Mark Gimenez - The Abduction

“Got-damn, is that our Little Johnny Brice?” Luther Ray would say to the wife over at the stove fixing grits for breakfast. “That wimp’s a fuckin’ billionaire?” Then he’d laugh and say, “Shit, we used to kick his scrawny little ass just for fun.”

And then his wife (fat and missing a front tooth) would fart and say something like, “Well, Luther Ray, maybe you should’ve been nicer to Little Johnny and he’d’ve give you a good job and me and the kids wouldn’t be livin’ in this goddamn trailer park.” And from then on, every time they fought about money or his drinking (which is to say, every day), his wife would spew forth that flamage like green vomit from the Exorcist girl, reminding Luther Ray for the rest of his cretinous life that Little Johnny Brice had a billion dollars and he had a double-wide.

John had played out varying versions of that scenario at least once a day for the last nineteen years, conjuring it up on his first drive to MIT, when he had set a goal of being a billionaire by age forty, and improving on it each time. He had added the wife a few years back.

And that was why he had been so brain-damaged about becoming a billionaire. With the stock market and real-estate boom, everyone and their mother was a millionaire. But becoming a billionaire in one day like the Google guys-that would still make every newspaper in the country, even in rural Alabama.

But now Luther Ray would be watching him on TV, hearing how his daughter had been kidnapped in a public park with him right there, and he’d say, “No pervert would’ve snatched our Ellie May with me around and live to tell about it, that’s for goddamn sure. Little Johnny Brice got money, but he ain’t much of a man. Never was.” And the wife would nod in agreement.

And they’d be right.

“Mrs. Brice!”

Elizabeth jerked her eyes off John and focused on the task at hand-and the twerp standing directly in front of her; he was bent over, his hands were on his knees, and his round face was not two feet from hers.

“There’ll be a setup piece, three minutes”-he held up three fingers, then pointed to a TV monitor off to the side-“you can watch it there. Then DeAnn will go live with you.” Four fingers. “Four minutes, then commercial break. When I signal break, shut up. Don’t go on or we’ll cut you off.”

When the twerp vacated his position in front of Elizabeth, she found herself looking directly at Agent Devereaux standing back behind the cameras; he was leaning into the doorjamb and staring at her. Hey, fuck the FBI! You haven’t found my daughter!

“Quiet!” the twerp yelled. He pointed to the TV monitor.

The morning show first up was coming back on the air. The host introduced the reporter on the story, live from Texas, standing on the front lawn, a Gracie button on his lapel, the house looming large behind him.

“DeAnn, Gracie Ann Brice is ten years old”-Grace’s soccer picture flashed on the screen-“and she is missing this Monday morning. She was abducted by a blond man wearing a black cap and a plaid shirt after her soccer game Friday night here in Post Oak, Texas, a wealthy enclave forty miles north of downtown Dallas. I am standing outside her family’s three-million-dollar mansion in this community of mansions.”

Playing on the monitor was a video of Briarwyck Farms, the media circus outside, and their home. The reporter’s voice-over continued: “The park where she was abducted now serves as a makeshift memorial to Gracie.” Now the monitor showed shots of the park and the concession building, the banner, and the flowers. “Children have brought flowers and notes of prayer for their friend. A candlelight vigil was held there last night. Hundreds of people turned out to pray for Gracie’s safe return. Her abduction has frightened the residents of this community.”

The distraught face of a neighbor: “This isn’t supposed to happen in a place like this. We’re supposed to be safe out here.”

The reporter’s voice over video of the search efforts: “Searchers have hunted for Gracie for two days without success. Other than her soccer shorts and shoe, which were found by bloodhounds Saturday, there’s been no sign of her. The Heidi Search Center has organized a massive volunteer effort to search fields and farmland on the outskirts of town.”

The monitor played video of people hugging each other and wiping tears from their faces. “We’re here because our child could be next,” one searcher said.

“At Gracie’s school”-a live shot of kids arriving at Briarwyck Farms Elementary School-“parents clutch their children closer today.”

The face of a young woman above the byline, NORA UNDERWOOD, GRACIE’S FOURTH-GRADE TEACHER: “We’re not supposed to pray in school, but we’re praying today.”

And AMY APPLEWHITE, PRINCIPAL: “We’ve brought in crisis counselors for the children to talk to, to talk out their fears.”

Back live to the reporter out front, holding up the flier with Grace’s picture: “DeAnn, friends and neighbors have distributed thousands of these missing-child fliers throughout the area and as many pink ribbons to show their support. The National Center for Missing and Exploited Children has posted Gracie’s picture on its website at www-dot-missingkids-dot-org, as has the FBI at www-dot-fbi-dot-gov. Her face will be seen around the world. This is a confirmed stranger abduction-the FBI eliminated any family involvement with polygraph exams. The parents are hoping for the best, but fearing the worst. Most children abducted by strangers are dead within a few hours. Gracie’s been missing for over sixty hours. Back to you, DeAnn.”

Elizabeth turned from the monitor and spotted Sam sitting on the sofa in the back of the room and staring stone-faced at a TV monitor. She could see the fear in his eyes. Damnit, where ’ s Hilda? Elizabeth tried to get Sam’s attention to send him out, but the twerp was again gesturing at her and pointing to the monitor. Elizabeth turned away from Sam and looked at the monitor.

Now on the screen was the concerned face of DeAnn, the host in New York, an index finger pressed to her tight lips, a slow sad shake of her well-coifed head. What empathy so early in the morning, Elizabeth thought, and right before she hosts a segment on liposuction. Now she would interview the distressed and tearful parents, who would dutifully slobber and plead for their daughter’s return on national TV, a sure ratings hit. That was the script. That was the way things were supposed to go. Well, DeAnn, hold onto your skirt, girlfriend, because today’s show is going to be a little bit different.

DeAnn, from New York: “We have with us this morning, from their home outside Dallas, Texas, Gracie’s parents, John and Elizabeth Brice.”

The twerp pointed at them; the cameras went live.

“John Brice is the founder of BriceWare-dot-com, which is going public in two days, when he will become another overnight high-tech billionaire. Elizabeth Brice is a prominent Dallas criminal defense attorney. Mr. Brice, your daughter’s kidnapping is a front-page story in the Wall Street Journal today. You were just days from your dream coming true, now your daughter’s been abducted. This must be devastating for you. How do you feel?”

Oh, shit, Elizabeth thought, bracing herself for a blast of John’s goofy geek-speak on national TV, something like, DeAnn, my freaking wetware is fried! I’m talking toast! Some brain-damaged meatbot uninstalled my daughter from my network and that is evil and rude in the extreme!

Instead, John looked into the camera and said softly, “I feel empty.”

Elizabeth stared again at her husband and saw a stranger.

DeAnn, from New York: “Why do you think the abductor left Gracie’s soccer shorts in the woods? And her shoe?”