James Grippando - The Abduction

The limo stopped to allow the protesters to cross Pennsylvania Avenue. General Howe’s gaze turned toward Lafayette Square, fixing on the huge bronze of Andrew Jackson on horseback in the center. “The Battle of New Orleans,” he muttered in a hollow voice.

“Excuse me?” said LaBelle.

“One of General Jackson’s most famous military victories.” He shot a look of disapproval. “Don’t you know anything about the war of eighteen-twelve?”

“Only the year in which it was fought, sir.” He checked his watch, mindful of the general’s tight schedule.

“Buck?” he said pointedly. “Did you know that black soldiers fought in the Battle of New Orleans?”

He paused, sensing a purpose for the digression. “No, sir. I didn’t.”

“General Andrew Jackson himself promised to give a tract of land to every black man who would join his army of irregulars and fight the British. They signed up in droves. They fought bravely. Many of them died.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you know what they got for their sacrifice?”

“Land, is what I thought you said.”

“They got nothing. Those courageous black soldiers got nothing but lies and empty promises-straight from the lips of a distinguished general in the United States Army who went on to become one of this nation’s most respected presidents.” He shook his head, steaming yet again over his meeting with the self-proclaimed education president. “Legacies,” he scoffed. “They’re all such bullshit anyway.”

For once, LaBelle could think of nothing to say.

The telephone rang. It was General Howe’s personal line, limited to a handful of callers. He swallowed the bitterness in his throat, then answered on the second piercing ring.

“Sweetheart, it’s me,” his wife said.

The general glanced up. LaBelle busied himself in his papers, pretending not to listen. Howe spoke softly into the phone. “Where are you, Nat?”

“Still in Nashville. Tanya and I have been talking. She’s very upset.”

“Can’t the doctor prescribe something?”

The line crackled with her sigh of frustration. “That’s not the issue.”

“I’m sorry. Tell me.”

“Well,” she struggled, “it seems Tanya wants to pay the ransom.” She paused, then added, “And I do, too.”

He went rigid, gripping the phone. “Let me get something straight. Does Tanya have a million dollars?”

“Of course not.”

“Check our bank book. Do we have a million dollars?”

“No. But you can get it. Surely if you call in some favors we can raise the money.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“But, Lincoln. Please.”

“Nat, I went on national television last night telling the kidnappers I would never pay their ransom, even if I had the money. I can’t back off that position less than twenty-four hours later.”

“Is that all you’re concerned about? Looking tough to voters?” Her voice was shaking.

“This has nothing to do with votes. It’s simple negotiation strategy. We have to be firm. I told them no dealing, and I meant it. Trust me on this.”

“I’m scared. We’re both scared. I have this horrible feeling that they’ll really kill Kristen if we don’t pay the money.” Her voice trailed off. She was sobbing into the phone.

He swallowed hard, toughening his voice. “Natalie, get hold of yourself. I said no. Don’t fight me on this.”

She sniffled, then drew a deep breath. “I’m sorry. What do you want me to tell Tanya?”

“Tell Tanya-” He paused, unable to find words.

“That you’re doing it for Kristen?” she suggested.

“Yes,” he said flatly. “Tell her that.”

Allison had been so busy she’d actually forgotten to eat lunch. One of her first official acts as attorney general had been to shut down the private dining room with its personal staff that filled the north end of her office suite, reasoning that the Justice Building had a perfectly fine cafeteria right in the basement. She called down for soup and a salad, and at three o’clock her secretary plopped it on her desk with a can of Diet Pepsi. The phone rang just as she popped open the soda, causing her to start and spill it all over. A garden salad with raspberry-cola vinaigrette dressing was strangely tempting, but she pushed it aside, figuring she had about enough caffeine coursing through her veins anyway.

Her secretary popped back into the office. “It’s Harley Abrams on line three.”

Allison snatched up the phone. “What did you find out?”

“I just heard from our Miami field office. They can’t find O’Brien.”

“What do you mean they can’t find him? They’re the FBI.”

“They checked his condo. Nobody home. They went down to the marina. Apparently he has a boat rental place there.”

“Right. Mitch used to be a criminal defense lawyer in Chicago, but he burned out and took time off a few years ago to sail all over the world, all by himself. When he came back, he just quit practicing, moved to Miami, and started renting out sailboats.”

“Well, he hasn’t rented one in over two weeks. It’s a little difficult to nail down specifics with a guy who lives alone and works for himself, but the last time anybody saw him was a few-days before Halloween.”

“Maybe he’s on another sailing trip.”

“Maybe. But the timing is somewhat suspicious.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I don’t know. But there’s one thing I’d like you to do. I know there’s at least one huge difference between the abduction of your daughter and this kidnapping-namely, you never got a ransom demand. But this O’Brien thing has me intrigued. I could have somebody else do this, but you know more than anyone about your daughter, and we’re running out of time.”

“I can do it. What?”

“I’d like you to get your hands on the files, the newspaper articles, everything you have on Emily’s abduction. And I want you to look-look real hard-for parallels with this case.”

“What kinds of things am I looking for?”

“I’ll make a checklist and fax it over.”

“Okay. I’m getting pressured to start campaigning again, but I can certainly put it off for this. I mean, if you really think-oh, forget it.”

“If I think what?”

Her heart swelled, but she was almost afraid to ask. “Harley, let’s just assume there is a connection. We both know the statistics on child abduction-how the passage of time affects recovery. But put the dismal data aside and just listen to your gut. After all these years, do you think there’s a chance we could still find Emily?”

He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Let’s go one step at a time here, okay?”

She nodded wearily, glancing at an old photograph of her and Emily on the credenza. “Right. Just one step at a time.”

Tanya and her mother sat in silence in the family room. The drapes were drawn, and the television was off. A lamp on the end table provided the only lighting. The mantel clock ticked above the redbrick fireplace. Tanya stared nervously down at her hands. A neighbor’s dog barked across the street, making her jump.

Her mother looked on with concern. “Sweetheart, why don’t you try to get some sleep?”

She looked up, eyes glassy. She just shook her head.

The telephone rang, giving them both a jolt. Tanya rose and grabbed the phone on the end table.

“Hello,” she answered.

“General Howe broke the rules.” The voice was deep and garbled, altered by some kind of mechanical device, like the anonymous informants who appeared as silhouettes on television news shows.

Her eyes widened. “Who is this?”

“I’m national chairman of the Save Kristen Coalition. I’m calling for contributions.”