F Paul Wilson - Novel 04 (22 page)

Holding the penlight in his mouth,
he moved along the rows, going from coffin to coffin, finding the latches on
each, unhooking them, and lifting the lids. Nothing to it.

They were all pretty much the same.
Good. He’d been worried that he’d have trouble with the Eddie
Hadley coffin upstairs. He always made a point of keeping flashlight use to an
absolute minimum if windows were involved. None down here, but he’d seen
plenty of glass upstairs.

As he turned to leave, the light
caught a silvery reflection in a rear corner of the room. Looked like stainless
steel sinks and counters. Must be where Lynch and MacDougal did their
embalming. He spotted a white sheeted figure on a table. The next customer?

Paulie knew he should be heading
upstairs for his date with Eddie Hadley’s toe, but he found himself
irresistibly drawn to that table. Just for a look. Only take a second…

As he neared, he figured which end
was the head. He lifted the sheet and flashed the beam on the face of a young
girl with long brown hair. Pale as the sheet, but with her eyes closed she
looked like she was sleeping, like one shake of her shoulder and she’d
open up and look at him. This must have been the young “beloved”
MacDougal had mentioned.

Paulie lifted the sheet
farther—nude as a lap dancer underneath and very nicely built. He stared
at her, wondering what she’d died of. Too bad. She was a looker.

He dropped the sheet and headed
upstairs. He found the Hadley room and stepped inside. A quick flash of the light
showed him the path through the chairs. He reached the coffin and found someone
had closed it.

Fine with me, he thought. He
didn’t feature having the kid watching while he crunched on his toe.

He felt along under the cover lip
until he found the latch for the lower half, unhooked it, and lifted. Another
quick flash to orient himself and— “I’ll be damned!”
The kid wasn’t wearing pants or shoes or socks.

This made it easier for Paulie,
sure, but it was something of a shock. You figure if they dress the top half,
they dress the rest of you too.

“All right, Eddie boy,”
he said, “time for your contribution to the cause.” No way around
using his light now, but at least he’d have the coffin cover between him
and the window. He pulled the pruning shears from his pocket, stuck the light
in his mouth and bent over the kid’s feet. He found the little toe on the
right foot, fitted the shears around it, and squeezed. Nowhere near the resistance
he’d expected. A little pressure, a soft crunch, and there it was: one
persuader, made to order.

He pocketed the shears and picked
up the toe. Tiny little thing—half the size of a cigarette filter, and
about as white but heavier. As he took a closer look he saw that the cut end
was wet and reddish, but it wasn’t bloody. That might be a problem, but
he’d worry about it later. Now that he had what he’d come for, he wanted
out of here.

He glanced at his watch. Not bad:
door to door—make that window to window—in ten minutes.

He pulled out the Ziploc sandwich
bag he’d brought along. As he went to drop the toe inside, he felt it
slip from his fingers.

“Fuck!” He checked the
bag. No, it hadn’t fallen in there. That meant it was on the floor.
Christ, he had to find it.

Paulie dropped to his knees and
began flashing the light along the floor. Great… the carpet was
beige… and thick—just his luck.

Easiest thing to do would be to
just cut off the other toe and forget about this one. But sure as hell someone
would find it tomorrow and want to know where it came from. And when they found
out he’d bet his ass the papers and the TV news would start shouting
about someone chopping off little kids’ toes, and then for sure Mac would
come gunning for him.

Nope. Had to find this one.

At least he was below window level
where the penlight wouldn’t be seen from the street. But where was the
goddamn thing?

He didn’t know how long he
was down there on the floor, kneeling, crouching, crawling, lying flat on his
belly, shining the light at all different angles—seemed like
forever—until he spotted this slightly paler lump nestled in the carpet
fibers four feet from the coffin. Was that—?

Yes. He almost sobbed with relief.
How the hell did it get over there? Damn thing must have bounced and rolled.
Who cared? He had it and he wasn’t losing it. Still lying on the floor,
he carefully sealed the toe in the baggie and stuffed that deep into the front
pocket of his jeans.

Then he rose and closed and latched
the lower half of Eddie’s coffin.

“Thanks, buddy. You’ve
been a real—” The words choked in his throat.

Outside the window sitting in the
parking lot…

A car.

Christ! Where’d that come
from? Must have pulled in while he was on the floor. But who—?

Out in the hall, he heard the faint
clack of a dead bolt snapping open. He made like a statue and listened. The
rear door swung open with a creak. He heard the alarm panel begin to beep, then
shut off as someone punched in the security code. He heard someone
humming—a guy.

MacDougal? Yeah. The car outside
was a Riv, just like he’d seen MacDougal driving. As a light came on down
the hall, Paulie crouched behind the coffin, but instead of coming this way,
MacDougal headed downstairs.

At first Paulie cursed—that
was his way out. He was stuck here until MacDougal left, and who knew how long
that would be?

All right, he thought. I know the
who. What’s the why?

Only one reason he could figure for
MacDougal to come back at this hour and head downstairs: He had to be embalming
the babe on the table.

Shit, that could take hours, and
Paulie didn’t exactly have all night.

Mac wanted a call when the
persuader was delivered. He didn’t get that call soon, he’d start
getting antsy… might decide to pay the package a personal visit.

Then Paulie realized something: The
alarm was off. He could sneak out the rear door—walk instead of crawl. He
allowed himself a smile. When someone hands you a lemon, make lemonade.

He stepped out into the hall and
headed toward the rear, moving carefully, hugging the wall where the flooring
was less likely to creak.

But as he passed the security panel
he stopped and suppressed a groan. The indicator light was red—MacDougal
had rearmed the system.

Okay. Only one thing to do. If
MacDougal was in that back room doing whatever it was undertakers did to
“beloveds,” he’d probably never hear Paulie sneak downstairs
and slip out the bathroom window. A risky move but doable—if you had the
balls.

He had to get out of here.

He headed downstairs, taking every
step as carefully as he could. The carpeting helped. When he reached bottom he
peeked into the lounge and found it empty.

Excellent.

The door to the private room was
half open and he heard MacDougal’s voice coming from inside, talking now
instead of humming.

Even better. Paulie’s
worst-case scenario on his way down the stairs had been sneaking into the
bathroom and finding MacDougal taking a dump.

He skittered over to the bathroom
door and was easing it open when he heard MacDougal’s voice change. He
was groaning now, making weird noises. Paulie knew he should stay on course but
he had to see what was going on.

He crept to the private door, put
his nose against its outer surface, then eased his head to the side until he
could peek around the edge.

At the far end of the room,
MacDougal’s fat naked body was bobbing atop the dead girl on the
embalming table. Fascinated and repulsed, Paulie watched for a few seconds,
then tore himself away. The growling animal noises coming from MacDougal now
were the perfect cover for his escape.

Shaking his head, Paulie headed
back to the bathroom. Weirdos—the world was full of them, man.

Poppy heard the garage door go up.
She peeked out and saw the panel truck pulling in.

Finally! Jesus he’d been gone
so long she thought something had happened to him. The extra time could only
mean one thing: trouble. At least now she knew he hadn’t got caught. But
what if he hadn’t been able to get that toe? He had to have it. She
couldn’t think of any other way out of this mess.

She could like barely breathe as
she waited for him to come through the door. And when he did she totally jumped
on him.

“Did you get it? Please say
yes. Please!”

He gave her this innocent look.
“Get what? Was I supposed to get something?”

“Paulie! Don’t do this
to me!”

Finally he smiled. “Of course
I got it.”

She sagged against him. “Oh,
thank God! I was so worried.”

“Nothing to it. Want to
see?”

“No, thanks. I’ll
pass.”

“Maybe you better take a
look.” She backed up a step and looked at him.

“Why? Don’t tell me the
dead kid was black or something.”

“Nah. White as the package.
But there’s something missing, something we’ll need if we’re
gonna pull this off.”

“What’s that?”

“Blood. The persuader
ain’t gonna be too persuasive if we send it like it is. We need to smear
some fresh blood around the edge.” Poppy swallowed. He was right. She
hadn’t thought about that.

“Okay. We can use some of
mine. I’ll…” He was shaking his head slowly.

“What if dear old dad gets the
blood typed, just to be sure, it’s his kid’s? We can’t risk
that. We need hers.”

“Uh-uh,” she said,
backing up another step. “No way.”

“Poppy,” he said
slowly. “I went to hell and back to save your little friend’s toe.
All we need to make this work—to really get away with it—is a few
drops of her blood. A pin prick, f’chrissake. Otherwise, you want to be
responsible for what happens when Mac shows up with the news that the
package’s father says it ain’t his kid’s toe?”

He had a point—a very scary
point. She hated it, but it was the only way. A little stick was like a small
price to pay to save a whole toe.

She sighed. “All right. But
let me talk to her first.” She was pretty sure she could make Katie
understand. They’d got pretty tight tonight. What did the guys call it?
Bonding? Yeah. That was it. Katie and me bonded pretty good tonight.

“Marijuana’s full name
is cannabis hemp and it is one very useful plant. It produces the toughest
known natural fiber. The first denim and most of the world’s sailcloth
used to be made from cannabis hemp. As a matter of fact, the Dutch word for
cannabis is canvass.

“Did you know it takes four
acres of twenty-year-old trees to make the same amount of paper as a single
acre of hemp? And without using bleaches and dioxin? You can make methanol,
cooking oil, vegetable protein, medications… the list goes on and on.
Cannabis is a cash crop that won’t need a single subsidy. It’s
silly to keep it illegal.” John turned down the volume on the TV,
muffling Heather Brent’s latest interview.

Was that a beep he’d just
heard? It seemed to have come from down the hall, in the direction of the study
and the computer. A real beep, or just wishful thinking? Probably his
imagination.

He sat up on the edge of the bed
and rubbed his face.

Another sleepless night. Another
series of fruitless trips to the computer in search of Snake-mail. He’d
been praying all night to hear from the kidnappers. Now he was hearing things.
But he had to check. He’d left the computer logged in to the HHS network.
If e-mail arrived, it would beep.

The bastard, John thought as he
stumbled down the hall for one more look. He’s really punishing me for
that hang up. Probably thinks I’ll be so tortured by a whole day of not
hearing anything that I’ll be as compliant as a used examination glove
and do everything he tells me.

Well, he’s not far from
wrong.

John had decided to
agree—verbally—without question or reservation to everything Snake
demanded. But all the while he’d be looking for a way around actually
poisoning Tom. He didn’t know how yet, but something would come up, he
was sure.

He stepped into the study and
blinked at the screen. Was that—? He stepped closer. Yes. The mail icon
was blinking in the corner. He downloaded the letter to his screen.

From the anonymous
remailer—thank you. God—but only eight words:

Check
your snail mail, then e-mail your response.

Snail mail? But the mailman
didn’t come by until— The mailbox.

John pulled on the first pair of
pants he could find and ran out to the curb. He opened the mailbox door and
found one of those padded mailers stuffed inside. He reached for it, then
hesitated as thoughts of bombs and booby traps raced through his brain. He
dismissed them, but found himself more than a little unsettled by the
realization that Snake or one of his people—the guy in the sweatsuit in
the CVS, maybe—had stood on this very spot not long ago. If he’d
been looking out the window, he might have seen them. Gingerly, he reached in
and removed the envelope.

Light. Couldn’t be much more
than paper inside. Check your snail mail; then e-mail your response. That could
only mean printed instructions. Or maybe some new demand.

Taking a deep breath, he grabbed
the pull here tab and yanked. He reached inside but found no paper. Only a
small plastic bag. He pulled it out and stared at it. At first he thought it
was empty, then he spotted something stuck in the corner. Little. No bigger
than one of his fingernails.

White… and red… and the
red was smeared along the inner surface of the bag.