Deep as the Marrow

by F. Paul Wilson

  But even if Katie were safely inside with Nana, Mamie would still be a menace. What the hell was she doing roaming around D.C. in the first place?

  John jammed the paper into his pocket and hurried inside. He knew just the man to answer that question. Dr. William Schuyler of Marietta, Georgia. It might be Saturday, and Schuyler might have the weekend off, but John had his home phone number.

  He crept up to his study, closed the door, found the number, and dialed.

  Schuyler’s wife answered. John mumbled his name as Dr. So-and-so and said he had to speak to “Bill” right away. He sat there, seething, grinding his teeth: William Schuyler, M.D., Ph.D., a pompous ass who thought he had the magic touch. No one was so deranged that he or she would not respond to Dr. Schuyler’s unique ministrations.

  “Hello?”

  “This is John Vanduyne.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes. ‘Oh.’ Want to know who’s been skulking around my neighborhood?”

  “Oh, come now, John. ‘Skulking’ is such a loaded term.” The mellifluous tone, the precise diction, the haughty demeanor. It all came back to John in a flash, the sight of him sitting in the witness chair, bald head gleaming in the overhead lights, pudgy hands resting on his ample abdomen as he spewed his inexhaustible stream of psychobabble until the courtroom was awash in empty, selfserving opinions that sounded for all the world like facts.

  “You think ‘skulking’ is loaded? How about stalking That’s right. She’s stalking Katie. And she says you said it was all right.”

  “That is absurd, John, and you know it. I did tell her, however, that I think she’s recovered to the point where supervised visits might be equally beneficial to both mother and child. Now, if she’s misinterpreted that to mean—”

  “Always have your ass covered, don’t you. But this time you’re out on a limb. You had no right to say that to a deranged patient. You—”

  “ ‘Deranged’ is such a—”

  “Keep quiet and listen‘. You know the terms of the deal. No criminal prosecution if I got sole custody of Katie and Mamie stayed in intense psychotherapy for ten years. That was the deal. There were no maybes. She doesn’t get near Katie for ten years.”

  “But that’s so unreasonable.”

  “And damn near killing her daughter isn’t? You know her history almost as well as I do. She damn near stove in Katie’s skull with that fireplace poker. She’s hated Katie since the day she was born. I—”

  “ ‘Hate’ is such a vague—”

  “Shut up, dammit! I don’t know why she hates her and neither do you. We may never know. I don’t care to know. All I care about is Katie. And if anything happens to my little girl because of your negligence, you will pay, Schuyler.”

  “If you think you can sue me—”

  “Sue?” John heard himself laugh and it was an awful sound. “Oh, no, Schuyler. You won’t pay with your money, or even your license. You’ll pay the way Katie pays. Because anything—anything—that happens to her will happen to you. Double. Got that? Got that?”

  Amazing. William Schuyler, M.D., Ph.D., was speechless.

  John hung up and stared out the window at the tree branches. He’d meant every word he’d just said. Somehow, sometime, somewhere in the past twenty-four hours he’d decided to devote the rest of his life to finding the people who had amputated Katie’s toe. He had fantasies of the feds being baffled but the relentless John Vanduyne somehow tracking them down… and cornering them… and then wading in with a chainsaw.

  And now he’d add the esteemed Dr. Schuyler to the list. If Katie came to more harm because of Mamie, he’d see to it that Schuyler experienced it all first hand.

  John folded his arms on his desk and rested his head atop them. He made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.

  Mamie’s not the only one who needs a psychiatrist.

  8

  “What I want to know is why this lunatic is still running around loose?”

  Bob Decker looked up from his notes. Dan Keane of DEA was doing the asking; trim, silver haired, in his midfifties, his usually florid complexion had grown progressively paler since Bob began explaining why they were here. He sat between blond, handsome Gerry Canney of the FBI and balding, red-headed Jim Lewis from CIA.

  “A number of reasons,” Bob said. “The primary one being that the President wants it that way. You heard it from the Man himself just a few minutes ago.” He was still amazed that he’d been able to assemble this mini task force so quickly. Wonderful what could be accomplished when you had the full authority of the Executive Office behind you.

  The four of them were crammed into a corner office in W-16. Bob had drawn the shades, locked the door, and stationed two uniformed agents in the hall with orders not to let anyone within ten feet of the door.

  He’d briefed his team on the situation, describing everything pretty much as it had gone down. He’d diverged from fact only when he’d told them that Razor had swallowed the pills, and that Vanduyne, overcome by guilt, had confessed. Since it had been too late to pump Razor’s stomach—Bob didn’t know if that was true but expected them to buy it—the President was admitting himself to Bethesda for observation.

  Bob didn’t think it was necessary to con these men; he knew them all and would trust each of them with his life. But Razor wanted it this way, so that was how it was going to be.

  “The other reasons,” Bob added, “are that Vanduyne is the link to whoever’s behind this. We need him out there, trading messages with these guys. And the third is that we’re trying to save a little girl’s life. Katie Vanduyne is Razor’s godchild and he wants the rest of her back alive and in one piece.” Bob viewed the last objective as of secondary importance; his primary concern was protecting Razor from any more attempts on his life.

  “The rest of her?” Canney said.

  Bob turned and put the cooler on the desk. “Yeah. The kidnappers sent her little toe to her father to convince him they meant business. It’s in here.”

  Canney winced. The grimace emphasized the fine scars left after a car accident half a dozen years ago; Gerry survived, his wife didn’t. Bob knew he had a daughter somewhere around Katie Vanduyne’s age.

  “Oh, God,” Keane whispered. He suddenly looked pale and sweaty. Bob knew he had grandchildren; probably imagining one of them in a similar situation. Only Jim Lewis seemed unaffected. But then, nothing seemed to affect Lewis.

  “I’ll get this into the lab ASAP,” Canney said. “But what do I say about it? I’ve got to attribute it to a specific case.”

  “I’ll have the case number before you leave. Razor’s talking to your director right now.”

  “What do you need from my people?” Jim Lewis said.

  “That anonymous remailer in the U.K.” Bob handed him a manila folder.

  “These are printouts of all his e-mail to Vanduyne. You find that remailer, find out who ‘Snake’ is, and this case will be on the home stretch.”

  “Snake?” Canney said. “Did you say Snake?”

  “Sound familiar?”

  “Yeah. I’ve heard that name before… connected to a couple of kidnappings… I think I heard of one where he sent a finger when things weren’t moving fast enough to suit him.”

  “Got to be the same guy.” Bob clapped his hands and rubbed them together. This was great. The team hadn’t been together half an hour and already they were rolling.

  “Okay. Pull your file on him and we’ll—”

  “Sorry. No file. The information’s been tangential— you know, the kind of stuff you pick up when you’re looking for something else. We don’t know diddly about the guy except that he seems to specialize in snatching the kind of people who won’t holler for a cop.”

  “So we’re dealing with an experienced team,” Bob said.

  Not good news. It meant this guy Snake had probably perfected his technique before snatching the Vanduyne girl. He turned to Keane.

  “We figure this has got to be drug related,
Dan. Who’s most likely to be behind it?”

  “Hmm?” Keane seemed mesmerized by the cooler.

  Bob wondered what was bugging him. He repeated the question.

  “I can only guess,” Keane said slowly, as if choosing his words carefully. “The Cali cartel—and that pretty much means Emilio Rojas these days—has the most money, but the Mexican traffickers have the most Stateside contacts now. Could be Rojas working through the Mexicans, or the Mexicans acting on their own.”

  Bob hid his annoyance. He’d hoped for a little more in-depth analysis from the assistant director of the DEA.

  “What’s your best guess?”

  “Best guess? I’d say Mexicans. Kidnapping is an art form in Colombia; they’d bring in their own people. But I can see the Mexicans hiring local talent. We keep tabs on Carillo, Garcia, Esparragosa, and the other big shots. I’ll run a check and see if any of them have been crossing the border lately.”

  That was better. “Good. All right. We all know what we have to do. Don’t waste any time. This is top priority.” He wished he could tell them they only had till Tuesday, but only he and Razor knew that. “I say we meet back here at six p.m.—sooner if something breaks.”

  As they began to rise. Bob said. “I know I don’t need to repeat what the President said when you all first got here, but I will anyway. Nothing said here goes beyond these walls. Doesn’t matter who asks, whether it’s the director of your agency or a senator or a cabinet member, you say nothing. Razor has signed an executive order to that effect, so you’re off the hook. It’s not that you don’t want to discuss it, you are forbidden to discuss it. And I want to know immediately the name of anyone who presses you about it.”

  Dan Keane was the first out—seemed in a big hurry to leave—followed by Jim Lewis. Gerry Canney hung back, the cooler dangling in his hand.

  “Thanks for calling me in, Bob. I appreciate the confidence.”

  Bob smiled and thought of the close call they’d had with a certain Dr. Lathram a few years back. “Not the first time we’ve worked together on a plot against a president. Except you may never get a chance to talk about this one.”

  Canney shrugged. “I’ll save it for my memoirs. But more than anything I want to get that little girl back alive.”

  “Thinking of Martha?” Bob said.

  “How can I not? Katie Vanduyne is only a couple of years younger.” He glanced down at the cooler. “I don’t know what I’d do if someone ever…” He shuddered.

  “I know,” Bob said. His own boys were teenagers, but it seemed only yesterday that they’d been small and so much more vulnerable.

  When Canney was gone, Bob sat down and began making notes and organizing his information. He couldn’t have a secretary in on this, so he had to do it himself.

  Not a bad start. Dan Keane tracking from the drug lords toward Snake. Jim Lewis tracking from the anonymous remailer toward Snake. Gerry Canney tracking from Katie Vanduyne’s toe toward Snake.

  Snake, my man, whoever you are, wherever you are, you’re the key. And you’re in deep shit. Because we’re going to find you. And when we find you, we squeeze you. We squeeze you like no one’s ever been squeezed before. We squeeze until you cough up who you’re working for. And then we find them and squeeze again. And pretty soon we get to the guy who started it all.

  By Tuesday, please God.

  9

  After a quick stop at his office to pick up his briefcase, Dan Keane hurried along Sixth Street toward the Mall. The chances of his running into someone he knew downtown on a Saturday were slim to none, but he kept watch, kept glancing around, unable to escape the feeling that someone was following him.

  Just paranoia, he knew. And well deserved. The plan was unraveling before his eyes. The weak link had always been Vanduyne, and he’d broken.

  But not before dosing Winston with that antibiotic, thank God. That was all that mattered: taking Winston out.

  And making sure nothing linked the plot to the drug cartels. Because if that was ever established, it would advance the decriminalization cause—precisely the opposite effect Dan wanted.

  Dan was in the clear, at least. Nothing to link him to Vanduyne, the kidnappers, or Salinas. And to lessen the possibility of linking Salinas to the plot, the whole kidnap apparatus had to be immediately dismantled and its components scattered.

  But what about the child? What happened to her?

  He tried not to think about that little girl. Yes, she had a name, but he kept it far to the rear of his thoughts, kept telling himself she’d be all right, but already he knew she was anything but. Great God in heaven, what sort of monster can carve a toe off a child?

  Dan knew exactly what kind. And this was simply further proof that these slimy bastards had to be eliminated—not by legalizing their filthy trade, but by hunting them down, rounding them up, locking them away from decent society and throwing away the key.

  Dan knew his particular monster’s name. He was going to speak to him today. Now.

  The little girl would be all right. But even if she weren’t— He couldn’t believe he was actually thinking this, but even if she weren’t all right, even if it worked out that she never made it back to her home, she was only one life. If she was the means that put an end to Winston and his decriminalization plans, her single life would be spent to save countless others.

  Keep thinking about the big picture, he told himself. Don’t let the minutiae swallow you up. What was one little life weighed against the unraveling of the moral fiber of an entire nation?

  One little life…

  He spotted a phone near the Air and Space Museum and stepped up to it. He removed the battery-operated voice distorter from his briefcase and glanced around. No one nearby. He attached the mechanism to the mouthpiece, dropped a quarter in the slot, and dialed. He had no doubt Salinas was recording these calls, and doing his damnedest to trace them. Good luck. Dan used a different phone every time, and in the highly unlikely event that the tapes ever got to court, the distorter would confound any attempt at voiceprint analysis.

  When someone on the other end answered, Dan said, “Put Salinas on.” The first few times he’d called there’d been some argument about calling him back. Dan had always refused. Those days were gone. Now when they heard his distorted voice, they put him right through.

  “Yes?” he heard Salinas say. “Who’s calling?”

  He pictured the fat slob sitting in a chair or on a sofa, his belly drooping between his spread thighs. When was the last time you saw your dick, pig? Dear God, he hated his type. That was why he’d joined DEA—to rid the earth of them.

  But Salinas was no dummy. Dan had to hand him that. He, too, assumed the calls were being recorded, so he always played dumb. No one was going to entrap Carlos Salinas.

  And so they began their verbal dance.

  “You know damn well who it is,” Dan said.

  “Sorry, I don’t recognize the voice. Must be a bad connection.”

  “Right. The worst ever. Here’s what you need to know: The target is being admitted to the hospital later today.”

  “That is too bad for Mr. Target, but I don’t believe I know him.”

  “Maybe you know his doctor. Shortly after treating the target, the doctor confessed to his mistake. A number of agencies are involved in trying to unravel the matter.”

  A long pause on the other end. Dan was sure this was the last thing Salinas wanted to hear.

  “But Mr. Target is sick?”

  “Not yet, but he expects to be. The doctor, obviously, is of no further use, therefore the apparatus you assembled to put pressure on him must be dismantled immediately, and his valuables returned to him.”

  “Valuables?”

  “Yes. The valuable thing you took from him.”

  “No,” Salinas said. “I do not think that will happen. You see, he did not fulfill the terms of the arrangement, therefore he cannot expect the return of his possession. Besides, it is more… how do I say?… di
screet if the possession is never seen again.”

  Dan closed his eyes and repeated his mantra: The big picture… forget the details… always look at the big picture…

  He swallowed. “Will you be as thorough regarding the other components of the apparatus?”

  “Of course. It is a small apparatus. No one will miss the parts.”

  “No one must connect you or your business with it.”

  “There will be no trace. How can I be connected with something that never existed?” How indeed?

  Dan hung up and retched. forget the details… always look at the big picture…

  How the hell did he get himself involved in this? He had to ask himself how many people at DEA hated Winston and his plan.

  Easy answer: Everyone. How else do you react to someone who has condemned your career, your life’s work to extinction?

  But how many had considered conspiring with the enemy to put a stop to Winston? Maybe a few. But he knew of only one with the guts, only one who cared enough about his duty and his country to follow through with it.

  Daniel J. Keane.

  But were his reasons so purely idealistic? He wanted to think so, but in his most honest moments, at 3:00 a.m. when he found himself wide awake and staring at the clock, his mind taunted him, whispering that he was motivated not so much by principle as by self-preservation.

  He’d devoted most of his working life to the DEA. And now that he was finally in line to be administrator, Winston was planning to render the agency obsolete, and Dan’s entire career irrelevant. The DEA might continue to exist, but only as a shell, a vestigial organ, of as much consequence as the human appendix.

  Had he made a deal with the Devil merely to salvage his career? No. He couldn’t accept that. He was better than that. But then another question would arise: When you join forces with the enemy, don’t you become the enemy?