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…
p>
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.
It had all been a bad dream, right?
Wrong. Katie’s bed was empty.
He continued down the hall to the guest room and— again, for the dozenth time since he’d gone to bed— logged into the HHS network.
“Come on,” he whispered as the software wended its way toward his electronic mailbox. “Come on… be there.” He stood and stared at the screen. Why bother to sit? He wouldn’t be staying. Every other time he’d checked for e-mail he’d come up empty, and he expected nothing this time either. Too early. He didn’t see kidnappers as early risers.
And then he heard the chime from the computer’s speakers: He had mail.
Mail!
Slowly, shakily, John eased himself into the chair. He chose the read now? option and waited as the message was downloaded to his screen. His heart picked up tempo as he recognized the anonymous remailer heading.
He jumped down to the message.
Go to the phone booth at the northwest corner of Franklin Square.
Be there at 9:00 A.M. sharp.
Snake
That’s it? John hit page down a couple of times to see if there was more, but found nothing. He stared at the message.
Where the hell was Franklin Square? He’d never heard of it.
He rifled through the bottom drawer of the desk and pulled out the map of Washington he’d bought when he first came to town. The index guided him to a small park with its northwest corner at K Street and 14th—just a few blocks from the pharmacy that had filled Katie’s prescription yesterday.
Why couldn’t Snake simply have said K and 14th? What was he doing? Playing games? Toying with him? Yeah, probably. Maybe that was how he got his kicks.
But why a phone? Up to now Snake had done everything by e-mail. What was different about today? What did he have to relate by voice rather than print? No doubt the “service” he was to perform. A queasy feeling rippled through John’s gut. What in hell could they want from him?
He glanced at his watch. Plenty of time. A quick shower, force down a little food, and he’d head for downtown. He wanted to be at that phone booth well ahead of the call.
Before leaving the study he erased the message. No use letting Nana see it. The fewer details she knew, the better.
He felt his fatigue slipping away. The endless night of waiting was over. He was in motion again. But in what direction? He shrugged off the cold dread enclosing him in its grip. Whatever it was, he’d handle it. The important thing was the sense that he was one step closer to getting Katie back.
2
As Paulie rolled out of bed, his left foot tangled in the sheets and he landed hard on the floor. Half stunned, he shook the cobwebs out of his head and looked around.
He didn’t know where he was. All he knew was that Poppy was screaming his name like someone had taken a cattle prod to her. But she wasn’t here. She was some where else in the house. What house? Oh, yeah the Falls Church place.
Poppy screamed again and Paulie was on his feet, hurtling into the front room. Empty. He lunged into the guest room and found her standing over the package’s bed, whimpering and crying. She turned and threw herself against him. “She’s having a fit, Paulie!
What’s wrong?“ Paulie stared at the kid. Her hands were still tied to the bed frame, just as they’d left her, but the rest of her was flopping around on the bed like a beached fish. Her breath was hissing in and out between her clenched teeth and her eyes were rolled back into her head, leaving only the whites showing. He’d never seen anything like this.
“Make her stop, Paulie!” Poppy was saying, her voice going from a whimper to a scream. “Please make her stop!” And then it was like something out of The Exorcist: the kid gave out this high-pitched sound somewhere between a growl and a scream and arched her back until only her heels and the back of her head were touching the bed. She stayed that way for God knew how long, until Paulie was afraid she was either going to float off the bed or break in two. And then suddenly she dropped flat and lay still.
“Oh, God!” Poppy whispered. “Oh, God, Paulie, is she dead?” She sure as hell looked dead—pale as a ghost, not moving, not even breathing. He was almost afraid to get near her, but someone had to check her.
As he stepped forward he was pushed aside by Poppy who dropped down on her knees next to the bed. She had her hands up in the air, waving them around like some holy roller at a prayer meeting. She looked afraid to touch her.
Finally, she brought her hands down and touched the kid. She grabbed her shoulders and began shaking her.
“Katie! Katie! Wake up!” Then she pounded on the kid’s chest. “Breathe, dammit!” The kid shuddered, coughed, then took a breath.
“Thank God!” Poppy said. “Here. Help me untie her.” As she leaned across the kid, she stopped and felt around. “Oh, Jesus. She’s wet herself.” Paulie loosened the cord around one wrist while Poppy worked on the other. The skin was bruised and scratched from all that violent yanking. Poppy massaged the wrist she’d untied.
“What happened, Katie?” she said. “Are you okay?” But the kid only stared blankly past Poppy. She looked looped.
Poppy looked up at him. “She’s not gonna start again, is she, Paulie? Tell me she’s not gonna start again.”
Paulie watched Poppy, stunned. He’d never seen her like this. Usually she was so cool, except when she got mad. But now… man, she was a freaking basket case.
“Easy, Poppy,” he said, speaking slowly, softly. “Just calm down. She’s going to be all right.”
“How do you know that?” she said, her voice rising. “What’s wrong with this kid, Paulie? Did Mac tell you anything?”