The Abduction

by James Grippando

  Tanya had that look on her face again-as if she was struggling to say something. But she remained silent.

  Allison picked up on it this time. “You look troubled, Tanya. Is there something about this connection theory that doesn’t sit well with you?”

  She looked away, breathing a heavy sigh. “It’s just your whole theory about the motivation for Kristen’s kidnapping-that it’s designed to hurt you, as opposed to helping my father.”

  “You don’t see it that way?” asked Allison.

  She closed her eyes, as if suddenly in sharp pain. “I don’t know.”

  Allison leaned forward, softening her voice. “Tanya, what is it?”

  Her moist eyes glistened. “I’ll leave it to you to figure out motives. But you should know all the facts.”

  “Is there something more you’d like to tell me?”

  She nodded. “It’s about Kristen’s father.”

  Allison sunk in her chair, listening. “Go on, please.”

  “You see, Kristen was born while I was in college. I wasn’t married. But I was definitely in love. Mark was his name. Mark Buckley.”

  “He was Kristen’s father?”

  She bit her lip, nodding. “When I got pregnant, Mark said he’d marry me. I thought about it, and I talked to my parents. My mother was supportive. But my father went ballistic. Even though he says he’s against abortion while he’s out campaigning, he practically threw me in the car to take me to the clinic.”

  “I take it he didn’t like Mark.”

  “He didn’t even know Mark. Never met him.”

  “Then what was the problem?”

  “Mark was white.”

  The room suddenly seemed colder. Allison didn’t move. “That was a problem for General Howe?” she asked incredulously.

  “I know,” she scoffed. “Seems hard to believe, doesn’t it? General Howe, Mister opportunity himself. Can’t handle the fact that his granddaughter is half white. Never sent her a Christmas present. Never a birthday card. To him, she didn’t exist. I no longer existed.”

  Allison sighed, collecting herself. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you for telling me. I suppose it could change our thinking.”

  “It sure colored mine. When I see my father shoot up in the polls, coming from behind to blaze into the White House, it’s hard not to think there’s a plan behind it. When I saw him on television, I could have strangled him. Such brazen exploitation. It’s a dangerous combination-a military man in the political arena. I hate to say it, but if you take the old military mindset to its ugliest extreme, Kristen is just one more expendable casualty in the march to victory. And the fact that her father was white makes her all the more expendable, at least in the general’s eyes.”

  Allison’s throat went dry. Part of her couldn’t believe what she was hearing, the other part didn’t want to believe. Until now, she’d been on a road that was leading somewhere, possibly to Emily. A political scheme to elect Lincoln Howe was another route entirely.

  “Tell me something,” said Allison. “Have you been in touch with Mark at all? Since the kidnapping, I mean?”

  Tanya lowered her head. “Mark’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry. When did he die?”

  “Before Kristen was born. Before we could get married. Car accident.”

  Allison froze, thinking.

  Tanya stiffened. “The last couple of days, I’ve asked myself over and over again whether I’m being unfair to my father. Part of me just doesn’t want to think that he could actually allow something to happen to Kristen to get himself elected president. But whenever I have those doubts, I ask myself the same thing I’ve been asking myself for the past twelve years.”

  “What’s that?” asked Allison.

  “Whether Mark’s accident was really an accident.”

  Allison looked her straight in the eye, trying to stay focused. “I don’t think we’ll find the answer to that before Monday.”

  “Monday?” she asked, somewhat surprised. “You mean you’ll still pay the ransom?”

  “Yes, I’ll still pay,” she said as she touched Tanya’s hand. And I’ll still hope, she thought, though Emily’s hand seemed farther away than ever.

  29

  Late Friday evening, Repo was stretched out on the couch, channel-surfing with the remote control. He fixed on a black-and-white rerun of the Dick Van Dyke Show, but he couldn’t hear it. The Delgados were belting down tequila in the kitchen as the same old Pearl Jam compact disc blasted on the boom box for the fourth time around.

  Repo had been stewing in his thoughts, trying to figure out why the Delgados were in such a party mood. He’d watched the evening news to see if General Howe had possibly changed his mind about not paying the million dollar ransom. As far as the media were reporting, however, nothing had changed since the general had appeared on television Wednesday night. Still, he had the distinct feeling his partners weren’t telling him something.

  The rock music grew louder. Repo glanced over his shoulder. Johnny was slamming down another shot, wincing from the bite of tequila and lemon.

  Repo looked away, fretting. The girl had to be petrified with fear. She’d been shaky at dinner tonight, hardly eating anything. With the music blasting in the kitchen, it had to sound like a freak show to anyone stuck in the basement. No way she was asleep, not with this noise.

  He shot another glance toward the kitchen. The Delgados were practically falling over each other, laughing. Repo rose from the couch and started down the hall. He moved quickly but quietly, hoping to get past them without incident. They were too wrapped up in the music and drinking to notice.

  Repo opened the door to the basement, then scampered down the steps. He didn’t need the flashlight, since he’d left the lamp burning from his last visit. He’d heard somewhere that burning light bulbs emitted heat, and he figured that every little bit would help in the cold basement.

  Kristen stirred on the mattress as he approached.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s me.”

  She relaxed slightly-but only slightly. The silver duct tape no longer covered her mouth, as Repo had permanently removed it. He’d left her ankle free, too, so she could at least roll over. She was cuffed only at the wrist, and the blindfold was still in place-just so Tony wouldn’t think he’d gone too soft on her.

  He sat on the chair beside her. “You didn’t eat much for dinner. I thought I’d check to see if you’re hungry.”

  She shook her head, saying nothing.

  He softened his tone, trying to put her at ease. “Maybe the menu’s the problem. Guess when you asked for Froot Loops you didn’t figure on having them three times a day.”

  No response-not even a twitch. She’d clammed up again, even more than at dinner. He leaned forward, speaking in a calm, reassuring voice. “Listen, something is going to happen soon.”

  She lay motionless, then swallowed hard. Her voice was shaking. “They don’t want to let me go, do they?”

  He bristled, not sure what to say. “Don’t worry about them.”

  “Why do-” she stammered. “Why do you want to help me?”

  “I don’t know. You’re just a kid.”

  “You like kids?”

  “Not all of them. But you kind of remind me of someone.”

  “Whitney Houston?” she said faintly.

  He smiled to himself. The kid had a sense of humor-pretty amazing, under the circumstances. “Actually, you’re a lot like my sister. She was eleven.”

  “Was? What happened to her?”

  The door flew open at the top of the stairs. A burst of light and loud music invaded the basement. A voice boomed, “Repo, get your ass up here!”

  He cringed. It was Tony-obviously drunk, since he’d used Repo’s name. He drew a deep breath as he rose from the chair. “Real soon,” he said, speaking to himself as much as to Kristen. “Something’s gonna happen real soon.”

  He started up the stairs, taking his time. Tony looked down impati
ently from the top step. “Hurry it up, already.”

  His speech was slurred, noted Repo. As he reached the landing at the top of the stairs, Tony angrily slammed the basement door behind him. He had a wild look in his eyes, one that suggested to Repo that the Delgados had been doing more than just shots of tequila.

  Tony jerked his head, pointing toward the kitchen. Repo started down the hall. Tony followed. The kitchen floor was sticky with lemon juice. Spilled salt and lemon rinds covered the countertop. An empty bottle of tequila lay in a sink full of ice cubes. Johnny was dancing clumsily to the music, digging his hand into the box of Froot Loops. A bad case of the munchies, thought Repo.

  Johnny shoved another fistful of cereal into his mouth, then tossed the empty box on the counter. A stupid grin covered his face as he grabbed the big kitchen knife they’d used to slice up the lemons. “Hey, Tony,” he slurred. “What am I?”

  He swung the big knife over his head in a sweeping arc. Repo flinched, but Johnny whisked by him and stabbed the box of Froot Loops, sticking the blade right through the colorful cover drawing of Toucan Sam, pinning the box to the counter. He narrowed his eyes, speaking in a mock-scary voice. “I’m a cereal killer.”

  The Delgados burst into laughter.

  Repo scowled. “Is this what you assholes dragged me up here for? Another live episode of Beavis and Butt-head?”

  Tony wheezed, still laughing. Then he turned serious. “We brought you up because Johnny says you don’t have the balls to follow my orders.”

  Repo looked at Tony, then at his brother. “What are you talking about?”

  Johnny said, “Killing the girl. I don’t think you’re gonna do it.”

  “We’ll find out on Monday, won’t we?” said Repo.

  “Maybe,” said Tony. “But I think you could use a little incentive.” He glanced at his brother. “Get the girl, Johnny.”

  Repo grabbed his arm, stopping him. He could smell the tequila oozing from his pores. “You guys are drunk. Don’t mess around.”

  “Take your fucking hands off me.” Johnny shook himself free, then hurried toward the basement. Repo started after him, but Tony grabbed him.

  “Just wait here.”

  Repo resisted at first, then stopped. He turned down the volume on the CD player so he could hear what was going on in the basement. He heard Johnny shuffling down the stairs, and then a muffled curse. The drunken jerk had tripped and fallen on the last step. Then all was quiet. In a minute, Johnny was on his way up. This time, two sets of feet clattered on the stairs.

  Kristen emerged first, blindfolded, her hands bound behind her back. Johnny had her by the arm, steering her through the hall. He handed her off to Tony, then continued to the far side of the kitchen by the sink. Tony stood in the doorway, right behind Kristen. Repo was at his side. The three of them were facing Johnny, though Kristen was blindfolded.

  “Take it off,” said Johnny.

  Repo winced, confused. “She’ll see your face.”

  “Duh,” he said, mocking Repo. “Take it off.”

  “Don’t do it, Tony. He’s drunk, man. This is stupid.”

  “Take it off!” Johnny shouted.

  From behind, Tony held Kristen’s face in his hands, so she couldn’t turn her head. She could look in one direction only-straight at Johnny. Tony untied the blindfold. Slowly it slid from her face.

  Kristen blinked rapidly as her eyes adjusted to the light.

  “Don’t turn your head,” Tony told her. “Just look straight ahead.”

  She stared across the kitchen. Johnny Delgado was in plain view, looking straight at her. He stepped closer, smirking, sticking his face right before hers. He was nearly nose to nose, less than a foot away. “Take a good look, you bratty little bitch. Take a real good look.”

  “Kristen, don’t look!” shouted Repo.

  “Way too late,” Johnny said smugly. Tony put the blindfold back on her.

  “You assholes,” said Repo. “She’s seen your face.”

  “That’s right,” said Tony. “She seen it. And you know what that meant for Reggie Miles.”

  Kristen cringed, not sure if this was a cruel game or a genuine power struggle.

  Repo shook with anger. “You didn’t have to do this.”

  Tony tightened the blindfold. “It’s the point of no return, Repo. Now you know that if you don’t do your job, Johnny has to do it for you.”

  “Yeah,” Johnny scoffed. “And if I’m the one who does her, you know she won’t die a virgin.”

  Repo lunged forward, shoving Johnny across the room. Johnny slammed into the counter. The two men froze, breathing heavily, staring at each other. Repo glanced at the knife protruding from the counter-the big kitchen knife Johnny had stuck through the cereal box.

  Johnny smiled, challenging him. “Go for it, Repo. You want a piece of me? Now’s your chance.”

  A tense silence filled the room. Repo was poised to lunge for the knife. Johnny braced his foot against the cabinet behind him, like a sprinter in the blocks. Tony slowly edged the girl out of the kitchen, into the hallway. His face beamed with anticipation, like a boxing fanatic with ringside seats. Finally he broke the silence.

  “Stick him, Johnny!”

  Johnny shot across the room and grabbed the knife by the handle. Repo leaped forward and hit him broadside. They smashed against the kitchen cabinets, then tumbled to the floor. The long knife glistened in the light as they rolled across the floor, struggling for the weapon.

  “Stick him!” Tony shouted.

  Johnny rolled on top, pinning Repo on his back. He clenched the knife in his right hand, but Repo had his wrist. With a quick jerk he shook his hand free and brought the knife down, full force, aiming for Repo’s throat. On impulse, Repo kicked against the oven door, launching Johnny up and forward. The blade stuck in the linoleum floor, nearly scalping Repo. Repo kicked again, harder, sending Johnny headlong into the refrigerator. The blow stunned him. The knife fell to the floor. Repo scooped it up and pointed it at him.

  “Johnny!” his brother shouted.

  “Just stop!” cried Repo.

  Johnny lunged straight toward him. Repo fell backward to the floor, and Johnny crashed down on him with his full weight, swinging his arms wildly. They landed with a thud, with Repo on his back and Johnny on top. Johnny groaned, then went limp. Repo lay motionless, stunned at the warm and wet sensation on his hands and stomach. Johnny still didn’t move. Repo pushed him off and rolled him on his back. His arms flailed like a rag doll. His shirt was torn and soaked in crimson. The knife was buried up to the handle in his chest, between the ribs.

  Tony rushed forward, leaving Kristen in the hall. “Johnny! Oh, shit!”

  Repo sprung from the floor and flew across the kitchen. In a blur he slammed Tony against the cabinet, then grabbed the electric toaster and slammed it on his head. Tony fell at his brother’s side, half conscious. Repo sprinted to the hall and grabbed Kristen.

  “Let’s go!”

  He tore off her blindfold so she could run with him, then took her by the arm and rushed out the door. In seconds he was galloping down the front steps, digging in his pocket for the car keys with one hand and pulling Kristen with the other. He threw open the door and shoved her in the backseat.

  “Stay down!” he shouted. She dove for the floor, face down.

  He jumped in the driver’s seat and fired up the ignition. He saw Tony stumbling down the porch as he slammed the transmission into reverse. The car squealed out of the driveway, fishtailed on a patch of ice, then peeled off into the night.

  He checked the rearview mirror as he sped away. Tony was running back inside the house. Repo figured he had a gun, but he was probably afraid to fire a shot and attract the neighbors’ attention.

  Repo struggled to catch his breath, panting so hard he was fogging the windshield. He blasted on the heater to warm things up. Thankfully, the traffic lights were cooperating. Just one more green light and they’d make the expressway. He sighed w
ith relief as they cruised up the entrance ramp. Then he heard Kristen sob, and panic struck him.

  His hands and shirt were covered with blood. He had General Howe’s granddaughter facedown in the backseat.

  And worst of all-what frightened him to the core-was knowing he’d just killed the nephew of Vincent Gambrelli.

  “I’m a dead man,” he uttered as the car merged onto the expressway.

  30

  Allison arrived home at midnight, just in time for a telephone conference that would map out the final weekend of the Leahy-Helmers campaign. She pitched her business suit into her bag for the cleaners, threw on a bathrobe, and took the call on the couch downstairs, so as not to wake Peter. Helmers and his chief adviser were patched in from their hotel in California. The media consultants connected from New York. David Wilcox and his lead pollster originated the call from a campaign headquarters that, at this stage of the game, was busy around the clock. Allison and Wilcox had yet to make peace since their blowup earlier that week, but with the election looming, everyone seemed to understand that, like it or not, they were stuck with one another for a few more days.

  The meeting followed the usual agenda, beginning with the latest polls. The race was dead even in the popular vote, but Howe was beginning to pull ahead in the decisive electoral college. Two hundred and seventy votes were needed to win. Howe had a lock on a hundred and eight. Leahy could count only seventy as firm-down from over a hundred just two weeks ago. They could write off both Ohio and Pennsylvania, despite last week’s advertising blitz. Florida and California were the big undecided states.