Mark Gimenez - The Abduction

“Damn.”

“Just do your job, Agent Jorgenson. Focus on the evidence.”

She nodded. “Yes, sir. You’re good in front of cameras.”

“Too much experience. So, Jorgenson, what do they grow up there in

… where in Minnesota are you from?”

“Owatonna. Corn mostly. For the ethanol.”

“Farmer’s daughter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“My grandfather was a farmer. Cotton. Used to help him pick it when I was a kid. It was an uncomplicated life.”

“I wanted excitement.”

“Well, Agent, you’ve found it.” He pointed at her brown folders. “What do you have for me?”

“We took blood samples from the family to compare to the blood on the father’s shirt. DNA tests are underway.”

“Good. What else?”

“Background reports on the family.”

“Proceed.”

Devereaux did not expect the family backgrounds to reveal anything of importance, but he had learned the hard way to never overlook the routine aspects of the investigation.

“Alrighty,” she said, opening the first brown folder. “The father, he’s some kind of genius-Ph. D. from MIT in algorithms, whatever that is, one-ninety IQ… I didn’t know they went that high.”

“They don’t,” Devereaux said. “At least not in the Bureau.”

She gave him a little smile then continued. “He founded BriceWare, going public this week, you know all that. He and the mother married ten years ago. He was at MIT, she was at Justice in D.C., Assistant U.S. Attorney. Five years.”

“Really?”

“Yes, sir. Maiden name was Austin. Grew up in New York. Her father was murdered when she was only ten.”

“Same age as Gracie.”

“First in her class at Harvard Law, a rising star at Justice. Then she up and quit, married Brice, moved to Dallas.”

“No accounting for love.”

“They’re an odd couple, aren’t they? And the way she slapped him yesterday, and cut him down this morning…” Jorgenson shook her head. “And how she talks to the local cops, and to us, so angry and ordering everyone around like we all work for her.”

“Her child’s been abducted, Agent. Cut her some slack.”

“You were very, uh, diplomatic with her.”

He nodded. “Two rules, Agent Jorgenson, to keep in mind in abductions. Rule number one: this isn’t actually our case. We’ve got no jurisdiction, not legally anyway. The locals generally defer to us, but technically we’re invited guests. So act like a guest. Rule number two: odds are the child’s already dead by the time we arrive on scene, so if the mother wants to cuss you out, tell you you’re the dumbest cop on the face of the earth, you say, ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ You respect the fact that she’s lost her child… and that she’s probably halfway to nuts by the time you meet her. You give the parents free rein with their emotions. They need it more than you need to prove you’re a tough FBI agent in control of the case. Getting into a pissing contest with the parents won’t put you one step closer to finding the victim or apprehending the abductor. And that’s your job, Agent Jorgenson. Don’t let your ego get in the way of doing your job.”

“Yes, sir.” She frowned. “But you’re still going to make her take a polygraph?”

“Absolutely. If FBI resources are committed to a case, we do it by the book- and the book says to polygraph the parents. But I ask. I don’t order. Works just as well.” He gestured at Jorgenson’s file. “Find out who she worked for at Justice. I know some people over there.”

“I did. Her immediate supervisor was named James Kelly.”

“Jimmy?”

“You knew him?”

“Yeah, we came up through the Academy together. He went to law school at night then moved over to Justice. He was out in L.A. last I heard… What do you mean, knew him?”

“He’s dead. Hit and run, three years ago.”

“Damn. He was a good guy.” Devereaux sighed. “The good die young. What else you got?”

Jorgenson opened another brown folder. “The grandfather, he’s a retired Army colonel-West Point, Vietnam. Apparently he was some kind of war hero.”

“No kidding?” Devereaux waited for her to continue. She didn’t. “And…?”

She shrugged. “And nothing, sir. He’s classified.”

Devereaux put on his reading glasses and motioned for the folder. She held it out to him; he took it and flipped open the brown folder labeled BRICE, BEN, and scanned the text.

“Full colonel. Green Beret. Seven tours in Vietnam. Six Silver Stars, four Bronze Stars, eight Purple Hearts, two Soldier’s Medals, Distinguished Service Cross, Legion of Merit, the Medal of Honor. Yeah, I’d say he was some kind of hero.”

“Why’s he classified?”

“Green Beret, he was probably in Cambodia and Laos when Johnson and Nixon were swearing on TV we weren’t there.”

“The presidents lied about the war?”

He chuckled. “How old are you, Jorgenson?”

“Twenty-six.”

He shook his head. “I can’t even remember twenty-six. Yeah, Jorgenson, presidents lied about the war, the generals, too. I was ROTC, signed up for the tuition plan. Got a hell of an education in Nam. I went over there just hoping to survive my tour. Guys like Brice, they went over there to free the oppressed, just like the Green Beret motto says. They believed it. All they got for their efforts was spit on when they came home.” Devereaux removed his reading glasses and scratched his chin with the earpiece. “Ben Brice… that name sticks in my head for some reason. Get what you can from the Army and run a database search on all public records on him.”

“You think there might be some connection with Gracie’s abduction?”

“You never know what’s connected.” Jorgenson stood to leave. “I want you at the vigil tonight. Our boy might show.”

“Yes, sir. Oh, the coach is here to look at the blow-ups.”

“Bring him in, don’t call me sir, and have someone find Colonel Brice.”

He carries Gracie through the woods to this location. He’s in a hurry, worried someone will discover she’s missing and come looking, or perhaps has and is. His accomplice is waiting twenty meters away in a vehicle leaking oil. But he stops, removes her clothes, and rapes her right here? With so many people in the park, possibly searchers already in the woods? With Gracie kicking and screaming and putting up one hell of a fight? She’s a strong girl and afraid of no one-the only way she wouldn’t have fought is if she were unconscious or dead. Did he rape an unconscious or dead victim? Did he kill her here?

No.

Gracie Ann Brice did not die here. Ben Brice had been in the killing fields, knee deep in death; death would forever be a part of him-he had seen death, he had heard death, he could touch, taste, smell, and feel death. But not here.

Gracie had left here alive.

But why did the abductor leave her shorts behind? Ben closed his eyes and remembered working in the shop with her. She had been carving her name into her rocking chair when she paused and said, “Ben, why do you always know when I’m in trouble, when I need you?”

“I don’t know, doll. There’s something in our lives that binds us together. I don’t know what and I don’t know why, but there is a reason.”

God had bonded them together. Ben Brice knew that as well as he knew how to build a rocking chair or kill a man. And he knew that if she came to him, their bond was unbroken. And she was still alive.

Gracie, show me the way. I will come for you.

“Colonel Brice!”

Ben opened his eyes. He was sitting cross-legged inside the crime-scene tape where Gracie’s shorts and shoe had been found. A young FBI agent was jogging through the woods toward him. He arrived out of breath and said, “Colonel Brice, Agent Devereaux needs you back at the command post!”