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!”
“So? You cut off mine. Fair’s fair. Now here’s five bucks back. I figure I should keep half the money because I let you use the phone but—”
John felt his lips pulling back from his clenched teeth. If half of him wasn’t praying for Snake to call back, he’d be grabbing the handset and shoving it down her throat.
“Get out of here,” he said in a low voice.
Her chatter cut off. She took a faltering step back.
“Hey. What’s eating you?”
He leaned toward her, still speaking through his teeth, enunciating with slow precision. “Get away from me or I will kill you.” He’d never threatened anyone with harm before, let alone death. But right now he meant it.
She must have sensed that. She backed up another step, then hurried away. “I’m calling a cop!”
John turned back to the phone. “Please ring,” he whispered. “Please call back.” He slammed his fist against the side of the booth. “Please!” But the phone remained silent. John waited in the morning sun, amid the milling people, clinging to the booth, a hand on each side, guarding it as if it were his personal property.
After five minutes he began losing hope. When fifteen minutes had passed, he knew Snake wasn’t going to call back, but still he hung on, waiting. He couldn’t leave.
He looked up and saw the polyester lady walking his way with a cop in tow. He couldn’t get involved with the police right now. What if Snake had someone watching him? If Snake got a report that he was seen talking to a cop, no telling what he might do. John released his grip on the booth, turned, and forced himself to walk away, to get lost in the crowd.
He told himself it was useless to stay by the phone. Snake wasn’t calling back. John’s best bet was to get to his computer and send Snake an e-mail explaining what had happened. The sooner, the better.
Still, in his soul, he felt as if he’d just abandoned his daughter in Lafayette Square.
4
He hung up!
Snake, sitting in traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue, still couldn’t believe it. John Vanduyne, M.D., supposedly this loving, devoted father, and he hangs up on the guy who’s holding his daughter. What the hell was he up to?
Snake had to admit he’d been rattled for a moment after the line went dead. He’d told him. Either you dose your pal or you don’t. What’s it going to be? And Vanduyne went and hung up on him.
After being so high last night, barely able to sleep, that had brought him down. He’d known this guy was going to be a problem.
Maybe it had been some sort of a reflex. After all, he’d verbally pole-axed Vanduyne with what he had to do to get his kid back. He had to smile. Hell of a choice, wasn’t it. Here was the stuff myths were made of: Choose between your old buddy, the leader of the free world, and your kid. Something almost cosmic about that. And Snake was calling the cosmic tune.
Except Vanduyne wasn’t dancing the right steps. Another example of the guy’s instability. He was a wild card.
But Snake knew just the thing to get him in line. He’d have Paulie take care of that…
Right after he met with Salinas.