James Grippando - The Abduction

“Pictures? What kind of pictures?”

Gambrelli looked up. All traces of a smile had fallen from his face. “You’ll see. Just one good shot is all I’m after. The kind of shot that drains mothers of emotion. And families of their bank accounts.”

Allison tugged the bedroom drapes aside no more than an inch, just far enough to peek inconspicuously at the quaint Georgetown street below. The neighborhood was normally peaceful on Sundays at sunrise. From her upstairs window, however, she could see the media camped outside her townhouse. Some were sleeping inside parked cars and vans, staying warm. Others huddled in chatty circles along the old brick sidewalk, their faces indistinguishable in the eerie predawn glow from the decorative old street lamps. Dressed in wool hats and bulky winter jackets, they shifted their weight from one foot to the other in a dancelike ritual, fighting off the morning chill. Heads occasionally rolled back in laughter as they cavorted over steamy paper cups of coffee. She wondered what they jabbered about to pass the time. Football? Basketball? Or maybe the beloved blood sport of Washington, the ultimate spectator thrill-watching yet another presidential hopeful tumble off the high wire and splatter onto Pennsylvania Avenue.

She turned away from the window and crawled back into bed. Peter was sitting up with his back against the headboard, still in his pajamas, devouring the Washington Post. It was well before his normal Sunday waking hour, but they’d both been wide awake when the paper landed on the doorstep. The headline said it all: LEAHY SUSPENDED AS ATTORNEY GENERAL.

President Sires had indeed kept his promise and issued the White House press release. His chief of staff was scheduled to appear later in the day on Meet the Press to explain the suspension. Allison’s running mate, Governor Helmers, was appearing at that very moment on another morning newscast, doing his best at damage control. Late last night, the Leahy/Helmers campaign strategists had agreed that Helmers, not Allison, should do the early morning shows. He could stand up for her without sounding defensive, and he could draw out some of the sting on the less popular early morning shows so that Allison would be better prepared when the sharpshooting TV journalists fired away on the prime-time shows between 9:00 A.M. and noon.

Allison lay listlessly on the bed, her voice filled with dread. “I have to get ready.”

Peter looked up from the newspaper. “You sound like you’re going to a funeral.”

“I am, in a way. President Sires said it last night, and my own pollsters are saying the same thing. Statistically, I’m a lost cause.”

He tossed the newspaper aside. “I don’t hear any fat lady singing. Helmers and Wilcox and the rest of those guys wouldn’t be scrambling the way. they are if they thought it was really over.”

Allison shook her head. “At this point, everyone is just running on momentum, not enthusiasm. They’re not looking for me to pull off a come-from-behind miracle in the next two days. They’re just trying to keep my taint from spoiling Helmers’s shot at the White House in another four years.”

“Does Wilcox or Helmers know anything about how you agreed to pay Kristen Howe’s ransom?”

“No.”

“What about the president? Did you tell him?”

“No. I couldn’t. If any of those guys find out, they’ll exploit it. They’ll leak it to the press, try to portray me as a hero and swing the election back in my favor.”

“What,” he scoffed, “you don’t want to win?”

“Of course I want to win. But not at any cost. If word hits the street that you and I have agreed to pay the very ransom that General Howe refused to pay, it would be disastrous. Howe could override his daughter and forbid us from paying. The publicity could make the kidnappers back off and kill Kristen. Any number of things could happen, none of them good.”

“So-I’m confused. Are we paying the ransom or not?”

“Yes, we are. If they still want it.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The kidnappers are sending out some mixed signals. On Friday they demanded the money, then yesterday someone else called and said that Kristen is safe until the election is over. It sounds like they may be arguing among themselves, but we still have to be prepared to deliver the ransom if they call on Monday morning, like they said they would.”

“Do you really think you’re going to be able to keep this quiet?”

“We have to. I know it must be hard for you to understand, especially with headlines like today’s. But I promised Tanya Howe we’d keep this quiet because that’s the only way it will work. Bear that in mind when you’re finalizing the money. You might want to use several different banks, keeping each individual transfer and withdrawal small, so that no suspicions are aroused. Just do whatever you can to obscure the fact that we’re paying the ransom.”

He made a face. “In essence, you want me to promise that I won’t try to capitalize on the one thing that could help you pull off the election.”

“In a way, yes.” She shook her head, almost laughing at the absurdity. “I know it’s crazy. A year ago in this very room you begged me not to run for president. You said it would screw up our lives. Now look where we are. How ironic is this?”

“If you could only imagine.”

“Please, Peter. I don’t want anyone turning this ransom payment into a political football. Especially not you. Do you promise me that?”

He fell quiet, as if his mind were in another place. Then his hand slid across the sheets and he touched her face, his mouth curling into a soft, reassuring smile. “Of course, darling. I promise.”

Tanya Howe recognized her father’s black limousine in the driveway. She turned away from the window and glared at her mother. “What’s he doing here?”

Natalie was sitting at the kitchen table, stirring half-and-half into her morning coffee. The shaking spoon clattered as she laid it in the saucer. She spoke in a soft, nearly apologetic tone. “Your father asked if he could come over. I told him it was okay.”

“Why on earth would you tell him that?”

“Tanya, people are talking. The press is starting to say mean things. It reflects poorly on your father if he never even stops by the house when his own daughter is suffering.”

“So you told him he could stop by for a campaign photo op?”

“Sweetheart, no. I just thought-I hoped-that if the two of you got together in the same room, for whatever reason, maybe something good would come of it.”

“Forget it. He’s not coming inside.”

The doorbell rang. Tanya didn’t flinch. Natalie looked anxiously toward the living room, then back at her daughter. “Tanya, please. Do this for me.”

An FBI agent stepped into the kitchen. “Ms. Howe, it’s your father. Would you like me to let him in?”

Tanya struggled to say no, but she couldn’t get past her mother’s pained expression. She sighed with frustration. “All right. Fine. He can come in.”

“Thank you,” said Natalie. She rose from the table and scurried into the living room.

Tanya stared out the kitchen window as she waited, her eyes clouding over as she looked toward the old swing set in the backyard. She recalled how Kristen had needed a push from Mommy when it first went up. Before long, Mommy was dead meat if she even suggested her baby was swinging too high and shouldn’t be so daring. Kristen hadn’t used it much in the last few years, but Tanya had left it up anyway. Part of her had refused to accept that her daughter was growing up-the same part that refused to believe she wasn’t coming home.

“Hello, Tanya,” said General Howe. His deep voice snatched her from her memories. He stood alone in the doorway with his trench coat draped over his forearm.