James Grippando - The Abduction

Allison took a room at the airport Marriott. She wasn’t sure if she was spending the night in Nashville, but she needed a place to change clothes and shower off the smell of the river. While unpacking, she realized Peter was waiting for her at a previously arranged fund-raiser in Kansas City. Surely by now he realized he was going stag. She phoned him anyway and told him all she knew, which wasn’t much more than he’d already heard on the evening newscasts.

“I can’t believe this happened,” she said as she grabbed a diet soda from the mini-bar.

He scoffed. “The only thing I can’t believe is that stuff like this doesn’t happen more often. The world is crazy. You should know that better than anyone. Maybe in your own mind you’ve tried to downplay the dangers of campaigning, so that you’re not checking over your shoulder for some lunatic every time you take a step. But if you truly can’t believe this happened, you’ve brainwashed yourself too thoroughly.”

“I didn’t mean I literally can’t believe it. I just meant it’s horrible when something like this happens. I know you worry about me, Peter. But I’m not stupid.”

“Allison, I love you. And you’re without a doubt the smartest woman I’ve ever met. But every now and then, I honestly do worry that your view of politics is a little too romantic for your own good.”

She kicked off her shoes and plopped on the bed. “Peter, I ran my first election in Chicago-a city where my grandmother voted for six years after she was dead. I’m well aware that politics is no romance.”

“Your roots are solid, that’s for sure.” He lowered his voice, turning more sincere. “It’s the more recent experiences that I’m worried about. I hinted at this over a year ago, when you were first talking about running. But you just didn’t seem to want to hear it.”

She sat up against the headboard. “Hear what?”

“In hindsight,” he said with some difficulty, “don’t you think the loss of your daughter made your introduction to Washington a little…misleading?”

“What does Emily have to do with this?”

He paused, well aware of the delicate nature of the subject matter. “That was the greatest tragedy of your life, no doubt. But at the same time, it was your greatest unspoken political advantage.”

“I never used Emily for political advantage.”

“Of course not. But the fact is, no one could attack a woman who had lost a child. Not your opponents, not the press. Even when you were nominated for attorney general, you were insulated from the usual character assassination that goes on in Senate confirmation hearings. The city embraced you- exulted in you-from the day you stepped foot into the Justice Building. You’re a wonderful person and extremely talented. I’m not dismissing that. But at least part of the reason they loved you so much is because, deep down, they felt sorry for you and wanted to see you rebound. It’s human nature.”

“As much as I’d like to, I can’t change my past.”

“And now, Lincoln Howe can’t change his. So don’t be surprised if voters feel the same sympathy toward him. More important, don’t be surprised if he milks it.”

“Funny. That’s what David Wilcox thinks, too.”

“You disagree?”

She gazed into the mirror above the bureau, thinking of the way her opponent had run with the adultery accusations. “After the debates,” her voice tightened, “I guess nothing would surprise me.”

Photographers peered through the windows as the general’s stretch limo pulled away from the house. He was oblivious to the swarming media, alone in the backseat and deep in his thoughts. What his daughter had said wasn’t far from the truth. He had indeed made choices. The jungles of Vietnam over the birth of his son. A tour in Korea over Tanya’s school plays and piano recitals.

And now this.

They rode in expressway traffic for several minutes, then he glanced out the window. They were crossing the river. A chill hit his spine. He knew at that very moment divers were feeling their way through inky black river water, groping for anything that resembled a body.

A sudden nausea swelled from within. He leaned forward and tapped on the privacy partition that separated him from the driver and Secret Service agent in the front seat. The partition slid open.

“I want to make a stop,” he said.

The driver caught his eye in the rearview mirror. “But, sir, your plane.”

“I don’t care. Exit here.”

General Howe directed them past the downtown area, toward Fisk University and the surrounding neighborhood from which Kristen had been abducted. He drew several deep breaths as they passed Martin Luther King, Jr., High School, the destination she’d never reached. Wooden barricades and yellow police tape blocked access to Seventeenth Avenue, her usual route.

“Stop here,” said Howe.

The limo stopped in the intersection, perpendicular to the temporarily closed Seventeenth Avenue. The lighting was poor, but with some effort the general could still see all the way down the street, clear to Fisk University. The FBI and other law enforcement officers were slowly walking the area, searching for evidence. Flashlights dotted the neighborhood like flittering fireflies. Scent dogs from K-9 patrol zigzagged down both sides of the street. The steady whump of helicopters beat overhead, scanning the fields with infrared sensors, picking up body heat in the darkness. To the general, it seemed about as futile as the “urine sniffers” used in Vietnam, high-tech sensors that detected concentrations of excrement so that American bombers could pinpoint the enemy-or obliterate hapless groups of wandering peasants and smelly herds of water buffalo.

Anxiety set in as he watched from the back of his limo, the image of twelve-year-old Kristen burning in his mind. Who would do such a thing? he wondered. To be sure, a man didn’t reach his stature without making enemies. Some of his decisions had ended promising military careers. Many of his orders had gotten soldiers killed. Too, he couldn’t rule out the lunatic who simply didn’t like the way he looked.

An FBI agent tapped on the windshield. The driver opened the window.

“You can’t park here,” said the agent.

The driver was about to protest, but Howe intervened. “It’s okay,” he told his driver. “Let’s be on our way.”

A traffic cop rerouted them to a side street. They rode in silence for several short blocks, until they reached Fisk University.

“Stop here,” said Howe.

The driver stopped beside Fisk Memorial Chapel. Howe peered out the window. The old brick building was impressive in the moonlight, with a tall center bell tower and Gothic stone windows.

“I want to get out.”

The Secret Service agent did a double take. “Here?”

Howe nodded. “I want to say a prayer,” he said with a lump in his throat. “For my granddaughter.”

The agent sighed, but he couldn’t argue. He spoke into his hand-held radio. “This is Bravo-one. Short stop at Fisk campus. Must leave the vehicle.” After a brief pause, a clipped confirmation crackled over the radio. He glanced back at the general. “Let’s go.”

The agent led him up the steps to the double doors beneath the arched Romanesque entrance. He pulled on one door. Locked. He tried the other. Also locked.

“Sorry, sir. But it is late.”

His heart sank with disappointment. He turned slowly and walked back to the car. A sadness washed over him that bordered on despair. Being turned away by his daughter was bad enough. But had God shut His doors?

They walked side by side down the chapel’s front steps, until the agent stopped short. His expression turned very serious as he adjusted the ear piece on his radio.