Mark Gimenez - The Abduction

“Yes, ma’am. Oh, Mrs. Brice, we need clothing Gracie wore recently, something that’s not been washed. For the bloodhounds.” Elizabeth nodded. The chief again addressed his men: “Be in position at nine-thirty sharp. Bobby Joe’ll run the dogs in the woods first, while we walk the playing fields. Then we’ll search the woods again-maybe we’ll have better luck in daylight.”

Elizabeth turned to resume her pacing and came face to face with an earnest young woman wearing a blue nylon FBI jacket and holding a pen to a notepad. They had been introduced earlier, but Elizabeth could not recall the agent’s name.

“Mrs. Brice, what color, size, and brand of underwear was Gracie wearing?”

The agent asked the question as if asking whether she wanted cream in her coffee. Elizabeth clenched back her emotions.

“I don’t know. I left yesterday before she got up. I had a trial. My husband might know, ask him. He let someone take her.”

FBI Special Agent (on probation) Jan Jorgenson watched the victim’s mother march off down the fancy hallway; they called it a gallery. They don’t have galleries in Minnesota farmhouses.

Jan ducked into the kitchen, made sure she was alone, and pulled a protein bar from her waist pack; she hadn’t eaten since last night when the call had come and she didn’t do donuts. She had survived this long without food only because she had carbo loaded the past week for the marathon she was supposed to be running at that very moment. She took a big bite then jumped-someone had jabbed her hard in the back.

“Reach for the sky! ”

A kid’s voice trying to sound older. Jan turned and looked down on the Brice boy, the spitting image of the father. He was holding his right hand like it was a gun and grinning.

“I got that from Woody, in Toy Story.”

He laughed and ran off. She shook her head. His big sister was abducted, and he’s playing cowboys and Indians or cops and robbers or whatever his game was. The kid didn’t have a clue.

Jan ate the protein bar in four quick bites while watching the small TV on the counter; a reporter standing on the front lawn was saying, “Ransom. John Brice is soon to be a very wealthy man…”

Old news. Jan exited the kitchen, but she could still hear the reporter on the kitchen TV or on the TV in the next room or on other unseen TVs in rooms she passed, as if someone were deathly afraid of missing breaking news: “His company, BriceWare-dot-com, is going public next week, which is expected to make John Brice worth well over-”

Jan entered the study.

“ A billion dollars? ”

Special Agent Eugene Devereaux, the agent in charge, was interviewing the victim’s father. The father nodded blankly. Sitting slumped on the couch, he looked as if he would fall over from exhaustion if not for Agents Floyd and Randall sitting on either side of him like book ends. His curly black hair was a mess, his khakis and blue denim shirt were wrinkled and dirty, the knot of his yellow Mickey Mouse tie was pulled halfway down, and his face was drooped like a balloon after most of the air had leaked out. He appeared even thinner than the last time she had seen him. But what struck her was the incredible sadness in his eyes, brown eyes visible over black glasses sitting low on his nose, the eyes of a man suddenly lost and adrift in a harsh world. His slender fingers were kneading the tie like a rosary.

“She gave this tie to me,” he said to no one in particular.

A telephone attached to Bureau hardware sat on the coffee table in front of the father. An agent wearing headphones was testing the equipment that would record, trap, and trace the ransom call. If the call came. If the motive was money.

“A billion dollars,” Agent Devereaux repeated.

The father looked up at Devereaux and said in a barely audible voice: “He can have it all if he’ll let Gracie go.”

Agent Devereaux dropped his eyes and gave a sideways glance at the other agents. “Mr. Brice, is there any reason someone would want to hurt your family?”

Almost a whisper: “No.”

“Have any threats been made against you?”

“No.”

“Did you fire any employees recently?”

“No.”

“Do you suspect anyone?”

“No.”

“Did you notice any strangers in the neighborhood?”

“No. Those gates are supposed to keep bad people out.”

Agent Devereaux studied the father for a moment, obviously concluding that he was neither the abductor nor a source of information. Devereaux then turned to her.

“Yes, Agent Jorgenson?”

“Sir, I’m completing the detailed description of the victim’s clothing. The mother said Mr. Brice might have the information I need.”

Agent Devereaux nodded. “Proceed.”

This was Jan Jorgenson’s first child abduction. Engaged to the Bureau for eleven months now, she had always assumed that one day she would marry and have children; but now, seeing the father’s pain at the loss of his child, a pain that a billion dollars could not console, she wasn’t so sure. Her question now seemed an awful burden.

“Mr. Brice…”

John stared at the female FBI agent and tried to understand her words. His brain felt fragmented. He couldn’t process what he thought he had heard her say. Why was she asking about Gracie’s “Underwear?”

John turned to the other FBI agents, the ones setting up the recording equipment for when the kidnapper called and demanded ransom-a million, five million, ten million-he didn’t freaking care how much. He would pay it and Gracie would come home. That’s the deal! His eyes darted from agent to agent to agent. They were staring down at their equipment.

“But you said… I thought… I thought it was about money.”

Until that very moment, it had never occurred to John R. Brice that his money might not be the motive for his daughter’s abduction. He suddenly felt sick. A searing heat spread over his face. He thought he might faint. His upper body fell forward until his hands caught his head. He pulled his glasses off his face; the world around him was a blur, but the image inside his head was 20/20 sharp: Gracie… and a man… and…

“Oh, God.”

He started crying. He couldn’t stop himself. He didn’t even try. He gave up the fight.

The doorbell rang again just as Elizabeth entered the study. Five grim-faced FBI agents simultaneously looked at her then quickly averted their eyes. Her husband was sitting between two agents on the sofa. His face was in his hands; he was crying inconsolably. Her body clenched with her greatest fear.

“Is it Grace?” she asked.

The lead FBI agent shook his head. Fear released its grip on Elizabeth’s body. She breathed out a “Thank God.” She then turned to her husband. “John, what’s wrong?”

His sobbing did not abate. Elizabeth went to him and stood over his pitiful figure, debating whether to console him or to slap him senseless for allowing her daughter to be abducted. The agents sitting on the sofa relocated across the room. Over her husband’s slumped head, she asked Agent Devereaux, “What happened?”

Agent Devereaux sighed. “We had to ask, Mrs. Brice. We need a complete description of Gracie’s clothing, including her…”

“Underwear.”

Agent Devereaux nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Elizabeth’s mind was so chaotic with wild thoughts that she had forgotten she had sent the female FBI agent to John with that question. She put her left hand on her husband’s shoulder.

“John,” she said softly. He looked up at her with red eyes and tears rolling down his face and snot running out of his nose and a trembling chin. He wiped the snot on his shirtsleeve. Her little boy.

John Brice had married her when she needed a husband. And he had been a good husband: he had never embarrassed her in public or crossed her in private; he had always sent flowers to her office on her birthday and their anniversary, not that she had any inclination for romance; and he was a loving father to both children and a genius at math, the perfect skill in a wired world. John R. Brice was a gentle brilliant boy… and utterly useless in a fight. He had nothing but a Ph. D. to fall back on in times like this, no reserve of intestinal fortitude to draw upon when you had to be hard and mean and ruthless; he was not like her-she could easily stick a gun to the abductor’s head and blow his fucking brains out if necessary to save Grace. John Brice was not hard or mean or ruthless. He was just a thirty-seven-year-old little boy, looking up at her like he had just been beaten up by the neighborhood bully and needed mommy to hug him and make it all better. Instead, she slapped him across the face.