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CHAPTER 1

WEDNESDAY

1

"... and then you know what Jimmy did?"

John VanDuyne struggled to concentrate on his six-year-old daughter's story about the baddest boy in her kindergarten class. It wasn't easy. His eyes kept drifting back to the screen of the little kitchen TV on the side counter.

Morning was the brightest part of the kitchen's day, but even now, with the spring sun cascading through the windows, it was still fairly dim. A 1970's kitchen, with dark oak cabinets and furniture, a Congoleum floor, and harvest gold appliances and counter tops. If he ever decided to buy the place, he'd want to brighten it up. But each year he put off the decision and renewed his lease.

"No, Katie," he said. "What did he do?"

Katie slurped up a big spoonful of her Lucky Charms and chewed as quickly as she could. She was really into this story. Excitement shone from her bright blue eyes.

My eyes, he thought. The round face, clear skin, and long, dark glossy hair are her mother's; and she's going to be petite like Marnie. But those are VanDuyne eyes.

John was delighted Katie was getting along so well in school now. She'd suffered some separation anxiety at first — perfectly understandable considering what she'd been through — but now she looked forward to catching the school bus and riding off with her friends every morning.

She swallowed and said, "Well, he took his pencil and he ..."

John heard the words "racist" and "genocide" and couldn't help glancing at the TV again. A very angry black congressman, his jowls trembling with rage, was letting the President of the United States have it with both barrels.

John knew him — or at least knew of him: Floyd Jessup.

D-NY flashed through his mind and he had to smile at the reflex ... a natural response after you've been in Washington awhile.

No surprise about Jessup's reaction. The president had made his official announcement last night, and here was the congressman, not twelve hours later, venting his considerable spleen on Good Morning America. His staff hadn't wasted a second.

"... and to think that we supported this man, we helped put Thomas Winston into the White House! And what does he do? He drives a knife into the back of the already oppressed African-American community!"

John ripped his attention back to Katie and found that he'd missed what bad boy Jimmy Clifton had done. He tried to cover.

"Oh, wow. Did he get in trouble?"

"Yep!" Katie said with a quick nod and a satisfied smile that revealed a gap on top. She'd lost her first tooth just last week. Her upper right front incisor now belonged to the Tooth Fairy. "Had to go down the hall and see Sister Louise."

"Is that bad?"

Katie stared at him as if he had two heads. "She's the principal, Daddy."

"Oh, right. Sister Louise. Of course."

Despite the fact that he'd been raised a Baptist, John had opted to enroll Katie in a Catholic School — Holy Family Elementary in Bethesda. It had a great reputation and was considered one of the best primary schools inside the Beltway. Even had a waiting list. He'd had to pull a few strings to get Katie in.

Pulling strings ... the name of the game around here. When he'd been a practicing internist in Atlanta he hadn't known a thing about strings. But he learned fast: a couple of years as an HHS deputy-secretary and he could pull with the best of them.

He glanced at his watch. "Oops. You're going to miss the bus."

She grinned. "And then I'll be Latie Katie."

"Yes, you will. Did you take your pill?"

She searched the tablecloth around her cereal bowl for it. "No, I ..."

"I have it."

John looked up as his mother approached them from the far side of the kitchen, holding up an amber vial.

"Thanks, Nana," Katie said, sticking out her hand.

Nana — she was still Helga to her peers, and she'd once been "Ma" to John, but she became "Nana" to the family once Katie began speaking. Not a day passed that John didn't thank heaven that his mother had come to Washington to stay with them. He and Katie couldn't have got along without her.

She shook a pink, red-speckled tablet into her granddaughter's upheld palm.

John watched his mother and realized how much she'd aged within the past few years. Seventy-five and looking every minute of it. Two or three years ago her hair had been just as white, but she'd looked sixty-five. Living proof that stress makes you old.

Tall and trim — John's father had been tall, as well — and just beginning to develop a dowager's hump, she still took impeccable care of herself, keeping her thinning white hair softly permed; she was never without a touch of pink lipstick, even this early in the day. Her natural high coloring accentuated the blue of her eyes.

She didn't have a full closet but she bought good quality clothing and then wore it to death. No house coats, no polyester, and God forbid she ever appeared in an outfit that didn't match. This morning she wore lightweight wool beige slacks and a matching blue-and-beige turtleneck.

Katie popped the pill into her mouth and washed it down with a gulp of orange juice. The tablet was chewable but she'd never liked the flavor, so she'd learned to swallow them whole. She was an old pro at it by now.

One of those tablets, twice a day, every day, for ... how long? John wished he knew. He did know what would happen if she missed a dose or two.

His throat tightened and he had to reach out and touch her. He smoothed some fly-away strands of her shiny, dark hair. So fine ... baby fine. Nana combed out the knots every morning and braided it into a pair of pigtails. Katie tended to prefer a single, looser French braid like the bigger girls wore, but Nana didn't think that was neat enough. Nana liked things neat.

Katie looked at him. "What's the matter, Daddy?"

"Nothing. Why?"

"You look funny."

He crossed his eyes. "Is this better?"

"No!" she laughed. "Now you look goofy!"

"And he will look even goofier," Nana said, ever the voice of reason, "if you miss your bus and he has to drive you to school."

John checked his watch and got to his feet. "Can't do that. Got an appointment with Tom this morning."

"About this mess he has created?" she said, nodding toward the television.

"No. His regular checkup."

Her lips were tight as she shook her head. "Well, Tommy has really done it this time."

He nodded. "That he has, Mom. That he has."

John buttoned Katie's navy blue uniform blazer over her plaid jumper. Here was another thing he liked about Holy Family Elementary — the uniform. No daily contretemps over what to wear, what the other kids were wearing, and why-can't-I-wear-that-too? tantrums. All the girls wore one-piece blue-and-gray plaid jumpers over a white blouse with a neat little Peter Pan collar, blue knee socks, and saddle shoes; all the boys wore blazers of the same plaid with blue slacks, and that was that.

But no rules on hats, so Katie was allowed to wear her favorite: a red beret. After she adjusted it over her hair, they began the pre-departure ritual: "Got your lunch box?" he said.

She held it up. "Check!"

"Morning snack?"

"Check!"

"Afternoon snack?"

"Check!"

"Got your pencil case?"

She held that up. "Check!"

"Got your emergency quarter?"

She felt in her blazer pocket. "Check!"

"Then I guess you're ready to go. Say good-bye to Nana."

He watched his mother and his daughter exchange a quick hug and a kiss, then he took Katie's little hand in his and led her out the door.

A crisp April morning. Spring was here but winter wasn't letting go. One of those days it felt good to be alive.

And for John, this was the best time of day, the time he felt closest to Katie. He wanted that closeness, needed it, and knew she needed it too — desperately. He'd worked hard on bonding with her, making every effort to let her know she was loved and cherished and that no one was ever going to hurt her again.

When they reached the corner, they stopped and waited for the bus.

"Do you think Jimmy Clifton's going to get in trouble again today?" he said.

She shrugged. "Maybe. I hope they don't kick him out."

"Ooh," he said teasingly, nudging her with his hip. "That sounds like somebody I know likes Jimmy Clifton."

"I do not!" she said. "I just think he's funny."

Me thinks the lady doth protest too much, he thought, but didn't push Katie any further. She seemed genuinely worried that the boy would be kicked out.

John doubted that would happen to Jimmy — being Senator Clifton's son — but you never knew. Those nuns weren't easily impressed. And they had about fifty other kids on a list waiting to take his spot.

"If he's really funny," John told her, "maybe Sister Louise will keep him around just for laughs."

"He's not that funny," Katie said.

As John laughed, the yellow Holy Family Elementary bus rounded the far corner and made its way down the street.

He squatted next to her, pulled her close, and gave her a big hug.

"Daddy loves Katie."

She threw her free arm around his neck. "Katie loves Daddy."

He held her tight against him, cherishing the moment. In a few years she'd become self- conscious and find such public displays of affection too embarrassing for words. But for now, she was delighted to be hugged by her daddy.

He released her as the bus pulled to a halt at the curb. He let her run to the open door by herself. A few seconds later she was waving and smiling from one of the windows. He watched until the yellow bus and the red beret were out of sight, then he headed back to the house.

Not a bad house, he thought as he approached it. A twenty-year-old brick federal in a neighborhood of colonials and other federals on small wooded lots. A neighborhood that screamed Washington, DC. Nana — Ma — tolerated it. Said it was out of date, with no flow for company.

But when did he ever have company?

If he bought it he'd have to do some heavy renovation. If he bought it. When he'd come to Washington he hadn't known whether he was going to like it around here. Still wasn't sure.

When his old boyhood friend Tom Winston became President of the United States, he'd asked John to come along. Said he wanted some Georgia boys around him in Washington, that John was already treating his high blood pressure, and he wanted him to keep on doing so. But John guessed the real reason was that Tom had known how he was hurting, how his life had fallen apart, and had offered him a breather.

John had come to Washington looking for more than a change of routine and a change of scenery — he'd been hoping for a whole new life.

He didn't know if he'd found that. But he had found a peace of sorts, and that was a start. A good start.

2

MacLaglen was fully into Snake mode now.

Last night he'd been sitting in front of the tube — or rather the eight-by-twenty-foot wall screen of his projection TV — watching President Winston commit political sepukku, when the call came. He'd been expecting it.

One word: "Go."

The word had begun the transformation. He'd called Paulie and told him the snatch was on and going down tomorrow. He went online, spent some time lurking the hacker boards, then he'd gone to bed. When he'd hit the pillow he was still mostly Michael MacLaglen.

But upon opening his eyes this morning, he was all Snake. The adrenaline had begun to flow — just a mild buzz now, but he knew it would build throughout the day to a rush that would last the duration of the snatch. And this one could go a couple of weeks — easy.

He licked his lips. He hoped so.

Snake had been following the yellow bus for about a mile in his new Jeep Grand Cherokee. He tapped nervously on the steering wheel and acted impatient, looking like any one of the other dozen or so agitated commuters trapped behind the school bus.

But inside he was cool, very pleased that the laws kept him behind it, forced him to stop whenever it picked up a kid, forbade him to scoot around it when its red lights were flashing. Nothing easier than following a school bus.

He watched with satisfaction as it picked up the blue-blazered package and carried it off to school. Right on schedule, just like every other school day.

As he passed the package's father, he stole a look. Dr. John VanDuyne. Tall dude — six-two, Snake guessed; fortyish with longish brown hair graying at the temples. Looked a little like that Charlie Rose guy on the tube except for the intense blue eyes. Casual, conservative dresser, leaning toward slacks and button downs and sweaters. Like me, Snake thought. Moved well, walking with a long, easy stride. Maybe a basketball player in high school; a shooting guard, he bet. Trim, good shoulders, probably watched what he ate. Snake knew he worked out regularly, knew he had a fairly set routine for every day of the week.

The doc looked fit on the outside, but Snake had him figured for a mushy core. Still living with his mother. A mama's boy. A wimp. Good. He'd fold up like wet cardboard and do exactly as he was told.

Which was how it should be. Snake wouldn't put up with any heroics or ad-libbing from this guy. Because this was already one weird piece of business, what with the cash payoff coming from a third party instead of the package's family. The family — the doc — would have to buy back his little package another way.

Get ready, doc, he thought as he left VanDuyne behind and continued in the wake of the school bus. Your routine's in for a big change. Real soon.

3

Back in the house, John found his mother standing before the kitchen TV, watching a replay of key moments from last night's Presidential Address.

"... can break the backs of these criminal empires. We can pull the economic rug out from under them by denying them the tens of billions of dollars — not tens of millions, tens of billions of dollars — they rake in annually from their illegal activities. And we don't need to mobilize our military, we don't need to mount an armed assault on them. All we need to do is change a few laws ..."

She glanced up at him. "Has that Tommy Winston gone crazy? Was he sipping at the schnapps before he went on TV last night?"

John could tell by the rhythm of her speech that she was upset. His Dutch-American father, raised all his life in the south, had married a girl from the old country, born in Brugge. When she was upset her voice jumped half an octave and a Dutch accent began to creep into her otherwise perfect English.

"No, Mom. He was sober."

"Then I am thinking he has gone mad. It is the only explanation."

John shrugged. "You won't have to go far in this town to find someone to agree with you. His staff has been trying to talk him out of it, but you know Tom when he gets his mind set."

"You knew? Why didn't you tell your mother?"

"It was a secret. I got wind of it last time I was at the White House but I never thought he'd go through with it. Besides, they made me promise not to tell anyone."

"Even your mother?"

"Even my mother."

She had the remote in her hand and started hitting the button, stopping on each channel just long enough to catch the topic, then moving on.

"Look at this. On every channel it is the same. That is all they are talking about. In Holland this would not create such a fuss. But here ..."

She walked to the other side of the island and freshened her cup of coffee. She held up the pot for John but he shook his head.

"Tom expected this," he told her. "He's figuring — hoping — the initial ruckus will die down and people will stop emoting and begin thinking."

"Let me tell you what I am thinking, John VanDuyne," she said — and using his first and last name meant she was really annoyed. "I am thinking it is a good thing you are only renting this house. Because your old friend Tommy Winston is going to be chased back to Georgia very soon, along with everyone he brought with him."

"I am thinking you could be right," John said.

4

The inbound traffic along Massachusetts Avenue seemed heavier than usual, giving John extra time to check out what the wonderful world of talk radio had to say about Tom's address to the nation last night. He hit SCAN and let his tuner skip up the dial. Almost immediately he heard Tom's voice.

"... so we've been attacking the problem with the full force of all the federal government's law enforcement agencies and all the local police departments for a quarter of a century now, and where has it gotten us? We've spent three-quarters of a trillion dollars, jailed hundreds of thousands of people, but have we solved the problem? No. It's worse. Are the streets any safer now after all these hundreds of billions of dollars? No. They are not. So what's the solution? More of the same ...?"

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Excerpted from "Deep as the Marrow"
by .
Copyright © 1996 F. Paul Wilson.
Excerpted by permission of MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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