F Wilson - Deep as the Marrow

John leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. Step one completed.

Now for step two.

But as he picked up the phone, the doorbell rang. He jumped and almost dropped the phone.

Not a delivery man… oh, please. God, not another piece of Katie!

John hung up and forced himself toward the door that loomed ahead of him like the portals of hell. Clenching his teeth he grabbed the knob and yanked it open.

An attractive, fortyish woman stood on the front step. She wore a mink coat and high heels. Her long, glossy black hair was tied back with a gold clasp. Her face was perfectly made up. She was smiling, but her dark eyes challenged him.

John nearly staggered back at the sight of her. This was impossible.

“Hello, John.” Her voice… so smooth, so cool, so perfectly modulated.

“Mamie!” His own voice sounded like steel dragging across concrete. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to see my daughter.”

“You-you’re supposed to be in Georgia!”

“I was released.”

“I don’t believe that!”

“It’s true, John. I’m cured. I’m on medication, and as long as I maintain my dosage, I’m fine. As a matter of fact, if I keep doing this well, Dr. Schuyler says he might try tapering my dose in the fall. Isn’t that wonderful?”

John’s mind reeled. This couldn’t be. Mamie was supposed to be at the Marietta Psychiatric Center. What was she doing in D.C.? And why now? Of all times, why did she have to appear now?

“I don’t care what Schuyler or anyone else says, the court said you’re not supposed to leave Georgia.”

Her smile held. “Dr. Schuyler worked it out for me. I’m well enough to travel now. And I want to see Katie.”

“No,” John said, shaking his head as vehemently as he could. “Not a chance. Not a chance in hell.”

“I’m her mother, John.” The smile wavered. “I have a right to—”

“You have no rights!” he said, feeling his anger rise— and loving it. So good to feel something other than sickness and dread. “You gave them up, remember? That was the deal: No prison for you, sole custody for me. And that’s the way it’s going to be.”

Finally the smile vanished. “I want to see Katie. You can’t keep me from seeing my own daughter.”

“I can and will. And if you don’t get away from here, I’ll call the police and tell them you’re a fugitive from a Georgia psychiatric hospital.”

“That’s not—”

“And I’ll also tell them about the standing court order that forbids you from going anywhere near her. Do I call now, or do you leave?” Mamie backed up a step. And now her lips trembled.

“This isn’t fair, John.”

“That won’t work on me, Mamie. And I don’t want to hear about fair. Do us all a favor and go back to Georgia. Now.”

“I hope you’re taking better care of her than you are of yourself. You look terrible.”

“Good-bye, Mamie.” He shut the door and leaned his forehead against the inner surface. Please go away. I already have more than I can handle. I can’t deal with you too.

God he hated her, loathed the very sight of her. As an enlightened man of the nineties—and a physician to boot—he knew you couldn’t hold the mentally ill responsible for their acts. But that didn’t mean he had to forgive them.

And John would never forgive Mamie for what she had done. No matter what army of psychiatrists she assembled to proclaim her mentally and emotionally stable and perfectly fit to return to society, he would never allow Mamie back into Katie’s life.

He stood on tiptoe and peeked through the miniature fanlight in the upper panel of the door. The front yard was empty. Mamie was gone. And she’d better stay gone or she’d screw up everything. But he didn’t doubt for a moment that she’d be back.

“John?” His mother’s voice, coming from upstairs.

“Yeah, Mom?”

“Was someone at the door?”

“Just a salesman. Mom. Go get some rest. I’ll let you know as soon as anything happens.” Katie, Tom, Mom, Snake, Mamie—how long could he keep all the balls in the air without dropping one?

Feeling as if he were about to explode, John returned to the kitchen and settled down to the task of arranging to poison the President of the United States.

Steeling himself, he punched in the direct line to Betty Kenny. Betty had started out as a clerk-typist in Tom’s office when he was a lowly congressman. She’d moved with him to the Senate and was now his personal secretary, controlling his all-important appointment book. To get to Tom you had to get past Battleship Betty. But she knew John and liked him; and he knew how she worried about her boss’s health.

“Hi, Betty,” he said, trying to sound light and carefree with no idea if he was succeeding. “It’s John Vanduyne. I need a few moments with your boss tomorrow to check his blood pressure. Will he be around?” He crossed his fingers. Please say yes.

“Hi, John. Let me check. Weren’t you here for that just the other day?”

“Yeah. Wednesday. And I didn’t like what I found.” Her voice dropped.

“Really? Was it bad?”

“I probably shouldn’t have said that. Forget what you just heard, okay?”

“I won’t say a word. You know that. But I want to know: Should I be worried?”

He played on her concern. “His pressure was borderline high, but I want to keep an eye on it. Especially if he’s traveling to The Hague next week.”

“I understand. Let’s see… he’s got a meeting in the Oval Office at ten… this won’t take long, will it?”

“Ten minutes, fifteen at most.”

“Okay. Why don’t I keep that half hour between nine thirty and ten o’clock clear? How’s that?”

“Perfect.” The word was bitter in his mouth.

A little small talk and he was off the phone again, leaning back, trembling.

Stage two completed.

He’d been so cool on the phone, on autopilot, but now the weight of what he was planning crept back to him.

Especially if he’s traveling to The Hague next week…

But I’ll be doing my damnedest to make sure he doesn’t get to The Hague next week, John thought. If he shows up there, Katie dies.

I’m just going to make him sick, he told himself for the thousandth time since opening the mailbox this morning. He won’t die. He may almost die, but the cutting-edge medical care available to the President of the United States will pull him through.

But what if the chloramphenicol didn’t have any effect on Tom’s marrow? It was a possibility. What then? Or what if there was a delayed reaction that didn’t kick in for weeks? Would Snake believe he’d dosed Tom as instructed? Not for a minute.

John wanted to scream, but that would wake up his mother.

Time to go on autopilot again.

He glanced at his watch. He had to get down to the pharmacy and pretend to be Henry Johnson picking up his pills.

I’m becoming a master of deception, he thought. I’ve lied to my mother, Terri, my office, a pharmacist, Tom’s secretary, and tomorrow, my best friend.

He realized with a sick, sinking feeling that the only one he’d been truthful with all day was Snake.

1

“John?” He recognized the voice and stiffened. He’d been standing here, waiting for the elevator to the White House’s first floor, silently screaming at it to hurry before he ran into anyone he knew.

Too late. He turned and saw Terri coming down the hall. He forced a smile.

“Terri. I didn’t think you worked weekends.”

“There are no weekends in a PR crisis of this magnitude.” Her welcoming smile faded as she neared. “Are you all right?”

“I think so,” he said. “Why?”