F Wilson - Deep as the Marrow

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.