“Ten bucks for the phone, lady. Now or never.” As she stared at the bills, John thought, Take them, lady, before I rip that phone out of your pudgy little fingers and drop-kick you onto the White House lawn.
“You got a deal,” she said.
With those words, John reached past her and slammed his hand down on the switch hook.
“Hey!” she cried. “I didn’t say good-bye!”
“Deal’s a deal.” He snatched the receiver from her hand and replaced it with the two fives. “Thank you very much.” Then he elbowed her out of the way and took over the booth.
She waddled off, muttering about “men.” John didn’t care if she thought he was Attila the Hun—he had the phone.
Ten seconds later it rang.
“Vanduyne.”
“So, you made it. All right. Let’s get down to business. This is all very simple. We need you to perform a small service for us. You do that, you get your kid back.”
“A service. Yes. But what service?”
“Again, very simple. Nothing the least bit criminal. All you have to do is give a dose of medication to one of your patients.”
John leaned against the booth. “Patients? I’m not in practice. I think you’ve got the wrong man.” Could it be? Could this all be a horrible mistake?
“Really? How’s your sense of direction. Doc?”
“What do you mean?”
“I want you to face south. Can you do that?”
John glanced around. “I’m already facing south.”
“Good. What do you see?”
He saw the telephone. The booth was facing north, and he was facing the booth. He couldn’t mean— A chill of foreboding inched through him.
He stepped to his right and saw it. Beyond the square and the promenade, behind its wrought iron fence…
“The White House?” He had to force the words past his throat.
“You got it.”
“But…” The words and thoughts ground to a halt in his brain, frozen in the freon blasting through his arteries.
“No buts about it. Doc. You’re the President’s personal physician and you’re gonna give him a dose of antibiotic before the week is done.” John still could not speak. He could only stand and stare at the White House.
“You listening. Doc? If you don’t—”
“Yes, I know!” he blurted. He knew the ultimatum. He didn’t need to hear the details.
God, they’re after Tom.
He felt as if he were drowning. He groped for something, anything to keep him afloat. And one of Snake’s words popped to the surface.
“Antibiotic? Did you say antibiotic?”
“That’s right. Chloramphenicol.” He said it carefully. “You got that, Doc? Chloramphenicol.”
“Yes,” John said dully. “I got it.”
“You’ve heard of it?”
“Of course.” Chloramphenicol… an old-time antibiotic rarely used anymore except for typhoid fever and maybe an occasional meningitis. “But why… ?”
And then he remembered… maybe a dozen years ago, when Tom began setting his sights on the presidency, asking his old buddy John to comb his entire medical history for anything that might someday be used against him. While going through Tom’s pediatric records he’d found “NO CHLORAMPHENICOL” written in big red letters across the top of each sheet. He’d searched back and learned that little Tommy Winston had almost died of aplastic anemia at age three. The culprit: chloramphenicol.
John had mentioned it in his summary but did not consider it of any consequence. Tom’s campaign strategists thought otherwise. They said any sign of physical impairment—even potential impairment—could be damaging.
John thought it was ridiculous, and so did Tom, but he was paying for their expertise so he took their advice: Those old pediatric records became “lost.” Or so they’d all thought. How on earth had Snake or whoever he was working for unearthed them?
God, who cared? What mattered was what would happen to Tom if he had another dose of chloramphenicol.
His immune system was still carrying the antibodies that had caused all the trouble when he was three. They were like sleeping guard dogs now, penned up, quiet, forgotten. But they’d awaken and burst free the instant they sniffed a chloramphenicol molecule. Trouble was, these were mistrained antibodies. They attacked their master last time—blitzkrieging his bone marrow and shutting it down—and they’d do the same again if set free. Maybe worse this time.
Probably Tom would survive. Hematology and immunology had come a long way in the four decades and more since Tom’s first reaction—new drugs, bone marrow grafts, so many more treatment options were available. But people still died from aplastic anemia.
Tom could die.
He moved his mouth but no words formed. This was monstrous. They couldn’t ask him to choose between Katie and Tom, couldn’t expect him to—
“You still there. Doc?”
“No!” he said. The word exploded from him and he was aware of people nearby glancing his way. He lowered his voice. “I won’t do it.”
“Then you’ll never see your kid again.” Snake’s cold, matter-of-fact tone rocked John. He sagged against the phone booth.
“No. Wait. Please. He might die.”
“That’s the whole idea. Doc.”
“Yes-yes. But on the other hand, he might not die.” John’s mind was suddenly in high gear, looking for an angle, a way out, anything so he wouldn’t have to do this. “It didn’t kill him the first time, so there’s a good chance it won’t kill him this time.”
“Then you’ll have to give him another dose. And another. And another. Until he’s either dead or so sick he has to resign. One way or another, we want him out of office.”
“You can’t ask me to do this.”
“I already have.”
“I need some time.”
“Sure.” The word dripped with sarcasm. “Take all you want. Just make sure he’s too sick to make the drug summit next week.” The Hague meeting… that was when legalization would become official U.S. policy.
“So that’s what this is all about.” John looked around at the antilegalization protesters swarming around him. Were they involved? Were some of them watching him right now?
“Yeah, Doc. That’s what it’s all about. Your old pal President Winston shows up at The Hague, you can forget about ever seeing your kid again.”
“Oh, God!”
“And don’t think of trying anything cute, like having your buddy play sick. Believe me: We’re very connected. We’ll know. And that will end it for your little girl.”
“Please. I’ll pay you. I’ll sell everything I own and give you every penny, just don’t hurt Katie.”
“This isn’t Let’s Make a Deal, Doc. You either dose your pal or you don’t. What’s it going to be?”
John stood there paralyzed, staring at the C&P insignia on the phone while his numbed mind tried to formulate an answer. He had to say yes. If he didn’t Katie would die. But how was he going to deliver? How could he poison Tom?
As he was trying to frame a reply, a hand flashed in front of him and depressed the switch hook.
“What?” John jerked around and saw the polyester fat lady from before.
He ripped her hand off the switch hook and began shouting into the receiver. “Hello? Hello are you there? Hello?” All he heard was a dial tone.
He slammed the handset down on the hook and turned to the woman. He fought the rage swelling inside him. He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry, he wanted to rip her head off.
“Do you know what you just did?”
“I want my phone back,” she said, waving a bill in front of her and chattering like a machine gun. “Every other phone around here’s taken, so I want mine back.”
“You cut off my call!”
“So? You cut off mine. Fair’s fair. Now here’s five bucks back. I figure I should keep half the money because I let you use the phone but—”
John felt his lips pulling back from his clenched teeth. If half of him wasn’t praying for Snake to call back, he’d be grabbing the handset and shoving it down her throat.