F Paul Wilson - Novel 04 (20 page)

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.

“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.

“You finally finished with
your reading?” he said. Snarled was more like it. “You up to date
on all the local news now?” She’d sent him out for all the local
papers the Washington Times, the Post, the Banner, everything available in the
7-Eleven. And then she’d begun combing them.

“Yeah, I’m
finished,” she said.

She had to bite the inside of her
cheek to keep from grinning like an Appleton. She’d found the solution to
all their problems. Okay, maybe not all, but at least the major one that was
dogging them right now. She was so damn proud of herself she wanted to dance. But
first she wanted to have some fun with Paulie. He’d been no help at all,
so he totally had it coming.

“Good,” he Said.
“Now maybe you can think of some thing I can tell Mac when he calls. And
he’s gonna call any minute, you can bet your sweet dimpled ass on that.”

“Oh, I’ve got no doubt
at all he’ll call.”

“So what do I tell him?
‘Sorry, Mac. No persuader on this one. Poppy won’t let me.’
Right. Next thing you know he’ll be busting down that door.”

“You just tell him
everything’s under control and the persuader’s ready for
delivery.”

He made that sour face he did every
time he thought he heard something stupid. “Oh, right. And when
it’s not delivered? What then?”

“Oh, don’t worry.
You’ll deliver it. Right on schedule.”

He sat and stared at her a second
or two, eyes bugged, jaw dropped. Oh, this was good. It was all she could do to
keep from busting out laughing. Then he jumped to his feet, arms spread.

“How, Poppy? For Chrissake,
have you gone crazy? Where am I gonna get a little girl’s toe?”
Okay. Enough was enough. She shoved the paper toward him.

“Here.” As he grabbed
it and stared at it, she said, “I circled what you want.” He read
some, then looked up at her. “But this is… I’ll have
to…”

She shrugged. “Who’s
the best B-and-E guy around if it ain’t you, Paulie?” He
didn’t seem to want to argue about that, so he kept on reading. Finally
he looked up at her and the half angry, half-worried look he’d worn all
day had changed.

He actually smiled—just a
little.

“You know something. Poppy. I
think this might work.”

“I know it will.”

He was grinning at her
now—staring, nodding, and grinning. “You’re pretty smart for
a girl.” She punched him on the arm.

“Smart? I’m totally
brilliant!”

He hugged her and they laughed. He
seemed proud of her, and to tell the truth, she was pretty damn proud herself.
When was the last time she’d felt this way?

Then he pushed her to arm’s
length, suddenly serious.

“But Mac can never know. Even
after this is all over, we can never let Mac even suspect what we did.”

“After this is all over,
we’re never gonna see Mac again. Right?”

“Right. When he calls, we
ain’t home.” Poppy hugged him. She felt like the weight of the
world had been lifted from her shoulders. She put her lips against his ear.

“Better get going.”

It took Paulie longer than
he’d figured to find the place. After all, he didn’t know diddly
about Arlington, Virginia, but people were pretty helpful when he asked for
directions, and he only got lost twice. He passed a Home Depot along the way
and picked up a sturdy pair of pruning shears. The sweet young thing at the
check-out counter set him on the right course for the final leg of his journey
to the Lynch-MacDougal Funeral Home.

Two wakes were in progress. Paulie
figured he was pretty much dressed for mourning, being all in black. He
wandered in, looking appropriately somber, and checked out the place’s
security system—or, like they said in the movies, “cased da
joint.” He felt very much at home looking for electric eyes, motion
detectors, window magnets. Breaking and entering used to be his bread and
butter before he started baby-sitting for Mac.

Still came in handy when the till
ran low between gigs. Clean work. You get in when the place is empty, boost
whatever’s lying around, and get the hell out. In and out. No fuss, no
muss. You go in empty, you come out with some cash and jewelry.

This time he’d be coming out
with a toe. Weird, man.

He found the control panel near the
back door and it looked like a single-zone setup. The whole security system was
pretty basic: windows, doors, and that was about it. Nothing that would keep
him out if he’d had his tool kit—but that was back in Brooklyn. He
needed an edge here.

He checked the name in the
newspaper Poppy had given him. Edward Hadley, age seven. According to the obit,
little Eddie was here “as a result of injuries sustained in a motor
vehicle accident.” Sorry about that, kid. Let’s just hope they
didn’t run over your feet.

He saw the Hadley sign so he
stepped inside for a quick look-see. A bad scene. Lots of weepy parents and
confused-looking grade-school kids. He did a fly-by on the coffin. Little
Eddie—at least the front of his top half that was visible—looked
pretty good.

He moved to one of the windows and
checked it out. Just wired at the sill. Christ, all he needed was a glass
cutter and a suction cut and he’d be in. He glanced through at the
parking lot. Nah. Too many lights and too many buildings around. He’d be
exposed for too long. And besides, he wanted to get in and out with no one
being the wiser.

He slipped back out the door into
the hallway where he saw this suit with a big red Irish face directing mourner
traffic. That gave Paulie an idea. He stepped up to the guy and saw the name
tag on his lapel: MICHAEL L. MACDOUGAL. One of the owners. He should be able to
answer Paulie’s question.

“Wonderful job you’re
doing,” Paulie said.

“Thank you. We try. We try.
But it’s so difficult when they’re so young.”

“I can imagine. Say,
where’s—?”

“So many dying so young these
days.” Michael L. MacDougal was shaking his head. “We just received
a new beloved only hours ago. Barely out of her teens. They’re all so
young. What’s happening?”

“I wish I knew.” And I
wish you’d let me get a word in. “Where’s the men’s
room, by the way?”

MacDougal pointed past the Hadley
sign. “Make your first left and it’s right at the bottom of the
steps.”

“Downstairs?” Paulie
said, moving off. Outstanding!

On his way, Paulie passed a
horse-faced woman in a tweed suit and a frilly blouse. Her name tag said EILEEN
LYNCH. The other owner. Husband and wife? he wondered. Or maybe a
brother-and-sister act. Like, who’d want to be married to that?

He hurried down the stairs and
found a small paneled room with a couple of worn couches. Half a dozen people
were sitting around, puffing on cigarettes. A fan in the ceiling sucked off the
smoke.

A smoking lounge. How thoughtful.

Ahead were two rest room doors and
a third marked private. He stepped inside the men’s room and found he had
it all to himself. Over the toilet in the stall was a small casement window
with no sign that it was connected to the security system. Beyond it, the rear
parking lot stretched away at eye level.

How very thoughtful.

He undid the latch and yanked on
the handle. It gave a little, then stuck. Hadn’t been opened in years,
but he couldn’t see anything blocking it. All it needed was a little
muscle from the other side and it would swing all the way up.

He stuck a piece of toilet tissue
in the latch, left it in the open position, and stepped over to the sink to
wash his hands. He smiled at himself in the mirror.

Piece of cake.

And then he frowned, remembering
Poppy alone at the house with that kid. He hoped to hell Mac didn’t
decide to pop in for a personal visit to check out the persuader. That could be
big trouble.

Poppy adjusted her Minnie Mouse
mask and then untied Katie’s hands and removed her blindfold.

“You have to go to the
bathroom, Katie?” She shook her head and said nothing. She looked so
down, poor kid. Poppy sat beside her on the bed and massaged her wrists.

“There. How’s that?
That feel better?” Katie looked at her with those big blue eyes and
nodded glumly, then looked back at Poppy’s hands.

“How come your fingernails
are all black?”

“ ‘Cause I paint them
that way.”

“Oh. When am I going to see
my daddy?”

“Soon. Real soon.”
Again she wondered why she didn’t ask for her mommy.

Of course. Poppy had always been
real close to her dad too. Mom had the regular job, working a register at
Kmart, so she wasn’t around most days. Dad did seasonal work and
sometimes he’d be home for weeks at a time. Since he loved basketball and
she was his only kid, he’d taught her the game early. They’d spent
countless afternoons going one-on-one.

Dad… I didn’t even know
you were sick.

She looked at Katie and saw that
her fine, dark hair was all tangled. A case of terminal bed head. But
what’d you expect when the kid was tied to her bed all the time?

“How about I fix your
braids?” Poppy said.

Katie brightened. “Could you
do a French braid? My Nana never lets me have a French braid.”

“Nothing to it. One French
braid, coming right up.” Katie’s smile, missing tooth and all, sent
a shiver of pleasure through Poppy. If that’s all it takes to make you
happy, little girl, you’ll get a million French braids.

And then the smile faded.

“You’re not going to
make my hair like yours, are you?” Poppy felt her hair where it fell from
behind the mask.

“What’s wrong with
it?”

“The color’s
weird.”