F Paul Wilson - Novel 04 (12 page)

“Talk about politics making
strange bedfellows,” Gold said. “Good Lord, it’s Jessup and
Wagner side by side. Stay here.”

The banners at the bottom of the
screen identified the black man as REP. FLOYD JESSUP (D-NY) and the white man
as REP. QUINCY WAGNER (R-SC). Each was outdoing the other in flogging the President.
Congressman Jessup was shouting about “genocide on a level that will make
Adolph Hitler look like a piker!” while Wagner was warning about
“the unraveling of the very moral fiber of America!” Gold was
laughing. “First time I’ve ever seen those two agree on anything!
This is awesome!”

“Alien,” Carlos said.
“I wish you to find the addresses of these fellows’ re-election
campaign funds and write out a check to each for two thousand dollars with a
note to keep up the good work and escalate the war on drugs.”

Gold nodded, grinning. “I
love it! I’ll draw them from the restaurant’s account. Not that we
need to contribute a dime—I mean, they can’t fail—but I love
the irony.”

“And I love insurance.”
Carlos cruised the channels, not sure of what he was looking for. Something,
anything, to help him get a feel for the mood of the country. La
compania’s projections had predicted this initial angry reaction, but
said it would be followed by a general cooling of emotions as the spin doctors
in the media and the administration began to work their spell on the public and
congress.

He stopped at a channel that showed
a man standing on a stage before a sign with the word
drugs
in a red circle
with a red line drawn through it. An 800 number flashed at the bottom of the
screen. He recognized the Reverend Bobby Whitcomb. Everybody knew the reverend.
In the past few years he had become increasingly influential in Christian
Fundamentalism. At the rear of the stage, behind the no-drugs sign, sat three
tiers of phone banks and busy operators.

“Looks like a
telethon,” Gold said.

The Reverend Whitcomb stood
teetering on the edge of his stage, his microphone pressed to his lips, his
free hand clawing the air, as he—literally—foamed at the mouth.

“… and I say to you now
that we will not be able to live, work, or play in the sight of the Lord if we
allow this to happen! We will not be able to hold our heads up when we enter
the house of the Lord. In fact, the Lord will turn a deaf ear on all our
prayers if we do not cast out this evil man from the White House! If we do not
disown this man as the leader of our nation!” The studio audience was on
their feet, cheering, waving their arms.

“And so you must give now!
Give whatever you can so that we can get these petitions moving, so that we can
send our deacons into every city and town in the nation for signatures calling
for the impeachment of President Thomas Winston!” During the next burst
of wild cheering. Gold turned to Carlos.

“An impeach-a-thon!
You’ve got to let me call in a pledge. A big one. I’ve got to do
this.”

“How big?”

“Ten. You want to buy
insurance, here’s a good way.”

Carlos was taken aback. “Ten
grand? What for?”

“I need five figures to get
his attention. You’ll see. It’ll be a killer.”

“Very well. Go ahead.”

On the screen, a long-robed choir
was singing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” as Carlos watched
Gold dial the 800 number. When he started speaking he suddenly had a thick southern
accent.

“Hello? Is this the Reverend
Whitcomb? Well, Ah want to speak to the Reverend Whitcomb his own self.
Don’t tell me what ain’t possible, darling.‘ A’course
it’s possible. Ah got ten grand says it’s possible. That’s
raht. Ten grand to donate to gettin’ that Satan-speakin‘,
cokesnortin’, dope-smokin‘, drug injectin’ heathen outta the
White House, but you ain’t a-gonna git it unless Ah speak to the reverend
real personal lahk. That’s raht. It’s Sinus… Billy Bob Sinus.
All raht. All raht. Ah’ll do that.”

Grinning and giggling like a school
boy, he put his hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Carlos.

“It’s working!
I’m on hold while they go get him!” Carlos wondered if his young
financial whiz had been sampling the product.

Gold snatched his hand away and
spoke into the receiver.

“Yes? Turn down mah TV?
Okay.” He covered it again and spoke to Carlos.

“They must be on delay.
I’ll go into the next room. You watch the TV.” As Gold left, Carlos
noticed that he hit the record button on the VCR.

A moment later, on the screen, the
choir suddenly broke off in mid-chorus as the camera cut to Reverend Whitcomb.
The rage of a moment ago seemed forgotten as he beamed from the screen.

“Praise the Lord! We have a
righteous soul on the line willing to give it all for the cause.” He
lifted a receiver to his ear. “Hello. To whom am I speaking?”
Carlos barely recognized Gold’s voice coming over the line.

“Reverend Whitcomb, is that
really you? Praise the Lord! What a thrill this is! This is Billy Bob Sinus from
Washington, D. C., and Ah watch your show all the tahm. Truly you are the voice
of the Lord!”

“Thank you, Billy Bob.”

“And Ah want to help you in
your faht agin that Satan in the Waht House.”

“That’s very good of
you. Billy. What did you have in mind?”

“Ah want to contribute ten
thousand dollars.” The audience erupted into frenzied cheering as
Whitcomb raised his arms and gazed heavenward.

“Praise the Lord!”

“Faht him, Reverend
Whitcomb” Gold could be heard saying over the cheering. “Faht him
till he’s cast back into the fahrs of hell whence he came from!”

“I will. Billy Bob!”
the reverend said. “And with the generous help of righteous people like
you, we will win!”

“Stomp him. Reverend
Whitcomb. Stomp that Satan president into the earth and sow the land with salt
so that he’ll never rahse again!”

“Thank you, Billy Bob. That
will—”

“Chew him up. Reverend. Chew
up that Anti-Chrahst and spit him out and then—”

The camera cut back to the choir,
which picked up right where it had left off as Gold stumbled back into the
room. He collapsed on the sofa, kicking his feet, laughing so hard he could
barely breathe.

Carlos allowed himself a laugh as
well, a brief respite from the tension that so relentlessly knotted the muscles
of his back. So much riding on this… so much…

When Gold finally stopped laughing,
he sat up and wiped his eyes. “Oh, man! I can’t remember the last
time I had so much fun!”

“The stakes are rather high
for ‘fun,’ no? Will you still be laughing if your President
succeeds?”

“Not a snowball’s
chance in hell of that.”

“I hope so,” Carlos
said. But I cannot sit back and rely on telethons, he thought.

John drove around for an extra half
hour before heading home. His surroundings were a blur. He drove on autopilot,
unable to think of anything but Katie and was she alive and how were they
treating her. If asked later where he’d gone, he doubted he’d be
able to say.

Finally he forced himself to think,
to focus. He had to pull himself together and come up with cover stories for
his mother as to why he’d left his office early and why she
wouldn’t be picking up Katie from the bus stop this afternoon. They had
to be damn good. One look at him and his mother would know something was wrong.

By the time he pulled into the
driveway, he had an explanation for why he was home. But as for Katie’s
whereabouts…

If only he could think!

Nana hit him with questions as soon
as he walked in. She stood in the door to her bedroom dressed in her yoga
outfit—he would never get used to the sight of his mother in a black
leotard and white tights.

“John? You’re home? Is
something wrong?”

He rubbed his stomach. “A
little gastroenteritis. It’s a bug that’s been going through the
whole department. Hit me just after I got in.”

“You look terrible,”
she said, her dark eyes searching his face.

“Believe me, I feel worse
than I look.”

“Can I get you anything? Some
soup?”

“Thanks, but I couldn’t
eat a thing.” That at least was true. “I think I’ll just sip
some V8 and lie down.”

“You go upstairs. I’ll
bring you some.”

“That’s okay.
I’ll bring it up with me.” He went to the kitchen and poured
himself half a glass from the two-liter bottle in the refrigerator. His mother
hovered over him every step of the way.

“I’ll be fine, Ma.
These things only last about twenty four hours; then they’re gone like
they never were.” He left her standing at the bottom of the stairs,
staring up after him, anxiously rubbing her hands together.

“I know some yoga positions
that might help,” she said.

“That’s okay,
Mom.” What was he going to tell her about Katie? She was no dummy. Having
her around to help with Katie every day had been such a blessing. Now he wished
she were back in Atlanta.

A thought occurred to him. He
turned at the top of the stairs.

“I think I’ll lie down
on the couch in the study,” he told her. “There’s this Senate
hearing I want to follow and I can catch it on C-SPAN.”

“I hope you’ll be all
right,” she said, still rubbing her hands together.

“I’ll be fine,
Ma.” John closed the door to the study and went directly to his computer.
His old Dell 486 was no longer up to the minute in speed and power but was
still more than adequate for his needs at home.

Soon after assuming his post at
HHS, he’d arranged for a remote link to the department’s network so
he could access his files from home. He hadn’t used it much, but now it
would be a godsend.

As soon his machine was up and
running, he logged into HHS, plugged in his ID number, and waited for the
e-mail icon to appear.

No e-mail.

Just as well. He’d thought of
a number of things he hadn’t included in his first message.

For cover, he turned on the TV and,
switched it to C-SPAN; then he began typing.

What he needed most was proof that
Katie was alive. Devastating enough that she was gone, but the fear that she
might be dead… that was crippling him.

He had to know. And the only way
was to speak to her. How hard could that be to arrange? Get her to a phone,
have her speak a few words, and that was that. He’d know she was alive
and then he could concentrate on getting her back.

He decided on a tough, businesslike
tone.

Snake—
Addendum to previous e-mail: I must have proof that Katie’s alive. You
say you want a “service” from me, fine. But in return for that
service I want my daughter back—alive and well. For all I know right now,
she could be dead and buried somewhere.

He had to lean back and take a
deep, shuddering breath. Please, God, don’t let that be true.

I will
perform =no= service of any sort unless I have conclusive proof that my
daughter is alive. If you cannot supply that proof I will have to assume that
you’ve murdered Katie. I will go immediately to the FBI.

He wanted to add that he would drop
everything else in his life and personally pursue whoever was behind this to
the ends of time and space, but that would be too provocative.

It was a fact, though.

He had to soften his tone now, and
try again to humanize Katie to this monster.

But if
Katie is alive and well as you say, please treat her gently.

She’s
a fussy eater but likes Lucky Charms cereal and Doritos and McDonald’s
cheeseburgers. You can imagine what an awful experience this is for her. I know
she’s terrified. Please don’t be angry if she cries a lot. She
didn’t ask to be kidnapped. Be gentle. =Please= be gentle.

That was it. That was all he could
write without breaking down again. He forwarded the e-mail to Snake’s
return address.

If only he could call the FBI. He
wondered if they could trace the e-mail back to Snake’s hole in the
ground.

But he didn’t dare. If Snake
had access to his phone line, what else did he know? He might have somebody
watching him. He couldn’t risk it… not with Katie’s life at
stake.

He stood at his window and stared
out at his quiet neighborhood, at people going out for lunch, coming back from
shopping, walking their dogs, playing with their toddlers, going about their
normal, everyday lives while his had been turned upside down and ripped inside
out.

Don’t they know? Can’t
they sense it? Katie is gone!

She’s all right, he told
himself over and over in a prayerful litany. She has to be all right.

Behind him, as C-SPAN broadcast the
current doings in Congress, John stayed at the window, trying to numb his
feelings, trying to think, trying to keep from screaming.

“You hear that?” Poppy
said.

She sat across the kitchen table
from Paulie, the remains of a turkey sub between them. She was still furious at
him, but also wishing he’d shave off his beard and dye his hair back to
black, so he’d start looking like his old self again.

“Hear what?” Paulie
said.

“Shhh!” She got up and
turned off the TV. “Listen.” She heard it, softly, coming through
the front room from the master bedroom. The sound she’d known would come,
the sound she’d dreaded hearing.

Muffled crying.

“The kid’s
awake.”

“Better go check on
her,” Paulie said.

“Why me? This was your
idea.”

“C’mon, Poppy,”
he said. “You’re not gonna be like this the whole gig, are
you?”

“I’m not taking care of
no kid,” she told him. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”