F Wilson - Deep as the Marrow

“Can’t we do something today?”

“Sorry. Gotta be tomorrow. Bally’s. Don’t forget.” She hung up.

“You didn’t let me say bye,” Katie said.

“Oh, I’m sorry, honey bunch. But guess what? You’re going back to him tomorrow for sure.”

Katie’s big smile and the light in her eyes were daggers through Poppy’s heart. Aren’t you going to miss me? Just a little?

6

Every time he thought things couldn’t get worse, they did.

Dan Keane sat in on the task force update and tried to appear calm as Decker summarized the latest information. But it wasn’t easy. Murphy’s Law had taken over.

“… and so it appears that the actual kidnap operation is a bust. If we can trust this unidentified woman who’s been calling Vanduyne, the kidnappers had a falling out over cutting off the child’s toe. The disagreement left Paul Dicastro dead and someone named ‘Mac’ wounded. ‘Mac’ may or may not be ‘Snake.’ According to the woman, he’s got a head wound. Consequently, we’ve got an APB out for a man with a gunshot head wound— officially listed as a suspect in the Falls Church killing. We’re combing emergency rooms in a fifty-mile radius.”

I’ve got to call Salinas, Keane thought. He’s got to start his own ER sweep.

“We want this guy. We’ve got to get to him before he gets to Katie Vanduyne. Once we have him, we can tie him to the kidnapping and to the murder. With those counts against him, I know we can make him roll over and give up whoever put him up to this.”

Canney spoke up. “But first we need Katie Vanduyne alive and well. We traced the last call to a pay phone in Edgewood, Maryland, but they could be anywhere between Maryland and Atlantic City now. We could clamp down on the A.C. Expressway and check every car, but that might frighten her off. We want this exchange to happen. We want Katie back. We’d also like the woman who has her, of course, but we’ll settle for Katie. She can identify ‘Mac.’ She’s the key right now.”

“Right,” Decker said. “That’s why this will be our last face-to-face meeting for a while. Gerry and I are heading to Atlantic City tonight. That’s where Vanduyne’s supposed to get Katie back. We’ll bug his phone and be in the wings making sure nothing goes wrong.”

Why risk another call? Keane thought. I’m clean. No links. Let’s keep it that way.

Right. Everything has already gone to hell. Let Salinas worry about it.

Time for Dan Keane to wash his hands of the whole affair. Let the little girl get home to her father, let Decker and Canney catch this wounded kidnapper. It won’t matter. He was certain Salinas had insulated himself from the plot. And if this missing guy does pose a threat, Salinas will see to it that he never gets a chance to talk.

What mattered was that the plan had worked. That fool Winston was in Bethesda Naval rather than on his way to The Hague. His decriminalization debacle was heading for derailment. Without him, it would never get back ontrack.

And I did it.

Dan headed straight home to Georgetown after the meeting. Still early on this Sunday afternoon, but he needed a drink. A stiff one. He wished Carmella and the kids hadn’t gone to Florida. He didn’t feel like being alone today.

The phone was ringing as he entered his townhouse. He hurried down the narrow front hall and snatched it up.

“Hello, Mr. Keane.”

Dan nearly fell into a chair as he recognized the voice.

He could not speak.

“Hello?” said Carlos Salinas. “Are you still there?”

His panicked mind whirled. How? How did he trace me? What do I do?

Play dumb.

“Who… who is this?”

A laugh. “You know very well who this is. And I know who you are.”

Dan said nothing. His body had turned to stone… cold stone.

“I haven’t heard from you since yesterday so I am calling to see if you are all right.”

“I’m fine,” Dan managed. This couldn’t be happening. Salinas couldn’t have traced him. It was impossible. He’d covered himself completely. “What do you want?”

“I would like some news. Our lost amigo is still missing. Has anyone found him?” Play dumb!

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really? Tell me then, do you recognize this voice?” Dan heard a click, then a recorded voice coming through the receiver: “What kind of half-assed operation are you running there, Salinas? I just learned that a bottle of pills belonging to the little girl was found in a house in Falls Church where someone was murdered. What the hell is going on?” Dan felt his stomach heave. My voice!

Had the distorter failed?

“How?”

“A miraculous world we live in, no? What is hidden can be found. What is distorted can be made clear.” Salinas’s voice lost all its lightness.

“Now tell me, señor, what are the latest developments?”

Dan raged—at himself, at this slimeball drug pusher— and thrashed about for a way out of this. He could speak—the chances of his home phone being monitored were near zero—but he loathed the idea of becoming a pawn to this creature.

“Hurry, señor. We do not have much time. This should be of equal concern to you because if I am taken into custody, my collection of tapes comes with me. Where is our friend?”

Dan sagged. He was trapped.

“No one knows. Supposedly he had a head wound. They’re searching high and low for him. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll find him first.”

“And the child?”

“Apparently she saw ‘our friend’ and can identify him. A woman is going to return her to her father in Atlantic City tomorrow.”

“A woman… that is very interesting. I will look into this. And I hope to hear from you frequently. Remember, your freedom is tied to mine.” The line went dead.

Dan sat with the silent handset dangling from his fingers. He felt dead inside. The only thing stirring was fear. No longer fear for his country and his career. Now he feared for his freedom, for his life.

What had he done?

1

“You’re a mess,” Snake muttered as he stood before the motel bathroom mirror and redressed his wounds. “But you’re alive.” That alone was a miracle.

Most of Saturday was still a blur. He vaguely remembered coming to in that empty house—Paulie had been there, lying next to him, but he no longer counted—and climbing to his feet, unable to see out of his right eye.

What he remembered best was the pain, the excruciating pain in his eye and the right side of his head. And the blood. Running down the side of his head, down his neck, under his shirt. He’d finally found a towel and tied it around his head.

Somehow he’d found his keys. He grabbed them and his revolver and staggered out to the Jeep. Somehow, he’d managed to drive away before the cops arrived.

And all the time his beeper going, each beep a spear of pain through his head.

He hadn’t wanted to go home, but that bitch had stolen his wallet and his jacket and he needed cash. Lots of it. He knew a guy in Northeast D.C., an M.D. whose license had been yanked because of his fondness for Class II controlled substances, and his habit of selling prescriptions for the same. But that hadn’t stopped him from practicing. His name was out: “You got a reportable wound you don’t want recorded, see Doc Moeller.”

But he only took cash.

The doc stitched up the ragged furrow the bullet had torn from the corner of Snake’s right eye, across his temple, to somewhere above his right ear, saying how lucky he was that the temporal artery had only been nicked. Straightened out his broken nose. That was the good news.

Nothing he could do about that right eye, though. It was shot—literally and figuratively. The bullet had nicked it, causing intraocular hemorrhage, the muzzle flash had seared it, and it was completely out of order.