“Let me bore you with some more statistics. Federal, state, and local police made well over a million drug related arrests last year. Seventy percent of those were for possession—not sale or manufacture, simple possession. But they’re not even scratching the surface. Six and a half million people used cocaine last year. Twelve percent of Americans admit—admit—to illegal drug use. How many do not admit to it? If we pursue the stated goals of the war on drugs, we should be trying to jail all those tens of millions of Americans. Do we really want to do that? Wouldn’t the resources and countless man- and womanhours that went into last year’s million-plus drug arrests be better directed toward muggers, rapists, murderers, wife beaters, and child abusers?”
“I wish we had some of those resources and man-hours at our disposal right now,” Decker muttered.
John switched the station. He’d wanted weather, not Heather Brent.
“I’ll be damned,” Decker said, looking in the rearview mirror. “Someone’s coming.”
John Vanduyne twisted in his seat and looked through the fogged up rear window. Sure enough, two smeary blobs of light were bobbing their way through the downpour.
“Dear God, we haven’t seen anybody for hours, and now—It’s a miracle.” A big pickup with fat tires eased to a stop on their right. John rolled down the window and saw a weathered face grinning at him from the truck’s cab. A similar and equally weathered face, this one bearded, peered over the driver’s shoulder.
“Looks like you found yourself some sugar sand,” the driver said.
“Can you help us out of it?” John said.
The driver shook his head. “That stuff’s like soup now. Maybe after the water settles out a bit.”
Desperate, John was about to ask him for a lift when he heard a door slam and saw another set of lights behind the truck. Someone holding a newspaper over his head was sloshing their way.
Good Lord—Gerry Canney, the FBI agent.
“Come on!” Canney yelled to him as he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Get in our car!” He turned to the driver of the pickup. “They’re with us.” The driver nodded and rolled up his window.
John didn’t even bother checking with Decker. He jumped out and followed Canney. Seconds later a dripping Decker joined him in the back seat of the FBI man’s sedan.
As the pickup pulled away, Canney introduced the driver as Special Agent Geary. He waved over his shoulder and began following the pickup. “How come you’re not stuck?” Decker asked, wiping the rain from his face.
Canney shrugged. “Front-wheel drive, I guess. Look. Those guys in the pickup are two of Poppy Mulliner’s uncles. They’re taking us to her.” John levered forward and gripped Canney’s shoulder.
“They’ve seen her? Is Katie—?”
“Katie’s fine. She and Poppy are hiding out with some deep-woods relatives of the Mulliners.”
“And that’s where they’re taking us?”
When Canney nodded, John wanted to hug him. “Thank God!” Almost over, he thought. A few more minutes and Katie will be safe.
“They wanted to make a deal,” Canney said. “If Poppy gave herself up, could we do anything for her? I said, Hell, yes. I even offered witness protection if she turned state’s evidence. How’s that sit with you, Bob?”
“I’ve no problem with that,” Decker said. “She’s an angel compared to some of the other people who’ve been offered that deal.”
John felt a nudge from Decker. “How about you, Doc? Will you squawk if we make a deal with Ms. Mulliner?”
“Absolutely not,” John said, meaning it. “I have a feeling she’s the only reason my little girl is still alive. Give me back my Katie and Poppy can walk, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Good,” Canney said, then turned to Decker again. “And you know that leak we were discussing?”
Now Decker was leaning forward. “What about him?”
“Plugged. With four 9mm hollow points.”
Decker grimaced and lowered his head. “Where?”
“On the sidewalk near his office—making another telephone call. And another thing: I don’t know if there’s a direct connection, but an explosion on M Street this afternoon reduced a restaurant to dust. The owner, a very well-connected Colombian named Carlos Salinas, was inside.”
Decker nodded. “They’re covering their tracks, erasing all the links. We’re not going to be able to pin this conspiracy on anyone.”
A few hours ago, John would have been intensely interested in the identity of the “leak” and the names of the people behind Katie’s abduction. Now he didn’t care. Just get me to Katie, he thought, wishing the car could fly.
19
Just when Poppy thought the storm couldn’t get any worse, it did. The thunder was so loud, she was sure the house would get knocked flat by the sound waves.
So when the door smashed open, letting the wind and rain howl into the tiny room, she thought it was just the storm. But then the lightning flashed and she saw somebody standing in the doorway. At first she thought it was the Frankenstein monster—with an eye patch. But then he smiled and she recognized him.
She screamed as Mac stepped into the room.
“Hello, Pop—” But he never finished. Lester was suddenly in his face.
“Here! Who the hell do you think—?” Mac’s hand darted up and Poppy saw the pistol clutched in his fist. Lester grabbed at it and the gun went off, sounding like an explosion. A stream of water gushed through a new hole in the ceiling.
Poppy huddled with Katie, who wailed in terror as they watched the two men struggle for the gun. Lester was holding his own but Poppy wasn’t going to leave anything to chance. She looked around for something to hit Mac with and spotted Lester’s applejack jug against the wall.
As she began to crawl toward it, another shot blasted through the room. She felt this one whiz past—right between her head and Katie’s. Katie huddled on the floor, eyes closed, hands over her ears, screaming.
Without hesitation, she picked her up and ran for the open door. She had to get Katie outside—the next shot could hit either of them—then she’d come back to help out Lester.
She’d carried Katie maybe twenty feet through the almost night of the rain when she heard a third shot behind her, followed by a cry of pain.
Poppy rounded the corner of the house, then stopped and peeked back, hoping, praying that Lester would appear in the lit doorway. It took a long time, but finally someone stepped through and looked around.
Mac.
With a small cry, she spun and dashed for the brush at the rear of the house. He hadn’t seen her—or had he? Maybe he’d go the other way.
Still carrying Katie, she crashed through the bushes for a good dozen or so feet, then turned and crouched behind a tree, panting. She and Katie were soaked through to the skin. No shelter from this rain—the wind seemed to be driving it at them from all directions. Katie shivered against Poppy and began to cry.
“I want to go home! I want my Daddy!”
“Hush, honey bunch,” she whispered frantically, placing her hand gently over Katie’s mouth. “If that man hears you, he’ll find us.” She rocked Katie, trying to soothe her. With the dark and the rain and the thunder, maybe they could survive here until the rest of the Appletons returned from their stills—if they kept quiet.
Katie seemed to be calming down until a bolt of lightning sizzled into a tree not a dozen feet to their left, and the simultaneous thunder clap knocked them flat. Katie wailed in terror then, long and loud, lasting well after the thunder had faded, and Poppy knew Mac had heard it. How could he not have?
They had to move, but she couldn’t cover any ground carrying Katie. She’d have to go without her.
“Katie,” she said, peeling the dripping child off her, “I’m going for help. You stay here and keep quiet and I’ll be right back.” I hope.