The Abduction

by Mark Gimenez

“James Kelly, William Goldburg—”

  “Bill? Last I knew, he went home to Ohio.”

  “Todd Young, Ted Ellis, with the FBI.”

  “They’re all dead?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “It’s Walker.”

  “He’s dead, Ms. Robbins.”

  “His kind of evil never dies.” An audible sigh. “That case destroyed everyone it touched, especially Elizabeth. She was never the same.”

  “Is that why she left Justice so abruptly?”

  “Wouldn’t you? What woman could just go back to work like nothing happened? When they got her back—”

  “Back? Back from where?”

  “From Major Walker—she was the hostage.”

  8:16 A.M.

  “Four-hundred-fifty-foot drop!” Dicky yelled. “People come from all over for white water rafting on the Moyie!”

  They had flown over three of the four camps east of town. They were heading to the fourth, up north. Dicky was circling over a deep gorge spanned by a two-lane suspension bridge; white water was visible below where the river crashed through the narrow canyon. Ben located the gorge on the map: the Moyie River Bridge. Dicky pointed the chopper east.

  They were soon over the next camp. Dicky brought the chopper down, a hundred meters above the trees, and hovered. This camp was not as large as some of the others; there were only seven cabins, several vehicles, and no white SUV. But there was an order to this camp that immediately caught Ben’s eye. The cabins were arranged like barracks, fronting a gravel area where the vehicles were parked. From the air, a security perimeter was noticeable among the trees, embankments spaced fifty meters apart and forming a semi-circle a hundred meters downhill from the cabins; the embankments would not be visible to a force attacking up the mountain. And at intervals along the dirt road leading up the mountain to the camp, metal plates were laid across wide man-made ditches; when the plates were removed, all vehicular traffic would be stymied by the ditches, except perhaps a Patton tank. Ditched roads were standard Viet Cong tactics.

  This camp was battle ready.

  Ben viewed the camp close-up with the scope, then he circled the location identified as “Red Ridge” on the map. He knew this was the camp they were searching for because of the camp’s order, the security perimeter, the ditched roads, and a branding iron.

  FBI Special Agent Jan Jorgenson jogged out of the federal building in downtown Dallas and across the street to her car in the parking lot. She would spend the rest of her Saturday in Post Oak, Texas.

  Major Charles Woodrow Walker was dead. His son was presumed dead. A son who would be twenty-four now, the approximate age of the abductor. A son who had blond hair and blue eyes, just like the abductor. A son who was the size of the abductor as initially reported by the coach.

  But there was still a missing finger.

  8:52 A.M.

  Ben unbuckled his seat belt and jumped out of the chopper before the skids hit the deck. He hunched over to avoid the rotating blades and jogged to the sheriff’s cruiser. He spread the map out on the hood, using the binoculars and the scope to anchor the ends against the prop blast.

  The sheriff arrived and said, “I seen a scope like that, on a sniper’s rifle in Vietnam.”

  Ben did not respond; instead he pointed to the camp located on Red Ridge and asked, “What’s the drive time to this camp?”

  “I’d say an hour maybe, depending on how muddy the road is. You see something?”

  Ben nodded. “A branding iron on the door of one cabin.”

  “A branding iron?”

  “Green Beret team carried that same branding iron, V for Viper.”

  “And?”

  “VC were Buddhists and Confucians, ancestor-worshippers. They believed they would spend eternity with their ancestors, but only if they had a proper burial. If they weren’t buried or their bodies were mutilated, no family reunion. So Special Forces teams cut off their ears, removed body parts, marked them in some way. Viper team branded their foreheads. Psychological warfare.”

  The sheriff grunted and said, “I be damned.” And then, “How’d they get the branding iron hot in the middle of the jungle?”

  “Lit up a block of C-4 explosive. Won’t explode without a detonator.”

  The sheriff leaned against the vehicle, removed his hat, and ran his hand over his head. “I heard rumors about that kind of shit, but I figured it was just that.”

  “It was true.” Ben turned back to the map. “I was on Viper team.”

  The sheriff stood silently for a time. Ben felt the sheriff’s eyes on him. Then the sheriff said, “Still, Colonel, I gotta have more than a branding iron to get a warrant.”

  Ben looked up at the sheriff.

  “I don’t need a warrant.”

  NOON

  Coach Wally was eating lunch with his wife and daughter at the kitchen table before leaving for his shift at the Taco House. From his place at the table, he looked out on the front driveway through the bay window. He saw the black sedan pull into the driveway. He saw the young woman get out of the car. He saw her put on a nylon jacket to conceal the gun holstered on her hip. Wally Fagan put his fork down and pushed his plate away. He had suddenly lost his appetite.

  “I’m Agent Jorgenson, with the FBI,” the young woman standing on his porch said, and Wally Fagan knew instantly that he had chosen the wrong path. She had come for the truth, and he would tell her the truth. And his life would be forever changed.

  4:05 P.M.

  “Ben, if you’re sure she’s there, let’s go get her now!”

  John was sitting across from Ben at a window table in the local snarf-and-barf on Main Street. Ben shook his head.

  “John, we’re not going to drive up that mountain, knock on the door, and drive away with her. They’re not going to just give her to us. We’re going to take her. And that’s a night op.”

  “Then as soon as it’s dark. Let’s don’t waste time at Rusty’s!”

  “Son, we’re going to Rusty’s on the off-chance we might get lucky on a Saturday night, get a little intel on those men. We’ll go up the mountain after midnight, recon the camp, plan our attack, and move in at first light. We need the element of surprise—and we can’t take a chance on a stray shot with Gracie in there.”

  John leaned back and sighed. Ben was right; this wasn’t his kind of work. He was such a debbie at man’s work. He remembered his mother’s words: Do exactly what Ben tells you to do, and we might get Gracie back. This is what he knows.

  John gulped the foul coffee—haven’t these people heard of Starbucks? Outside, the good citizens of Bonners Ferry were strolling by, oblivious to the fact that at that very moment his daughter was being held hostage in the mountains north of town.

  “Ben, do you think Gracie’s okay?”

  “She’s alive, John.”

  “Do you think those men … you know … did they … with Gracie …”

  Ben’s eyes turned harsh. “Don’t say it, John. Don’t even think it.”

  “I can’t help thinking it, Ben … or wondering if she’ll ever be the same again.”

  “John, listen to me. Whatever they did to Gracie, we’ll get her through it. She’s strong, in her mind. We’ll fix her. I’ll take her to Taos. She’ll live with me until she’s ready to be with people again.”

  Ben’s jaw muscles clenched; he turned to stare out the window.

  “Ben, I want to kill those men.”

  “If there’s killing to be done, I’ll do it. It’s what I know.”

  Ben abruptly stood and was out the door before John could open his mouth. He jumped up and dropped a ten-dollar bill on the table. Outside, he looked up and down the sidewalk and spotted Ben, already a half block away. John ran to catch up.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Man up ahead—blond hair, camouflage pants, six foot, two hundred pounds.”

  The blond man entered a tobacco shop. John and Ben sat on a bench outside, just two dudes e
njoying a fine spring day, not a father and his father searching for the men who had kidnapped his daughter. Ten minutes later, the man emerged with a cigar in his mouth and continued his walk up the sidewalk. They followed.

  Two blocks later they stopped in their tracks. Two little girls ran up to the man; he bent over and picked up the smaller child. A woman walked to the man and kissed him.

  A family man.

  “Mama, I got me a family now.”

  Junior stood before his mama’s grave out back of the cabin in a little clearing that he kept real nice. He came out and talked to his mama almost every day. Some days she talked back.

  “Well, course I’m gonna let her out, Mama. Tomorrow morning. Two nights in the box ought to break her of running. She’s awful cute, ain’t she, Mama?”

  Junior had grown up a mama’s boy wanting to be like his daddy. But the major had left them months at a time—business, he had said. Junior had never gone to school in town; the major wouldn’t allow it. So his mama had taught him almost everything he knew, except what the major taught him about shooting and hunting and hating Jews. Funny, but mama seemed happiest when the major was off on a business trip. Only then could she go into town and see her old friends; she took Junior with her and she laughed and she sang when she was cooking and they sat under a tree and she read poems out loud. Junior and his mama did everything together. She was beautiful.

  And then she was gone.

  And Junior never read another poem.

  “You take this one. I’ll take the one across the street.”

  John watched as Ben waited for a car to pass then jogged across the street. John plopped down on the nearest bench. They were staking out every white SUV on Main Street. The three they had seen so far were owned by an old woman, a teenage girl wearing the tightest jeans John had ever seen on a female, and an old coot chewing tobacco.

  It was almost five. The sun would soon drop below the mountains, and the fine spring day would turn back to winter for the night. Gracie would be cold.

  6:47 P.M.

  Gary Jennings had all ten fingers when he had tied one leg of his jail pants around the sprinkler pipe in his cell and the other leg around his neck and stepped off the jail cot.

  An innocent man was dead.

  Which meant Gracie Ann Brice might be alive.

  FBI Special Agent Jan Jorgenson knew now that Gracie’s abduction had nothing to do with Colonel Brice or revenge over the Vietnam War. It had everything to do with Elizabeth Brice and a son seeking to avenge his father’s death. Maybe Charles Woodrow Walker, Jr., figured the federal government killed his father, so he’d just kill everyone responsible. But why didn’t he kill Elizabeth Brice, too? Why did he take her daughter instead? And did he have plans for the president?

  Jan Jorgenson was in over her head. She needed experience. She needed Agent Devereaux. But his cell phone put her to the answering service for the fifth time today.

  “Eugene, this is Jan again. It’s Saturday, almost seven Dallas time. Please call me as soon as possible. Jennings was innocent. And Gracie may be alive.”

  She ended the call.

  Jan was sitting on the sofa in the Brice study waiting for Mrs. Brice. More questions filled her mind: If the major’s son was the abductor, where is he now? If Gracie is alive, where is she now? The major and the son had lived in Idaho back then; maybe the son still did. And Colonel Brice thought Gracie was in Idaho because of a call-in sighting in Idaho Falls. But Agent Curry had personally interviewed the Idaho source and reported that the source could not ID Gracie or the men or the tattoo. Odd.

  Jan needed to speak to the Idaho source. That required the computer printout of leads which was sitting on her desk in downtown Dallas forty miles south of her present location. There wasn’t much chance of anyone being at the office at this time on a Saturday night—except the security guard.

  She got Red on the first try. No doubt he was sitting behind the security desk in the building lobby watching TV, where he had been every night the past week when she had signed out after hours. Red was fifty and lonely. He made sweet with her each night.

  “Red, this is Agent Jorgenson.”

  “Well, hidi there. I saw from the log sheet you’d left.”

  “I have an emergency. Can you help me?”

  “You want me to come to your place?”

  “Uh, no. I want you to go to my office.”

  “Oh. Well, I guess I can get up there in a bit.”

  Yep, as soon as Wheel of Fortune is over.

  Jan Jorgenson possessed the round face, big eyes, and solid stature befitting a Minnesota farm girl. If she were a horse, they’d call her sturdy. Most guys called her cute. She wore her hair short, stood five-seven, and weighed a rock-hard one-thirty. (Muscle weighs more than fat.) Men often took one look at her and assumed she was lesbian—her muscular legs caused her to walk a bit too manly—but she was hetero through and through. She just hadn’t found a man worth letting between her legs. And Red the security guard wasn’t him; but he wanted to be. Jan wasn’t the type to lead men on, but she needed that printout. She whimpered into the phone.

  “You know, Red, when this case is over, I’m going to have more free time, and maybe we could—”

  “I’ll go up there right now!”

  “Alrighty, then. On my desk is a thick computer printout with a bunch of yellow stickums on pages. Look through those for a listing from Idaho Falls, start at the back. When you find it, use my office phone and call me at this number.”

  She gave Red her cell phone number, and he was off, probably packing more than a ring of keys in his pants. She made a mental note to change her cell phone number when this was over.

  Red called back in under ten minutes. Clayton Lee Tucker, Idaho Falls, Idaho. With a number. Red said, “Bye, honey.”

  Gag me.

  Jan checked out the Brice’s phone system; ten incoming phone lines. That many lines, they could afford a long distance call to Idaho. She punched a button and dialed direct, hoping Tucker worked late. A man answered on the thirteenth ring.

  “Hello? Hello? This phone working?”

  “Clayton Lee Tucker?”

  “Yep. Didn't know my phone was working again.” Then to someone else: “Be right there!” Back in the phone: “Got a customer.”

  “Mr. Tucker, I’m Agent Jan Jorgenson, with the FBI. I’m investigating the Gracie Ann Brice abduction.”

  “They come by yesterday.”

  “Colonel Brice and the father?”

  “Yep.”

  “What time?”

  “Right after I got in, about eight.”

  “Do you think the girl you saw was Gracie?”

  “Oh, I’m sure of it now, after looking at her pictures.”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  “From when?”

  “From when the FBI agent showed you those pictures?”

  “Like I told them, ain’t no FBI agent been here.”

  What? Jan tried to think that through, but Tucker interrupted her.

  “Got me a customer.”

  “Mr. Tucker, where were Colonel Brice and Mr. Brice heading after they left your place?”

  “Bonners Ferry. Up in Boundary County.”

  “Deputy Sheriff Cody Cox,” a voice answered.

  “Deputy, this is Agent Jan Jorgenson, with the FBI, calling from Dallas. I need to speak with the sheriff.”

  “Sheriff Johnson? He’s out with the missus, it’s their anniversary. Well, actually, yesterday was their anniversary, but the sheriff got tied up and—”

  “Did a Colonel Ben Brice and a John Brice meet with the sheriff?”

  “Sure did. They went flying around this morning with Dicky in his helicopter. Sheriff said he owed his life to the colonel.”

  “Deputy, I need to speak to the sheriff. This is an emergency.”

  “Give me your number—I’ll track him down, have him call you.”

  Elizabeth closed the door to the
study behind her. Agent Jorgenson was sitting on her sofa.

  “What’s the emergency, Agent Jorgenson? I’m on my way to church.”

  The young woman took a deep breath and said, “Tell me about Major Charles Woodrow Walker.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Did you know he had a son?”

  7:30 P.M.

  “Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been thirty years since my last confession.”

  The Saturday evening before Easter Sunday was always a busy confession night. So far, Father Randy had listened to four dozen confessions from anonymous confessors kneeling on the other side of the confessional in St. Anne’s Catholic Church, all routine sins for which he had dispensed routine penances: ten Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys. But he perked up upon hearing this confessor’s voice, for two reasons: thirty years was a long time between confessions and might require a non-routine penance; and the woman’s voice sounded oddly familiar. Her next words confirmed his suspicions.

  “Father, I am possessed by evil. And now evil possesses my daughter.” Her voice was breaking up. “Father, Grace might be alive!”

  Elizabeth Brice was in his confessional. Father Randy knew Gracie, the poor girl, and the rest of her family. He saw them every Sunday morning. But Elizabeth Brice had never set foot in his church.

  “Gracie might be alive?”

  “Yes!”

  “What do you mean, she’s possessed by evil?”

  “He’s taken her to Idaho!”

  “Idaho? Who?”

  “The devil’s son.”

  Father Randy shoulders slumped. The devil’s son? The poor mother was likely having a nervous breakdown. He decided to treat her gently.

  “Why thirty years since your last confession?”

  “My father was murdered when I was only ten. I blamed God.”

  “For thirty years?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve not been to Mass for thirty years?”

  “No.”

  “Communion?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve lived without faith for thirty years?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why now?”