James Grippando - The Abduction

Allison stepped back from the table, overwhelmed by the memories. In hindsight, it all seemed like a huge hole in her life. The size of the hole was measured in boxes, each bearing a printed date on the outside, starting with March 1992. Allison had never really focused on it before, but at first she’d filled a box a week, then a box a month, then a box a year. The last one had almost nothing in it, as if the boxes themselves were a sign of a lost trail and fading hope.

The boxes were stacked on the dining room table, end to end, in a mound that nearly reached the chandelier. Allison shuddered as she returned to the first box for a more careful review. At worst, it was like opening a grave, but she hated that thought. At best, it was opening old wounds.

“What exactly prompted all this?” asked Peter.

He was standing in the doorway between the dining and living rooms, wiping the attic dust from his trousers. Allison looked up from her seat at the head of the dining room table, peering over the box.

“It’s kind of a long story.” Her voice strained with dread at the thought of having to tell him about Mitch O’Brien.

“Maybe I can help,” he said as he pulled up a chair beside her. “I was there for you then. Why shut me out now?”

“I’m not shutting you out, Peter. Believe it or not, it’s even more complicated now than it was eight years ago.”

“It can’t be that complicated. Just tell me.”

She hesitated, then resigned herself and faced him. “Harley Abrams thinks there’s a possible connection between this kidnapping and Emily’s abduction.”

“Why?”

“Lots of reasons. But I think he’s suddenly very suspicious of my ex-fiancé, Mitch O’Brien.”

Peter winced. “O’Brien? What does he have to do with this?”

“I don’t know. But to be honest, in the back of my mind I’ve sometimes wondered about Mitch. Was it purely coincidence that I happened to be talking on the phone with him when someone sneaked into my house and stole Emily from right under my nose? Or was Mitch purposely distracting me?”

His eyes widened, as if surprised by the accusation. “But what does that have to do with Kristen Howe’s kidnapping?”

“Nothing. But we just found out today that Mitch is missing. Has been missing since some time before the kidnapping.”

“You think he’s in hiding?”

“I don’t know. But there’s more. He’d been acting strange a few months before the kidnapping. Before he disappeared.”

“How do you know that?”

“I saw him a couple of months ago. A couple of times, actually.”

Peter went rigid, then swallowed with trepidation. “What are you telling me?”

The phone rang. Allison paused, as if waiting for Peter to say it was okay to answer. He didn’t flinch.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “That could be Abrams. I really should get it.” She grabbed the phone.

“Hello,” she answered.

“Howe won’t pay.”

Allison bristled. It was a garbled, mechanically disguised voice. “Who is this?”

“Kristen’s guardian angel.”

Her pulse quickened. “What do you want?”

“I want my money. But like I said, Lincoln Howe won’t pay.”

“That’s his decision.”

“Maybe. But what about you?”

“What about me?”

“You saw the general’s speech last night. Howe says you’re rich, you and your husband. You want to let the girl die and watch your hopes of becoming president die right along with her? Or you want to save the day, hotshot?”

The words caught in her throat. “You’re getting in way over your head. This is a very dangerous game.”

“It’s just simple economics. Supply and demand. I supply the girl. Now here’s my demand. A million bucks, cash. By Monday. Pay it, or the girl dies. Be by the phone at eight A.M. We’ll talk.”

The line clicked.

Allison lowered the phone, momentarily stunned. This was a turn she hadn’t seen coming. She turned to face Peter, but his chair was empty.

“Peter?” she called out.

The front door slammed. She ran to the foyer and peered out the window. He was already in his Jaguar. She blinked with confusion, then realized that the telephone interruption must have left him with the wrong idea about her and Mitch O’Brien. When she said she’d seen Mitch a couple of times, Peter must have thought she’d seen him. She flung open the door and ran outside.

“Peter!” she shouted, but it was too late. The car squealed away. Peter was gone.

She felt an impulse to give chase, but there was something even more pressing. She hurried back inside and picked up the telephone, then punched out the number.

“Harley,” she said, completely out of breath. “They just called. It’s a whole new ball game.”

The quick response surprised even Allison. Ninety seconds after she hit the emergency call button, the first team of FBI agents were at her front door. Secret Service was right behind. Within minutes, the entire block surrounding her townhouse was secured, and checkpoints were posted on every street corner leading in or out of Georgetown. Agents patrolled the neighborhood, searching for any suspicious activity or abandoned vehicles. Police recorded all license tags, which would be run through the National Crime Information Center. Trained dogs sniffed bushes and trash receptacles on the sidewalks and alleys for possible explosive devices.

Inside, Allison’s home was becoming a fortress. Agents stood guard at the front and back doors. Forensic teams searched for any signs of an attempted break-in. Harley Abrams arrived with a team of crack technical agents who were eager to take her house high-tech. He was standing in her kitchen, leaning against her refrigerator with a pencil tucked behind his ear, reviewing a checklist on his clipboard.

“Security still needs to come up a notch,” he said.

Allison was polite, but firm. “I don’t want the FBI moving into my living room.”

“There’s a townhouse for rent across the street. We’re leasing it to set up a satellite command center. A team will be on call twenty-four hours a day. They’ll patrol the street on foot, blending right into the neighborhood. Even the homeless guy at the bus stop will actually be one of our agents. If anything happens here, the response time will be virtually instantaneous.”

“That’s good enough.”

“We’ll also install additional security cameras, which will feed back to the command center. Our techies are putting up at least eight more to cover every angle of the outside of your townhouse. They’ll be hidden in the lamppost, bushes, cars parked on the street. That kind of thing. No one will even notice them. It’s your call as to whether you want indoor surveillance.”

“Sorry, but I stopped posing naked in front of cameras years ago.”

Harley cracked a smile but remained professional. “I would at least recommend phone surveillance.”

“I need a private line. Not that I don’t trust you, but, well, I don’t trust anybody.”

“We can install a manual activation switch. Just answer the phone as you normally would. If it’s something you want us to hear, just hit the star key and punch eight. An agent will be on the line to record and trace the call.”

“That’s acceptable.”

Harley glanced at the telephone, which was resting on the counter that separated the kitchen from the family room. One of the technical agents was unscrewing the casing, busily rewiring it. “It would have been nice to have the phone monitor in place before this afternoon’s call. Although I’m not sure how he got your home number anyway.”

“It leaks out. I’ve always had to change it every few weeks. People hound the attorney general on all kinds of issues-abortion, gun control, capital punishment. You wouldn’t believe the number of organizations that pass out my address and phone number to their members.”