James Grippando - The Abduction

She’s on a cordless phone, he realized. The combined radio frequencies were screwing up the signal he’d intercepted from the Leahy’s baby monitor.

He switched off the digital electronic scanner on the dashboard. The crackling stopped. The van was dark and silent. He cracked the driver-side window to release stale cigarette smoke, then crushed out his Camel in the overflowing ashtray. The blinking orange light on the console said the miniature cassette tape was still recording. He hit the stop button, then eject. He had all the recorded cooing and baby grunts he needed-nearly ninety minutes worth, counting the audiotape he’d made on last week’s stakeout.

Thanks to his earlier handiwork, the streetlight was out on the corner, leaving the Leahy residence in a shroud of darkness. He removed his sport shirt and slipped the top half of a hooded Nomex body suit over his torso. It fit like a wet suit, a sleek and perfect nighttime complement to his black jeans and black sneakers. He checked himself in the rearview mirror and covered his face with black greasepaint. His camouflage complete, he wiped his hands and pulled on black rubber gloves. He never used leather. Animal skin left its own set of distinctive patterns, like fingerprints. Quietly, he stepped down from the van.

The ranch-style house sat toward the back of a heavily wooded quarter-acre lot. A thick, ten-foot-high hedge enclosed the yard for privacy. Beneath the twisted limbs of towering oak trees, a curved front walk stretched seventy-five feet from street to doorstep. He selected the tallest oak, the one closest to the house, then quietly broke through the hedge and started up the tree. In a matter of seconds he was stretched out on a long limb that hovered over the roof. Gently, he lowered himself onto the cedar shingles.

With three silent steps he reached the chimney. He knew from an earlier drive-by that the alarm box was fastened on the back of the chimney. It was the size of a large lunch box, painted gray. It was padlocked, but it had slats on the front that allowed the noise to escape when the alarm sounded. He zipped open his pouch and removed a spray can, then fastened a six-inch plastic straw to the nozzle. The straw fit perfectly between the slats on the alarm box. He pressed the nozzle, unleashing a stream of white foam insulation that expanded to fill the entire box. It hardened in seconds. The alarm was silenced without cutting a wire.

He stuck the spray can back in his pouch, zipped it up quickly, and climbed back down the oak tree. In thirty seconds he was crouched beneath the bedroom window in the rear of the house. The room was dark, but the little dancing bears on the curtains told him he was in the right place. He moved closer to inspect, almost touching the pane with the tip of his nose. No security bars or fancy locks here. Just the standard latch and filament that wired the window to the disabled alarm. It might be linked to a central alarm station, but he could count on them to take at least five or ten minutes to respond.

He smirked, as if it were too easy. Sure doesn’t take much to beat home security.

It was almost midnight when Allison hung up the phone. Mitch didn’t want to say good night, but she was tired and finally had to be almost rude about it. For the third week in a row their conversation had ended on an awkward note. This time he wanted to know if her single motherhood was causing any political backlash. To be sure, she was concerned about her continued electability. One newspaper had already raised questions about a system that allowed a certain state attorney to get in line for adoption before her wedding day and to stay on the list after her engagement fizzled. Nonetheless, she wanted a child. She didn’t think she should have to marry the wrong man to get one. And she was convinced that-right or wrong-adoption by an unmarried woman wouldn’t evoke the same moral judgments or create the same political baggage as a pregnancy out of wedlock.

Allison switched off the bedroom lamp and walked sleepily down the hall. The cordless receiver in her pocket continued to emit little Emily’s normal nighttime sounds. A little baby noise was nothing to worry about. It was sustained silence that sent new mothers rushing to the crib to make sure all was well.

She smiled with anticipation as she neared the darkened nursery. She peeked through the doorway, then caught her breath. The baby was on her stomach. Allison never laid her on her stomach. The recommended SIDS position was on the side or back. She hurried to the crib and leaned over the rail.

Her scream pierced the darkness.

A doll lay in Emily’s place. Allison frantically pitched it aside and unfurled the blanket, knocking something to the floor. She flipped on the light switch. It was a hand-held Dictaphone emitting the sounds of her baby.

She screamed louder and rushed to the window. The latch was unlocked. A round hole had been drilled through the glass-just big enough to allow a thin metal rod or a pointed stick to pass through and unlock the latch. Her horrified expression was reflected in the window.

“Emily!”

She raced from the nursery and down the hall, grabbing the portable phone. Without breaking stride she checked the kitchen, the bathroom, every room in the house, shouting her child’s name. She was still running as she dialed 911, then stopped at the kitchen counter.

“Somebody’s got my baby!” she told the operator.

“Just calm down, ma’am.”

“Calm down! My four-month-old daughter’s been snatched from her crib. Send a squad car right now. Nine-oh-one Royal Oak Court.”

“Are they still there?”

“No. I don’t know. I don’t see anyone. They took my baby!”

“I’ll dispatch a unit right now, ma’am. They’re on their way. Just stay inside.”

A car, thought Allison. They must have a car! She flew through the living room and out the front door.

“Emily!”

She checked the porch, the shrubs and the rose bed by the walkway. Thorny branches tore into her skin and shredded her robe. She sprinted to the street and checked for cars or pedestrians- anyone at all. Her chest heaved with a shortness of breath. A pain ripped her belly from the inside out, and a flood of tears warmed her cheeks. She glanced left, then right, toward both ends of the street. There was no sign of anyone.

“Ma’am,” said the 911 operator, “are you still there?”

Allison couldn’t answer. She fell to her knees at the end of the sidewalk, her shoulders heaving with great racking sobs. A crackling noise was coming from her pocket. Her hand shook as she reached inside her robe and pulled out the receiver.

A chill ran through her as she realized what it was. The baby monitor was still transmitting from the nursery. The Dictaphone was still on.

The recorded sounds of Emily were playing in her hand.

October 2000

Allison could feel her heart pounding. Her lungs burned as she fought for air. The treadmill’s digital display told her she was passing the two-mile mark. She punched the speed button to slow the pace and catch her breath. Perspiration soaked her, pasting the nylon sweat pants and extra-large T-shirt to her trim forty-eight-year-old body. It was her favorite T-shirt, white with bright red and blue lettering.

It read, “Leahy for President-A New Millennium.”

After nearly four years as the United States attorney general, Allison was just fifteen days away from the historic date on which voters would decide whether the nation’s “top cop” would become its first woman president. The race was wide-open and without an incumbent, as her boss-Democratic President Charlie Sires-was at the end of his second and final four-year term. Allison was his second-term attorney general, part of the president’s shake-up of his own cabinet upon reelection in 1996. Eight months ago, Allison didn’t consider herself a serious presidential contender. But when the Republicans nominated Lincoln Howe, the nation’s most beloved black man, the polls made it clear that the only Democrat who could beat him was a charismatic white woman.