James Grippando - The Abduction

That’ll buy a shitload of aspirin.

The old wooden stairs creaked beneath his feet. The banisters had been ripped from the stairwell, so he took one step at a time-slowly, balancing himself with flailing arms, like a novice on a tightrope. He stopped at the top of the stairs, smiling with a silly sense of accomplishment. With both hands he dug the room key from his front pocket, then aimed it at the keyhole, one hand steadying the other as he poked unsuccessfully around the lock. Frustrated, he gave up and tried the knob. The door opened.

He could have sworn he’d locked it, but he just laughed as he stepped inside.

He fumbled with the lamp but managed only to knock it off the dresser. He laughed at the mess he’d made, then went rigid. His stomach heaved. The last shot of tequila was doing an about-face. He ran for the bathroom, tripping in the darkness.

Just as he reached the threshold, the bathroom door slammed in his face, knocking him back onto the floor. He staggered to his feet. The door suddenly flew open. He saw his reflection standing in the doorway-or maybe it was a shadow. He squinted to focus.

“What the hell?”

The shadow lunged toward him. A blow to the head stunned him, and Red went down with a thud. His chin was on the carpet as the boots raced by his eyes. He tried to yell, but he’d bitten his tongue and couldn’t speak. He heard the door fly open, then the sound of footsteps in the hallway, like somebody running.

Dizzy and groggy, he lifted himself from the floor. He limped to the door and peered down the hall. Nothing. He grimaced with pain, then froze.

The negatives, he thought-and he was suddenly sober.

He flipped on the light and ran to the closet. He grabbed his camera bag and zipped it open. The camera was gone.

“Shit!”

He checked the film pack. No film. No negatives. He checked every zip pocket, every side pouch, searching frantically. It was all gone, even the film he hadn’t used yet.

Red fell to his knees, feeling a $50,000 pit in the bottom of his stomach. “Son of a bitch,” he groaned.

At 5:00 A.M. the telephone rang in David Wilcox’s hotel room. He was already awake, sipping coffee, reworking a press release he hoped to be able to persuade Allison to issue later in the day.

“Hello,” he answered.

“Mission accomplished,” said the voice on the line.

“You found him?” asked Wilcox.

“Wasn’t too difficult. Aren’t that many photographers running around Nashville who look like Bozo the clown. Red Weber’s his name. Staying at some dive called the Thrifty Inn.”

“Anybody see you?”

“Nah. He caught me by surprise before I left, but I blew by him so fast he couldn’t have seen a thing.”

“What about the pictures?”

“I got the camera and the film. He had probably half a dozen shots of Ms. Leahy down by the river. Her and that FBI guy, Abrams.”

Wilcox sneered. “Sneaky bastards. Hiring their own damn photographer to make Allison look like a publicity hound. Burn the damn pictures.”

“Okay. But I don’t think you want me burning everything. It’s kind of a godsend, but I came across some shots of General Howe that may actually be worth keeping.”

“Is that so?” he said with a thin smile. “Tell me about them.”

On Wednesday morning, the press room at the United States Department of Justice was filled to capacity. Eager reporters sat shoulder to shoulder in crowded rows of folding chairs. A simple blue backdrop displayed two round seals, one of the Department of Justice, the other of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The American flag was draped on a pole.

At precisely 10:30 A.M., Allison entered from a side door, leading a somber entourage of men in dark suits to the rostrum. James O’Doud, FBI director, was directly behind her. Six other FBI and Justice Department officials filed in behind them. Cameras clicked and reporters jostled for position as she stepped up to the podium.

“Good morning,” she said. “As you all know by know, Kristen Howe, the twelve-year-old granddaughter of General Lincoln Howe, is missing. At nine o’clock central time yesterday morning, Kristen left Wharton Middle School in Nashville, Tennessee. She and the driver, Reggie Miles, were the only persons aboard the school jitney. Somewhere in transit the bus was apparently hijacked. As yet, we don’t know how or by whom.

“Last night, divers recovered the school van in the Cumberland River, near downtown Nashville. Later last night, we recovered the body of Reggie Miles, the driver. His official cause of death has yet to be determined. Kristen Howe is still unaccounted for.

“Let me say first that we condemn these cowardly acts. The Department of Justice has called upon its every resource to launch the largest manhunt in American history. Director O’Doud has assembled a team of the FBI’s most talented agents, and they are working literally around the clock. We will find Kristen Howe. We will bring these criminals to justice. I, personally, am devoting my full attention to these matters as attorney general. My presidential campaigning has been suspended.”

She paused and surveyed the crowd. “I will briefly take questions.”

Reporters leaped from their seats. Allison singled one out.

“Ms. Leahy,” he said, “the American people will elect their next president in just six days. The photographs of General Howe that surfaced this morning make it clear that this personal tragedy has hit him very hard. Do you agree with those who say that the long-term psychological effects of the abduction may leave General Howe in no condition to serve as president of the United States? And do you think his reaction says anything at all about his ability to lead the nation in times of crisis?”

She gripped the podium, responding without hesitation. “I don’t intend to politicize this tragedy in any way. My heart goes out to General Howe and his family. As I’ve stated, the safe return of Kristen Howe is now the number-one priority of the United States Department of Justice.”

She pointed to another reporter in the second row.

He rose. “Ms. Leahy, will the Justice Department seek the death penalty for the murder of Reggie Miles?”

She paused. With a hostage still in the kidnapper’s hands, she knew it just wasn’t smart to say anything publicly about the death penalty.

“It’s premature to talk about that. The medical examiner has not even ruled Mr. Miles’s death a homicide yet. Even if it is homicide, it would not be a federal crime unless it can be shown that his murder was part of an interstate kidnapping. So, in response to your specific question, the answer is no, we have not yet made any decisions concerning the death penalty.”

O’Doud stepped forward. “Let me add one quick thought here.”

Allison glanced over her shoulder, containing her surprise. O’Doud did not retreat. He stood beside the podium as he spoke.

“Although the current administration has yet to execute a single federal prisoner for any federal crime, the FBI will treat this case as if capital punishment were a real option. By that, I simply mean that we will lawfully endeavor to gain all evidence that is relevant to an informed determination of whether the death penalty fits this particular crime. We fully expect that the prosecutorial arm of the next administration will evaluate that evidence and see to it that the appropriate punishment is imposed.”

He glanced at Allison, then returned to his place beside the American flag. Reporters pressed forward, arms waving, shouting a flurry of follow-up questions. Allison quickly determined it was time to shut things down.

“Thank you,” she said. “That’s all for now.”