F Wilson - Deep as the Marrow

Dan knew her name… Katie… knew everything about her and her father. And he’d fed all that information to Carlos Salinas. Who used it to kidnap her.

Dan didn’t know for sure that it had been done, but he’d checked on Vanduyne yesterday and learned that he’d left his office almost immediately after arriving, and hadn’t been heard from since. Dan had a pretty good— and pretty sickening—idea what that meant.

That poor man. What he must be feeling.

Dan tried to imagine what it would be like to hear that someone had kidnapped Danny. He found it beyond comprehension.

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.