F Paul Wilson - Novel 04 (44 page)

“Who cares what anybody says!
This isn’t talk, this isn’t a reputation that’s at
stake—this is Katie’s life!”

“I know that, John.
Don’t think I don’t. And don’t underestimate my love and
concern for Katie. But this is bigger than you and me and Katie. This is a
bunch of lowlifes trying to dictate the policy of the United States, John. My
oath of office doesn’t allow me to make a choice between the country and
a little girl I dearly love. If I had my way…” The cold sick fear
was fading in the heat of his growing anger.

“Bullshit, Tom!
Bullshit!” John found the end button and hit it. He stared at the phone a
moment, then looked over at Decker who was concentrating on navigating the
twisty back road to the next Mulliner on the list.

“He’s leaving the
hospital,” John said. “Going to The Hague.”

“I know.”

“How long have you
known?” Decker glanced at him, then back to the road.

“You sure you want to
know?”

“Of course I’m
sure.”

“Since Saturday.” John
closed his eyes and pressed back against the headrest.

Saturday! That meant Tom had
intended all along to go to the drug summit, whether Katie was safe or not.
Tom… Tom of all people. He’d held Katie at her baptism. How could
he… ?

John felt as if he’d been
spiked to his seat through the heart. Dear God, this hurt. Still keeping his
eyes closed he said, “How long before the kidnappers find out?”

“If they’re listening
to a radio or watching TV anywhere in the world—immediately. Bethesda
Naval is under media siege. The instant he sets foot out the door it’ll
be on the satellites.”

“You heard what I told him.
What do you think?”

“That it’s going to
make a difference? I don’t know, Doc. I wish I did, but I don’t. It
all comes down to this Poppy Mulliner, doesn’t it. If she’s been
shooting straight, we should be okay. If she’s been feeding us a
line… well, we’ve got to hope we get there first.”

Snake sat in his Jeep and stared at
the cell phone in his hand.

Damn I’m fucking good!

That had been the President of the
U-S-of-fucking-A on the phone just now. And he wasn’t sick. Hadn’t
been sick at all. He’d been faking. The whole Bethesda Naval Hospital
deal had been a smoke screen.

Damn good thing he’d thought
of having Salinas get him the numbers and carriers of the cell phones the
honchos in the search would be using. Also had him find out the VHF frequency
the copters would be using. After that it was a simple matter of buying a
couple of cell phones and reprogramming them to ring when the honchos’
phones rang. As a precaution he’d disabled the receivers so no ambient
noise from his end would taint the feed.

He’d been catching the calls
of a guy named Canney and a guy named Decker all morning. Mostly nothing
calls… until this one.

Wow. Wait till Salinas found out.
Shit, he’d be bouncing off the walls—and he had the blubber to do
it.

Snake had to admit he was pretty
pissed too. And embarrassed.

The doc had screwed
him—hadn’t given the chloram-whatever and ratted out to the
feds—all while he’d thought they’d cut off his kid’s
toe! What. kind of a father was that? Man, you couldn’t trust anyone
these days.

But the good news was that the feds
didn’t have any better idea of the whereabouts of Poppy and the kid than
he did—which meant they didn’t have his tape. Snake still had time.
His options were still open. If he could reach Poppy first, get the tape, then
off her and the kid, he’d be safe. And Salinas would be safe. And the two
of them could both live happily every after.

Preferably on different continents.

He kept driving, mostly up and down
539, as he monitored the progress of the search—listening to the feds
talk to each other via his hacked cellular phones, and following the reports
from the search helicopters on his hand-held transceiver. If Poppy or her car
were spotted, Snake would be among the first to know.

He just had to hope he could get
there first.

Alien Gold rushed into the office,
white as a flour tortilla.

“Oh, God! Oh, my God!
Where’s the remote? You’ve got to see this! Quick!” Carlos
Salinas pointed to an outside corner of his desk and watched as Alien snatched
up the TV remote and began frantically jabbing buttons. He almost dropped it
twice before the screen came to life.

Carlos half rose from his chair as
the picture came into focus… a picture of a very healthy-looking Thomas
Winston, closely surrounded by Secret Service men, walking out of Bethesda
Naval Hospital to his car.

Stunned, feeling as if someone had
slammed the end of a two-by-four into his belly, Carlos could only stare as all
the warmth drained from his body.

No! Vellgame Dios! This cannot be!

He checked the words in the lower
left corner of the screen—CNN-LIVE—as the reporter’s words
filtered faintly through the thickening air around him.

“As I said before, Bernard,
this is a complete surprise. The President’s press secretary announced
only moments ago that he would be leaving the hospital today, and here he is.
The lack of advance warning may be for security reasons. As we all know, the
President has received numerous death threats since his announcement a week ago
tonight of his intent to decriminalize all drugs. And indeed, there seems to be
more than the usual number of Secret Service agents in his personal escort
today. I must say he looks hale and fit, and in an obvious attempt to squelch
all the recent rumors to the contrary, the medical team here at Bethesda has
issued a statement stating unequivocally that President Thomas Winston passed
all his medical tests with flying colors and is in excellent health. Once again…”

“How did this happen?”
Carlos said when he could finally speak.

“Isn’t it
obvious?” Gold’s voice was so high now it almost squeaked.
“He was never sick! He never took the fucking pills! He’s been
playing us for idiots all along! They know about Keane… they’re
going to catch MacLaglen next… and then it’s going to be our turn!”

Carlos slumped back into his chair.
No… this could not be happening. How could everything go so wrong? It was
a perfect plan. How could it turn out so miserably?

Gold turned away from the TV and
leaned over the desk. “We’ve got to get out of here, Carlos!”
Gold had been saying that for days. Finally, Carlos had to agree. The United
States was no longer a good place to be.

But where could he go? Home?

A cold sick feeling engulfed Carlos
like a truckload of wet sand as he realized that the silent scene here a few
moments ago no doubt had been mirrored in another office… in Cali,
Colombia. He was certain that Emilio Rojas had watched the smiling, waving
President Winston with the same open-mouthed shock as Carlos. The major
difference would be the other emotion tingeing the shock. Here it was dismay.
In Colombia, it would be anger.

No, Colombia might be more
dangerous than the U.S. Really, he had money enough to live anywhere. All he
had to do was spin a globe and pick a spot.

Why not Spain? Yes, the Motherland.
He would return to the land of his ancestors.

He nodded. Spain… strangely
enough, he found something deeply satisfying in that course, as if he were
closing a circle, finishing a multi-generational voyage.

He glanced at his nervous, sweaty
money manager. A liability or an asset? After a few heartbeats he decided that
Alien Gold was still useful. Carlos would need help in moving his money between
the Swiss and Cayman banks where he kept most of it.

“Pack your things,” he
told Gold. “But only the necessities.”

Gold rolled his head heavenward.
“Thank God!”

“And send me Llosa,”
Carlos said. “We have some loose ends to tie up before we leave.”

“Are you my cousin?”
Poppy looked up at the Appleton standing before her—towering was more
like it. She and Katie had been standing outside Lester’s section of the
house when the guy came up and like started staring.

He could have been in his late
teens or as old as thirty and had to be six-six, three hundred pounds. He
rocked back and forth on his bare feet, hands behind his back. Thin, frizzy
brown hair grew close to his scalp; he wore bib overalls over a flannel shirt,
and she could smell him from here. But his face put her off even more. With his
big, long head, wide-set brown eyes, and long, stretchedout nose, he reminded
her of a horse… a fat horse, with half its teeth missing.

“Yes, I guess I am,”
Poppy said, forcing the words out. “I’m your cousin Poppy.”

He laughed, and damn if it
didn’t sound like a bray. “And I’m your cousin Levon.”
He turned his attention to Katie. “And who’s this cousin?”

Katie had been clinging to Poppy’s
thigh, and now she was pressing so hard against it she seemed to be trying to
melt into it.

“This is Katie and
she’s not kin. She’s just a very good friend. I’m keeping her
for her daddy.”

“That’s nice,”
Levon said, still staring. “You both sure are pretty.” Don’t
get any ideas. Poppy thought. Her impression of the sexual practices of the
Appletons was that they weren’t like too picky. She didn’t want to
know any more.

Suddenly Levon’s hands came
out from behind him and he was thrusting something toward Katie.

“Here,” he said.
“This is for you.” Katie whimpered and cringed deeper into
Poppy’s thigh. It took Poppy a few seconds to figure out what Levon was
offering. It was made of ragged, filthy cloth and seemed to be stuffed with something.
In some bizarre way it looked vaguely human.

“It’s my doll,”
Levon said. “I had it ever since I was little. I brought it so Katie
could play with it.”

“Thank you, Levon,”
Poppy said, touched. “That’s real… sweet.” She looked
up and saw him smiling, pushing the doll toward Katie. He really wanted her to
have it, but Poppy knew there was no way Katie was going to touch it. And no
way they could turn it down. Steeling herself. Poppy reached out and took the
doll with her fingertips.

“Katie’s a little
scared right now with all these… new faces around.” Jesus,
she’d almost said strange.

“Why don’t she come
down and play with the kids. We—”

A sudden whirring noise interrupted
him. An engine of some sort, with a low-pitched rhythmic beat, coming closer,
filling the air with noise.

And then she saw it: a helicopter.

Levon started running about,
shouting for Lester who came limping around a corner, moving as fast as his
bent spine would let him.

“Guns!” he shouted.
“It’s the ATF come for the stills! Everybody get your guns!”
Poppy looked about, and saw Appletons running everywhere, ducking into the
house and reappearing with rifles and pistols.

“Better get back
inside,” Lester said as he hobbled up to her. “This could be
serious.” Poppy backed up under an overhang but didn’t go inside.

She was pretty sure that
wasn’t an ATF copter; most likely it was looking for her instead of
bootleg stills. She didn’t want to tell Lester that, but she
couldn’t let all the Appletons get into federal-level hot water for her.

“Don’t shoot,”
she told him. “You’ll only get in trouble.”

Lester stood staring at the copter
which hadn’t come overhead yet. It remained hovering at the base of the
rise.

“We’re not
lookin‘ for trouble,” he said, “but we’ll surely
provide it if someone starts it.”

“No. You don’t
understand—” The helicopter suddenly turned and roared off.

“Lucky for them,”
Lester said, spitting. “Damn lucky for them.”

Yeah, but unlucky for me,
I’ll bet.

“Look!” Vanduyne said,
pointing ahead through the windshield. “Tire tracks. And they look fresh.”

Bob Decker hid his relief. Finally
a sign of intelligent life. They’d turned off 563 about twenty-five miles
ago.

Somewhere along the way the
pavement had disappeared but they’d kept going on the hard-packed sand.
But going where? Not only had they not seen another human being for the past 25
miles, they hadn’t seen a trace of civilization. Not even litter. Except
for the ruts they were following, this was exactly how the area must have
looked before Columbus.

The sense of isolation was more than
oppressive; Bob found it downright unsettling. He’d been beginning to
suspect they were hopelessly lost, but now these tire tracks suggested that
civilization might not be too far away.

“Wait a minute!”
Vanduyne said. “Stop.”

Bob angled around the branches of a
fallen tree that jutted onto the road, hit the brakes, and brought the big
Roadmaster to a halt.

“What’s up?”

“That fallen tree,”
Vanduyne said. “This is the second time we’ve passed it. These are
our tire tracks. We’ve just come full circle.” He slumped back.
“This is hopeless! We’re no closer to finding Katie now than we
were this morning, and now…” He slammed his fist against the door.

Bob Decker kept his eyes on the
narrow sandy path ahead and had to admit Vanduyne was right. They were very lost.
They’d been taking forks this way and that, thinking the road eventually
would loop them back around toward Sooy’s Boot. But all they’d done
was loop back on themselves.

How much was the poor bastard
supposed to take before he detonated? Vanduyne’s best and oldest friend
had let him down when he needed him most—Bob perfectly understood that
Razor had no choice, but he was sure that wasn’t how Vanduyne saw
it—and his daughter was still missing. Plus the two of them had been
cooped up together in this sedan all day. And now they were lost.