Friday

1

“Marijuana’s full name is cannabis hemp and it is one very useful plant. It produces the toughest known natural fiber. The first denim and most of the world’s sailcloth used to be made from cannabis hemp. As a matter of fact, the Dutch word for cannabis is canvass.

“Did you know it takes four acres of twenty-year-old trees to make the same amount of paper as a single acre of hemp? And without using bleaches and dioxin? You can make methanol, cooking oil, vegetable protein, medications… the list goes on and on. Cannabis is a cash crop that won’t need a single subsidy. It’s silly to keep it illegal.” John turned down the volume on the TV, muffling Heather Brent’s latest interview.

Was that a beep he’d just heard? It seemed to have come from down the hall, in the direction of the study and the computer. A real beep, or just wishful thinking? Probably his imagination.

He sat up on the edge of the bed and rubbed his face.

Another sleepless night. Another series of fruitless trips to the computer in search of Snake-mail. He’d been praying all night to hear from the kidnappers. Now he was hearing things. But he had to check. He’d left the computer logged in to the HHS network. If e-mail arrived, it would beep.

The bastard, John thought as he stumbled down the hall for one more look. He’s really punishing me for that hang up. Probably thinks I’ll be so tortured by a whole day of not hearing anything that I’ll be as compliant as a used examination glove and do everything he tells me.

Well, he’s not far from wrong.

John had decided to agree—verbally—without question or reservation to everything Snake demanded. But all the while he’d be looking for a way around actually poisoning Tom. He didn’t know how yet, but something would come up, he was sure.

He stepped into the study and blinked at the screen. Was that—? He stepped closer. Yes. The mail icon was blinking in the corner. He downloaded the letter to his screen.

From the anonymous remailer—thank you. God—but only eight words:

Check your snail mail, then e-mail your response.

Snail mail? But the mailman didn’t come by until— The mailbox.

John pulled on the first pair of pants he could find and ran out to the curb. He opened the mailbox door and found one of those padded mailers stuffed inside. He reached for it, then hesitated as thoughts of bombs and booby traps raced through his brain. He dismissed them, but found himself more than a little unsettled by the realization that Snake or one of his people—the guy in the sweatsuit in the CVS, maybe—had stood on this very spot not long ago. If he’d been looking out the window, he might have seen them. Gingerly, he reached in and removed the envelope.

Light. Couldn’t be much more than paper inside. Check your snail mail; then e-mail your response. That could only mean printed instructions. Or maybe some new demand.

Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the pull here tab and yanked. He reached inside but found no paper. Only a small plastic bag. He pulled it out and stared at it. At first he thought it was empty, then he spotted something stuck in the corner. Little. No bigger than one of his fingernails.

White… and red… and the red was smeared along the inner surface of the bag.

His heart began to pound… the bag trembled in his fingers as he leaned closer for a better look. And when he realized what it was his legs seemed to dissolve and he dropped to his knees and let out an agonized howl of grief and despair so long and loud that it set the neighborhood dogs to barking.

2

Snake hurried up the front walk to the house.

He would have preferred to limit all his contact with Paulie to phones and hotel bars, but he always made a point of visiting at least once to inspect the arrangements.

What he didn’t like was someone remembering him or his car here in the unlikely event the place was ever connected to the snatch. Which was why he was wearing an Orioles cap and had his collar pulled up. The Virginia plates on the Jeep were borrowed and would be tossed in the Potomac as soon as this was over.

All those precautions, and still he felt buck naked out here. But that didn’t blunt his good mood. He’d heard from Vanduyne this morning and everything was under control.

As he approached the front door he made a quick check of the yard. The butter-colored blossoms on the scraggly forsythia along the foundation did little to offset the house’s generally disheveled appearance. Not much of a lawn, but it looked like it was waking up from winter. Yard maintenance had been part of the one-year lease, but they’d all be long gone before it needed its first mowing.

He knocked on the door. “It’s me. Everybody where they should be?” He’d phoned earlier to let them know he was coming. He wanted the package safely tucked out of sight when he arrived.

Paulie opened the door. “Yeah. Everything’s fine. C’mon in.” As the door closed behind him. Snake reached out and grabbed Paulie’s hand. “Good job with the persuader, my man. Worked like a charm.” Always a good policy to lavish a little praise on the peons when it was well deserved. A few strokes cost nothing and sometimes were better than money. Sometimes.

He spotted Poppy on the couch, reading a magazine. She didn’t look up and he didn’t bother acknowledging her. The bitch was one major pain in the ass.

“Yeah?” Paulie said, smiling through his beard. “How do you know?”

“Got a message from him this morning. Guy’s practically falling all over himself to cooperate.”

“So he bought it, huh?”

Snake spotted a quick look pass between him and Poppy. What was going on here?

“Bought it?” Snake said. “What’s to buy? It’s his kid’s toe.”

“Yeah, I know. But he could’ve thought she was already dead and we just cut her toe off, or something like that. But then, with fresh blood on the toe, I guess he’d have to believe she was still alive.” Snake had never heard Paulie babble like this… and he didn’t like it.

“Something wrong, Paulie?”

“Wrong?” His eyes got a funny, guarded look. “No. Why should anything be wrong.”

“Because you’re not acting like yourself.”

“Maybe because he never had to molest a child before,” Poppy said.

Snake didn’t bother looking at her. “Nobody molested anyone. And who asked you anyway?”

“What do you call chopping off a six-year-old’s toe?” she said. “Not exactly a walk in the park. And we’re damn lucky she didn’t take one of her fits.”

Now he had no choice but to face Poppy, and he was shocked by the naked anger and revulsion in her expression—as if she were looking at something that had just crawled out from under a rock. He fought an urge to step over there and wipe that look off her face.

“Fits?”

“Yeah. The fits she takes those pills for.” Now he got it. “Oh. You mean convulsions.” He let the words drip acid. “You need to work on your vocabulary, honey.”

“And you need to work on your research. How come you didn’t know she took fits?”

Snake had had just about enough of this bitch. He turned to Paulie.

“Tell your girlfriend not to speak unless spoken to.”

“She’s got a right to her opinion.”

“When I want the opinion of someone with purple hair, I’ll ask for it.”

Paulie held up his hands. “All right, all right. The point she’s trying to make is it was pretty goddamn dicey getting that toe. I hope to hell it was worth it.” Snake gave himself a few seconds to cool.

“Yeah. It was worth it. You should have seen her father’s message. Frantic as hell. If it had been on paper it would have been covered with tear stains.” Snake smiled. As he’d read those pleading words he could almost hear Vanduyne’s sobs. Please oh please oh please oh PLEASE don’t hurt her again!