9

The computer screen said no mail.

John pounded his fist on his thigh. He’d have much preferred to slam it on the desk, but that would bring his mother running, asking, “What’s wrong? Has there been any word? Do you think she’s all right? Why aren’t they telling you what they want?” And a million other questions.

He’d lied to her on his return from Lafayette Square, telling her the kidnappers hadn’t phoned him, that he’d stood around looking stupid, waiting for the phone to ring.

A good lie. It kept Nana’s anxiety at its current, just bearable level.

And it explained why he’d rushed in and gone straight to his computer to send off e-mail to the kidnappers. As far as Nana knew, it was to ask why they hadn’t called. In reality, it was to explain why they’d been cut off and to arrange another call.

A lie was the only way. How could he tell Nana what they wanted him to do? And worse, that the call had been interrupted by some imbecilic woman in the park?

She’d go to pieces.

The phone rang.

John stared at it. Who was it this time? Phyllis again? He’d called in sick this morning, telling her he had a bad case of gastroenteritis and didn’t dare get far from a toilet. Highly unlikely he’d be in tomorrow either. See you Monday.

But that hadn’t stopped her from calling about confirming this meeting with that committee and luncheons with various advocacy groups and a number of speaking engagements. Somehow he’d managed to sound coherent, though he didn’t know how long he could keep it up. If this was Phyllis again he’d have to tell her whatever it was would have to wait. He was too sick to think.

He picked up, but instead of Phyllis he heard Terri’s voice.

“You don’t sound too sick.” He had to think a minute. Had he told her about it? He was new to this lying thing. Had to keep his stories straight. And keep his voice light.

“You should be here listening to my intestines rumble. But how’d you know?”

“I called your office. Phyllis said you were out with an intestinal flu. Anything serious?”

“I don’t think so. Probably one of those two-or three day viruses.”

“Then I suppose our date’s off tonight, huh?”

John fumbled for a reply. Date? What date? Oh, God. He was supposed to have dinner with Terri tonight. He’d completely forgot.

“Food? Don’t even mention it. I’ve been holding off on calling you, hoping the symptoms would ease up, but they haven’t. I was just about to pick up the phone.”

“Want me to come over and pat your hand and put cold compresses on your head?”

“That sounds great, but I’m going to try the sleep cure. And besides, I don’t want to expose you to this. Believe me, you don’t want what I’ve got.” No one in the world wants what’s ailing me.

But he wished to God he could sit her down and open up to her. He wished he could share this crushing burden with somebody. If he could bounce a few ideas off Terri, and get some feedback, maybe he could come up with a way out of this.

But how safe would it be to burden her with this? With Terri knowing the President was a target and her seeing Bob Decker or other Secret Service agents a dozen times a day, how long could he expect her to keep mum?

No. He had to keep this to himself—all to himself.

He fended off her offer of chicken soup and rescheduled their dinner for next Tuesday, then got off the phone.

Next Tuesday. How would he get out of that? This virus story would carry him through the weekend. Come Monday morning, he’d have to come up with something new.

He checked for e-mail again. And again, nothing.

Damn!

He glanced at his watch. When had he got back this morning? 10:30, maybe? Here it was 4:30. Six hours since he’d e-mailed Snake and still no reply. Had he received the message? Why wasn’t he replying? Was it over? Had they decided John wasn’t going to do what they wanted and so they were disposing of Katie?

He couldn’t think about that. No, that couldn’t be. And that wouldn’t be. Snake was playing games. Letting him twist in the wind awhile before he made contact again. Well, he was twisting, all right. And damn near strangling with worry.

But when Snake did make contact, what would John tell him? Could he agree to poison Tom?

Yes. What choice did he have but to tell Snake what he wanted to hear? Say all the right things, then find a way to fake it.

But how, dammit? Snake had already warned him: “Don’t try any tricks. We’ll know.” John had to respect that. Anyone who could ferret out Tom’s reaction to chloramphenicol had world-class sources.

But there had to be a way. If John could relax just long enough to get his thoughts together, he knew be could come up with a way to save Katie and Tom.

10

“Yes!” Poppy said.

She circled the article and pulled the sheet free of the rest of the newspaper. As she rose from the kitchen table she felt her spirits lifting. She’d spent the day in some kind of long dark tunnel, and now she’d spotted a light at the end.

She stepped into the front room and found Paulie sitting and watching the phone. He’d stationed himself on the inside end of the couch in the corner, as far as possible from the phone, like he was afraid it was going to come to life and bite him or something.

“You finally finished with your reading?” he said. Snarled was more like it. “You up to date on all the local news now?” She’d sent him out for all the local papers the Washington Times, the Post, the Banner, everything available in the 7-Eleven. And then she’d begun combing them.

“Yeah, I’m finished,” she said.

She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning like an Appleton. She’d found the solution to all their problems. Okay, maybe not all, but at least the major one that was dogging them right now. She was so damn proud of herself she wanted to dance. But first she wanted to have some fun with Paulie. He’d been no help at all, so he totally had it coming.

“Good,” he Said. “Now maybe you can think of some thing I can tell Mac when he calls. And he’s gonna call any minute, you can bet your sweet dimpled ass on that.”

“Oh, I’ve got no doubt at all he’ll call.”

“So what do I tell him? ‘Sorry, Mac. No persuader on this one. Poppy won’t let me.’ Right. Next thing you know he’ll be busting down that door.”

“You just tell him everything’s under control and the persuader’s ready for delivery.”

He made that sour face he did every time he thought he heard something stupid. “Oh, right. And when it’s not delivered? What then?”

“Oh, don’t worry. You’ll deliver it. Right on schedule.”

He sat and stared at her a second or two, eyes bugged, jaw dropped. Oh, this was good. It was all she could do to keep from busting out laughing. Then he jumped to his feet, arms spread.

“How, Poppy? For Chrissake, have you gone crazy? Where am I gonna get a little girl’s toe?” Okay. Enough was enough. She shoved the paper toward him.

“Here.” As he grabbed it and stared at it, she said, “I circled what you want.” He read some, then looked up at her. “But this is… I’ll have to…”

She shrugged. “Who’s the best B-and-E guy around if it ain’t you, Paulie?” He didn’t seem to want to argue about that, so he kept on reading. Finally he looked up at her and the half angry, half-worried look he’d worn all day had changed.

He actually smiled—just a little.

“You know something. Poppy. I think this might work.”

“I know it will.”

He was grinning at her now—staring, nodding, and grinning. “You’re pretty smart for a girl.” She punched him on the arm.

“Smart? I’m totally brilliant!”

He hugged her and they laughed. He seemed proud of her, and to tell the truth, she was pretty damn proud herself. When was the last time she’d felt this way?