F Paul Wilson - Novel 04 (17 page)

She glanced at him and nodded. She
looked sane again. At least for the moment.

Turned out the pills were chewable,
but so what? The kid was out cold. She wasn’t going to be chewing
anything.

Poppy took the bottle into the
kitchen and tried to crush a pill with the flat of a butter knife, but her
hands were too shaky.

“Gimme,” Paulie said
after she messed up a third time.

He crushed the sucker on the first
try and looked up at her, hoping for a little smile, or maybe a nod of
approval. But her stare was still icy, with no sign of a thaw.

“Do another,” she said.

“Bottle says she’s only
supposed to get one.”

“I’m making up for the
one she didn’t get last night.”

Shit. Bad enough being in the
doghouse, but worse when you know you belong there. He crushed the second.

Poppy half filled a shot glass with
water and dissolved the powder. But getting the mixture into the kid was
another story. She wouldn’t wake up.

Finally they got the kid situated
with Poppy cradling her head in her lap. Paulie pried her jaw open while Poppy
dribbled the mixture into her. The kid coughed and gagged but Poppy held her
head until she’d swallowed.

Paulie breathed a sigh of relief.
“All right! She’s gonna be okay now. No harm done.”

Poppy glared at him. “You
don’t know that.”

“Sure. She’s got the
medicine—”

“Go away,” Poppy said.
“Just leave me with her.”

Paulie wanted to tell her off, tell
her she couldn’t talk to him that way, but it was like he wasn’t
even there, like he’d vanished in a puff of smoke. Poppy had pulled the
kid onto her lap and started rocking her back and forth, cooing in her ear like
she was a little baby. She seemed to be in her own world with that kid.

He wandered into the front room.
This was way too weird. He couldn’t have Poppy going off the deep end in
the middle of a job. They had to pull together on this—at least till it
was over.

I don’t get it, he thought,
staring back into the guest room as Poppy began to hum to the kid. She always
said she hated kids, and now she’s acting like she’s the
kid’s mother or something.

John arrived at the northwest
corner of
Franklin Square
at
quarter to nine
. No one was using the phone, but who knew
how long that would last. Any minute now, one of the local pushers might
commandeer it for the day.

To forestall that, John picked up
the handset—it smelled like vomit—and pretended to punch in a call.
Then he stood there with the greasy receiver to his ear, pretending to be in
animated conversation while keeping the switch hook depressed with his free hand.

Around him, workers were spewing
from the Metro’s
MacPherson Square
stop, and the homeless were beginning to shuffle from their hidey holes to
begin the day’s panhandling chores. The sun climbed through the hazy air,
warming the park and enhancing the rancid smell from the handset.

John’s stomach turned. The
aftertaste of his quick cup of coffee sat on his tongue like swamp scum.

God, how long could he stand here
and pretend to be in earnest conversation with nobody? Seemed like he’d
been here all morning.

And then the phone rang, startling
his hand off the switch hook.

“Hello!” he said.
“This is Vanduyne.”

“Hey, that was quick.”

John recognized the voice: the one
from the Metro station yesterday.

“I’ve been waiting. I
promised to cooperate. I got your e-mail. You said to be here at nine, so here
I am.”

“Tears all dried up?” The
mocking tone made John want to lunge through the receiver, but he set his jaw.
Why give Snake the satisfaction.

“Yes. What do you want to
tell me?”

“Let’s not be in too
big a hurry here. I’m going to send you to another phone.”

“Is this a game?”

A cold laugh. “Don’t
worry. I’ve seen those movies too. No, just taking precautions. I’m
sending you to another park—
Lafayette Square
.
Know where that is?”

That one John did know.
“Across from the White House.”

“That’s it. Northeast
corner across from the VA Building. A mere four blocks from where you stand. Be
there in five minutes.” The line went dead.

John checked his watch:
9:02
. Four blocks in five minutes. He could do
that walking backward, but he broke into a jog anyway. No sense in taking
chances.

He reached
Lafayette
Square
and found the phone in two minutes, but his
heart sank when he spotted someone using it. A heavy woman in beige polyester
slacks with a just say no!/winston must Go! button on her white polyester
turtleneck was yakking away, one of the horde of protesters still thronging the
square and marching up and down before the White House.

He waited an agonizing minute and a
half, watching the time tick toward
9:07
.
And still she talked.

“Excuse me,
ma’am,” he said, “but I’m expecting a very important
call on that phone in a couple of seconds.”

She glanced at him but said
nothing.

“Please, ma’am.
It’s very important.” She covered the receiver and glared at him.

“Yeah?” she said in a
New
York
accent. “What’s this? Your office?
Find another phone. They’re all over the place.”

“You don’t understand.
I can’t go to another phone. I’m receiving the call on this
phone.”

“Stop bothering me or
I’ll call a cop.” That was the last thing he needed—but he
had to get her off the phone. As she waved him off and started to turn away, he
had an idea.

“Look,” he said,
digging into his pocket. “I’ll pay you for that phone.”

Now he had her interest. “You
kidding me?” He pulled out some of the cash he’d grabbed on his way
out the door, found two fives, and waved them in her face. He watched her eyes
narrow. She wasn’t thinking of holding him up for more, was she? He
didn’t have time, dammit.

“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!”