The abduction tb-2

by John Grisham

  “Oh, my God,” Mrs. Boone said.

  Theo’s heart froze and he couldn’t breathe. He watched as Leeper was shoved into the rear of a police van and driven away. The reporter was talking to the camera, but Theo didn’t hear his words. He gently placed his head in his hands, and began to cry.

  Chapter 7

  First period was Spanish, Theo’s second favorite class, just behind Government with Mr. Mount. Spanish was taught by Madame Monique, a young, pretty, exotic lady from Cameroon, in West Africa. Spanish was just one of many languages she spoke. Normally, the sixteen boys in Theo’s section were easy to motivate and enjoyed the class.

  Today, though, the entire school was in a daze. Yesterday, the halls and classrooms were filled with nervous chatter as the rumors spread about April’s disappearance. Was she kidnapped? Did she run away? What’s up with her weird mother? Where’s her father? These questions and more were tossed up for debate and kicked around with great enthusiasm throughout the day. Now, though, with the capture of Jack Leeper, and the unforgettable words he uttered about April, the students and teachers were in a state of fear and disbelief.

  Madame Monique understood the situation. She taught April, too, in a girl’s section during fourth period. She tried to engage the boys in a halfhearted discussion about Mexican food, but they were too distracted.

  During second period, the entire eighth grade was called into an assembly in the auditorium. Five sections of girls, five of boys, along with all the teachers. The middle school was in its third year of an experiment which separated the genders during classroom instruction, but not during the rest of the day’s activities. So far, the experiment was getting favorable reviews. But, because they were separated for most of the day, when they came together at lunch, morning break, physical education, or assembly, there was a bit more electricity in the air and it took a few minutes to calm things. Not today, though. They were subdued. There was none of the usual posturing, flirting, gazing, or nervous chatter. They took their seats quietly, somberly.

  The principal, Mrs. Gladwell, spent some time trying to convince them that April was probably all right, that the police were confident she would be found soon and returned to school. Her voice was comforting, her words were reassuring, and the eighth graders were ready to believe any good news. Then a noise-the unmistakable thumping of a low-flying helicopter-passed over the school, and all thoughts immediately returned to the frantic search for their classmate. A few of the girls could be seen rubbing their eyes.

  Later, after lunch, as Theo and his friends were in the middle of a halfhearted game of Frisbee football, another helicopter buzzed over the school, obviously going somewhere in a hurry. From its markings, it appeared to be from some branch of law enforcement. The game stopped; the boys stared upward until the chopper was gone. The bell rang, ending lunch, and the boys quietly returned to class.

  Throughout the school day, there were times when Theo and his friends were almost able to forget about April, if only for a moment. And whenever these moments occurred, and they were indeed rare, another helicopter could be heard somewhere over Strattenburg-buzzing, thumping, watching-like some giant insect ready to attack.

  The entire city was on edge, as if waiting for horrible news. In the cafes and shops and offices downtown, the employees and customers chatted in hushed tones and repeated whatever rumors they’d heard in the past thirty minutes. In the courthouse, always a rich source of gossip, the clerks and lawyers huddled around coffeepots and watercoolers and exchanged the latest. The local television stations offered live reports on the half hour. These breathless updates usually offered nothing new, just a reporter somewhere near the river saying pretty much what he or she had said earlier.

  At Strattenburg Middle School, the eighth graders quietly went through their daily schedules, most of them anxious to get home.

  Jack Leeper, now wearing an orange jumpsuit with CITY JAIL stenciled in black letters across the front and back, was led to an interrogation room in the basement of the Strattenburg Police Department. In the center of the room, there was a small table, and a folding chair for the suspect. Across the table sat two detectives, Slater and Capshaw. The uniformed officers escorting Leeper removed the handcuffs and ankle chains, then retreated to their positions by the door. They remained in the room for protection, though they were not really needed. Detectives Slater and Capshaw could certainly take care of themselves.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Leeper,” Detective Slater said, waving at the empty folding chair. Leeper slowly sat down. He had showered but not shaved, and still looked like some deranged cult leader who’d just spent a month or so in the woods.

  “I’m Detective Slater, and this is my partner Detective Capshaw.”

  “A real pleasure to meet you boys,” Leeper said with a snarl.

  “Oh, the pleasure is ours,” Slater said, with equal sarcasm.

  “A real honor,” Capshaw said, one of the few times he would speak.

  Slater was a veteran detective, the highest ranking, and the best in Strattenburg. He was wiry with a slick, shaved head, and he wore nothing but black suits with black ties. The city saw very little in the way of violent crime, but when they did Detective Slater was there to solve it and bring the felon to justice. His sidekick, Capshaw, was the observer, the note taker, the nicer of the two when they found it necessary to play good cop/bad cop.

  “We’d like to ask you some questions,” Slater said. “You wanna talk?”

  “Maybe.”

  Capshaw whipped out a sheet of paper and handed it to Slater, who said, “Well, Mr. Leeper, as you well know from your long career as a professional thug, you must first be advised of your rights. You do remember this, don’t you?”

  Leeper glared at Slater as if he might reach across the table and grab his throat, but Slater was not the least bit worried.

  “You’ve heard of the Miranda rights, haven’t you, Mr. Leeper?” Slater continued.

  “Yep.”

  “Of course you have. I’m sure you’ve been in many of these rooms over the years,” Slater said with a nasty grin. Leeper was not grinning. Capshaw was already taking notes.

  Slater continued: “First of all, you’re not required to talk to us. Period. Understand?”

  Leeper shook his head, yes.

  “But if you do talk to us, then anything you say can be used against you in court. Got it?”

  “Yep.”

  “You have the right to a lawyer, to legal advice. Understand?”

  “Yep.”

  “And if you can’t afford one, which I’m sure you cannot, then the State will provide one for you. Are you with me?”

  “Yep.”

  Slater slid the sheet of paper close to Leeper and said, “If you sign here, then you agree that I’ve explained your rights and that you are voluntarily waiving them.” He placed a pen on top of the paper. Leeper took his time, read the words, fiddled with the pen, then finally signed his name. “Can I have some coffee?” he asked.

  “Cream and sugar?” Slater asked.

  “No, just black.”

  Slater nodded at one of the uniformed officers, who left the room.

  “Now, we have some questions for you,” Slater said. “Are you ready to talk?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Two weeks ago, you were in prison in California, serving a life sentence for kidnapping. You escaped through a tunnel with six others, and now you’re here in Strattenburg.”

  “You got a question?”

  “Yes, Mr. Leeper, I have a question. Why did you come to Strattenburg?”

  “I had to go somewhere. Couldn’t just hang around outside the prison, know what I mean?”

  “I suppose. You lived here once, correct?”

  “When I was a kid, sixth grade, I think. Went to the middle school for a year, then we moved off.”

  “And you have relatives in the area?”

  “Some distant kin.”

  “One of those distant relativ
es is Imelda May Underwood, whose mother had a third cousin named Ruby Dell Butts, whose father was Franklin Butts, better known out in Massey’s Mill as ‘Logchain’ Butts, and ‘Logchain’ had a half-brother named Winstead Leeper, ‘Winky’ for short, and I believe he was your father. Died about ten years ago.”

  Leeper absorbed all this and finally said, “Winky Leeper was my father, yes.”

  “So somewhere in the midst of all this divorcing and remarrying, you came to be a tenth or eleventh cousin of Imelda May Underwood, who married a man named Thomas Finnemore and now goes by the name of May Finnemore, mother of young April. This sound right to you, Mr. Leeper?”

  “I never had any use for my family.”

  “Well, I’m sure they’re real proud of you, too.”

  The door opened and the officer placed a paper cup of steaming black coffee on the table in front of Leeper. It appeared to be too hot to drink, so Leeper just stared at it. Slater paused for a second, then pressed on. “We have copies of five letters April wrote to you in prison. Sweet, kid stuff-she felt sorry for you and wanted to be pen pals. Did you write her back?”

  “Yep.”

  “How often?”

  “I don’t know. Several times, I guess.”

  “Did you come back to Strattenburg to see April?”

  Leeper finally picked up the cup and took a sip of coffee. Slowly, he said, “I’m not sure I want to answer that question.”

  For the first time, Detective Slater seemed to become irritated. “Why are you afraid of that question, Mr. Leeper?”

  “I don’t have to answer your question. Says so right there on your little piece of paper. I can walk out right now. I know the rules.”

  “Did you come here to see April?”

  Leeper took another sip, and for a long time nothing was said. The four officers stared at him. He stared at the paper cup. Finally, he said, “Look, here’s the situation. You want something. I want something. You want the girl. I want a deal.”

  “What kind of a deal, Leeper?” Slater shot back.

  “Just a moment ago it was Mr. Leeper. Now, just Leeper. Do I frustrate you, Detective? If so, I’m real sorry. Here’s what I have in mind. I know I’m going back to prison, but I’m really tired of California. The prisons are brutal-overcrowded, lots of gangs, violence, rotten food-you know what I mean, Detective Slater?”

  Slater had never been inside a prison, but to move things along he said, “Sure.”

  “I want to do my time here, where the slammers are a bit nicer. I know because I’ve had a good look at them.”

  “Where’s the girl, Leeper?” Slater said. “If you kidnapped her, you’re looking at another life sentence. If she’s dead, you’re looking at capital murder and death row.”

  “Why would I harm my little cousin?”

  “Where is she, Leeper?”

  Another long sip of coffee, then Leeper crossed his arms over his chest and grinned at Detective Slater. Seconds ticked away.

  “You’re playing games, Leeper,” Detective Capshaw said.

  “Maybe, maybe not. Is there any reward money on the table?”

  “Not for you,” Slater said.

  “Why not? You give me some money, I’ll take you to the girl.”

  “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “Fifty thousand bucks, and you can have her.”

  “What will you do with fifty thousand bucks, Leeper?” Slater asked. “You’re in prison for the rest of your life.”

  “Oh, money goes a long way in prison. You get me the money, and you arrange things so I can serve my time here, and we got a deal.”

  “You’re dumber than I thought,” Slater said, frustrated.

  Capshaw added quickly, “And we thought you were pretty dumb before we got started with this conversation.”

  “Come on, boys. That gets you nowhere. We got a deal?”

  “No deal, Leeper,” Slater said.

  “That’s too bad.”

  “No deal, but I’ll make a promise. If that girl is harmed in any way, I’ll hound you to your grave.”

  Leeper laughed loudly, then said, “I love it when the cops start making threats. It’s over, boys. I ain’t talking no more.”

  “Where’s the girl, Leeper?” Capshaw asked.

  Leeper just grinned and shook his head.

  Chapter 8

  Theo preferred not to stay at school after classes and watch the girls play soccer. He himself did not play soccer, not that he had the choice. An asthma condition kept him away from strenuous activities, but even without the asthma he doubted he would be playing soccer. He had tried it as a six-year-old, before the asthma, and never got the hang of it. When he was nine, while playing baseball, he collapsed at third base after hitting a triple, and that ended his short career in team sports. He took up golf.

  Mr. Mount, though, loved soccer, had even played in college, and was offering extra credit to students who hung around for the game. Plus, there was an unwritten rule at Strattenburg Middle School that the girls cheered for the boys, and vice versa. Any other time, Theo would have happily watched from the bleachers, taking casual notice of the game but really sizing up the twenty-two girls on the field and those on the bench as well. But not today. He wanted to be elsewhere, on his bike, handing out the MISSING flyers, doing something to aid in the search for April.

  It was a terrible day for a game of any kind. The Strattenburg kids were distracted. The players and their fans lacked energy. Even the opposing team, from Elksburg, forty miles away, seemed subdued. When another helicopter flew over ten minutes into the game, every girl on the field paused for a second and looked up in apprehension.

  As expected, Mr. Mount gradually made his way over to a group of women. The worst kept secret at school was that Mr. Mount had his eye on Miss Highlander, a stunning seventh-grade math teacher just two years out of college. Every boy in the seventh and eighth grades had a desperate, secret crush on Miss Highlander, and evidently Mr. Mount had some interest as well. He was in his mid-thirties, single, by far the coolest male teacher in the school, and the sixteen boys in his homeroom were aggressively pushing him to pursue Miss Highlander.

  When Mr. Mount began to make his move, so did Theo. He assumed correctly that Mr. Mount’s attention would soon be focused elsewhere; it was the perfect time for a quiet exit. Theo and three others drifted from the soccer field and were soon on their bikes racing away from the school. Their search party was much smaller, and this was by design. Yesterday’s had too many kids, with too many opinions, and too much activity that might be noticed by cops such as Officer Bard. Plus, there had been fewer volunteers during the school day as Theo and Woody got things organized. The sense of urgency that Theo felt was not shared by many of his classmates. They were concerned all right, but many of them thought that searches by kids on bikes were a waste of time. The police had SWAT teams, helicopters, dogs, and no shortage of manpower. If they couldn’t find April, the search was hopeless.

  Theo, along with Woody, Aaron, and Chase, returned to the Delmont neighborhood and roamed the streets for a few minutes to make sure the police were elsewhere. With no cops in sight, they quickly began passing out MISSING flyers and tacking them to utility poles. They inspected a few empty buildings, looked behind some run-down apartments, picked their way through an overgrown drainage ditch, checked under two bridges, and were making real progress when Woody’s older brother called his cell phone. Woody froze, listened intently, then reported to the gang, “They’ve found something down by the river.”

  “What?”

  “Not sure, but my brother is monitoring his police scanner, said the thing has gone crazy with chatter. All cops are headed down there.”

  Without hesitation, Theo said, “Let’s go.”

  They sped away, out of Delmont, past Stratten College, into downtown, and as they approached the east end of Main Street, they saw police cars and dozens of officers milling about. The street was blocked; the area under the bridge
was sealed off. The air was heavy with tension. And noise-two helicopters were hovering over the river. The downtown merchants and their customers stood on the sidewalks, gawking into the distance, waiting for something to happen. Traffic was being diverted away from the bridge and the river.

  As the boys watched, another police car crept up beside them. The driver rolled down his window, then snarled, “What are you boys doing here?” It was Officer Bard, again.

  “We’re just riding our bikes,” Theo said. “It’s not against the law.”

  “Don’t get smart with me, Boone. If I see you boys anywhere near the river, I swear I’ll take you in.”

  Theo thought of several quick retorts, all of which would lead to more trouble. So he gritted his teeth and politely said, “Yes, sir.”

  Bard smiled smugly, then drove away, toward the bridge.

  “Follow me,” Woody said as they raced off. Woody lived in a section of town called East Bluff, near the river, on a gentle rise that eventually gave way to the lowlands around the water. It was a notorious place, full of narrow streets, dark alleys, creeks, and dead-end roads. The neighborhood was generally safe, but it produced more than its share of colorful stories of strange events. Woody’s father was a noted stonemason who’d lived his entire life in East Bluff. It was a large clannish family, with lots of aunts, uncles, and cousins, all living close to each other.

  Ten minutes after their encounter with Officer Bard, the boys were zipping through East Bluff, along a narrow dirt trail that zigzagged high above and beside the river. Woody was pedaling like a madman and making it difficult for the others to keep up. This was his turf; he’d been riding his bike through these trails since he was six. They crossed a gravel road, plunged down a steep hill, shot up the other side, and got serious air before landing back on the trail. Theo, Aaron, and Chase were terrified but too excited to slow down. And, of course, they were determined to keep up with Woody, who was prone to talk trash at any moment. They finally slid to a stop at a small overlook, a grassy area where the river could be seen below through some trees. “Follow me,” Woody said, and they left their bikes behind. Clutching a vine, they scampered down the side of a cliff to a rocky landing, and there, below, was the Yancey River. Their view was unobstructed.