F Paul Wilson - Novel 04 (33 page)

“That’s just it. I
ain’t got any. He only had one in the bottle and I’m like, I
can’t take his last pill. But I saw the name on the bottle. It was
Tegretol 1oo mg. Is that bad stuff? You know, like drugs?”

“Does your nephew have a
seizure disorder?”

“You mean fits?”

“Yes, I suppose you could
call them that. Tegretol is used for er, fits.”

“I don’t know. My
sister never told me about that, and she’s on a trip and I can’t
get hold of her to ask. If you could just let me see one…”

He sighed. “Sure. Wait right
here.” Poppy watched him go to the rear shelves and return to the counter
with a white plastic bottle. He shook a few pills into a plastic tray and
handed her one.

“Is that it?”

Poppy held up the precious little
pill to the light, but her eyes were on the bottle sitting a foot away on the
counter. So close. So tempting. All she had to do was reach out, grab it, and
run.

And maybe get caught.

Too many people around, too much
traffic on the street outside. She couldn’t risk it.

“Yeah,” she said.
“That’s it. You think you could like sell me some of those?”

“Not without a
prescription.”

“But he’s only got one
left.” Poppy slipped a twenty on the counter. “Just a couple to
hold him until I can get in touch with my sister?”

The pharmacist shook his head.
“I’d like to help, but it would be against the law.”

They went ‘round
and’round, but this old dude wasn’t going to budge. He gave her all
sorts of suggestions that would have worked out fine if her little story was
true, but they didn’t help Poppy one bit.

Just when she was getting desperate
enough to make a grab for the bottle, he screwed the cap back on and held it in
his hand.

“You can have that
one,” he said. “Maybe it’ll give you a little extra
time.”

“Thanks,” she said.
“What do I owe you?”

“Forget it. I can’t
sell it once it’s been touched anyway.”

Poppy stood on tiptoe and watched
where he went, mentally marking the section of the rear shelves where he placed
it. Then she looked at the single pill in her hand. At least Katie
wouldn’t have to go through the night without her medicine.

Nice of the old grump to give it to
her. Made her almost regret what she was going to have to do.

John pulled off 95 and coasted into
the Maryland House parking lot. He found a space under a light and looked up at
the big colonial-style brick building squatting on a rise about fifty yards
away. Raindrops flickered through the light from its windows. With its wide
brick chimneys and many-paned windows, it looked like a mansion that had fallen
on hard times and was now tolerating tours to cover expenses—until you
spotted the Bob’s Big Boy, Roy Rogers, Sbarro, and TCBY signs.

He checked his watch: 8:35. He was
early, but didn’t see how he could be too early for this.

John sat and shivered. Not from the
drizzle outside, because he was warm and dry here in the car. The cold came
from within.

Something had gone terribly wrong
in the Falls Church house where they’d been keeping Katie… wrong
enough that a man had been stabbed to death.

What if something else goes wrong
tonight and Katie winds up getting hurt?

John had identified her clothing at
the police station. e’d have been sick with worry that someone had
sexually molested her if he hadn’t heard her voice an hour earlier.
She’d sounded so normal, almost happy. He was glad of that, but for the
life of him he couldn’t understand it. She’d been kidnapped, her
toe amputated—she should have sounded lost, shocked, disassociated; yet
she’d been perky, bouncy, her old self. As Katie herself ad said:
“Fine.” Like she’d been out on an overnight with her favorite
aunt instead of her captor.

God, who was that woman who’d
called?

He’d sensed something in her
voice… genuine regard for Katie. He prayed he was right.

And he prayed he’d done the
right thing by not telling Decker about Katie’s call.

“I guess I’ll know soon
enough, won’t I,” he said aloud as he stepped out into the wet air
and went looking for the phones.

“There he goes,” Gerry
Canney said.

Bob Decker had parked in the south
lot. He squinted through the dripping windshield and watched Vanduyne trot
through the rain toward the Maryland House. Plenty of light from the mercury
bulbs overhead and the fluorescent backwash from the Exxon station behind them.

He yawned. A long, hard day, but he
felt wired instead of tired. Excitement and apprehension burned inside him.

“Your people set up?”
Canny started to answer, then held a hand up as his walkie-talkie earpiece
buzzed. He pulled out his handset.

“Good work, Trevor,” he
said. “Keep an eye on her.”

Bob stiffened. “We’ve
spotted her?”

“It’s Vanduyne’s
wife. She followed him from his place. When I heard that, I put an agent named
Trevor Hendricks on her. Used to be a stunt driver. As they got within a few
miles of here, he boxed her in behind some slow-moving cars until Vanduyne was
out of sight. She’s still on Ninety-five, somewhere north of here, racing
along, trying to catch up to him.”

Bob smiled. “Smooth. I love
it.”

Earlier Vanduyne had told Canney
about his wife and how she was asking all sorts of troublesome questions about
Katie’s whereabouts. Vanduyne’s lawyer had faxed him selected
sections of the court file on Mamie Vanduyne… one very messed-up lady.
Bob had told Canney to put someone on her. Good thing too.

He glanced up at the glowing
windows of the Maryland House. A busy place, with travelers of all ages,
shapes, sizes, colors streaming in and out, tour buses disgorging hordes, even
at his hour.

“Pretty amazing
inside,” Canney said. “The phones are up on the second floor, along
with a bank, a copy machine, fax services. More like a business office than a
rest stop.”

“What’d you tell your
people?” Canney shrugged. “As much as they need to know and no
more. They’ve all got pictures of Katie and Vanduyne. They know
it’s a kidnap situation and possibly— hopefully—a victim
transfer.”

“Right. Hopefully.”
Canney turned to him. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Bob’s turn to nod.
“That this is some sort of trap? Yeah. Makes sense, especially after that
corpse in Falls Church. Dicastro had to be involved. I mean, the kid’s
prints are all over the bedroom, bathroom, and living room. She was there. What
I don’t get is, we’ve been so sure this was a cartel operation, yet
this Dicastro’s got no drug connection.”

“That we know of,”
Canney said.

“Right. But he’s still
not the sort I expected to run into. Maybe the cartel isn’t involved. But
with the President checking into Bethesda today, whoever’s behind it must
figure Vanduyne’s done their dirty work. That makes him and his kid
expendable.”

“More than expendable,”
Canney said. “They’re loose ends. Dicastro was probably a loose
end, and look what they did to him.”

“Yeah,” Bob said,
wishing Vanduyne didn’t know him. He’d love to be up there,
loitering around the Maryland House himself. “That’s what I’m
worried about.”

Poppy drove past Doc’s
Pharmacy three times before she was satisfied that the streets were empty. She
didn’t even know the name of the town, but, hell, it was only 11:30 and
it looked like everyone was asleep.

She parked the panel truck in the
shadows around the corner from the store and gathered the “tools”
she’d picked up earlier from a hardware store: a flashlight, two bricks,
and a baseball bat. She left the sack of spray paint cans on the floor.
Twisting in the seat, she shrugged into Mac’s Orioles jacket and stuffed
a brick in one pocket, the flashlight in the other. She pulled the leg
she’d cut from a pair of pantyhose over her head, slipped into a pair of
striped work gloves, then clutched the remaining brick in one hand and the bat
in the other.

Ready.

But she couldn’t move. Her
heart was racing so fast it made her whole body feel like it was vibrating. She
wished she was smarter; then she might be able to figure out a better way to do
this. But hey, like what could she do? You make do with what you got.

Can’t turn back now, she
thought. Got to get in, get out, and back to Katie.

Poor Katie. Poppy had found her a
Yoo-Hoo and crushed up a Valium in it.

The little thing was sound asleep
back at the motel. She hated leaving her alone like that, but she was locked in
and safe… if anywhere was safe with Mac hunting them.

Katie would wake up dopey in the
morning, and Poppy would have to lie and say she’d slept through the time
she was supposed to go back to her daddy, but that was okay because soon
they’d arrange another time.

Right. Soon. Poppy just
wouldn’t say like how soon.

At least she’d have Tegretol
for her. She hoped.

Do it now, she told herself.

Leaving the car running, she jumped
out and ran around to the front of Doc’s Pharmacy. Speed was everything.

She hurled the first brick at the
lower half of the display window, putting everything she had behind the toss.
The glass shattered, leaving a gaping hole and setting off a deafening alarm
bell. She had to fight the urge to run. Instead she pulled out the second
brick. The first hole was big enough to crouch through, but just her luck, the
rest of that glass would fall on her as she was going through. Probably cut her
head off. So she tossed the next brick higher, and that brought down most of
the center of the pane. She used the bat to knock off a couple of daggerlike
pieces, then leaped through the opening.

Flashlight glowing ahead of her,
she jumped to the floor, ran to the back, vaulted the counter, and fond the
bottle of Tegretol right where “Doc” had left it. Just to confuse
things, she knocked everything she could reach off the drug shelves, then
dashed back toward the window.

She hit the sidewalk running,
jumped into the truck and glided away with her lights out.

She was breathing hard, sweating,
shaking with fear and excitement as she kept watch ahead and behind, looking
for flashing red lights.

None.

So far, so good. Just give me a
couple of minutes more before— Red-and-blue flashing lights appeared way
down the road ahead. She swung to the curb and ducked out of sight, trembling
as she waited.

She began a mantra: He didn’t
see me… he didn’t see me…

Seconds later a squad car roared
by, no siren. As soon as it passed, she popped up and waited till it screeched
around the corner to Doc’s. Then Poppy started moving again, lights still
out, accelerating slowly so as not to attract any attention. Cruising.

Soon she was a mile, then two miles
from the store. She put her headlights on.

How long had the whole thing
took—from first brick to driving away? Like ninety seconds?

Paulie would of done it better,
smoother, but what really mattered sat beside her on the seat: a whole stock
bottle of Tegretol.

“Wasn’t pretty,”
she said aloud, “but it worked.” She pounded on the dashboard and
laughed. “It worked!” We’re in business, Katie, she thought
as she picked up speed back to the motel. We can stay together as long as we
want now.

“Here he comes,” Canney
said.

Bob Decker looked at his watch:
1:28. He shifted in his seat to relieve the stiffness in his joints and watched
Vanduyne shuffle down the ramp from the Maryland House. A different man from
the one who’d trotted past them five hours ago.

“Poor bastard,” Bob
said.

“Yeah. I tell you, I’m
glad I wasn’t up there. Don’t know if I could stand watching him
wait all those hours for a call that’s not coming. Rips your heart
out.”

Bob stared at him.
“Identifying with him, Gerry?”

“How can I help it? If that
was me and it was Martha I was waiting to hear about…” He shook his
head. “And you know what’s worse? We may be the reason he
didn’t get his daughter back.”

Bob nodded. He’d already
thought of that. “You think we were made?”

“Possible. Maybe whoever was
returning the kid saw something and got spooked.”

“Or maybe the hit team got
spooked.” Canney didn’t answer right away.

They both watched Vanduyne’s
car pull out of the lot and head for 95 south.

“That’s a good
thought,” Canney said. “I’ll keep telling myself that.

Over and over. Soon I may actually
believe it.“ Bob knew the feeling.

For the past hour he’d been
telling himself that they might have saved Vanduyne’s life tonight.

So why did he still feel like a
bum?

“Another hidden cost of the
war on drugs has been the accelerated spread of AIDS. Because we don’t
allow IV drug users to buy clean needles legally, they reuse old needles.
That’s why forty-four percent of newly reported AIDS cases last year were
drug related. ‘Serves ’em right,‘ some might say, but these
people pass the virus on to their sexual contacts, who then spread H IV further
into the heterosexual community, and on to any children resulting from these
contacts. AIDS babies are the civilian casualties of the War on Drugs.”

Look at us, John thought.
We’re a Hopper painting.

He imagined himself a stranger
standing in the kitchen doorway, taking in the scene. Nana sat at one end of
the rectangular table, half turned away from him, her eyes fixed on the TV.
Meet the Press was on but he doubted she saw Tim Russert or heard a word
Heather Brent was saying.