Allison blinked. She knew the feeling too well. “I know you’re probably hearing from hundreds of well-meaning friends who tell you that if there’s anything they can do, just ask. Well, I’m obviously one of the few people who is actually in position to do something helpful. I won’t let you down. I’ve ordered the Department of Justice to call upon its every resource to launch the largest manhunt in American history. We’ll find Kristen. We’ll bring her kidnappers to justice.”
“You sound like tomorrow’s press release.”
His tone surprised her. “I know we’ve had our differences. But this comes from the heart.”
“Thank you for sharing that. But let me be very frank with you. I heard about the little campaign photo session you held out here today.”
She flinched. Word traveled fast. Harley Abrams must have said something to his superiors. “That was a complete misunderstanding.”
“Call it whatever you like. I simply won’t stand for anyone using my granddaughter’s abduction for political gain.”
“And I would never politicize a matter like this. You have my word on that.”
“That’s not enough.”
“I don’t know what more I can give you.”
His eyes narrowed. “Then let me spell it out for you. I want you completely out of the investigation. Just step aside and let the FBI do its job. Director O’Doud is more than capable. He doesn’t need you looking over his shoulder for your own political purposes.”
Her mouth opened, but words came slowly. “This affects all of us, Lincoln. If it hadn’t been your granddaughter, it could have been my husband. Or maybe some fanatic with a high-powered rifle plans to take out me or you. Just because I’m a candidate doesn’t mean the country has to be without an attorney general. I won’t just step aside.”
“Fine,” he said with a steely glare. “Then prepare to be pushed.”
Their eyes locked in a tense stare. Allison broke it off, then opened the door. “Good night, Lincoln.” She stepped out, then glanced back. “And in case you’re wondering, I always push back.”
The door closed with an emphatic thud.
At 1:00 A.M. Wednesday Buck LaBelle was still on the telephone in his Opry Land Hotel suite. Since his promotion to national campaign director, he’d been living on three hours of sleep each night. A stained coffee cup and a bottle of bourbon rested on the table. Cigar ash dotted the front of his shirt. The television was on, but the sound was muted. He’d spent the last forty-five minutes screening the new campaign commercials for the final push to election day. A Madison Avenue media consultant was on the other end of the line. Buck was pacing furiously, fired up with anger as he shouted into the phone.
“I don’t want to see one more cotton-pickin’ commercial showing Lincoln Howe shaking hands with a black man. That demographic is already in our hip pocket.” He paused, still pacing as he listened with the phone pressed to his ear. “I don’t care if it does send a new message. Messages are lost on these people anyway. Hell, half the black men in America think Lincoln Howe was named after a fucking town car. I want a new ad by five o’clock, and I want it geared toward white women. You got it? That’s our target group. White women!”
He slammed down the phone, then belted back the last of his bourbon. A knock at the door brought a groan from his belly. What now? he thought.
He checked the peephole. His lips curled into a smile as he opened the door.
In walked a man dressed in torn Levi’s, a flannel shirt, and an insulated hunting vest. His dark red hair was shoulder length. He took off his Atlanta Braves baseball cap, exposing his shiny crown of baldness.
“Pay dirt,” the man said with a devious grin. He pitched a manila envelope on the desk.
LaBelle eagerly opened the envelope and inspected the large glossy photographs. He shuffled through the entire stack, sucking on his cigar more intently as he moved from one to the next. They’d obviously been shot in quick succession, all of the same subject: Lincoln Howe, sobbing in the backseat of his limousine.
LaBelle grimaced as he looked up from the stack. “I can’t use a single one of these.”
The photographer leaned against the wall, stunned. “It’s what you wanted. Lincoln Howe in a sensitive moment.”
“Sensitive, yeah. Something that will make a hard-nosed old army general more appealing to female voters. Maybe a shot of him consoling his distraught daughter. Maybe even the general himself getting a little choked up and misty eyed. You didn’t bring me sensitive. You brought me a grown man blubbering like a baby in the face of personal crisis. How on God’s green earth do you expect me to get a marshmallow elected president?”
“You should have been more explicit.”
“Damn it, Red. Five years ago did I have to tell you to bring me a picture of Congressman Butler bopping his secretary? No. All I had to say was get him in a compromising position. That’s all I’ve ever had to say. You knew the drill. Except now, on the most important job I’ve ever given you, you suddenly go stupid on me.”
He shook his head. “Look, I did my job. It wasn’t easy tailing Lincoln Howe with all the extra Secret Service protection around him. And at least the first part of the assignment went off without a hitch. I made Leahy look like a political whore down by the river. I’m sure the FBI thinks she hired me herself to do a photo shoot of the attorney general on the crime scene. I was damn lucky to get out of there before Leahy caught on. I earned my five grand. A deal is a deal.”
LaBelle glared. He felt like telling him to take a flying leap, but he didn’t want to risk trouble from a malcontent with the election so close. He laid his briefcase on the desk, unlocking it with the combination. He removed a thick envelope and handed it over. “Fifty one-hundred dollar bills,” he said, chomping on his cigar.
Red peeked inside, then stuffed the envelope inside his vest. “Pleasure doing business with you. You can keep the photos.”
“Screw the photos. I want the negatives.”
He smirked coyly. “Well, now, that wasn’t exactly part of our deal. I never sell my negatives. That’ll cost you extra.”
LaBelle grumbled as he opened his briefcase. “You bastard. How much?”
“Fifty grand.”
The cigar nearly fell from his mouth. “For negatives I can’t even use?”
“Maybe you can’t use them,” he said with a shrug. “But now that I’ve taken a closer look at them, I can think of somebody who might be able to use a photograph of a presidential candidate looking…how did you put it? Like a blubbering baby in the face of personal crisis?”
LaBelle clenched his fists. The veins in his thick neck were about to burst. “You son of a bitch. This is extortion. I’m not forking over fifty grand.”
“Fine,” he said as he started for the door. “I’m sure somebody will.”
He was fuming, then blurted, “All right, all right.”
Red stopped at the door. “That’s more like it.”
“I don’t keep that kind of money just lying around a hotel room. Give me till noon tomorrow.”
“Nine A.M. Not a minute later.”
LaBelle made a face, but he didn’t argue. He unlocked the door. “I don’t appreciate being treated this way by people I trust.”
“Hey, I still love you, Buck.” He winked on his way out. “But you know what they say about love and war, right?”
“All’s fair,” he said, losing the smile as he closed the door. And there are casualties in both.
14
Since leaving Nashville, Repo and Tony Delgado had taken turns driving virtually nonstop. They cruised well below the posted speed limits, taking no chances on being pulled over by highway patrol. By 2:00 A.M. Wednesday they were fifty miles outside Richmond, Virginia, heading north.
“You think she’s awake yet?” asked Repo.
Tony didn’t respond. He was slumped in the passenger seat, eyes shut.
The glow of the dashboard illuminated Repo’s worried face. He switc
hed on the radio, trying to wake his partner.
Tony stirred. “What the hell?”
“Sorry,” he said, switching off the volume. “I was just thinking, you know. That injection you gave the girl. How long is she out for?”
“Twenty-four hours, at least. Don’t worry about her.”
“I-” He stopped, reluctant to speak his mind. “I just thought, you know, somebody should kind of be there when she wakes up. Maybe explain what’s happening. She’s only twelve. It’s gotta be pretty scary to wake up with a bag over your head, not knowing where the hell you’re at or where you’re going.”
Tony snorted, then shot him a funny look. “What are you, a mommy?”
“No. I just don’t see no need to scar the kid for life, that’s all.”
Tony straightened up in his seat, giving his partner an assessing look. “You’re making me real nervous, the way you’re talking. I picked you for this job because I thought you had guts.”
“I got guts, sure. Just we agreed wasn’t nobody supposed to get killed.”
“Are you still fucking obsessing about that old man?”
“It’s murder, Tony. You guys killed him.”
Tony paused, then turned very serious. “Do you have any idea how many people I’ve killed in my lifetime?”
“All I know is you killed that guy for nothing.”
“It wasn’t for nothing. We had to do it. Those are the rules. We all gotta be willing to do whatever it takes to get the job done.”
Repo stared into the oncoming headlights, thinking. “Maybe. But an old man is one thing. I don’t see any reason why we gotta make it any worse for the kid than absolutely necessary. She’s just a girl.”
Tony grabbed him by the wrist, seizing his attention. “She’s not a girl. She’s a bargaining chip. Don’t ever forget it.”
Repo’s eyes darted, meeting Tony’s glare.
He released his grip, then looked away.
Repo’s attention turned back to the road. He said nothing, steering down the expressway in uneasy silence.
Red Weber stumbled up the stairway at the Thrifty Inn, an old motor lodge that offered rooms by the week, day, or hour, and that provided clean towels and sheets only with a cash deposit. After leaving Buck LaBelle, he’d stopped at a bar to celebrate his renegotiated deal. He closed down the Tennessee Tavern at 2:00 A.M., but it took him another forty-five minutes to find his way back to his hotel. He knew he’d have a tequila hangover in the morning. But he’d also be $50,000 richer.
That’ll buy a shitload of aspirin.
The old wooden stairs creaked beneath his feet. The banisters had been ripped from the stairwell, so he took one step at a time-slowly, balancing himself with flailing arms, like a novice on a tightrope. He stopped at the top of the stairs, smiling with a silly sense of accomplishment. With both hands he dug the room key from his front pocket, then aimed it at the keyhole, one hand steadying the other as he poked unsuccessfully around the lock. Frustrated, he gave up and tried the knob. The door opened.
He could have sworn he’d locked it, but he just laughed as he stepped inside.
He fumbled with the lamp but managed only to knock it off the dresser. He laughed at the mess he’d made, then went rigid. His stomach heaved. The last shot of tequila was doing an about-face. He ran for the bathroom, tripping in the darkness.
Just as he reached the threshold, the bathroom door slammed in his face, knocking him back onto the floor. He staggered to his feet. The door suddenly flew open. He saw his reflection standing in the doorway-or maybe it was a shadow. He squinted to focus.
“What the hell?”
The shadow lunged toward him. A blow to the head stunned him, and Red went down with a thud. His chin was on the carpet as the boots raced by his eyes. He tried to yell, but he’d bitten his tongue and couldn’t speak. He heard the door fly open, then the sound of footsteps in the hallway, like somebody running.
Dizzy and groggy, he lifted himself from the floor. He limped to the door and peered down the hall. Nothing. He grimaced with pain, then froze.
The negatives, he thought-and he was suddenly sober.
He flipped on the light and ran to the closet. He grabbed his camera bag and zipped it open. The camera was gone.
“Shit!”
He checked the film pack. No film. No negatives. He checked every zip pocket, every side pouch, searching frantically. It was all gone, even the film he hadn’t used yet.
Red fell to his knees, feeling a $50,000 pit in the bottom of his stomach. “Son of a bitch,” he groaned.
At 5:00 A.M. the telephone rang in David Wilcox’s hotel room. He was already awake, sipping coffee, reworking a press release he hoped to be able to persuade Allison to issue later in the day.
“Hello,” he answered.
“Mission accomplished,” said the voice on the line.
“You found him?” asked Wilcox.
“Wasn’t too difficult. Aren’t that many photographers running around Nashville who look like Bozo the clown. Red Weber’s his name. Staying at some dive called the Thrifty Inn.”
“Anybody see you?”
“Nah. He caught me by surprise before I left, but I blew by him so fast he couldn’t have seen a thing.”
“What about the pictures?”
“I got the camera and the film. He had probably half a dozen shots of Ms. Leahy down by the river. Her and that FBI guy, Abrams.”
Wilcox sneered. “Sneaky bastards. Hiring their own damn photographer to make Allison look like a publicity hound. Burn the damn pictures.”
“Okay. But I don’t think you want me burning everything. It’s kind of a godsend, but I came across some shots of General Howe that may actually be worth keeping.”
“Is that so?” he said with a thin smile. “Tell me about them.”
15
On Wednesday morning, the press room at the United States Department of Justice was filled to capacity. Eager reporters sat shoulder to shoulder in crowded rows of folding chairs. A simple blue backdrop displayed two round seals, one of the Department of Justice, the other of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The American flag was draped on a pole.
At precisely 10:30 A.M., Allison entered from a side door, leading a somber entourage of men in dark suits to the rostrum. James O’Doud, FBI director, was directly behind her. Six other FBI and Justice Department officials filed in behind them. Cameras clicked and reporters jostled for position as she stepped up to the podium.
“Good morning,” she said. “As you all know by know, Kristen Howe, the twelve-year-old granddaughter of General Lincoln Howe, is missing. At nine o’clock central time yesterday morning, Kristen left Wharton Middle School in Nashville, Tennessee. She and the driver, Reggie Miles, were the only persons aboard the school jitney. Somewhere in transit the bus was apparently hijacked. As yet, we don’t know how or by whom.
“Last night, divers recovered the school van in the Cumberland River, near downtown Nashville. Later last night, we recovered the body of Reggie Miles, the driver. His official cause of death has yet to be determined. Kristen Howe is still unaccounted for.
“Let me say first that we condemn these cowardly acts. The Department of Justice has called upon its every resource to launch the largest manhunt in American history. Director O’Doud has assembled a team of the FBI’s most talented agents, and they are working literally around the clock. We will find Kristen Howe. We will bring these criminals to justice. I, personally, am devoting my full attention to these matters as attorney general. My presidential campaigning has been suspended.”
She paused and surveyed the crowd. “I will briefly take questions.”
Reporters leaped from their seats. Allison singled one out.
“Ms. Leahy,” he said, “the American people will elect their next president in just six days. The photographs of General Howe that surfaced this morning make it clear that this personal tragedy has hit him very hard. Do you agree with those who say that the long-term
psychological effects of the abduction may leave General Howe in no condition to serve as president of the United States? And do you think his reaction says anything at all about his ability to lead the nation in times of crisis?”
She gripped the podium, responding without hesitation. “I don’t intend to politicize this tragedy in any way. My heart goes out to General Howe and his family. As I’ve stated, the safe return of Kristen Howe is now the number-one priority of the United States Department of Justice.”
She pointed to another reporter in the second row.
He rose. “Ms. Leahy, will the Justice Department seek the death penalty for the murder of Reggie Miles?”
She paused. With a hostage still in the kidnapper’s hands, she knew it just wasn’t smart to say anything publicly about the death penalty.
“It’s premature to talk about that. The medical examiner has not even ruled Mr. Miles’s death a homicide yet. Even if it is homicide, it would not be a federal crime unless it can be shown that his murder was part of an interstate kidnapping. So, in response to your specific question, the answer is no, we have not yet made any decisions concerning the death penalty.”
O’Doud stepped forward. “Let me add one quick thought here.”
Allison glanced over her shoulder, containing her surprise. O’Doud did not retreat. He stood beside the podium as he spoke.
“Although the current administration has yet to execute a single federal prisoner for any federal crime, the FBI will treat this case as if capital punishment were a real option. By that, I simply mean that we will lawfully endeavor to gain all evidence that is relevant to an informed determination of whether the death penalty fits this particular crime. We fully expect that the prosecutorial arm of the next administration will evaluate that evidence and see to it that the appropriate punishment is imposed.”
He glanced at Allison, then returned to his place beside the American flag. Reporters pressed forward, arms waving, shouting a flurry of follow-up questions. Allison quickly determined it was time to shut things down.
The Abduction Page 9
