F Paul Wilson - Novel 04

by Deep as the Marrow (v2. 1)

  10

  Snake was cruising Atlantic Avenue, mostly because it was big and wide and seemed to be A.C.‘s main drag. He’d been up and down the side streets all afternoon, looking for a white panel truck, looking for a woman with a little girl. He’d seen plenty of those, but none of the women had burgundy hair, and none of the little girls looked like the package.

  He had the Jeep’s radio tuned to a local station, listening to A.C. news. He wasn’t sure what he was listening for, but if something relevant happened, he wanted to hear it.

  Instead, he heard the Reverend Whitcomb.

  “… and how do we know President Winston’s really in the hospital for a checkup? How do we know he isn’t in there to kick a drug habit of his own? Maybe that’s why he’s so hellfire bent on legalizing this poison!” Suddenly furious, Snake turned him off.

  Idiot! Drugs didn’t put Winston in the hospital! Snake put him there! He’s not there for detox! He’s there because of me!

  He was crossing Kentucky then, and glanced left at the sound of a horn.

  A red panel truck had stalled at the light. Same model as he was looking for—too bad it wasn’t white.

  He slowed. Shitty paint job… almost as if it had been spray enameled.

  He checked out the driver. A punky brunette hugging a little boy with reddish hair. Nothing like what— And then the brunette turned to check her side mirror and he saw more of her face.

  Poppy!

  Snake yanked the Jeep into a quick U-turn that earned him a couple of angry horns—fuck’em—and gunned it back across Kentucky just as the light changed.

  He started out three cars behind the panel truck, then two. He fondled the Cobra in the front pouch of his sweatshirt. Nothing he wanted to do more than pull up alongside that truck and Swiss cheese the cab with all six rounds in the cylinder. And if not for that goddamn tape, that was what he’d be doing right now, cherishing every pull of the trigger.

  But he’d have to delay that pleasure. And maybe that wasn’t so bad. Delay it until he could truly savor it. Get wired on the anticipation, then get her where he could look her in the eyes. Rip off his bandages and show her his wounds.

  Look at what you did to me, bitch. Thought you killed me, didn’t you. But Snake doesn’t die easy. Snake rose from the dead. You won’t. And then he’d watch her head explode.

  Oh, yes. It was going to be good. Very good.

  But he had to get the tape first.

  He focused on the panel truck ahead, keeping two cars between them. He had her in his sights—all he had to do now was be patient and wait for the right moment to make his move.

  He noticed the Maryland plates had been switched for Jersey’s and smiled.

  A complete makeover, eh. Poppy? New paint job, new plates, new hair for you and the kid. Think you’ve got everybody fooled, don’t you. And maybe you do. Everybody but me.

  11

  “It’s for you.” Bob Decker stepped across the trailer office they’d set up as a coordinating center on a vacant lot off Indiana Avenue. Canney’s voice came through.

  “We found her.” Bob’s heart leaped. Thank God!

  “Katie?”

  “Uh, no,” Canney said. “Sorry. I guess I should have phrased that a little differently. I meant the woman. We know who she is.”

  “Oh.” Bob tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice. For a moment there he’d thought this was over.

  “Who is she?”

  “Poppy Mulliner. She was picked up twice in New York about three years ago. Once each on shoplifting and solicitation. Suspended sentences on both. Stayed pretty clean since then.”

  “Sure. She moved into kidnapping.” Bob had listened over and over to the tapes of this Poppy Mulliner’s calls to Vanduyne, and he’d found it difficult to reconcile the caring in her voice with someone who’d kidnap a child.

  “Looks that way. I got her photo faxed down and we’re passing it out to everybody we’ve put on the boards. Unless she’s changed her style, I don’t think we’ll have any trouble spotting her. A real looker, but weird.”

  “Great. Get one over to me here. Anything else?”

  “We’re trying to scrape up more on her. One thing I can say about her is she’s pretty bad at keeping appointments.”

  Bob glanced at his watch. “Yeah, I know. It’s three-ten and she hasn’t called.”

  “You don’t think she’s just stringing this poor bastard along, do you?”

  Poor bastard is right, Bob thought. Vanduyne must be going through hell on that boardwalk.

  He imagined himself up there, hanging onto the phone, praying for it to ring…

  He was glad he’d joined the Secret Service instead of the Bureau. He wasn’t cut out for kidnappings. He was getting emotionally involved.

  “Somehow, I don’t think she is,” he told Canney. “You heard her on the tapes. She ripped off a drugstore to make sure Katie wouldn’t be without her medication. Someone who cares that much for that little girl isn’t going to torture her father.”

  “Maybe she cares too much.”

  Bob hadn’t considered that. “You mean she can’t let go?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Or maybe she spotted us. I’d hate to think we kept that man from getting his little girl back today.”

  “We’re pretty well camouflaged. The DEA guys Dan set up for us are good at blending in.”

  “Let’s hope so.” Another glance at his watch: 3:12.

  Come on, lady. Call. Let that poor bastard off the hook.

  12

  Snake followed the panel truck as it turned left on Delaware and hit the White Horse Pike.

  She’s leaving town, he thought. Perfect. The thinner the population, the easier this would be.

  He hung back for a few miles until she turned into a McDonald’s in a town called Absecon. He pulled onto the shoulder across the highway and watched her get on the drive-thru line.

  What do I do now?

  His aching head crawled with questions and possibilities. Where was she headed? A motel? The tape could be in the truck now or back wherever she was staying. If she had a room somewhere, the best thing to do was follow her there and settle everything at once.

  But what if she was heading back to D.C.? If she got on 95 and didn’t make another stop, he might not get another chance at her. This could be his last best shot at retrieving that tape.

  But how do I work this?

  And then Snake realized that the mother thing Poppy seemed to have with the package—the thing that had screwed up this whole gig—could be used to his advantage.

  He watched a car pull up behind the panel truck. With another in front of her, she was locked in the drive-thru lane.

  Now or never.

  Snake pulled the Cobra from his sweatshirt pouch, hit the gas, swerved into the McDonald’s lot, and was already opening his door as he jerked to a stop. He leapt out, yanked open the truck’s passenger door, and grabbed the kid. In one move he clapped a hand over her mouth as she started to scream, and pressed the muzzle of the pistol against her head, careful that no one in the other cars could see.

  Then he looked at Poppy who sat frozen at the wheel, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, gaping at him. She looked stupid.

  Even the mild exertion had made his head pound harder, but Snake forced a grin.

  “Surprise, bitch! I’m still around!”

  Poppy’s mouth worked, but no sound emerged. She reached for the kid but Snake pulled her back.

  “Don’t even think about it. Just give me the tape.”

  “Tape?”

  “Don’t fuck with me! I’ll blow her head off as soon as look at her. And you know it.”

  “I-I don’t have it!” She wasn’t lying. Snake could see the terror in her eyes. She was damn near paralyzed with fear that he’d hurt the brat.

  “Where the fuck is it?”

  “I left it—” Her eyes seemed to unfocus, as if she was trying to remembe
r.

  “You got a room somewhere? You left it in some fucking motel room?” How could she be so goddamn stupid?

  And then he realized she probably had no idea what was on the tape. The truck had no tape player. Where would she get a chance to listen to it?

  “Yes,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper. “I left it…”

  “Then we’re gonna go get it!” Snake said. He pocketed the pistol but kept a stranglehold on the kid. “You lead the way. Me and the kid’ll follow.”

  “No!” she cried, reaching for her. “Please?‘

  Snake yanked the kid out the door and carried her toward his Jeep. He glanced around—couldn’t see much with only one eye—to check if anyone was paying much attention. Probably looked like a family spat. One thing he knew for sure: Poppy wasn’t going to be calling the cops.

  The Jeep door was open, the engine still running. As he lifted the kid to push her inside, a weight suddenly slammed against his back. A high, insane screech filled his ears as fingers reached around from behind, raking at his eyes, the good one and the bad one, yanking at the bandage.

  Had to be Poppy—could only be Poppy—but it was like being mauled by some wild animal.

  Snake shouted as bolts of pain spiked through his right eye socket. He forgot about the kid. Suddenly the most important thing in the universe was to get those fingers away from his eyes, from his head. And then something—a fist, an arm—whacked the right side of his head square on his sutured scalp wound. Not a powerful blow, but it might as well have been a sledgehammer.

  The explosion of pain drove him to his knees, retching as the world rocked and spun.

  Dimly through the roaring he heard a child crying, heard Poppy saying, “Come on, baby. I’ve got you,” then retreating footsteps.

  She was getting away, but it was difficult for Snake to care. He had to cling to the pavement, fearing he’d tumble off the whirling earth if he let go.

  13

  Panting, trembling, more afraid than she’d ever been in her life, Poppy dropped Katie in the passenger seat, slammed the door, then ran around to the driver’s side. As soon as she got behind the wheel, she yanked it hard to the right, jumped the drive-thru curb, and roared out of the lot.

  As she hit the highway she realized that maybe she should have taken the time to run over Mac and put him out of their lives for good.

  Too late now. Just get away, go, put miles and miles between them.

  Screw the seat belt—she hugged her sobbing, trembling Katie against her as she sped west along 30.

  “We’re getting out of here, honey bunch. Don’t you worry about that man. We’re going someplace safe, Someplace where no one’ll ever bother us.” Jesus, that had been close!

  Mac… here in A.C. How?

  He wanted a tape! What tape? The only one she could think of was that cassette she’d tossed out in Maryland.

  What could be on it that—?

  Aw, who cared? The reality was that she couldn’t lead Mac to his tape, and that he’d do something hideous when he realized that.

  She’d been paralyzed by the sight of that pistol against Katie’s head. And she’d almost died when he pulled her out of the truck and started dragging her away. She’d known right then if he got Katie into his Jeep, she’d never see her again.

  That was when she’d stopped thinking. Some blind, crazy instinct took over and she’d found herself racing from the car and leaping onto Mac’s back, making animal sounds as she clawed and pummeled him with everything she had.

  She still wasn’t sure what had happened back there, but the important thing was she had Katie.

  About a mile down the road she got a bad case of the shakes but didn’t dare stop. Finally they passed, and suddenly she was exhausted. She wanted to cry. How much more of this could she take? How much longer could she keep this up?

  But she couldn’t cry right now. Not in front of Katie. Poor thing needed to feel safe, and how could a blubbering wimp make you feel safe?

  Fine, she thought. But how do I feel safe?

  Especially after Mac had found her here. He shouldn’t have even known she was in A.C. She’d told only one person.

  Katie’s father.

  The jerk. Who else had he told beside Katie’s psycho mother? What a family! Good thing Katie was going to stay with her from now on. Poppy had a good mind to— She glanced down and saw the rented cell phone on the seat.

  Yeah… why not? She had the number of that pay phone. If Daddy was still waiting, she’d give him a well-deserved piece of her mind.

  14

  Bob Decker paced the cramped confines of the coordinating trailer. 3:42 and the woman hadn’t called.

  Bob was going stir crazy in here, but poor Vanduyne he had to be going through hell up there on the board walk.

  The door at the far end opened and Gerry Canney stepped in amid a blaze of afternoon sunlight. He wore bicycle pants and a tank top. With his blond hair and muscular arms, he looked like a surfer. Almost. He needed a tan.

  “Don’t you look comfortable.”

  Canney smiled. “I’m undercover, don’t you know.” He waved a sheet of paper. “More info on our friend Poppy. She’s a Joisey goil. A native.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. Grew up just this side of the George Washing ton Bridge in a place called Hackensack.”

  Canney shook his head; “Hackensack… Sooy’s Boot. Weird names you’ve got here. But how come you don’t sound like you’re from Joisey?” Canney’s bad accent was beginning to get on Bob’s nerves.

  “Because hardly any of us say ‘Joisey’ unless they were transplanted from Brooklyn.”

  “If you say so. Our friend Poppy sounds like she was transplanted from the South. Instead, she was born in Sooy’s Boot, En-Jay.”

  “Sooy’s what?”

  “Boot. Sooy’s Boot.

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Neither did any of the maps I checked out. Found a Sooy Place, but that’s not the same. Finally had to call Trenton. Even they had a tough time, but they finally located it northwest of here. Closest town to it on any map is a place called Chatsworth.”

  “You got me there too.”

  “Somewhere north of Wharton State Forest. Looks like it’s in the woods—deep in the woods.”

  Bob suddenly had a flash. “In the pines. I’ll be damned—she’s a Piney.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Means she grew up in the Pine Barrens, a huge forest that takes up most of the center of the state.”

  “A Piney, huh?”

  “Yeah. Not always a compliment. Sometimes it’s used as the New Jersey equivalent of redneck or hillbilly, which probably isn’t too far off, from stories I’ve heard. Pineys have been connected with inbreeding, bootleg liquor stills, and—”.

  “Hey!” said Harris from his seat in the corner by the monitoring equipment. “The phone just rang.” He pulled off his headphones. “She’s on!”

  “Put her on the speaker,” Canney said. “And start that trace.”

  “Thank God,” Bob muttered.

  But his growing sense of relief was stalled by the angry tone that suddenly filled the trailer.

  15

  “You’re a real jerk, you know that?” The woman’s words—John recognized her voice—hit him like a blow to the head. He struggled for something to say.

  “Is… is something wrong?” That sounded so lame— of course something was wrong. “Is Katie—?”

  “Yeah, Katie’s fine—except for a slapped face. No thanks to you. Daddy.” She spat the last word.

  “A slapped face?” His stomach turned. “Oh, no. You didn’t—”

  “Me? You stupid Appleton! I wouldn’t hurt a hair on her head! But your wife—now that’s totally another story!”

  “My wife? Mamie? Oh, God!” How’d she get involved in this? Had she got hold of Katie somehow? The very thought made him ill. “She… she’s no
t my wife. We’re divorced.”

  “But not so divorced that you don’t tell her about our A.C. plans?”

  “I didn’t tell her. She—”

  “Yeah, well, I thought it’d be safe to let Katie go with her mother, but then I see her clobbering the poor kid. So I let her have it. But Mommy was the least of Katie’s problems today. Mac showed up.”

  “Mac?”

  “The guy who snatched her in the first place. He tried to get her again.”

  “No!”

  “Yes! You been talking when you weren’t supposed to be. Daddy. And you been talking to all the wrong people. It’s like you put up a billboard saying: ‘I’m getting Katie back this afternoon in A.C.’ Well, let me tell you something. Daddy. You ain’t. I’m keeping her. She’s better off with me than with you and that bitch who’s supposed to be her mother. I sure as hell know she’s safer.” John felt as if the boardwalk was crumbling beneath him.

  “No, please! You don’t understand! I—”

  “Cut the broken-heart act. Daddy. You blew it. And you got no one to blame but yourself.”

  “Poppy, please! You’ve got it all wrong! Let me speak to Katie. Just once. I…” Something had changed on the line. “Hello? Hello?” The line was dead. She’d hung up.

  John leaned against the phone stand, feeling as if he were about to explode with grief. But another emotion was mixing in…

  “You been talking when you weren’t supposed to be, Daddy. And you been talking to all the wrong people…” But that wasn’t true. He hadn’t told a soul.

  But that didn’t mean someone hadn’t been listening.

  “You blew it. And you got no one to blame but yourself.”

  No… not true. Someone else was to blame. And he had a pretty good idea who.

  And now the new emotion—anger—began edging out the grief.

  He still had a sweaty grip on the handset. He lifted it and spoke through teeth clenched so hard that his jaw ached.