Bad to the Bone (35 page)

Betty fell asleep without making a decision to sleep. She slept soundly and woke in a fog. Blossom was standing at the foot of the bed, shaking her. The Oriental girl held two syringes and a thin rubber tube in the palm of her hand. She quickly injected the contents of one syringe into Michael’s arm, then offered the other to Betty.

“You must inject yourself.”

“I don’t think I can.” Betty noticed Kenneth Scott in the doorway. Somewhere along the line, he’d abandoned his jacket, the better to reveal the large automatic resting on his hip. He was staring intently at the syringe in Blossom’s hand. “Do
you
want it, Kenneth? Do you want the medicine?”

He looked up at her, his hatred undiminished by her generous offer. “Eve stands for evil. Eve brings evil into the garden. When the time comes, I will be the one to purge the garden. Davis has promised me this. Blossom, knock on the door when you’re ready to leave.” He stepped back and closed the door.

“I don’t think he likes me. What do you think, Blossom? Does Kenneth Scott like me or not?”

“You must inject yourself.”

“I’ve never done it before.”

“I will show you this time, but I am not allowed to show you in the future. Are you right-handed?”

“Yes.”

“First you put the tube around your left arm. Just above the elbow. Then you pull it back through the loop until it’s tight and fold it under. Make a fist and hold it. There, you see how the vein near your elbow comes to the surface. That is where the needle must be put.” She handed the syringe to Betty. “You can do this by yourself.”

“Do you mind if I ask you another question?” Betty took the syringe, holding it gently in her palm. “Kenneth said he was going to ‘purge the Garden.’ He said Davis promised him. What do you think that means? ‘Purge the Garden.’ How many people does it include? How many until the garden is spanking clean?”

Betty stretched out a hand to rub Michael’s head affectionately, wondering if Blossom would go right back to her mentor with the story of how Eve tried to corrupt her. And what the consequences might be. She decided that if Craddock trusted Blossom, he would laugh at the incident, seeing her pitiful attempt to corrupt Blossom as one more proof of his power over her. Power was what all psychopaths sought, power and control. On the other hand, if he didn’t trust Blossom, he probably wouldn’t allow them to be alone again. Kenneth Scott would remain in the room all the time.

“You must inject yourself. If you don’t, Mr. Scott will come back inside.”

“All right, Blossom, I’m convinced.” Betty put the point against the skin covering her vein and tapped gently. To her surprise, it slid easily into her arm.

“Be careful not to go through the vein. Pull back on the plunger. Gently.” A drop of blood appeared in the bottom of the syringe. “Good, now remove the tourniquet and finish injecting yourself.”

As before, the rush was overwhelming, but, still, Betty managed to ask another question before Blossom left the room. “Blossom,” she asked, “what are you doing here?”

“I’m learning to be free.”

Davis Craddock, Blossom Nol and Kenneth Scott in tow, arrived after dark. It was exactly nine o’clock, though Betty had no way to know that. She saw the cellular phone, the two syringes, the absurd, lopsided grin. Suddenly, the sharp, sour taste of bile exploded in her throat. For a moment she thought she was going to vomit.

“What’s the matter, Betty? You don’t look well. But I’m sure a little medicine will make it all better.”

“Fuck you, Craddock.”

“Now I
know
you need your medicine.” He offered a syringe, the confident smile glued to his face.

Betty struggled to get herself under control. On one level, she wanted the drug badly. The clarity, the energy, the floating safety, the physical comfort—it all reached out to her through the small, blue syringe in Craddock’s hand.”

“But I’m not sick, Davis,” she said. “I haven’t been sick at all, have I, Mikey?”

“That’s right, Daddy,” Michael said. “Betty hasn’t been sick even one time.”

“Now, now, Betty. You have to take your medicine. Then we’ll phone your loved one and let him know that you’re recovering nicely.”

“Why does she have to take the medicine if she’s not sick?” Michael persisted.

Craddock turned to Blossom, his smile transformed to an adolescent pout. “I should’ve dumped this kid a long time ago,” he muttered.

“When will I get better, Daddy? When will I go home?”

“If you think you’re all better, Michael, then maybe you shouldn’t take your medicine.”

The boy’s face betrayed his confusion. There were far too many elements for a five-year-old to process—the effect of PURE, the misery of withdrawal, his imprisonment, the disappearance of his mother. “Maybe I should take it,” he told Betty. It was closer to a question than a statement.

“Go ahead, Mikey,” Betty said. “It’s okay.” Sooner or later, the child would have to go through the nightmare of withdrawal. If he survived. She looked over at Craddock. He was smiling again, offering the syringe. “No, Davis. You see, Mikey needs his medicine because he gets sick if he doesn’t take it. But, as you can see, I’m perfectly fine.”

“Kenneth,” Craddock held the syringe out to the guard, “would you inject this into Ms. Haluka’s shoulder?”

Scott took the syringe and walked over to Betty. He grabbed her by the hair, twisting fiercely, then slammed the syringe into her shoulder.

“In a week, you’ll beg for it,” Craddock promised.

“Never.”

Craddock laughed, then dialed Moodrow’s number on the cellular phone. “Stanley,” he said, “are we being a good boy?” He listened for a moment, then shook his head. “Such language, Stanley. You should be ashamed. What? Now you’re repeating yourself. Why don’t you talk to your sweetheart?”

He passed the receiver to Betty. “Stanley,” Betty said, “I’m…”

Craddock pulled the receiver away. “And that’s it, Stanley. See you tomorrow, same time, same station.”

Once again Betty found herself on the bed, cradling Michael Alamare while she considered her situation. The hatred she felt for Davis Craddock hadn’t receded with the rush of the drug. Instead, it had overwhelmed her, and she was sorely tempted to abandon her escape plan and concentrate on making a weapon. Sooner or later, Craddock’s arrogance would lead him into a mistake. Maybe he’d come without a guard. If she could take him out quickly…She pictured Craddock, a sharpened toothbrush deep in his chest, staggering backward. The image was comical. She could see the headline in the supermarket tabloids:
GURU BRUSHED TO DEATH.

“Are you sick, Betty?”

Michael’s voice seemed to come from a great distance and Betty had to force herself to answer. “No, Mikey, I’m not sick.” She shifted her position on the bed and the creak of the bed springs awakened her to the obvious. The springs were made of metal, sharp metal. If she could break off a six- or eight-inch piece and fit it to a handle, she’d have a much more formidable weapon than her toothbrush…

“I want to go home,” Michael said. “I don’t wanna stay here anymore.”

Betty pulled the child against her. “Do you think your father will give you permission?”

“No.” He hesitated momentarily. “Anyway, I don’t have a home.”

“What do you mean?”

“My daddy’s bad,” he whispered. “My daddy doesn’t wanna take care of me anymore.”

“You have a grandmother, Mikey.” Somehow, the image of Connie Alamare as loving grandma didn’t work. Another problem to be dealt with later. “She has a big apartment and she wants you to live with her. You won’t have to worry about anything.”

Michael let his head fall back on the pillow. “It doesn’t make a difference. My daddy won’t let us go anyway.”

S
TANLEY MOODROW’S DECISION, TO
sit still while Leonora Higgins probed for a paper trail, lasted almost thirty-six hours. He made it through Saturday and, to his surprise, fell asleep right after Craddock’s phone call. He slept soundly, without dreaming, and woke, as many New Yorkers do, to the scream of fire engines racing past his window. It was eight-thirty. Still covered by an habitual morning fog, he showered and shaved before remembering that he wasn’t going anywhere. He pulled on an old terry cloth robe, its fabric worn as smooth as linen, and headed for the kitchen and the coffee.

The percolator was sitting, unwashed, in the sink. He began to scrub it with a Brillo pad, then recalled Betty’s reaction the first time she’d seen him cleaning it.

“Stanley,” she’d said, “do you have any idea what the coffee’s going to taste like? You have to use as little soap as possible.”

“Brillo gives the coffee character,” he’d protested, though he had no idea what she was talking about. Most of the time, he made one pot after another without doing more than emptying the percolator into the sink. By the time he got around to cleaning up, it took the better part of a new pad to cut through the crust.

Still operating on automatic pilot, Moodrow filled the percolator with tap water and spooned in the coffee, adding an extra measure as he always did, then watched as the water started to boil. Satisfied, he began to rummage through the refrigerator, looking for the eggs. He found an empty carton and remembered that Betty, on her way to Hanover House, had told him they were out of eggs and volunteered to buy some on her way back. He was about to settle for the instant waffles in the freezer when he made his first mistake. He wondered what Betty was doing and his stomach muscles contracted sharply. He could barely breathe.

After a moment, he retrieved the waffles, then returned to the refrigerator and a jug of Vermont maple syrup that Betty had found in a Union Square farmer’s market. “This is the
real
thing, Stanley. You try this and you’ll never go back to flavored corn sweetener.”

He’d taken a taste and made the proper response, “Yeah, it’s great,” though he couldn’t tell the difference between the
real
thing and Log Cabin.

The phone rang before the coffee was ready and Moodrow, suddenly alert, picked it up and grunted into the receiver. “Yeah?”

“Stanley? You all right?” It was Jim Tilley.

“Me? Why shouldn’t I be? I’m sitting in my goddamned kitchen waiting for the coffee to boil.”

And what was Betty doing
?

“I’m sorry I asked.”

“What’s up, Jim?” Moodrow couldn’t control his impatience.

“You want me to call you back later?”

“No, go ahead.”

“Well, I had an idea last night. You familiar with Caller ID?”

“What?”

“Caller ID.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Gimme a break.”

“Stanley, you sure you’re all right?”

“This is gonna be a very short phone call if you don’t get to the point.”

“Okay. Caller ID is a system designed to let you know the phone number of the caller before you pick up the phone. The whole thing consists of a display unit that plugs into any phone jack.”

“What’s the difference between Caller ID and an ordinary trace?”

“The first difference is that Caller ID doesn’t involve the cops or the phone company. The second is it displays the caller’s phone number instantly, before you even pick up the receiver. There’s no way anyone could get off the line before the person on the other end has the number. That’s the good news.”

“What’s the bad news?”

“Well, aside from the fact that Craddock might be using a pay phone, Caller ID only works on calls originating within a given area code. If Craddock’s calling from outside the 212 area, we won’t get his number.”

“Christ, Jim, that only covers Manhattan and the Bronx. He could be five miles away in Brooklyn and we’d have nothing.”

“That’s why I decided to call first. Most likely all we’d know is that she’s not in Hanover House.”

“We know that already.”

“We’d know for sure.”

Moodrow hesitated, trying to concentrate, trying not to think about Betty. “How easy would it be to get one of these things? What is it? Caller IDs?”

“The city’s in the process of installing them in the precincts. And 911 already has them.”

“Jesus,” Moodrow interrupted, “you mean to tell me that everyone who calls 911 is gonna have their phone numbers recorded?”

“That’s it.”

“When the word gets out, people are gonna stop calling.”

“It wasn’t my idea, Stanley.”

“Okay, Jim. Can you get the unit out of the precinct without attracting attention?”

“The city’s waiting for NYNEX to make the installation. Meanwhile, the display units are in storage.”

“I thought you said the system plugs into the phone jack. Why do the cops need NYNEX?”

“Ya know, Stanley, for a guy who wanted to get off the phone, you ask a lot of questions. How would I know why we need NYNEX? The fact is that the property clerk at the Seven owes me a favor. I’m gonna tell him that Rose’s been getting obscene calls and promise to return the unit in the morning.”

“Then there’s no reason why we shouldn’t do it. Craddock calls at nine o’clock. Can you come over at eight?”

“Sure. By the way, you said Craddock calls at nine. Did he call last night?”

Moodrow groaned. “Yeah, right on time.”

“How did Betty sound?”

“Jesus.” Moodrow looked desperately at the coffee pot. “She was only on the phone for a minute. Craddock’s probably worried about a trace.” He hesitated briefly. “She’s alive. That’s all I can say for sure.”

“Stanley, you want me to come over this afternoon?”

“No, there’s no sense in it. Get the Caller ID thing and come over at eight.”

“I can hear your mind working, Stanley. Don’t do anything stupid. Stay home.”

The percolator shut off as Moodrow hung up the phone. He poured himself a cup and drank it down as if it was liquid Valium. Somehow, he expected it to calm him, but the sudden rush of caffeine jerked his fear into the present. Craddock might do anything. The problem with his, Moodrow’s, rational analysis of Craddock’s options was that it was rational. And Craddock wasn’t.

It was nine-thirty when Moodrow finished breakfast. With nothing to do, he decided to go out for a newspaper. He glanced at the window and was surprised by the rain bouncing off the glass.