The Abduction

by Mark Gimenez

  THE ABDUCTION

  MARK GIMENEZ

  Navarchus Press

  Praise for THE ABDUCTION

  Best-seller lists

  No. 6, Australia

  No. 8, Ireland

  No. 14, UK hardback

  "A cracking read."

  - The Times (UK)

  "Pulse-pounding narrative."

  – Booklist

  "Gimenez has written a startling, multilayered thriller in which complex characters and a fast-moving plot grab the reader immediately. Smart dialog and a spunky Gracie, who never loses her cool, make for a memorable read that twists and turns until the final, cinematic conclusion."

  - Library Journal (starred review)

  "The Abduction was the best suspense/thriller book that I read in 2007. I repeatedly recommended it to friends. Each person who I shared it with wrote or called after reading it to tell me how they too were talking it up to others as their favorite book of the year. It has a great plot, strong characters, and a story that never lacks for action."

  – Carol Fitzgerald, Bookreporter.com

  "After the stunning success of a first novel, there's always the question if the author can do it again with the second and, fortunately, in this case, Gimenez not only surpasses his own preliminary standards of excellence, but those of the entire genre. Not only does he offer up an adventurous plot that races forward at a breakneck speed filled with a cast of multi-faceted and poignantly drawn characters, but he also puts forth some concepts and questions that provoke and compel the reader's consideration long after the last page is turned… . But perhaps most notable of all might just be this book's ability to elicit just about every emotional response possible from the reader. Whether it's laughter or tears, dread or anticipation, be prepared to feel something while reading this glorious adventure that only seems to gain momentum with every page… . Ultimately, a forceful, exhilarating, and effervescent read of faith and redemption, loyalty and love, truth and purpose, and one that unreservedly qualifies as one of the best to come along this year."

  - New Mystery Reader Magazine

  "Caution: don't start this book unless you have time to finish it—I could not put it down. After his excellent debut, The Color of Law, Gimenez just knocks it out of the park with his sophomore effort… . These characters are so well drawn that it becomes incredibly easy to suspend your disbelief and get completely caught up in the story. I loved the tough-as-a-tiger mom, and the special bond between Gracie and her retired Green Beret grandfather was especially touching, all of which helped ratchet up the suspense even more. The Abduction is one of the best thrillers of the year."

  - The BookBitch

  "THE ABDUCTION is much more than a scaled-down version of Commando, however. While stuffed to its considerable brim in action, it is as much about relationships as strategy. Gimenez skillfully weaves the narrative while creating a tantalizing mystery—the 'why' of Gracie's abduction—that will keep you guessing until almost the very end. There are secrets and excitement and just about everything you would ever want from a reading experience."

  - Bookreporter.com

  "There are times when life gets so overwhelming that even a good book can't keep your mind from wandering. That's when you need a super-riveting read like this to take you away. It's a tale with a normally hard-to-take premise—child abduction. But in the hands of bestselling author Mark Gimenez, it becomes a tale of humanity, heroism, and hope, with complex characters who jump off the page. Boy can this guy tell a story!"

  - Book-of-the-Month club

  "Gimenez not only gives readers crackerjack plotting, captivating style and adrenalin-laced pacing, he injects deep insight into all his characters, from shattered father John, to his tightly controlled wife Elizabeth—and how Gracie's kidnapping forever changes their lives. The story, however, really belongs to Ben Brice, whose search for redemption propels this gripping and emotionally complex thriller to a surprising and thoroughly satisfying conclusion. If there's one thriller you read this fall, make it The Abduction—it's impossible to put down."

  - BookLoons

  "A top-of-the-line thriller … Impossible to put down, the book is a nail-biter from beginning to end, as a family's dark secrets emerge during the worst event of their lives."

  - Romantic Times

  “The Abduction is fast-paced and truly impossible to put down. It is also by far one of the best thrillers I have read in a long time.”

  – Wichita Falls Times

  "Gimenez's writing is explosive, fast-paced, and filled with unexpected plot twists that keep readers guessing right up to the last page."

  - Houston Press

  "Another explosive thriller that is impossible to put down… . Plenty of twists and turns, and a plot that keeps you guessing right until the end. Definitely not one to miss."

  - CrimeSquad.com

  "You'd better start this one early in the evening, because you'll be reading it into the wee small hours of the morning—it's riveting."

  - Durbs.co.za (South Africa)

  LEARN MORE ABOUT MARK GIMENEZ'S BOOKS AT

  www.markgimenez.com

  Copyright © 2007 by Mark Gimenez

  Published by Navarchus Press, LLC

  First published in Great Britain in 2007 by Sphere, an imprint of Little, Brown Book Group and in the United States by Vanguard Press.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Navarchus Press, LLC. Published in the United States of America.

  ISBN 978-0-9839875-0-5

  U.S. Hardback ISBN-10: 1-59315-463-1

  U.S. Hardback ISBN-13: 978-159315-463-9

  U.S. Paperback ISBN-13: 978-159315-477-6

  British Hardback ISBN 978-1-84744-006-8

  British C Format ISBN 978-1-84744-005-1

  British A Format ISBN 978-0-7515-3946-2

  Kindle Edition: 1.00 (9/11/2011)

  Ebook conversion: Fowler Digital Services

  Rendered by: Ray Fowler

  Cover image © Matthew Somorjay/Millennium Images, UK

  Cover design: Little, Brown Book Group – Sean Garrehy

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Acknowledgements

  DAY ONE

  DAY TWO

  DAY THREE

  DAY FOUR

  DAY FIVE

  DAY SIX

  DAY SEVEN

  DAY EIGHT

  DAY NINE

  DAY TEN

  DAY FIFTEEN

  Books By Mark Gimenez

  Praise for Mark's Books

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My sincere thanks to everyone at the Little, Brown Book Group in the UK, as well as everyone at Hachette Livre and Little, Brown in Australia and New Zealand and Penguin Books in South Africa, for making my books best sellers around the world. Also, a special thanks to Joel Tarver at T Squared Design in Houston for my website and email blasts to my readers. And thanks to all the readers who have emailed me about my books. Your thoughts and comments are greatly appreciated. I look forward to hearing from you.

  www.markgimenez.com

  “At first—I cried. Every night. For a long time. I cried to you—come and get me. Take me home. You didn’t come.”

  “I’ve come now.”

  - From The Searchers by Alan LeMay

  DAY ONE

  4:59 A.M.

  Be
n Brice opened his eyes to a dog needing to pee.

  “Don’t worry, Buddy. I’m still alive.”

  This man’s best friend slapped a wet tongue across Ben’s face once more just to make sure. Ben wiped the golden retriever’s saliva on the sheet then pushed himself to a sitting position. He groaned. Each beat of his pulse through the veins in his head felt like a ball-peen hammer pounding the inside of his skull. He didn’t remember finishing off the empty whiskey bottle sitting on the night table. But then, he never did.

  He rubbed his bare arms against the chill of an April dawn and stood, but he had to grab the door to stay standing. He leaned against the wall until the world stood still, then he rode a hand-hewn pine log into the main room of the small cabin. He let Buddy out the back door and dropped down to the floor.

  Lying face down on the coarse wool rug in his long underwear bottoms, he inhaled the Navajo scent that would forever inhabit the native weave. He closed his eyes and considered trying to sleep again, but he knew it would be in vain: a lifetime of reveille at 0500 wouldn’t allow it. Resigned to his fate, he brought his legs together, placed his hands palms down under his chest, inhaled deeply, and exhaled as he pushed. His triceps trembled as his rigid body rose from the rug. One. He dropped down hard and felt as if he might pass out. But he inhaled and exhaled and pushed his body up again. Two. Down to the rug. Pushed up. Three. Down. Up. Four. He reached a rhythm at twenty-five and finished at fifty.

  He rolled over onto his back. He locked his hands behind his head, lifted his knees to a ninety-degree angle to his spine, contracted his abdominal muscles until his shoulders lifted off the rug, and twisted his torso to touch his left elbow to his right knee then his right elbow to his left knee. Then down. And up again and twist right then left and down. And up. Right. Left. And down. Fifty times.

  He stood, steadied himself, and walked over to the kitchen sink. He stuck his head under the gooseneck faucet and turned the cold water on full; he braced himself as the well water traveled four hundred feet from inside the earth’s gut and sputtered then gushed out of the pipe. His body shivered; it felt as if he had plunged his head into a bucket of ice water. He dried off with a dishtowel then opened the refrigerator and drank orange juice out of the carton. He closed the door and paused to look at her—the blonde hair, the blue eyes, the bright smile. The refrigerator door was covered with photos of her, alone and with her family, the only blonde in the bunch.

  Ben walked out the back door of the cabin and without looking dropped the empty whiskey bottle into the recycling bin filled with empty whiskey bottles. His breath fogged in the cold air. He was now wearing jogging shoes, sweats, and a baseball cap pulled down low to shield his blue eyes from the bright morning sun. The endless sky was empty except for a vulture circling breakfast in the distance. He went over to the garden, picked a few weeds, and watered the neat rows with the sprinkler bucket. Buddy was barking, ready to get it on.

  “Okay, boy, let’s go.”

  They ran into the rugged terrain surrounding the cabin, Buddy leading the way, Ben lagging behind; his body ached from sixty years of life and thirty years of Jim Beam. He soon lost sight of Buddy in the sagebrush. But Ben knew he’d find his four-legged friend at the rock outcropping two miles out; and when Ben arrived, Buddy was there, sitting and waiting patiently for him to run up, bend over, and throw up, a morning ritual.

  Ben spat out the last of the bile and wiped his mouth with a red handkerchief; he took a moment to gather himself. Only his hard breathing broke the silence of the land. All around him stretched the vast solitude that is New Mexico: the Taos Plateau bordered by the snow-capped peaks of the Sangre de Cristo mountain range rising tall into the blue sky, a land so beautiful and harsh that only an artist or a man running from his past would find it hospitable. To the north was Colorado, to the south Albuquerque, to the west Taos, and to the east the solitary cabin situated on a low rise, the metal roof reflecting the sun.

  “Beat you back to the cabin, Buddy.”

  Ben ran toward the rising sun and Buddy gave chase, delighted—this was the fun part.

  Half an hour later, Ben had cleaned up and was wearing jeans, boots, and a corduroy shirt, eating a granola bar, and drinking a cup of coffee brewed from the strongest beans available in Taos; they had come with a money-back guarantee to break through the haze of the worst hangover.

  He walked outside, past the garden, and to the workshop. Inside, woodworking tools hung on the walls and what rich people in Santa Fe regarded as fine art in the form of furniture crowded the floor. He pulled a low stool next to the rocking chair he had fashioned out of mesquite, ran his hands along the arms, and began sanding the rough spots. Buddy spun around three times, plopped down in the doorway, and settled in for the day. The sound of sandpaper scraping over wood and Buddy’s snoring soon joined in a melody of sorts, the only music of Ben Brice’s life.

  The sun’s rays now angled low across the workshop floor, the only evidence that another day of his life had passed. Ben laid his tools down, stood, and stretched his back. He walked outside and around to the west side of the cabin porch and sat in his rocking chair where he would watch the sun melt and the sky over Taos turn orange, where he would listen to the coyotes’ lonesome cries and sometimes he would answer them, where he would remain until the distant city lights dimmed and the night chill set in. His thoughts would then return to the past, always to the past that owned his life like a bank holding a mortgage that would never be paid in full. He would think of the life that might have been—a young man’s dreams, the great adventure that was not, the death of the brother he never had, a wife who loved him but left him … and then he would think of his failures, revisiting each one until he arrived at the failure that would forever haunt his nights, and he would reach for the bottle. And so his life would go until one morning he would not answer Buddy.

  But the day was not yet over and his thoughts not yet there. He whistled, and Buddy appeared and bounded up onto the half-sized rocking chair next to his. Ben reached over and scratched Buddy’s neck then ran his fingers over the block letters carved into the seat back: GRACIE.

  5:47 P.M.

  Seven hundred miles away, a blonde-haired girl sprinted down a soccer field in Texas.

  “Run, Gracie, run!”

  Gracie Ann Brice could run like a boy, faster than most boys her age, ten going on thirty, which made playing soccer against girls her own age seem almost unfair. But she was fun to watch, if your daughter was on her team.

  She pushed the ball up the sideline, past the parents cheering in the stands and Coach Wally wearing a Tornadoes jersey and her dad filming her with the camcorder—she made a face for the camera—while shouting into his cell phone: “Cripes, Lou! Tell those New York suits it’s my killer app, it’s my company, it’s my IPO—and the price is gonna be thirty a share and not a freaking penny less!”

  Multitasking, he called it.

  Without breaking stride, Gracie drove the laces of her white Lotto soccer shoe into the ball, kicking it over the oncoming defenders’ heads and right to Brenda on the far side of the field. Then she pulled up and looked back at her skinny thirty-seven-year-old SO (Significant Other) on the sideline. He was now gesturing with the camcorder, swinging it up and down and videotaping the ground, the sky, the ground, the sky, all of his attention on the cell phone. She couldn’t help but shake her head and smile, the kind of smile grownups use on small children, but only those related to them by blood.

  “God bless him,” she said.

  Her father was a total geek. He was wearing black penny loafers with white socks, wrinkled khakis, a long-sleeve blue denim shirt with the tail hanging out, a yellow Mickey Mouse tie (the one she had given him last Father’s Day), and narrow black-framed glasses; his curly black hair looked like he had styled it by sticking his finger in an electrical socket. (Mom always said he looked like Buddy Holly with a blow dryer, but Gracie didn’t know who that was.) All that was missing from this picture wa
s a white pocket protector stuffed with mechanical pencils. John R. Brice was a doofus to the max, but Gracie loved him dearly, as a mother might love a child with special needs. He was now filming the parking lot.

  “God bless him,” she said again.

  “Gracie, gosh darnit, we need a goal to tie! Quit foolin’ around and score!”

  Jeez, Coach, don’t have a cow. Gracie turned away from her dad and focused on the game. Across the field, Brenda was losing the ball to number twenty-four, the Raiders’ star player (she was eleven) and a real snot. Brenda was chubby and not much of an athlete. She hadn’t scored a goal in the three seasons they had played together. Gracie grimaced as the snot charged Brenda and knocked her to the ground then stole the ball. Bad enough, but then the snot stood over Brenda like the football guys do after a big hit and snarled down at her: “Give it up, Fatty!”

  Gracie felt the heat wash over her, the same as right before she had beaten up Ronnie down the street for tripping Sam, a five-year-old alien who had taken up residence in their home. (They swear he’s her brother.) Afterward—after running down the street to a safe distance, of course—Ronnie had yelled “lesbo” at her, which had seemed a particularly mean remark given that she was in love with Orlando Bloom like every other girl in fourth grade. She figured Ronnie had called her that because she was a tomboy and kept her blonde hair cut boy short, or because she had bigger leg muscles than him, or because she could bloody his big fat nose—or maybe because she wanted a tattoo for her eleventh birthday. Mom, however, said that her superior athletic ability threatened Ronnie’s masculinity, always a fragile component of the male psyche. Um, whatever. The next time Gracie saw the little dweeb, she threatened his life and gave him a black eye.

  “Gracie, she’s on a breakaway! Stop her!”

  The snot was now driving the stolen ball down the field toward the Tornadoes’ goal, obviously suffering from some kind of—what had Mom called it?—oh, yeah, diminished capacity, thinking she could actually outrun Gracie Ann Brice to the goal. As if. Gracie turned on the speed.