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Snake tossed off the rest of the Scotch. He needed some antifreeze against the ice forming in his veins.
He glanced down at his shirt-button mike. I hope you’re working today.
First thing tomorrow, he’d be back with a little present for the big man—he hoped. But right now he had to concentrate on his next steps. This gig was going to be a real balancing act. Everything would have to go down by the numbers. If he screwed up, his insurance wouldn’t mean diddly.
He cleared his throat. “All right. What’s the next step?”
“That should be obvious, I think. First thing tomorrow you contact the honorable doctor and tell him that if he wishes to see his precious child again, he must give his friend and patient a hefty dose of chloramphenicol.”
“How’s he supposed to do that?”
“We will leave that up to him. He is a devoted father who wants his child back: He will find a way.”
“And what if—Let’s just say he refuses. What then?”
“You will tell him that if President Winston shows up at the Hague conference next week—”
“What’s so important about this conference?”
“As a symbol, it is of immense importance. It is there that he will place his legalization plan before the world community as U.S. official international policy. That must not happen. And so you will tell the doctor that if Winston arrives at the conference, you will kill his little girl… but not before you do some very nasty things to her. And as proof, you start returning his daughter one piece at a time. I believe you have used that method before.”
Snake nodded. “It’s very persuasive. I’ve never had to send more than one piece.” Antsy as Vanduyne was, he was so wrapped up in his kid he probably wouldn’t need a persuader. Or maybe he’d need one just to keep him in line.
“Good. Then you know what to do. Contact me tomorrow after you have spoken to Dr. Vanduyne.”
“I’ll come by personally,” Snake said. “It may not be something I want to discuss over the phone.” But he intended to deliver more than just a report on Vanduyne.
“If you wish,” Salinas said. “Llosa will show you out. Good night.”
Snake guessed that meant the meeting was over. Fine. He’d had enough of Salinas for the evening.
On the way out he retrieved his pistol from Llosa and figured the beefy bodyguard would probably get the assignment to whack “Miguel” and his people.
Except Salinas would have to change that part of his plans.
33
Once out in the night air, the enormity of what he was involved in body slammed Snake full force. He staggered out of the alley and looked up and down M Street.
I’m going to put the President—the President of the United fucking States—out of business. Maybe even off him. I’m going to be changing the course of history. Me!
But not only did he have to keep a close eye on what was going on in front of him, he had to watch his back as well. Much as he loved adrenaline, this might be too much of a good thing. But dammit, he loved this feeling.
And tomorrow it would get even better. Tomorrow he’d put it to the doc that he was going to have to choose between his daughter and his old friend… his kid and the leader of the free world. How cool was that?
Yeah, if he could come through it all in one piece, this gig might just ruin him for anything else. Where could he play again for stakes this high? This was it: the mother of all buzzes. He had to soak up every last drop.
34
“That poor child!” John held his mother and let her sob against his shoulder.
The reversal of roles—the parent crying on the child’s shoulder—unsettled him. He’d never seen her like this, not even when his dad died.
“Don’t worry, Ma. Katie’s going to be fine. We know she’s alive. That’s the important thing. She’s alive and we’ll keep her that way. I’ll find out what they want from me, and whatever it is, I’ll do it. Then we’ll get her back.”
“Oh, that poor child,” she said. “That poor, poor child.”
She’d been repeating the phrase endlessly. She was begi
“She’s tougher than we realize, Ma. We all are. We got through everything else, we can get through this. They picked up her Tegretol, so at least we know she’s getting her medication.” He hoped that was true, prayed they hadn’t picked up the pills simply for show.
Please, he thought, whoever you are, follow the directions on that bottle. She’s got to have her Tegretol twice a day. If she doesn’t get it—
“That poor, poor child!”
35
Paulie lay on his back and stared into the darkness of the second bedroom as Poppy dozed with her head on his shoulder. Had this been a great night or what?
He’d come back from the drugstore run with two pizzas and a couple of magnums of Cook’s champagne. So it wasn’t imported and it wasn’t expensive—so what? He’d guzzled both ends of the price range and got just as looped either way.
The goodies had worked their magic. Poppy really lightened up when she saw that he’d brought her a sauteed broccoli and eggplant pizza. She was into vegetables these days and that was her favorite combo. He’d bought a pepperoni pie for himself.
She fed some pizza to the kid, who requested pepperoni—good choice, kid—then they went to work on their own pies and started killing those magnums.
All of which had the desired effect: Poppy damn near fucked his brains out—once on the living room floor, and then again here in the bed.
Did it get any better than this? What more did he need beyond food, drink, a roof over his head, and Poppy in his bed? And soon they’d have a humongous wad of cash that, if they were smart about it, could last them a long, long time.
As he yawned he remembered the pills for the kid. They were still in his coat pocket. He’d forgot to tell Poppy about them. Something about giving the kid one twice a day.
He closed his eyes and let himself drift into sleep. He’d tell her tomorrow… tell her all about the pills in the morning…
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Thursday
1
“The United states now has over one million one hundred thousand prisoners in its jails. We have a greater percentage of our population behind bars than any other civilized nation in the world. And a good half of them are there for drug-related offenses. Think about it: five hundred thousand people in jail for using drugs, each costing us an average of thirty thousand dollars a year to house them—fifteen billion dollars a year, every year, and rising. Some of them are in for life—life for growing marijuana. The average murderer only serves nine years. And we’re setting more and more of those murderers free to make room for pot smokers. Half a million Americans, most of whom have never harmed anyone but themselves, locked up—for what? For wanting to get high.”
John opened his eyes in the darkness. Had he been asleep? Heather Brent was on the TV in a replay of some of her remarks on The Larry King Show last night. He saw light seeping around the shades. He searched for the clock. The glowing red numbers said 7:02.
He sat up, massaging his eyes, his face. He must have fallen asleep watching the TV. The last time he’d looked, the clock had said 5:30. God knew, he needed sleep— physically and emotionally. Any respite from this incessant sick dread. He was exhausted, yet his mind wouldn’t quit. He’d tried to numb it with the early-morning parade of infomercials.
He staggered out of bed and down the hall. He stopped at Katie’s door for the dozenth time since he’d gone to bed, and looked in, praying he’d see her there.