James Grippando - The Abduction

Ironically, thirty minutes of walking in place on the treadmill had actually put Allison thirty miles closer to her afternoon rally in Philadelphia. She was on the last leg of a two-day bus tour through Pennsylvania, a critical swing state with twenty-four electoral college votes. Her campaign bus had logged nearly ten thousand miles in the past six months. Now more than ever, it was showing the signs of a well-oiled political machine in the homestretch-which to the average organized human being looked remarkably like utter chaos. A dozen noisy staffers were busy at the fax machines and computer terminals. A scattered collection of bulging archive boxes blocked the bathroom entrance, as if strategically placed to trip up anyone desperate enough to use the on-board facilities. Thousands of campaign buttons, leaflets, and bumper stickers cluttered the rear storage area. Four small color television sets were suspended from the ceiling, each blaring a different broadcast for simultaneous multi-network viewing. One set was electronically “padlocked,” permanently tuned to CNN’s virtually continuous coverage of Campaign 2000.

“That’s about enough self-flagellation for one day,” said Allison, groaning. She hit the stop button and stepped down from the treadmill.

Walking had been her chief source of exercise since the beginning of the New Hampshire Democratic primary in January. Whatever the town, she’d walk up and down Main Street, and people would join in and walk along with her. It provided great photo ops early in the primary, but after she won the Democratic nomination in August the crowds grew so large that she needed a parade permit. In the last week, time constraints and cold Appalachian rains had forced her to confine her walking to the treadmill during bus-ride debriefings from her campaign strategist, David Wilcox.

“What else, David?” she said as she leaned over and stretched her calf muscles.

Wilcox was a tall and wiry fifty-one-year-old graduate of the Woodrow Wilson School of Public Affairs at Princeton. He had shone as a young White House Fellow under President Carter, but a bitter loss in a personal bid for Congress in 1982 convinced him he’d rather not be a candidate. In high school he was voted most likely to become a game show host, and he’d finally found his niche as a political strategist. Over seventeen years his list of satisfied clients included nine United States senators, seven congressmen, and five governors, and he’d masterminded Allison’s upset victory over a sitting vice president in the Democratic primaries. In the last few weeks, however, he’d grown concerned about the growing influence of outside consultants, so he’d decided to glue himself to Allison’s side for the bus tour. At the moment, he was reviewing his checklist, seemingly oblivious to Allison’s sweaty exercise attire or to the blurred Pennsylvania countryside in the window behind her.

“The drug problem has reared its ugly head.” He had an ominous voice for a thin man, part of an overall seriousness that was more suitable for a White House state dinner than the frenetic campaign trail. “I think our distinguished opposition is turning desperate. They’re finally trying to make something out of your treatment for depression, back in ninety-two.”

“That was eight years ago. Politically speaking, it’s ancient history.”

“They’re saying you took Prozac.”

“I told you I was in counseling.”

“Are you splitting hairs on me?”

She flashed a sobering look. “My four-month-old daughter was taken right out of her crib, right from my own house. Yes, I was depressed. I was in group counseling. Eight of us. Parents who’d lost children. No, I didn’t take Prozac. But if you ask the other members of my support group, they’ll probably say I needed it. So don’t expect me to apologize for having reached out for a little support. And don’t sit there and act like this is news to you, either. I laid out all the skeletons the day I hired you.”

He grimaced, thinking it through. “I just wish we could put the whole episode in more of a context.”

Her look became a glare. “I won’t make Emily’s abduction part of this campaign, if that’s what you mean.”

“Allison, we can’t just say you were depressed and leave it at that. We need a positive spin.”

“Okay,” she said sarcastically, “how about this? Depression is a good thing. It’s what stimulates ideas. Every invention, every accomplishment stems from depression, not euphoria. Nobody ever said, ‘Life’s swell, let’s invent fire.’ It was the malcontent in the back of the cave who finally stood up and said, ‘Hey, I’m freezing my ass off in here!’ You want something to get done in Washington? By all means, elect the clinically depressed.”

He was deadpan. “Please don’t repeat that publicly. Or I’ll be very depressed.”

“Good,” she said with a smirk. “We could use some new ideas around here.” She took a deep breath. Wilcox didn’t look amused, but she knew he wouldn’t push it. Throughout the campaign she’d nipped every mention of the abduction with some brusque remark-sometimes pointed, sometimes flip-which immediately moved the agenda to less personal territory. “Anything else?” she asked.

“I hate to keep harping on this, but General Howe’s wife has been stumping hard for him lately. Our polls show she’s making inroads. A lot of voters-male and female, Democrat and Republican-are nostalgic about having a First Lady in the White House. We can’t counteract those warm fuzzies unless we define the role of a First Husband. The election is two weeks away, and forty percent of the public still has no opinion on Peter Tunnello.”

“Sorry, but the CEO of a publicly traded company can’t duck out of a stockholders meeting for a rubber chicken luncheon at the VFW.”

“That’s kind of my point. I think he would, if you asked him.”

“How do you know I haven’t asked?”

“Your attitude, that’s how. It started right after the convention, when Howe’s camp floated those ugly rumors that you married Peter just to bankroll your political ambition. Ever since then, you’ve been on a one-woman crusade to shake more hands and raise more money than anybody in history. Don’t get me wrong. The money’s great. But the more you adopt this go-it-alone persona, the more you fuel suspicions about your marriage.”

“This is not a buy-one, get-two presidency. My marriage is my business.”

“It would still be nice if the American people could see you two together sometimes, especially as we get closer to election day. Just a few strategic public displays of affection, like Nancy and Ron Reagan.”

“News flash!” shouted one of her aides. He pitched his cellular phone onto the seat beside him and spun around, facing Allison. “Howe’s about to launch something in New Jersey. Check out CNN.”

Allison moved closer to the main set. Her aides watched intently, straining to hear over the rumble of the bus’s diesel engine. Wilcox raised the volume. General Howe was near the end of a short speech before the National Convention of the American Legion in Atlantic City.

On screen, a handsome African-American man stood tall behind a chest-high podium, facing an enthusiastic crowd. The American flag hung limply on the yellow wall of painted cinder block. A blue and white banner hung from the rafters, proclaiming the campaign slogan, “Lincoln Howe-Lincoln Now! ” The house was packed, and the most enthusiastic supporters were strategically standing in the aisles to make the turnout seem even better than it was.

General Howe was an imposing figure, even when wearing a simple business suit and VFW cap. Army regulations prohibited him from wearing his uniform after his retirement, but the larger-than-life photograph in the background reminded voters of his distinguished forty-year career. It was a photo fit for history books: the triumphant general inspecting his troops, dressed in riding boots, bloused green trousers, and short-waisted jacket. His chest was decorated with an array of medals, including a Medal of Honor. Each shoulder bore four silver stars, indicating his rank. To his right was a photograph of Howe in another uniform, old number twenty-two, carrying a football for Army. He was a Heisman Trophy-winning running back in 1961. The best player in college football had given up a promising career as professional athlete to serve his country.