Mark Gimenez - The Abduction

John ducked under the yellow crime-scene tape and walked into Gracie’s room. He hit the overhead light switch.

“Hiya, pal,” she would always say when he knocked on her bedroom door each day when he got home. He would usually find her on the floor, reading the sports pages or doing her homework or singing a new song. But her room was empty tonight. Her stuff was still there, but without her there was no life in this room. Or in this house. Gracie Ann Brice had been the life of the house.

He turned on the nightlight and turned off the overhead. He crawled into her bed. He pulled the comforter up and buried his head in her pillow. He cradled her big cushy teddy bear. He closed his eyes, breathed in his daughter, and remembered.

“One day you’ll be singing on the radio,” he had said to her once, sitting right here on this bed.

She had frowned and said, “You know how hard it is to get radio stations to play a new artist’s songs?”

“No. How hard?”

“Like, totally.”

“Then I’ll buy a bunch of radio stations and play only yours.”

“You can’t do that.”

“After the IPO I can. I’m gonna buy the Red Sox for Sam.”

“No, I mean it doesn’t work that way. I’ve got to struggle a long time trying to break in so I’ll have material for my songs.”

“Oh, so that’s how it works.”

“Yeah, see, the Dixie Chicks struggled for like, well, a really long time, and they had to move to Nashville. I guess I’ll have to, too.”

“And leave me? No way, girlfriend. I’ll buy a jet, you can fly to Nashville to record. Or I’ll build you a recording studio here, and they can come to you. And they will.”

“Yeah, right. You know how many great singers are out there totally begging to break into country music?”

“No. How many?”

“Well… a bunch.”

He shook his head. “Odds don’t apply to statistically unique occurrences.”

“Huh?”

“There’s only one Gracie Ann Brice.”

She had looked at him with a strange expression, one he had never before seen on her sweet face; he immediately thought, Cripes, I said something wrong! You bogoid, you never could talk to girls! But she abruptly hugged him and said, “You’re the best father a girl could ever want.” When she pulled back, her big blue eyes were wet. “Thanks for not making fun of my dreams.”

He had cupped her perfect face and said, “Gracie, ill-behaved cretins can thrash your user interface, frag your hardware, unplug your peripherals, uninstall your components-but dreams are proprietary technology.”

“Huh?”

“No one can take your dreams away.”

But he had been wrong. Someone had taken his dream away.

Ben was now sitting at the kitchen table and flipping through the stack of FBI lead sheets. By this time of night, he was usually drunk enough to sleep. He wanted a drink now, just one shot of whiskey. Or two. He could feel its warmth inside him.

But there would not be another drink for him. On the drive from Taos to the Albuquerque airport, alone in the pre-dawn hours, he had made a vow to Gracie, a vow that now required he reach back almost four decades to find the strength to overcome: when they had beaten him at San Bie, he thought of Kate and John and found strength; now, when the cravings came, he thought of Gracie and found the same strength.

He went over to the refrigerator, a commercial-sized one concealed behind wood paneling that matched the cabinetry. Inside he found orange juice. Maybe a glass of juice would relieve his craving. He opened several overhead cabinets searching for the glasses; he found a liquor cabinet instead. He stared at the bottles. He reached in and removed a fifth of Jim Beam. Only his third sober night, but looking at the familiar label brought the cravings back. He was still staring at the bottle when he heard, “Ben.”

He turned and saw his wife standing in the door-and the disappointment in her eyes. He replaced the bottle in the cabinet and shut the door.

“I won’t let her down, Kate.”

Nothing is more disappointing to a lawyer than a client’s deal falling apart-all right, next to not getting paid, nothing is more disappointing to a lawyer than a client’s deal falling apart. How many times had a lawyer arrived at the bargaining table ready to close a deal only to have the other party shrug lamely and turn his palms up, empty-handed? No money. Nothing to put on the bargaining table. Can’t close the deal. Lying in bed, alone, as she had felt most of her life, Elizabeth Brice now wondered: What if the abductor can’t close the deal? What if the abductor had nothing to put on the bargaining table? Three-fourths of all children abducted by strangers are killed within three hours. Grace had been abducted seventy-eight hours ago.

What if her daughter was dead?

Patrol Officer Eddie Yates hated working double shifts, especially evenings and deep nights, 3:00 P.M. to 7:00 A.M., mostly because he couldn’t spend four hours pumping iron at the gym. But on the chief’s orders, every cop on the force was working double shifts, rousing out sex offenders around the clock-there were a hell of a lot of perverts out there, Eddie had discovered. He was hoping the girl’s killer was on his list; arresting a child killer would look awful good on the resume he would give the Dallas PD.

He checked the in-unit computer screen for the next pervert on his list: Jennings, Gary M., white, twenty-eight, blond, blue eyes, five-ten, one-fifty-five (heck, Eddie could take this guy with one hand), charged with stat rape eight years ago, pleaded out to indecency with a child, received probation, not even a speeding ticket since. Risk level 3: no basis for concern for re-offense. That’s all the entry said, but Eddie could read between the lines. This boy had been nineteen at the time of the offense, probably in college; he and a girl were partying, ended up in bed, turned out she’s jail bait. But she had to be damn close to legal or they wouldn’t have let him plead out. And now he’s branded a sex offender for life.

Eddie sighed. Gary Jennings wasn’t a sex offender; he just screwed the wrong girl at the wrong time. What was it Eddie’s mom used to say? There but for the grace of God? Well, this’ll be a monumental waste of time. But still, why didn’t Jennings register with the police department when he moved to town like he’s supposed to?

Apartment 121, that was Jennings’s place. DMV records showed Jennings owned a black ’99 Ford F-150 pickup. Eddie drove slowly through the apartment complex parking lot until he spotted a black Ford pickup. The plates checked out.

Eddie parked behind the pickup and exited the cruiser; he slid his nightstick into his holster, not that he expected any trouble from Jennings-but he could dream, couldn’t he? He grabbed the big heavy flashlight-actually a sledgehammer with a light on the end, a more effective tool for subduing a reluctant perp, not that he had ever had to. He shone the light inside the cab then tried the door, gently, so as not to set off the alarm. No need-it was unlocked, like half the cars in town tonight. There hadn’t been a car stolen in Post Oak, Texas, since Eddie had been on the force. The place was a regular fucking Mayberry-and he felt like Barney Fife. How can you fight crime when there ain’t no crime? Which was why Eddie Yates yearned for a job with the Dallas PD: they had some real crime down there, the most dangerous city in America.

Eddie opened the door and shone the light around the cab. It was clean as a whistle. He looked in the console and found a cell phone. Jennings wasn’t even worried someone might steal it.

Aunt Bee, you seen Opie?

Eddie checked under the seat. Nothing. He lifted the rubber floor mat on the passenger side. Nothing. He lifted the mat on the driver’s side and-what’s this? A photograph? He picked it up and shone the light on it. It was a photograph all right, like the copy you got when you printed a mug shot off the computer. Except this wasn’t a mug shot of a criminal. This was a picture of a naked girl. A young naked girl. Kiddie porn. Eddie shook his head. Damn, he’d been wrong about this Jennings. He really was a pervert.