Bad to the Bone (41 page)

“It’s okay, Betty. I can run.”

“I know, Mikey, but there’s lots of briars and if we get separated, we’ll never find each other. I want you to keep your face against my back and hold onto my belt. Hold tight. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

They began to move, more slowly this time. Craddock’s men (if not Craddock, himself) weren’t more than fifty yards behind them. The briars tore at her bare legs, but she refused to acknowledge the pain, thanking God, instead, for the flat shoes she’d worn to her meeting with Craddock. If she was wearing heels, they wouldn’t have gotten this far.

She kept her hands in front of her face, trying to feel the branches hidden by the darkness and fog. The pursuit was noisy. If it didn’t seem to be getting closer, it wasn’t moving away either. Michael was crying softly. Despite the protection of her back, he was being whipped by the branches.

They were in a thicket of swamp azalea and sumac. The interlaced branches, stiff and woody, pushed back against them, tearing Betty’s arms until they bled freely, until she had to cover her eyes and push blindly forward, until she stepped off the edge of a slope and crashed down into a small pond.

The water, though it only rose to her knees, was incredibly cold. Her first thought was for Michael. She reached down for his small body and took him into her arms. Then images of snakes and snapping turtles, salamanders and toads began to crowd her mind.

“They’re shooting at us,” Michael said.

“What?” She could almost feel the slimy bodies crawling over her legs.

“Shooting, Betty. They’re shooting.”

Michael’s panic jerked her back to reality. Now she could hear the shots. And the bullets cutting through the brush. They’d crashed down the bank and into the water, giving away their small advantage. The steep banks of the pond were protecting them for the moment, but they had to get moving.

“You see the other side of the pond, Mikey?” It was no more than forty feet away.

“I can swim,” the boy announced. “I’m a good swimmer.”

Betty had planned to work her way around the edge of the pond—she wanted to put the water between them and their pursuers—but cutting across would be much faster.

“Are you sure you can do it?” she asked.

“We’ve got to hurry. I can hear them coming.”

Betty, with Michael still in her arms, began to wade through the water, losing her shoes to the sucking mud in the first steps. She continued to move forward, the water never rising above her waist, until she got to the far side of the pond. Then, as she started to climb the bank, fallen branches and small rocks began to cut into the soles of her feet. The pain was enormous and, for the first time, despair threatened to overwhelm her.

How far could she go like this? With her feet ripped and bloody, her eyes threatened by invisible branches? She could hear their pursuers crashing through the undergrowth. With no need for silence, they could move quickly. Their flashlights, despite the fog, would reveal the easiest way around the dense thickets. She imagined them in lug-soled hiking boots and thick coats. The terrain meant less than nothing to them. Protected by their clothing and the drug they took four times a day, they would advance like robots until their task was completed.

Without speaking, she began to move forward into the brush, trying to feel the earth before she put her feet down. There was no way she could outdistance her pursuers, not without shoes. She was looking for a place to hide when she stumbled out of the woods and onto one of several trails running through the preserve. With no sign of life in either direction, she turned to the left and began to run.

They were moving easily, ignoring the occasional stones and tree roots, when Betty heard shooting behind her and turned to look. The shots had come from the house, not her pursuers. She watched the glow of the flashlights separate into two distinct clusters, one moving away from her, back toward the house. It was their first break and Betty, suddenly hopeful, told Michael to grab hold and began to run again.

She ran for almost a quarter mile, until the trail forked, then turned right. Craddock’s men would have to separate again. They were also on the trail, moving quickly, slicing through the brush with their flashlights.

“Betty, I can’t run anymore.”

“I know, Mikey. I lost my shoes and I can’t run either. But we have to go a little further. Then we’ll find a place to hide. I promise.” She heard voices behind her and turned to see the flashlights separate again. Now they were being hunted by a single man. She touched the weapon in her belt, almost surprised to find it still there. One man could be handled, she decided. If she eliminated this single hunter, the forest would shelter them until daylight. Or until the police came to investigate the gunshots.

She moved more slowly, now, looking left and right until she came to a small opening in the brush. Another small pond, its dark waters barely visible.

“All right, Mikey, we’re not going to run anymore. We can’t. I’m going to ask you to do something, but if you can’t do it or if you’re afraid, I want you to tell me. I want you to
promise
to tell me.”

“I promise.”

“Do you see that log in the water? I want you to get behind it. There’s only one man coming after us now. When you see his flashlight get here, where we’re standing, I want you to splash the water as loud as you can. Keep down behind the log, but make enough noise to attract his attention.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“I’m going to be right here, behind this tree. When he walks past me to see who’s making the noise, I’ll…”

She didn’t have to finish. Michael Alamare, five years old, took a deep breath, then slid down the bank into the water. Betty stepped back until she was up against the bark of the tree, watching the light come closer and closer. She had an advantage now. Her pursuer’s eyes, accustomed to the flashlight beam, would not penetrate the darkness and the beam itself would give away his exact position. She waited until he was almost upon her before sliding behind the tree.

The slap of Michael’s palm on the surface of the water seemed to crash through the forest, as violent and unexpected as a rifle shot. The flashlight beam swung sharply to the left, passing Betty as the man holding it made his way to the pond’s bank. Betty, a smile on her lips, circled behind him as he fired blindly into the water, the weapon she’d worked so hard to create clutched in her right hand. His sharp, quick breathing was clearly audible, despite the gunshots. A single word, a hiss between clenched teeth, echoed in her ears: “Eve, Eve, Eve, Eve, Eve.” She never once considered the life pulsing through his veins or his youth or what Davis Craddock had done to him, as she raised her arm above her head and drove the ice pick through the side of his skull.

M
OODROW DRIFTED FOR THE
next two days. Downward, into the cold waters of a dark lake, then up again toward a pale circle of moonlight on the surface. He didn’t know how he’d gotten into the lake or why he didn’t drown, yet he wasn’t afraid. Later on, he would describe his condition as “peaceful,” but, while he drifted, he felt no desire to name his state. His mind was wholly occupied with a decision he knew he had to make. Should he struggle toward the pale light above him? Or allow himself to float gently downward into the dark waters at the bottom of the lake? He had no one to help him decide, no guardian angel or longdead relative. His problem was that it didn’t seem to matter. Up or down, it was all the same.

Later on, the doctors would claim that he’d never been in danger. They’d describe the efforts they’d made to drag him back to consciousness—the heart monitor, the plastic breathing tube, the dripping IV, the medications, the morphine. Moodrow knew better. If he’d decided to let himself drift down, he would have died. The bottom of the lake didn’t frighten him. It beckoned, coyly sexual, promising an infinitely peaceful embrace.

He thought of Betty and Jim and the child he’d never seen, Michael Alamare. They seemed to be drifting, too, but not in his lake. Not anywhere he could name. He was entirely alone in the water and perfectly content. The others were where they had to be.

Still, he had to make a decision, because he knew he couldn’t drift forever. He didn’t know why he couldn’t, but he accepted the reality of choice, just as he didn’t question where he was or how he’d gotten there. What he needed was a reason. Either to rise or sink. The pull of human emotion—love, friendship, loyalty—seemed irrelevant. Or, at least, he didn’t feel them. But there was one little item that scratched at his peace. He was curious. He wanted to know how it came out.

Perhaps his curiosity came from a lifetime of seeing things through to the end. Cases resolved themselves, eventually, even if resolution meant nothing more than shoving pieces of paper in a folder marked
INACTIVE.
Moodrow, though he could barely remember to take his keys when he left his apartment, could recite the history of his career like a schoolboy reciting Robert Frost. “Whose woods are these…”

Everything was up in the air. Betty, Michael, Craddock, PURE. Even Tilley and Leonora were in trouble. Cops and ADAs, unlike civilians, cannot decide whether or not to report a crime. They’re not supposed to play the part of the vigilante.

He tried to put it together, examining small chunks of memory, but too many pieces were missing. He was certain the gunshots in the forest had been aimed at Betty and the child. And that Davis Craddock’s career was over. But that’s where the facts ended and the questions began. Did Betty find a place to hide? Did Leonora manage to get the local cops involved? How many guards did Jim Tilley have to confront? Was the lab in the house? How much of the drug had already been distributed?

He began to move up toward the surface of the lake. As the pale circle of moonlight became brighter, he realized that the surface waters were not at all calm. Swept by a dozen currents, they boiled with energy. The closer he got to the surface, the more he regretted his decision, but he couldn’t seem to slow his progress. In the end, he was rocketing toward the surface and he awoke in pain.

“He opened his eyes. He opened his eyes.”

The words chopped at the pain in his skull, exciting nerves in his neck and shoulder which were already on fire. Then there were more voices and a man in a gown leaning over him, giving orders, and a nurse in a bright uniform with a syringe in her hand.

“Morphine,” the nurse announced cheerfully. “You’ll feel better in a few minutes.”

She was right. The morphine didn’t put out the fire, just made it bearable enough so he could concentrate on the voices and faces in the room. Betty leaned over him, smiling and crying at the same time. Without warning, all the emotions that had seemed irrelevant came flooding back. He tried to speak, but his mouth was so dry he could barely open it. He motioned for water, and Betty filled a plastic cup, then held it to his lips.

“I should have taken a drink while I was in the lake,” he announced.

“What did you say, Stanley?”

Moodrow tried to think of an answer, but couldn’t. “What happened to your arms?” he asked.

“Maybe you should rest for now,” she answered.

“I have to find out what happened first. I remember Craddock stabbing me with something. It must have been the poison that crippled Flo Alamare. Why am I still alive?”

Jim Tilley’s face swam into view. “He hit you so hard the needle broke off. The doctor says that only a fraction of a drop got into your system.”

“And Craddock?”

“The bastard’s alive, Stanley. He took four rounds in his chest. Tore up his lungs and took out a piece of his spine, but he’s alive. They’ve got him on a respirator.”

“And the lab?”

“The lab is the least of it. Craddock was writing an autobiography. Everything he’s ever done.
Bragging
about it. We found a video tape of some girl named Marcy Evans poisoning Deeny Washington. The other lab, the one in Queens, Toxilab Incorporated, says that PURE becomes a nerve poison when it’s heated. That’s what happened to Flo Alamare. Craddock’ll never get out of prison, Stanley. Never. And he’s never gonna walk again, either.”

“What about you, Jim? The job come down on you yet?” Moodrow, as his curiosity grew, became more and more alert. The lake began to recede like a dream after awakening. “Roll up the bed a little.”

Leonora’s face came into view. “We’re heroes, Stanley. For the moment, anyway. The case has been headlines for the last two days. They’re calling him ‘The Dope Guru.’ We even made the national news. Imagine Dan Rather holding a vial of PURE up to the camera, making solemn pronouncements. There were several
million
doses in that house. What’s the phrase? ‘Captured the American imagination’?”

“I spent an afternoon with the captain,” Jim added. “It looks like I’ll get a month off without pay. Eventually.”

Moodrow took a moment to gather himself. He wanted to rest, but the remaining questions forced his eyes open. “What happened to your arms, Betty?”

Betty’s arms were bandaged from the elbow to the tips of her fingers. She held them up like a Masai warrior displaying the head of a slain lion. Then she went over it, from her first glimpse of Davis Craddock to the arrival of the police, reciting the facts slowly and completely. Knowing Moodrow would not be satisfied with anything less. “It turned out,” she finished, “that little Blossom was the smartest one of all. She set us up and when the guards left the house to find us, she went out the front door. No one’s seen her since.”

The neurologist in charge of Moodrow’s case arrived a moment later. He shooed the visitors away, then drew the curtain around Moodrow’s bed.

“Welcome back to the world, Mister Moodrow. I’m Doctor Murillo.” Without waiting for a response, he shined a light into Moodrow’s eyes, a light bright enough to cut through the morphine. Moodrow groaned and the doctor snapped the light off. “The nerves in your head and neck are inflamed. My best guess is that it’s temporary and you’ll recover completely.”

“Your best guess?”

The doctor smiled. “You were poisoned by a previously unknown neurotoxin. Another two or three drops and you would have been dead before you hit the ground. We don’t know how the compound works, so we can’t offer a guaranteed prognosis. But don’t worry. You’re a celebrity and we don’t let anything happen to celebrities. Not when the reporters are camped out in front of the hospital.”