F Wilson: Deep as the Marrow

“A car! In the alley!”

“Oh, no!” Gold whimpered. “Oh, God! Oh, please, no!”

“Silence!” Carlos hissed as his heart began to thump. He turned back to Llosa. “Is anyone there?”

“I did not see anyone.”

“Look again.” Llosa opened the door a crack and peeked through.

He shook his head. “I see no one.”

“It could be nothing,” Carlos said.

“But it’s blocking our way.” Carlos thought of his waiting Gulfstream, fully fueled and ready to go. If he could just get into the air…

He turned to Gold. “Call a tow truck. Have someone come and move it. Pronto!” Gold nodded. His smile was sickly. “Right. No way I’m going near that car.”

In the single heartbeat it took Gold to reach for the phone, Carlos heard a roar, felt the floor tremble, saw the door shatter as an onrushing ball of orange flame swallowed Llosa and engulfed Carlos, but not before a million wooden daggers from the door ripped the silk suit and most of the flesh from his body.

17

When Snake reached the clearing, he saw four or five pickups but no panel truck. He began to curse and pound on his steering wheel in red-hazed fury.

The nearer he’d gotten to this place, to this blinking star on his GPS map, the greater his anticipation of finding Poppy, getting his hands on her, hurting her like she’d hurt him. He needed that as much as he needed the tape, and the need had grown until he felt ready to burst.

But she wasn’t here! She must have run off after seeing the copter overhead. Still cursing, he began angling the Jeep to turn around, and that was when he spotted it, hidden behind one of the pickups at the very edge of the clearing.

Snake leapt from the Jeep and ran through the deluge to the truck. Yes! This was it. This was Poppy’s. But where was she? He moved along the perimeter of the clearing… had to be a way out of here.

And then he found it. A break in the underbrush. Using lightning flashes to guide him. Snake pulled the Cobra from his belt and started up the path, a path to the “strange-looking house” the copter pilot had mentioned.

He headed for one of the few lit windows.

18

John had tuned the car radio to an all-news station, hoping for word of when the storm would break. Instead, he found himself listening to Heather Brent.

“Let me bore you with some more statistics. Federal, state, and local police made well over a million drug related arrests last year. Seventy percent of those were for possession—not sale or manufacture, simple possession. But they’re not even scratching the surface. Six and a half million people used cocaine last year. Twelve percent of Americans admit—admit—to illegal drug use. How many do not admit to it? If we pursue the stated goals of the war on drugs, we should be trying to jail all those tens of millions of Americans. Do we really want to do that? Wouldn’t the resources and countless man- and womanhours that went into last year’s million-plus drug arrests be better directed toward muggers, rapists, murderers, wife beaters, and child abusers?”

“I wish we had some of those resources and man-hours at our disposal right now,” Decker muttered.

John switched the station. He’d wanted weather, not Heather Brent.

“I’ll be damned,” Decker said, looking in the rearview mirror. “Someone’s coming.”

John Vanduyne twisted in his seat and looked through the fogged up rear window. Sure enough, two smeary blobs of light were bobbing their way through the downpour.

“Dear God, we haven’t seen anybody for hours, and now—It’s a miracle.” A big pickup with fat tires eased to a stop on their right. John rolled down the window and saw a weathered face grinning at him from the truck’s cab. A similar and equally weathered face, this one bearded, peered over the driver’s shoulder.

“Looks like you found yourself some sugar sand,” the driver said.

“Can you help us out of it?” John said.

The driver shook his head. “That stuff’s like soup now. Maybe after the water settles out a bit.”

Desperate, John was about to ask him for a lift when he heard a door slam and saw another set of lights behind the truck. Someone holding a newspaper over his head was sloshing their way.

Good Lord—Gerry Canney, the FBI agent.

“Come on!” Canney yelled to him as he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Get in our car!” He turned to the driver of the pickup. “They’re with us.” The driver nodded and rolled up his window.

John didn’t even bother checking with Decker. He jumped out and followed Canney. Seconds later a dripping Decker joined him in the back seat of the FBI man’s sedan.

As the pickup pulled away, Canney introduced the driver as Special Agent Geary. He waved over his shoulder and began following the pickup. “How come you’re not stuck?” Decker asked, wiping the rain from his face.

Canney shrugged. “Front-wheel drive, I guess. Look. Those guys in the pickup are two of Poppy Mulliner’s uncles. They’re taking us to her.” John levered forward and gripped Canney’s shoulder.

“They’ve seen her? Is Katie—?”

“Katie’s fine. She and Poppy are hiding out with some deep-woods relatives of the Mulliners.”

“And that’s where they’re taking us?”

When Canney nodded, John wanted to hug him. “Thank God!” Almost over, he thought. A few more minutes and Katie will be safe.

“They wanted to make a deal,” Canney said. “If Poppy gave herself up, could we do anything for her? I said, Hell, yes. I even offered witness protection if she turned state’s evidence. How’s that sit with you, Bob?”

“I’ve no problem with that,” Decker said. “She’s an angel compared to some of the other people who’ve been offered that deal.”

John felt a nudge from Decker. “How about you, Doc? Will you squawk if we make a deal with Ms. Mulliner?”

“Absolutely not,” John said, meaning it. “I have a feeling she’s the only reason my little girl is still alive. Give me back my Katie and Poppy can walk, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Good,” Canney said, then turned to Decker again. “And you know that leak we were discussing?”

Now Decker was leaning forward. “What about him?”

“Plugged. With four 9mm hollow points.”

Decker grimaced and lowered his head. “Where?”

“On the sidewalk near his office—making another telephone call. And another thing: I don’t know if there’s a direct connection, but an explosion on M Street this afternoon reduced a restaurant to dust. The owner, a very well-connected Colombian named Carlos Salinas, was inside.”

Decker nodded. “They’re covering their tracks, erasing all the links. We’re not going to be able to pin this conspiracy on anyone.”

A few hours ago, John would have been intensely interested in the identity of the “leak” and the names of the people behind Katie’s abduction. Now he didn’t care. Just get me to Katie, he thought, wishing the car could fly.

19

Just when Poppy thought the storm couldn’t get any worse, it did. The thunder was so loud, she was sure the house would get knocked flat by the sound waves.

So when the door smashed open, letting the wind and rain howl into the tiny room, she thought it was just the storm. But then the lightning flashed and she saw somebody standing in the doorway. At first she thought it was the Frankenstein monster—with an eye patch. But then he smiled and she recognized him.

She screamed as Mac stepped into the room.

“Hello, Pop—” But he never finished. Lester was suddenly in his face.

“Here! Who the hell do you think—?” Mac’s hand darted up and Poppy saw the pistol clutched in his fist. Lester grabbed at it and the gun went off, sounding like an explosion. A stream of water gushed through a new hole in the ceiling.