James Grippando - The Abduction

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said in a hushed voice. “And if you just let me help you, ain’t nobody else gonna hurt you either.”

It was after 3:00 A.M. before Allison finally bid Harley Abrams good night. She headed upstairs, quickly got ready for bed, and quietly crawled beneath the covers beside Peter. He was sound asleep.

She lay on her back, her head sinking into the soft pillow. Her body was exhausted, but her mind was still at work. Just keeping her eyes shut required concentration. They opened instinctively, and as her pupils dilated familiar objects began to take shape in the darkness.

She glanced at Peter. His profile was barely visible, and she wasn’t completely sure if she was actually seeing or remembering it. She was good at recalling little details about people-the shape of the eyes, the curve of the cheek. It was an acquired skill, something she’d worked on ever since Emily had disappeared. Memory has a way of improving when it’s all you have.

Memory, however, was a two-edged sword. The four-hour conversation with Harley Abrams about Emily had stirred up the bad old days, the sleepless nights. She laid the extra pillow across her eyes, enveloping herself in fluffy goose down. In minutes, the feeling approached sensory deprivation. Hearing nothing. Seeing nothing. Her only connection to the night was the air she breathed. She could feel her eyeballs moving beneath the weight of the pillow. She saw nothing, but the emptiness before her was turning white. As her mind drifted into sleep, the whiteness took shape. A white building. A white door. White columns. The White House…

Allison closed the heavy front door at the north portico and stepped into the formal front entrance hall. The State Floor was like she’d never seen it before. Dark and quiet. She flipped the wall switch, lighting the brass chandelier above the grand staircase. She walked to the base of the stairs and called out tentatively, “Hello?”

Her voice echoed. There was no reply. She felt a chill down her spine, a sudden realization. She was home. This was her home. And she was all alone .

She started up the stairs to the executive mansion, the upstairs living quarters. Halfway up she heard a noise. She stopped to listen, then climbed quickly to the top of the staircase.

A long hallway stretched to either side, east and west. Crystal wall sconces provided just enough illumination for her to see all the way to the end of each hallway, right and left. She wasn’t sure which way to turn-until she head the noise again, clearer this time.

“Mommy.” It was the voice of a young girl, calling from the east bedroom.

Instinctively Allison rushed to the door. She tried the knob, but it wouldn’t turn. She pounded with both fists. “Emily!” she shouted. “I’m here! I’m here!”

She shoved with her shoulder, but the door wouldn’t budge. Frantically, her eyes searched the hall for a chair or something to help break down the door. Then she froze. At the other end of the long hallway stood a dark-haired girl wearing a pleated pink dress. Allison could barely see her face in the dim lighting, but she could hear the voice as if she were standing right beside her.

“My name’s not Emily,” she said. “It’s Kristen.”

Allison sprinted the length of the hall, but the girl disappeared into the bedroom and slammed the door. Again, the knob wouldn’t turn.

“Kristen, open the door!” She pounded on the door in frustration, then stopped suddenly, intuitively, as she felt an eerie presence. She turned. At the opposite end of the hall stood a little blond girl wearing the same pink dress. The face was not quite discernible. The voice, however, was plainly heard.

“My name’s not Kristen. It’s Emily.”

“Emily!” She peeled down the hall, past the center stairwell. She was just a few steps away when the girl ducked back into the room and slammed the door. Allison dove for the knob. This time, it turned. She flung the door open, then stopped cold.

Her heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t a bedroom. It wasn’t even a room.

She took a deep breath, absorbing the strange surroundings. Thick red velvet curtains shrouded the dark entrance. Four empty chairs faced a brass railing, with more darkness beyond. Allison stepped closer to the rail, then back, frightened. Beyond the rail was a theater full of patrons facing a lighted stage. The audience laughed at one of the actor’s lines.

Her mouth went dry. She was standing on a balcony.

A shuffling noise emerged from behind the curtain. She felt the urge to run, but destiny wouldn’t allow it. She turned quickly, coming face-to-face with an angry man who resembled no one she knew, yet she had the strange sensation that she knew him well. Her lips were about to utter his name as he aimed his pistol at point-blank range. The thundering crack echoed throughout, robbing Allison of her voice, her sight, and all sense of time. She was falling backward, tumbling over the rail, moving in slow motion. The world seemed to ooze as the cries of a grieving woman filled the old Ford Theater, a haunting replay of the unforgettable words of Mary Todd Lincoln.

“They’ve killed the president! They’ve killed-”

“Allison?”

Allison shot up in bed at the sound of Peter’s voice. She was soaked in sweat, completely out of breath.

“Are you okay?” asked Peter as he switched on the lamp.

She blinked hard, adjusting to the light. Her heart was racing. She squeezed Peter’s hand. “What a horrible dream,” she said, her voice quivering. “I think I’m driving myself nuts.”

“It’s all right. I’m here for you.”

“Honest to God, Peter. If they don’t find Emily soon, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“Kristen,” he corrected her.

“Huh?”

“You said, ‘If they don’t find Emily.’ You mean Kristen.”

Her eyes turned misty. “Of course,” she said as Peter held her tight. “I meant Kristen.”

Harley Abrams caught a few winks of sleep on the airplane, arriving in Nashville at nine o’clock Thursday morning. Tanya Howe’s decision to boot the FBI from her home was understandable under the circumstances, and Harley certainly had known other distressed parents who had buckled to a kidnapper’s demands to shut out law enforcement. Since the first ransom demand had gone directly to Tanya’s home, however, her refusal even to allow the FBI to continue monitoring her telephone could seriously impede the investigation.

Harley arrived at Tanya’s house in an unmarked Bucar with a female agent. They carried none of the trappings of the FBI-just a bag of groceries and a casserole dish. He apologized to his colleague for what might appear to be sexist duty, but it was important to demonstrate to Tanya that the FBI could easily come and go from her house in inconspicuous fashion, playing the part of concerned friends or neighbors who would console a grieving mother by relieving her of simple tasks like shopping and cooking which, in a time of crisis, are no longer so simple.

Harley rang the bell and waited.

“Go away, Mr. Abrams.” It was Tanya’s voice from behind the closed door.

Harley leaned forward. “Tanya, if anybody is watching, it’s going to look a lot worse if you turn us away than if you simply let us in. Just greet us as if we were friends, not the FBI.”

Thirty seconds passed. The chain rattled and the door opened. In role, Tanya embraced the female agent the way she’d greet a loyal friend, then invited them in and closed the door. Her polite expression faded immediately.

“I told you I don’t want the FBI coming to my house anymore.”

“I heard,” said Harley. “May we sit down and talk, please? If you still feel the same after you’ve heard the FBI’s side of it, I promise we’ll respect your wishes.”