Bad to the Bone (32 page)

“He wanted to draw you out into the open. He was deliberately trying to make you angry.”

“Well, he succeeded, didn’t he? I hope he’s happy.”

The van rolled on. They were obviously on a highway, but Betty couldn’t determine which one or where they were headed. The hum of the tires on the road, of the transmission and differential, numbed Betty despite the drug, but she forced herself to consider her situation. They’d left the black man, Wendell Bogard, behind, but Kenneth Scott was sitting next to Craddock in the front of the van. Blossom was in back, next to Betty, a hand resting on Betty’s knee. At first, Betty thought the touch was sexual, but the hand merely rested. Was it meant as a consolation? Reassurance? Betty didn’t know, but it was more than obvious that the weak link in the chain (if there was to be a weak link in the chain) had to be Blossom. Kenneth Scott was lost in a mix of implacable hate, blind belief and physiological addiction. There was no way to reach Kenneth Scott, and any attempt was likely to result in a bullet or a beating. Blossom’s submission came from another place altogether. Her posture, from her downcast eyes to her slumped shoulders and the way her arms hung limply at her sides, revealed depression and resignation, not anger and hatred. There was at least a chance that, being a victim herself, she would identify with Betty, not Davis Craddock.

It was more than two hours later, after they bumped onto a ferry and the van began to rock gently, that Betty got a hint of what direction they’d probably taken. The eastern end of Long Island splits into two long peninsulas. There are several islands between these forks, and some of them, Betty knew, were connected to the mainland by ferries. She had to be out on the eastern end of Long Island, which at least indicated a fairly dense population. There’d be some place to go, if she managed to get away from Davis Craddock. If they’d been traveling north to some remote farmhouse, any escape would be into dense forest. Betty was city-born and city-raised, and the deep, dark woods frightened her.

The ferry ride was brief, less than ten minutes. The ferryboat continued to sway as the cars ahead of them pulled off, then they were moving again. Craddock chattered away, bragging about his evil deeds the way an adolescent brags of a sexual conquest. Ten minutes later, the van stopped and Craddock shut the engine off. Betty, still blindfolded, was led inside.

“Welcome to Frankenstein’s castle,” Craddock said, removing the blindfold. “The House of PURE.”

The young man standing by the rear door cradled an M16 in his arms. His face was turned to the darkness outside. Another sentry stood guard at the front of the house. He turned briefly and Betty knew immediately that he, like Kenneth Scott, was an addict and that his addiction guaranteed obedience. He would discharge his duty faithfully and without emotion.

“Come see the lab,” Craddock commanded. He led her down a short flight into a windowless basement. The single room was enormous. They’d dug out to the foundations of the house, removing walls as they went, adding narrow housejacks for support. Six workers, all women, scuttled from one apparatus to another. To Betty, totally unfamiliar with chemical laboratories, the scene was as exotic as any mad scientist movie set. Which made sense, because Craddock was obviously crazy.

“There’s enough PURE down here to keep Blossom high for ten thousand years,” Craddock bragged. “Not that I plan to keep Blossom high for ten thousand years. All my workers know that our stay here will be temporary, but I’ve promised to send each of them off with a year’s supply of PURE and enough money to get started in the real world. The last thing I need is an open rebellion. The product itself is stored in a temperature-controlled safe. Needless to say, I’m the only one with the combination.”

“How much PURE will you have when you’re done?” Betty couldn’t resist the obvious question.

“Nine million doses, more or less. PURE is much more powerful than cocaine or heroin which makes packaging the trickiest part of the operation. You can’t just spoon it into little envelopes. Weighing out millions of 10-mg doses by hand would have taken forever. I’m proud to say that I found the solution myself. That’s why I’m so far ahead of schedule. I bought a machine to package PURE at the liquidation sale of a small pharmaceutical house that’d falsified information on an FDA form and had its license yanked. You know, I originally planned to package PURE in heat-sealed vials which is how crack is sold. But the machine I bought was designed to fill capsules. When in Rome, eh? PURE will be sold in gold or silver capsules, depending on the quantity. The capsules can be swallowed or broken open and the powder injected or inhaled. The machine can package one dose per second. In case you don’t have a calculator implanted in your brain, that comes out to 3600 doses per hour, 86,400 per day. Faster than I can produce it.”

“Why did you decide to package it at all? Why not just sell it in volume?”

“Good question. I wanted PURE to be pure. I didn’t want the consumer to have to worry about overdoses or adulterants. Remember, PURE can’t be heated. There are going to be some dead junkies no matter what I do. If I just sold the powder, how could I be sure the wholesaler wouldn’t cut it with something that doesn’t dissolve unless heated? I’m a businessman, Betty, and I know how important first impressions are when you introduce a new product into the marketplace. Our test marketing clearly indicates that PURE is the drug of choice, for heroin and crack junkies alike. But PURE must reach the national marketplace in a clearly recognizable, unadulterated form.”

Betty felt a quick surge of anticipation. If PURE became readily available, she wouldn’t be cut off when Craddock released her. Then she realized that she was already looking forward to her next dose. And that she had no reason to believe that Craddock would ever let her go. “If you’re only in it for the short term,” she said, “why do you care what happens after you sell it?”

“Because I intend to auction off the formula.” He looked around the lab, checking each facet of the operation. “I’ve got a lot of work to do here. I think it’s time you saw your new home. Plus, I have a big surprise for you. Then we’ll call the fat detective.”

He led her back up the stairs, then up a second flight to a locked door at the end of a long hallway. “You’ll notice,” he said, “that this door is made of steel. The frame extends six inches into the wall. The door opens outward and is secured with a steel crossbar.” He removed the crossbar, unlocked the door and pulled it open. “
Voila
.”

The room was small: a bed pushed against the wall, two wooden chairs, a table, a threadbare woven rug over rough planks, a tiny bathroom with a toilet and a sink. A young boy sat on one of the chairs. He was shivering and his knees were drawn up to his chest. A long stream of mucus ran from both nostrils.

“Please, Daddy,” he said, holding out one thin arm.

“Ugh,” Craddock muttered. “Disgusting.” He took a syringe from his pocket, crossed to the child, and pushed it into the child’s shoulder. “Kids have terrible veins,” he announced to Betty. “The addicts call this skin popping. It’s not as fast as mainlining, but it works. It also makes the high last longer. Not long enough, though. By the way, this is Michael Alamare. My son. The object of your investigation. Blossom, get me the cellular phone from downstairs.”

A minute later, Michael Alamare stopped shivering. His nose dried up and his eyes were clear. He watched Betty carefully, though he said nothing. He was waiting. As he’d been waiting.

“Michael,” Craddock said, breaking the silence, “has been using PURE for about a month. My motive in giving it to him was purely charitable. He was
so
bored. I mean I
had
to take him out of Hanover House. Even before she hired Stanley, Connie Alamare had her lawyers busy looking for Michael. My story was that Flo and Michael had left the commune two years earlier. Suppose the cops got some judge to sign a search warrant?”

Blossom returned with the phone, offering it to Craddock. “What’s the number?” Craddock asked. “It’s time to call Stanley.”

Moodrow picked up on the first ring. He wasn’t surprised to hear Craddock’s voice. He wasn’t even angry.

“Stanley, guess who?”

“I know who it is.”

“My, aren’t we calm tonight? I’m not shocked, though. I’ve stopped underestimating you.”

He paused for a reply, but Moodrow kept his mouth shut. Like Betty, he knew there was nothing to be gained by provoking Craddock.

“Nothing to say?” Craddock continued. “Well, let me fill you in on the details. I have your girlfriend. Right here with Michael. She’s not in Hanover House. I need three weeks, a month at most, then I’ll release her. I have no particular reason to hurt her, but if you make any attempt to find me, I’ll kill her. I have no illusions. I know what will happen to me if I’m apprehended. Do you believe me, Stanley?”

“Absolutely. What do you want from me?”

“Nothing, Stanley. I want you to stay put and do nothing. I’m going to let you talk to her now. In fact, I’m going to have her call you every evening at nine o’clock.”

“How did you find out what she was doing? Did you hurt her?”

“I’ve been having all prospective clients followed to their homes for months. I guess the attention I’ve received over the last year made me a little paranoid. In this case, though, you’ll have to admit that paranoia paid off. Here, talk to Betty.”

“Stanley,” Betty said, “I was stupid. I was completely…”

“I don’t wanna hear that crap. Tell me if he hurt you.”

“No, he hasn’t. He…”

Something in her voice triggered Moodrow’s instincts. The lack of fear, the strength. Even her apology was matter-of-fact. “He gave you the drug, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“And you like it.”

It was a statement, not a question, but Betty replied anyway. “Yes.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re not an addict and…”

“ ‘Don’t
worry
about it’? That’s real easy for you to say. You’re safe in your fucking apartment. What am I supposed to be? Miss Liberty?”

A second later, Craddock was back on the phone. “Bitch, bitch, bitch. That’s all they do, if you let them. I could give you some lessons in bitch training, if you like.”

“Cut the crap.”

“That’s not very nice, but I’ll let it go. I’ll chalk it up to the heat of battle. Now, it seems to me that you have three options. You can do nothing. (By far the wisest course.) Or you can continue to work by yourself. Or you can call in the FBI and the cops. If you decide to exercise the last option, I’m certain that you’ll find me. The FBI would have no trouble getting warrants to examine bank records or phone records or land titles. You’d also be able to mount an overwhelming attack on my little fortress and I’d be cooked meat. But if you do that, I’m going to take my .357, shove it in your girlfriend’s cunt and blow the top of her head off. You understand me, Stanley?”

“Yeah, I understand. Just like you understand that if you hurt her, I’ll find you and kill you. No cops. No FBI. Just me.”

“Ah, the obligatory threat from the cornered rat. How macho. Bye-bye, Stanley. Have a nice night.”

Betty lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The drug was powerful and sleep would be long in coming, if it came at all. Not that she was bored or anxious. Craddock had injected her before leaving to work in the lab. She had made no resistance. She would make no resistance in the morning, when he returned. At first, Michael Alamare had remained in the chair, staring at her, but after an hour or so, he climbed onto the bed and pressed himself into her arms. “Why did my daddy put you here?” he asked. “Were you bad, too?”

I
T WAS JUST AFTER
eleven o’clock, and Jim Tilley was watching the late news and thinking about Rose and bed when Moodrow called. Moodrow’s message was very simple: “Jim, he’s got Betty.” Tilley’s obligatory response was equally simple: “I’m on my way over.” He tossed a quick explanation to Rose and was out the door before she could answer.

He ran the few blocks to Moodrow’s apartment, expecting to find his old friend in a towering rage, but the unpredictable Moodrow surprised him. As usual.

“There’s coffee on the stove, Jim. Help yourself.”

“Stanley, you okay?”

“Why would anything be wrong with me? I’m not the one who got kidnapped.”

“I thought you might blame yourself.”

“Bullshit. I begged her not to go in there. You and Rose begged her not to go in there. She wanted to play a dangerous game and she has to deal with the consequences. And I’m not gonna grieve while she’s still alive. There’s no point to it. She’s my woman, not my kid.”

He related his conversation with Betty and Davis Craddock calmly, going over each detail. He’d written it all down. When he was finished, Tilley articulated the most important piece of information.

“Then she’s not in immediate danger,” he said.

“I agree. Not that I’m buying that ‘three weeks to a month’ bullshit, but I think we’ve got at least a week. If Craddock needed less than that, he’d stonewall it. He’s gonna make a move with the dope and he wants me out of the way until he’s finished.”

“Why is Craddock so afraid?” Tilley walked slowly to the kitchen, then poured himself a cup of coffee. “The drug is legal.”

“Tell me something, Jim. What’s Craddock’s biggest problem?”

“You.”

Moodrow shook his head. “Craddock’s biggest problem is Flo Alamare. The drug isn’t illegal. He’s not gonna get prosecuted for possession, manufacturing or sale. But if he gave the drug to Flo and it poisoned her, he’s up for reckless endangerment. If we can link the drug to the dead junkies who supposedly overdosed, it’s manslaughter. And the motherfucker doesn’t know that we don’t have a sample of the drug. He doesn’t know the DEA has the samples and we can’t get to them.”

“We could’ve had them if we’d turned the whole thing over to the department.”

“You sure about that, Jim? The cops made the junkies for ODs and Flo Alamare for a stroke victim. If the DEA decides to act, it’ll issue a report to the Attorney General’s office and maybe, a year or two down the road, PURE will be added to the schedule of controlled substances.
Controlled substances
. Talk about bullshit. Even the word is bullshit.
Dope
is what it should be. They should call it ‘the dope list’ and leave it at that. If the cops had gotten into it, Craddock would have all the time he needs.”