Dad… that he wouldn’t always be there. And then… he wasn’t there… would never be there again… and she never knew until he was six months in the ground.

  Maybe that’s what I’ll do when this is over, she thought as she finished weaving Katie’s French braid. Tending to Katie had awakened a longing in her. She’d thought she never wanted to see Sooy’s Boot again, but now…

  She felt like going home. She still had family in the pines. Maybe she could like reconnect… if any of them would speak to her.

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” Katie said.

  “Sure thing, honey bunch. And you can check out your braid in the mirror while you’re at it.

  She had her halfway there when the phone rang.

  Poppy hurried her into the bathroom. “Now, you stay in there till I come and get you,” she told her, then dashed for the phone.

  She picked up on the fourth ring and slipped her Minnie Mouse mask to the top of her head.

  “Hello?”

  “What took you so long?” She knew that voice: Mac.

  “I was taking th
e’package‘”—Jesus, she hated that word—“to the bathroom.”

  “Put him on,” Mac said.

  Him. That meant Paulie. Poppy knew how paranoid Mac was about mentioning names or being specific about anything on the phone. Talking to him was all about not saying things. Maybe she could see his point, but how about a Hello or How’s it going? Jesus, she hated this guy. The sooner they were rid of him, the better. She couldn’t wait.

  “He’s not here.”

  “Where the hell is he?”

  “Out.” He wants info, she thought, let him scratch for it.

  “Don’t give me this shit, girl. Where is he?”

  “Shopping. Getting some tools.”

  “Tools? What are you giving me? Did he get the persuader? Is it packed up and ready to go?”

  “Not yet.” Silence on the other end, then a tone so totally low and cold she almost dropped the phone. “You’d better explain.” She was ready for that. She’d been rehearsing.

  “It’s gonna get done. It’s just that this one’s a lot trickier than the last. We got a smaller area to work with, if you know what I’m saying.”

  “Then go back to the original—like last time.”

  Right, Mac, she thought. Her finger. Sure. On a cold day in hell.

  She said, “Either way, it’s a different situation. We can’t exactly get this package liquored up like the last one.” What an absolute total nightmare that had been.

  “So use something else. Or maybe I ought to come over and supervise.”

  Oh, Jesus, no. No-no-no-no!

  “That’s okay, Mac. We’re handling it. It’ll get done as soon as he gets back.”

  “Yeah? What tool’s he out buying?”

  “A meat cleaver.”

  Another silence on Mac’s end, shorter this time. His voice was lighter when he spoke again. “Yeah. That oughta do it.”

  “Quick and neat,” she said, forcing the words. She couldn’t resist adding, “But no matter how you look at it, it’s like pretty goddamn ugly. I mean, she’s only—”

  “Watch it! Watch what you say.”

  “All right, but—”

  “No buts. And don’t get all soft and fuzzy on me. A little persuader will make things run much smoother, and get this over quicker. And besides, she’ll never miss it.” And she’ll never forget what two strangers did to her in a back room when she was six years old. Poppy thought. But I’ll see to it she doesn’t have to forget.

  Poppy sighed with all the regret she could muster. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Suppose? You’d better know I’m right. Have him call my voice mail if there’s a problem; otherwise he knows where to deliver it.” Mac hung up right in the middle of her “Yeah.” Jesus, she hated him.

  She got her Minnie Mouse mask back on and went to retrieve Katie from the bathroom. She needed a dose of that little girl to clear away the bad aftertaste of Mac.

  12

  Paulie stood in a clump of trees across from the Lynch-MacDougal Funeral Home and watched all the mourners trail away. He waited while all windows went dark one by one, then groaned as he saw Michael and Lydia appear at the back door.

  “The parking lot lights, schmuck! Don’t leave’em on. It’s a waste of energy.”

  The pair didn’t seem to care. They locked up and headed for separate cars; MacDougal to a Buick Riviera and Lynch to a little Beamer then drove off in the same direction. He still hadn’t figured out how those two were related, and didn’t really care. He had a problem: the sodium lamps didn’t leave a single goddamn shadow near the building. This was going to be like breaking in at noon.

  But it had to be done. At least the bathroom window was around back. That gave him some cover.

  He checked his pockets: penlight, pruning shears, the leather driving gloves from his chauffeur stint the other day all present and accounted for. He checked the street. When no cars were in sight, he dashed across and pelted straight through the parking lot to the back of the funeral home. He stood there panting, looking innocent, while he waited to see if he’d attracted any attention.

  Nothing stirred. He crouched, spotted the white of the toilet tissue he’d left to mark the right window, and gave it a shove. The window swung in easily.

  Paulie rolled onto his belly, pushed his legs into the opening, and slid through the window. A tight squeeze for his shoulders, but he managed to wriggle through and wound up standing on the toilet. He pushed the window closed and turned on the penlight.

  Moving out to the dark smoking lounge, he looked around for the private door. He’d been thinking about what might be on the other side and had an idea. He stepped inside and flashed the light around. Just what he’d suspected: polished wooden boxes in tight neat rows. This was where they stored the coffins.

  Holding the penlight in his mouth, he moved along the rows, going from coffin to coffin, finding the latches on each, unhooking them, and lifting the lids. Nothing to it.

  They were all pretty much the same. Good. He’d been worried that he’d have trouble with the Eddie Hadley coffin upstairs. He always made a point of keeping flashlight use to an absolute minimum if windows were involved. None down here, but he’d seen plenty of glass upstairs.

  As he turned to leave, the light caught a silvery reflection in a rear corner of the room. Looked like stainless steel sinks and counters. Must be where Lynch and MacDougal did their embalming. He spotted a white sheeted figure on a table. The next customer?

  Paulie knew he should be heading upstairs for his date with Eddie Hadley’s toe, but he found himself irresistibly drawn to that table. Just for a look. Only take a second…

  As he neared, he figured which end was the head. He lifted the sheet and flashed the beam on the face of a young girl with long brown hair. Pale as the sheet, but with her eyes closed she looked like she was sleeping, like one shake of her shoulder and she’d open up and look at him. This must have been the young “beloved” MacDougal had mentioned.

  Paulie lifted the sheet farther—nude as a lap dancer underneath and very nicely built. He stared at her, wondering what she’d died of. Too bad. She was a looker.

  He dropped the sheet and headed upstairs. He found the Hadley room and stepped inside. A quick flash of the light showed him the path through the chairs. He reached the coffin and found someone had closed it.

  Fine with me, he thought. He didn’t feature having the kid watching while he crunched on his toe.

  He felt along under the cover lip until he found the latch for the lower half, unhooked it, and lifted. Another quick flash to orient himself and— “I’ll be damned!” The kid wasn’t wearing pants or shoes or socks.

  This made it easier for Paulie, sure, but it was something of a shock. You figure if they dress the top half, they dress the rest of you too.

  “All right, Eddie boy,” he said, “time for your contribution to the cause.” No way around using his light now, but at least he’d have the coffin cover between him and the window. He pulled the pruning shears from his pocket, stuck the light in his mouth and bent over the kid’s feet. He found the little toe on the right foot, fitted the shears around it, and squeezed. Nowhere near the resistance he’d expected. A little pressure, a soft crunch, and there it was: one persuader, made to order.

  He pocketed the shears and picked up the toe. Tiny little thing—half the size of a cigarette filter, and about as white but heavier. As he took a closer look he saw that the cut end was wet and reddish, but it wasn’t bloody. That might be a problem, but he’d worry about it later. Now that he had what he’d come for, he wanted out of here.

  He glanced at his watch. Not bad: door to door—make that window to window—in ten minutes.

  He pulled out the Ziploc sandwich bag he’d brought along. As he went to drop the toe inside, he felt it slip from his fingers.

  “Fuck!” He checked the bag. No, it hadn’t fallen in there. That meant it was on the floor. Christ, he had to find it.

  Paulie dropped to his
knees and began flashing the light along the floor. Great… the carpet was beige… and thick—just his luck.

  Easiest thing to do would be to just cut off the other toe and forget about this one. But sure as hell someone would find it tomorrow and want to know where it came from. And when they found out he’d bet his ass the papers and the TV news would start shouting about someone chopping off little kids’ toes, and then for sure Mac would come gunning for him.

  Nope. Had to find this one.

  At least he was below window level where the penlight wouldn’t be seen from the street. But where was the goddamn thing?

  He didn’t know how long he was down there on the floor, kneeling, crouching, crawling, lying flat on his belly, shining the light at all different angles—seemed like forever—until he spotted this slightly paler lump nestled in the carpet fibers four feet from the coffin. Was that—?

  Yes. He almost sobbed with relief. How the hell did it get over there? Damn thing must have bounced and rolled. Who cared? He had it and he wasn’t losing it. Still lying on the floor, he carefully sealed the toe in the baggie and stuffed that deep into the front pocket of his jeans.

  Then he rose and closed and latched the lower half of Eddie’s coffin.

  “Thanks, buddy. You’ve been a real—” The words choked in his throat.

  Outside the window sitting in the parking lot…

  A car.

  Christ! Where’d that come from? Must have pulled in while he was on the floor. But who—?

  Out in the hall, he heard the faint clack of a dead bolt snapping open. He made like a statue and listened. The rear door swung open with a creak. He heard the alarm panel begin to beep, then shut off as someone punched in the security code. He heard someone humming—a guy.

  MacDougal? Yeah. The car outside was a Riv, just like he’d seen MacDougal driving. As a light came on down the hall, Paulie crouched behind the coffin, but instead of coming this way, MacDougal headed downstairs.

  At first Paulie cursed—that was his way out. He was stuck here until MacDougal left, and who knew how long that would be?