Somehow he’d found his keys. He grabbed them and his revolver and staggered out to the Jeep. Somehow, he’d managed to drive away before the cops arrived.
And all the time his beeper going, each beep a spear of pain through his head.
He hadn’t wanted to go home, but that bitch had stolen his wallet and his jacket and he needed cash. Lots of it. He knew a guy in Northeast D.C., an M.D. whose license had been yanked because of his fondness for Class II controlled substances, and his habit of selling prescriptions for the same. But that hadn’t stopped him from practicing. His name was out: “You got a reportable wound you don’t want recorded, see Doc Moeller.”
But he only took cash.
The doc stitched up the ragged furrow the bullet had torn from the corner of Snake’s right eye, across his temple, to somewhere above his right ear, saying how lucky he was that the temporal artery had only been nicked. Straightened out his broken nose. That was the good news.
Nothing he could do about that right eye, though. It was shot—literally and figuratively. The bullet had nicked it, causing intraocular hemorrhage, the muzzle flash had seared it, and it was completely out of order.
Maybe an opthamologist could salvage it, but the doc doubted it.
At the very least the eye work would take days, and most likely a stay in a hospital, and Doc Moeller didn’t know of an opthamologist who wouldn’t report the bullet wound.
So that was out.
Call me Deadeye.
The bleeding had stopped, but the pain went on and on. A symphony of agony—deep throbbing basso aches inside his skull accompanied by tight steady whining jabs from his scalp and nose, highlighted by staccato bursts of glass-shard stabs in his eye socket. The Percodans he was popping like M&M’s did next to nothing to mute the pain.
He squeezed a glob of antibiotic ointment onto a gauze eye pad and pressed it over the red horror that had once been his eye. Then he began winding a roll of two-inch gauze around his head.
But then he dropped the roll and grabbed the sink, hanging on as the bathroom suddenly spun around him.
His head had been playing that trick for two days now. Doc Moeller had told him to expect it—post-concussion syndrome, or some such. Whatever it was called, it was scary. Didn’t want something like that to happen when he was driving.
But he was going to have to drive today. Get out of this neighborhood and find a phone. He’d stopped at the first motel he’d seen after leaving Doc Moeller’s—somewhere on Rhode Island Avenue. He had to be the only white man in a couple of miles. He sure as hell wasn’t going to call from this room. Probably have to go into the Federal area to find a phone that worked or didn’t have a pusher hogging it.
The room steadied and he straightened up from his death lock on the sink. He finished winding the fresh gauze around his head and stared at his handiwork.
Gauze encircled his forehead, running down over his right eye and covering the whole right side of his head, including the ear. Not as neat as the doc’s had been, but it would do.
He thought of Poppy and the hot surge of hate and rage made his pain recede a little. This was all her doing. What’d she think she was up to? Shooting him and running off with the kid. What was going on in her crazy head? When he got hold of her…
He could still see the look in her eyes as she’d pulled the trigger. She was crazy, that bitch. And she’d damn near killed him. A fucking broad had got the best of him. How the hell had he let that happen? Sure, he’d been groggy from that conk on the head, but still it wasn’t something he’d ever talk about. He could barely face himself.
And Paulie. For the life of him, Snake couldn’t figure out what had gone wrong with Paulie. Such a simple thing to chop off the package’s toe and send it to the father. What was the big fucking deal? Why couldn’t he have just done as he was told?
And why had he got in Snake’s way when he went after the package? Didn’t make any sense. Not at all like Paulie.
Only one explanation: Poppy. She’d done Something to Paulie’s head.
Probably got into some mother thing with the package. Snake remembered the way she’d been cradling the kid when he’d come after her. Yeah. Had to be it. And she’d infected Paulie.
So stupid!
Poppy’s fault. All of this.
His beeper went off again in the next room. Shit, didn’t Salinas ever give up? All right. He couldn’t put it off any longer. He was going to have to call in.
Luckily, things didn’t look near as bad as they really were. Unlikely that Salinas knew anything about the trouble at the Falls Church house. The story of the killing had been on the news, but nothing to connect it to a kidnapping. And no one had mentioned Paulie’s name.
And the Pres was still in Bethesda. Salinas should be happy about that. Sure. He could convince Salinas that he still had the kid and that everything was under control. They could go on stringing Vanduyne along while they waited for Winston to die.
And meanwhile Snake would be scouring the whole goddamn countryside for Poppy and that brat. And when he found her… ohhhh, yes, when he found her…
He’d fantasize later. Right now he had to get to a phone.
2
Decker had been on his way out of W-16 when Razor called. He updated him on the latest developments.
“So John’s in Atlantic City now?”
“Yes, sir. He checked into Bally’s last night. We bugged his room while he was out to dinner. I’m on my way there now myself.”
“Does he really think he can handle this better on his own?”
“Apparently. He hasn’t told us about the phone calls.”
“Well, keep an eye on him. I want you to make sure he gets Katie back unharmed. And I want you to make that happen today. Let me know the instant she’s in safe hands. As soon as you call, I’m out of here. I’m going buggy in this hospital.”
“Yes, sir,” Decker said, trying to sound neutral. He was remembering Vanduyne’s crushed, haunted look as he’d left the Maryland House Friday night. Something must have come through.
“Don’t think I don’t appreciate what John’s going through. Nor that I’m not concerned about Katie. I am. But larger matters are involved here. As soon as I know she’s safe, I can get out in public again and let whoever’s behind this know that they’ve failed.”
“Yes, sir. We’ll do everything we can.”
“And tell John to give me a call at the White House as soon as he gets home with Katie.”
“Will do, sir.” Decker hung up and called Gerry Canney, who was with the surveillance team in A.C.
“Any contact from the woman yet?”
“Nothing. He called his mother and that was it. But we do have a problem.”
“What?”
“His wife. She followed him here.”
“I thought your man was going to box her out like last time.”
“That was the plan. And he was following her when he got jammed behind a truck-bus accident on the turnpike. She slipped past and he was never able to catch up.”
“Do we know where she is?”
“Not exactly, but she’s got to be somewhere in the vicinity of Bally’s. We’re keeping an eye out. If she shows up and looks like she’s going to be trouble, we’ll isolate her.”
“Do that. I don’t want anything to queer the transfer this time. And neither does Razor.”
“You spoke to him?”
“Just got off the phone. He wants this settled today.”
“I hear you.” Decker hung up and headed for Andrews Air Force Base to hop a copter. He’d be in A.C. in a couple of hours. The thought of Vanduyne’s ex wandering around without a tail bothered him. Here it wasn’t even nine a.m. and already something had gone wrong.