The Abduction

by James Grippando

  Tanya Howe recognized her father’s black limousine in the driveway. She turned away from the window and glared at her mother. “What’s he doing here?”

  Natalie was sitting at the kitchen table, stirring half-and-half into her morning coffee. The shaking spoon clattered as she laid it in the saucer. She spoke in a soft, nearly apologetic tone. “Your father asked if he could come over. I told him it was okay.”

  “Why on earth would you tell him that?”

  “Tanya, people are talking. The press is starting to say mean things. It reflects poorly on your father if he never even stops by the house when his own daughter is suffering.”

  “So you told him he could stop by for a campaign photo op?”

  “Sweetheart, no. I just thought-I hoped-that if the two of you got together in the same room, for whatever reason, maybe something good would come of it.”

  “Forget it. He’s not coming inside.”

  The doorbell rang. Tanya didn’t flinch. Natalie looked anxiously toward the living room, then back at her daughter. “Tanya, please. Do this for me.”

  An FBI agent stepped into the kitchen. “Ms. Howe, it’s your father. Would you like me to let him in?”

  Tanya struggled to say no, but she couldn’t get past her mother’s pained expression. She sighed with frustration. “All right. Fine. He can come in.”

  “Thank you,” said Natalie. She rose from the table and scurried into the living room.

  Tanya stared out the kitchen window as she waited, her eyes clouding over as she looked toward the old swing set in the backyard. She recalled how Kristen had needed a push from Mommy when it first went up. Before long, Mommy was dead meat if she even suggested her baby was swinging too high and shouldn’t be so daring. Kristen hadn’t used it much in the last few years, but Tanya had left it up anyway. Part of her had refused to accept that her daughter was growing up-the same part that refused to believe she wasn’t coming home.

  “Hello, Tanya,” said General Howe. His deep voice snatched her from her memories. He stood alone in the doorway with his trench coat draped over his forearm.

  Tanya’s face showed no emotion. “Hello.”

  He took another half-step into the room and closed the pocket door behind him. “Mind if I sit down?” he said as he pulled up a chair at the table.

  She voiced no objection. He laid his coat on the chair beside him, then looked her in the eye from across the kitchen table. “Tanya, I think you know why I’m here.”

  “Yes,” she scoffed. “Mom explained.”

  He nodded, seemingly pleased to be able to dispense with the groundwork. “Good. I know it’s a difficult subject for you, but I’d appreciate it if you could just tell me whatever you know about it.”

  Tanya winced with confusion. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know. This whole thing with the accident.”

  Her face showed even more confusion.

  “You did say your mother explained, didn’t you?” he asked.

  She shook her head slowly, sensing that this meeting had been arranged under false pretenses. Anger was beginning to boil inside-not just at her father, but at her mother, too, for sandbagging her. “Explain what?”

  He paused to organize his thoughts. “Maybe I’d better back up a little. It’s like I told your mother. Sources tell me that the FBI is looking into the car accident that killed Mark Buckley.”

  She shivered inside. It had been twelve years since she’d even heard her father invoke the name of Kristen’s father. “Is that so?”

  “I’ve come here because I think you might know something about all this sudden renewed interest.”

  “Why would I know anything?”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything. I was just wondering, has anybody come by to ask you any questions?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Tanya, this is no time to be coy.”

  “What did you expect me to be? Submissive? Obedient?”

  “Just honest.”

  “All right. Here’s something I can say in all honesty. I’d like to know the truth about Mark’s death.”

  “Tanya, you know the truth. We all know the truth. I hope you’re not looking to rewrite history.”

  “No,” she said in a serious voice. “I just think a very important part of this history was never recorded.”

  He glared sternly across the table, speaking in a level tone. “The boy hit an oak tree going eighty-five miles an hour. He was drunk out of his mind. That’s all the history you need.”

  She sat erect, looking him in the eye, as if to say his tone would not intimidate her. “That night-that night Mark died. He called me. Very short conversation. He sounded drunk. Didn’t really even sound himself. All he said was, ‘Tanya, I think you should have an abortion.’”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him no, obviously. But this isn’t about what I said. It’s about what he said. It was very strange. An abortion was the last thing Mark wanted. He wanted me to have this child.”

  “You don’t know that. What twenty-year-old boy really knows what he wants?”

  “He knew. We both knew.”

  “Okay. So he got drunk and said something he didn’t mean.”

  “That’s what I used to think. But to this day, I can’t forget the tone in his voice. He didn’t sound like he was just saying it for effect, or even like he was saying it to be cruel. He sounded…scared.”

  “Lots of boys get scared when they knock up their girlfriend.”

  “I wasn’t knocked up. And it wasn’t that kind of scared. It was different. He was scared like I’ve never heard anybody be scared. Like, scared for his life.”

  The general swallowed hard.

  Tanya leaned forward, boring in with eyes that burned. “I think he knew what was coming.”

  “That’s ridiculous. The boy got drunk. He got in his car. He smashed into a tree. End of story.”

  “Then why were there no skid marks?”

  The general paused, but his voice was firm. “Because he was so cockeyed drunk he passed out at the wheel.”

  “That’s your theory, Father.”

  “That was the coroner’s theory.”

  “The coroner wasn’t there.”

  He snapped, “Why the hell else wouldn’t he hit the brakes?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I can’t, Tanya. I don’t have a damn clue.”

  “I think you do.”

  “Don’t you dare show me that disrespect.”

  She pushed on, defiant. “I know Mark didn’t really want me to have an abortion.”

  “Tanya-”

  “I think he said it because he was forced.”

  “Stop.”

  “He didn’t say it because he was drunk. I think he was drunk because he was scared.”

  “Stop right there.”

  “I think he was scared because he was threatened.”

  “Stop it.”

  “I think there were no skid marks because he killed himself. Because he had no other option.”

  “Shut up, Tanya!”

  “Because you gave him no other option.”

  “Damn you!”

  “Because you threatened him!”

  “So what!” he shouted as he shot from his chair.

  Tanya fell back in her chair, shaking and exhausted. A frigid silence filled the room. “So what?” she asked incredulously.

  The general took several deep breaths, checking his anger, considering his words. He walked away from the table, leaning over the sink as he stared out the window. Finally, he turned back to face her, speaking in a firm, even tone. “I told him to stay away from my daughter. That’s all I ever said to him. You want to call that a threat, that’s your choice. But I don’t hold myself responsible for some fool who gets himself drunk, gets behind the wheel, and kills himself.”

  “But I do,” she said with contempt. “I most certainly do.”

  A combination of an
ger and disgust swelled within her until she could no longer stand to be in the same room with him. She rose from the table and started for the living room, then stopped suddenly at the closed pocket door, preferring not to have to deal with her mother-the woman who had surreptitiously arranged this meeting in the first place. She turned and took the rear hallway to her bedroom.

  A flurry of emotions brought a tear to her eye. In need of a tissue, she made a quick turn for the back bathroom, which was accessible primarily from the front hallway, but also from a walk-in storage closet in the back of the house. She passed through it. The bathroom door was closed, but she was too consumed in her own thoughts to even think about knocking before entering. She opened it, then froze.

  One of the FBI agents was standing at the counter before the vanity mirror. Surprise covered his face, as if he were unaware that a second entrance to the room even existed, or at least that anyone ever used it. The door to the front hallway was closed and locked. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and he was wearing rubber gloves. A pair of tweezers lay on the counter, right beside a hairbrush she recognized as belonging to her mother. His left hand clutched a clear plastic evidence bag. His right was stuffed inside an unzipped cosmetic bag-also her mother’s.

  He looked up, stunned, unable to speak or even move.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she snapped.

  He nearly melted in her glare. “I, uh-I’m not sure I’m at liberty to explain.”

  “Wonderful,” she scoffed. “Then let’s you and I talk to someone who is.”

  40

  Driving toward Georgetown, Harley Abrams considered a variety of clever and surreptitious ways to reach Allison’s townhouse without being noticed by the media. Certainly an early Sunday morning meeting between the lead investigator and the recently suspended attorney general would raise questions. But if he tried to keep it secret and was nonetheless detected, a “secret rendezvous” would make even better headlines. He decided against the furtive approach. Short of a sex change and digging a tunnel, nothing was foolproof anyway.

  He parked his car two blocks from Allison’s townhouse, the closest spot he could find. He walked briskly down the shady, colder side of the street. Most of the reporters were on the sunny and warmer side, a fair indication that the media weren’t complete idiots. He was a half block from Allison’s doorstop before he was recognized.

  “Mr. Abrams!” someone shouted from the across the street.

  Harley kept walking, same pace. Media crews jumped into action, dashing into the street like unruly Mardi Gras revelers. In seconds he was surrounded. The first question hit him like hot shrapnel. “Do you agree with Ms. Leahy’s suspension?” Others fired queries to the same effect.

  Harley never broke stride. Reporters fought with each other for strategic position, trampling plants and statuettes on neighbors’ doorsteps. They lumbered down the sidewalk in one cohesive mass, a ravenous species of carnivores unto themselves. Harley stopped at the iron gate outside Allison’s townhouse. He rang the bell and waited.

  Another reporter shouted, “Is this meeting business or personal?” Others picked up on the same theme, each one trying to outshout the next.

  The buzzer rang and the gate unlocked electronically. Harley opened the latch and stepped inside the small, secured courtyard. The mob surged forward. He turned and spoke firmly but civilly. “You’re on private property. Please stay behind the gate.”

  They backed off, cameras rolling. Harley closed the gate and headed for the front door. It opened before he could knock. The housekeeper rushed him inside and quickly shut the door.

  “This way,” she said. She took his coat and led him to the family room in the back of the house. Allison was dressed sharply in a blue suit, ready for her morning news conference.

  Harley did a double take, surprised. “You look-good.”

  She managed a meager smile. “What were you expecting? Tattered robe, fuzzy slippers, and a fistful of cyanide tablets?”

  He blushed with embarrassment. “I don’t know what I was expecting, really. Anyway, I did want to tell you I think it’s wrong the way they’re treating you.”

  “Worse things have happened to me.”

  He blinked, knowing how true that was. “I also wanted to thank you.”

  “Thank me? For what?”

  “For the way you stood up for me last night. I saw the statement you gave to the press at the airport. You could easily have pointed the finger at me for the botched arrest. Instead, you took responsibility.”

  “I just hate to see the media trashing good people. There’s a big difference between incompetence and a talented FBI agent who’s hamstrung by outsiders who keep manipulating the investigation for their own political benefit.”

  “Still, what you did took guts.”

  She smiled faintly. “It took guts for you to come over here, too. I appreciate the gesture. But if you stay here much longer, we’ll only be making more problems for each other.”

  “I suppose that’s true. But there is one problem I’d like to solve before I go. How do you and I stay in touch?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know-how do I keep you informed?”

  “Harley, I’ve been suspended.”

  “All that means is you’re no longer my boss. But I’m still in charge of the investigation, and I still haven’t ruled out the possibility of a link between Kristen’s kidnapping and your daughter’s abduction. To that extent alone, I need your input. Layer on top of that the fact that you and your husband have agreed to pay Kristen’s ransom and I’d say you’re an indispensable player-suspension or no suspension.”

  “Harley, my suspension is a direct order from the president of the United States. You’re jeopardizing your career.”

  “Not much of a career, is it, if I just stand by and let someone else take the fall for my mistake? I know there’s nothing I can do to make the president reverse the suspension. But there’s plenty we can do to make sure this investigation runs the way it should.”

  “How intriguing, Mr. Abrams. I’ve never seen your devilish side.”

  He blushed again. She seemed to have a knack for making him do that. “Twenty-two years with the FBI, I didn’t know I had one.”

  Her smile faded as she turned more serious. “Peter and I were actually talking about this whole situation earlier. Do you think the kidnappers are still after a ransom?”

  “Hard to say. Our voice analysts are positive that the man who called yesterday and let Tanya talk to Kristen is definitely not the man who called you and Tanya on Friday. The guy said he would keep Kristen safe until after the election, but with all the media hoopla about yesterday’s botched arrest, he might not be feeling so protective.”

  “What’s your best guess as to what’s going on?”

  “The confusion suggests a pretty volatile situation, which heightens the risk of harm to the child. I see two likely scenarios, both bad. One, Kristen’s already dead and we’ll never hear from either of those two callers again. Or two, they’ll keep her alive at least until tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, when the guy who called on Friday said he would call you for the ransom. We hope it’s the second. If they make contact for the ransom, we at least have a shot at catching them before they kill her. If they don’t make contact-well, you get the picture.”

  “It doesn’t sound like you think there’s much chance they’ll let her go, even if we pay.”

  He sighed, unsure. “Paying the ransom at least buys a little time, maybe gives us a chance to stall. I’d say the twenty-four-hour period between Monday at eight A.M. and the opening of the polls on Tuesday morning is Kristen’s primary danger zone. If they’re going to kill her, they’ll want to maximize the impact on the election, probably dump her body on the Justice Department steps or some other dramatic setting. If you wanted to narrow the time frame even further, I’d say between eight A.M. and six P.M. Monday, in time for her murder to be the lead s
tory on the evening news on election eve and the headline story in every election-day newspaper in the country.”

  “So, you’re saying that even if we pay, we’ve got at most thirty-six hours to find her.”

  “Basically, that’s it.”

  “And if we don’t pay?”

  “She’s dead for sure in twenty-four.”

  Allison looked away, thinking how little progress she’d made toward finding Emily in more than eight years of effort. “Thirty-six hours,” she said softly, her eyes drifting back toward Harley. “God help us.”

  Allison didn’t watch Harley leave. She knew, without watching, that he was walking into a First Amendment frenzy outside her townhouse. Reporters started shouting the minute the front door cracked open. Closing it barely muffled their cries. Allison refilled her coffee cup at the kitchen counter, dreading the thought of venturing outside.

  The phone rang, startling her. It was her personal private line, which narrowed the possible callers to a handful-even less than a handful, since Peter was upstairs and Harley was right outside being drawn and quartered by a pack of hungry coyotes. She answered with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

  “Hello.”

  “Ms. Leahy, this is Tanya Howe.”

  Allison felt relief, then embarrassment-she really should have called Tanya. “I’m glad you called. I was meaning to call you.”

  “You told me to call if I ever needed anything. Well, I’m in need of some answers.”

  Allison settled onto the bar stool at the counter. The edge to Tanya’s voice was alarming. “You mean about last night?”

  “No, I mean this morning. I found an FBI agent in my bathroom plucking a hair sample from my mother’s brush, rummaging through her cosmetic bag.”

  Allison closed her eyes, like a woman with a migraine. So much for being discreet, Harley, she thought. “Tanya, please. I can explain.”

  In minutes, she told her about the scarlet letter photograph, the message scrawled in red lipstick, the traces of saliva found at the lab, the need for a DNA sample to test for a match. She skirted around the ever-elusive Mitch O’Brien, focusing instead on the two female suspects they’d identified so far-one of whom was her mother.