F Wilson: Deep as the Marrow

John buttoned Katie’s navy-blue uniform blazer over her plaid jumper. Here was another thing he liked about Holy Family Elementary: the uniform. No daily contretemps over what to wear, what the other kids were wearing, and why-can’t-I-wear-that-too tantrums. All the girls wore one-piece blue-and-gray plaid jumpers over a white blouse with a neat little Peter Pan collar, blue knee socks, and saddle shoes; all the boys wore blazers of the same plaid with blue slacks. And that was that.

But no rules on hats, so Katie was allowed to wear her favorite: a red beret. After she adjusted it over her hair, they began the predeparture ritual: “Got your lunch box?” he said.

She held it up. “Check!”

“Morning snack?”

“Check!”

“Afternoon snack?”

“Check!”

“Got your pencil case?”

She held that up. “Check!”

“Got your emergency quarter?”

She felt in her blazer pocket. “Check!”

“Then I guess you’re ready to go. Say good-bye to Nana.” He watched his mother and his daughter exchange a quick hug and a kiss; then he took Katie’s little hand in his and led her out the door.

A crisp April morning—spring was here but winter wasn’t letting go. One of those days it felt good to be alive.

And for John, this was the best time of day, the time he felt closest to Katie. He wanted that closeness, needed it, and knew she needed it too—desperately. He’d worked hard to let her know she was loved and cherished and that no one was ever going to hurt her again.

When they reached the corner, they stopped and waited for the bus.

“Do you think Jimmy Clifton’s going to get in trouble again today?” he said.

She shrugged. “Maybe. I hope they don’t kick him out.”

“Ooh,” he teased, nudging her with his hip. “That sounds like somebody I know likes Jimmy Clifton.”

“I do not!” she said. “I just think he’s funny.”

Methinks the lady doth protest too much, he thought, but he didn’t push Katie any further. She seemed genuinely worried that the boy would be kicked out.

John doubted that that would happen to Jimmy, being Senator Clifton’s son—but you never knew. Those nuns weren’t easily impressed. And they had about fifty other kids on a list waiting to take his spot.

“If he’s really funny,” John told her, “maybe Sister Louise will keep him around just for laughs.”

“He’s not that funny,” Katie said.

As John laughed, the yellow Holy Family Elementary bus rounded the far corner and made its way down the street.

He squatted next to her, pulled her close, and gave her a big hug.

“Daddy loves Katie.”

She threw her free arm around his neck. “Katie loves Daddy.”

He held her tight against him, cherishing the moment. In a few years she’d become self-conscious and find such public displays of affection too embarrassing for words. But for now, she was delighted to be hugged by her daddy.

He released her as the bus pulled to a halt at the curb. He let her run to the open door by herself. A few seconds later she was waving and smiling from one of the windows.

When the yellow bus and the red beret were out of sight, he headed back to the house.

Not a bad house, he thought as he approached it. A twenty-year-old brick federal in a neighborhood of colonials and other federals on small, wooded lots. A neighborhood that screamed Washington, D.C. Nana— Ma—tolerated it. Said the layout was out of date, with no flow for company. But when did he ever have company?

If he bought it he’d have to do some heavy renovation. He bought it.

When he’d come to Washington he hadn’t known whether he was going to like it around here. Still wasn’t sure.

When his old boyhood friend Tom Winston became President of the United States, he’d asked John to come along. Said he wanted some Georgia boys around him in Washington, that John was already treating his high blood pressure and he wanted him to keep on doing so.

But John guessed the real reason was that Tom had known how he was hurting, how his life had fallen apart, and had offered him a breather.

John had come to Washington looking for more than a change of routine and a change of scenery—he’d been hoping for a whole new life. He didn’t know if he’d found that. But he had found a peace of sorts, and that was a start. A good start.

2

Michael MacLaglen was fully into Snake mode now.

Last night he’d been sitting in front of the tube—or rather the eight-by-twenty-foot wall screen of his projection TV—watching President Winston commit political sepukku, when the call came. He’d been expecting it.

One word: “Go.” The word had begun the transformation. He’d called Paulie and told him the snatch was on and going down tomorrow. He’d gone online, spent some time lurking the hacker boards, then went to bed.

When he’d hit the pillow he was still mostly Michael MacLaglen. But upon opening his eyes this morning, he was all Snake. The adrenaline had begun to flow—just a mild buzz now, but he knew it would build throughout the day to a rush that would last the duration of the snatch.

And this one could go a couple of weeks—easy. He licked his lips. He hoped so.

Snake had been following the yellow bus for about a mile in his new Jeep Grand Cherokee. He tapped on the steering wheel and acted impatient, looking like any one of the other dozen or so agitated commuters trapped behind the school bus.

But inside he was cool, very pleased that the laws kept him behind it, forced him to stop whenever it picked up a kid, forbade him to scoot around it when its red lights were flashing. Nothing easier than following a school bus.

He watched with satisfaction as it picked up the blueblazered package and carried it off to school. Right on schedule, just like every other school day.

As he passed the package’s father, he stole a look. Dr. John Vanduyne. Tall dude—six two. Snake guessed; fortyish with longish brown hair graying at the temples. Looked a little like that Charlie Rose guy on the tube except for the intense blue eyes. Casual, conservative dresser, leaning toward slacks and button-downs and sweaters. Like me, Snake thought. Moved well, walking with a long, easy stride. Maybe a basketball player in high school; a shooting guard, he bet. Trim, good shoulders, probably watched what he ate. Snake knew he worked out regularly, knew he had a fairly set routine for every day of the week.

The doc looked fit on the outside, but Snake had him figured for a mushy core. Still living with his mother. A mama’s boy. A wimp. Good. He’d fold up like wet cardboard and do exactly as he was told.

Which was how it should be. Snake wouldn’t put up with any heroics or ad-libbing from this guy. Because this was already one weird piece of business, what with the cash payoff coming from a third party instead of the package’s family. The family—the doc—would have to buy back his little package another way.

Get ready, doc, he thought as he left Vanduyne behind and continued in the wake of the school bus. Your routine’s in for a big change. Real soon.

3

Back in the house, John found his mother standing before the kitchen TV, watching a replay of key moments from last night’s Presidential address.

“… can break the backs of these criminal empires. We can pull the economic rug out from under them by denying them the tens of billions of dollars—not tens of millions, tens of billions of dollars—they rake in annually from their illegal activities. And we don’t need to mobilize our military, we don’t need to mount an armed assault on them. All we need to do is change a few laws…”

She glanced up at him. “Has that Tommy Winston gone crazy? Was he sipping at the schnapps before he went on TV last night?” John could tell by the rhythm of her speech that she was upset. His Dutch-American father, raised all his life in the south, had married a girl from the old country. When she was upset her voice jumped half an octave and a Dutch accent began to creep into her otherwise perfect English.