James Grippando - The Abduction

Tanya’s face showed no emotion. “Hello.”

He took another half-step into the room and closed the pocket door behind him. “Mind if I sit down?” he said as he pulled up a chair at the table.

She voiced no objection. He laid his coat on the chair beside him, then looked her in the eye from across the kitchen table. “Tanya, I think you know why I’m here.”

“Yes,” she scoffed. “Mom explained.”

He nodded, seemingly pleased to be able to dispense with the groundwork. “Good. I know it’s a difficult subject for you, but I’d appreciate it if you could just tell me whatever you know about it.”

Tanya winced with confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“You know. This whole thing with the accident.”

Her face showed even more confusion.

“You did say your mother explained, didn’t you?” he asked.

She shook her head slowly, sensing that this meeting had been arranged under false pretenses. Anger was beginning to boil inside-not just at her father, but at her mother, too, for sandbagging her. “Explain what ?”

He paused to organize his thoughts. “Maybe I’d better back up a little. It’s like I told your mother. Sources tell me that the FBI is looking into the car accident that killed Mark Buckley.”

She shivered inside. It had been twelve years since she’d even heard her father invoke the name of Kristen’s father. “Is that so?”

“I’ve come here because I think you might know something about all this sudden renewed interest.”

“Why would I know anything?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything. I was just wondering, has anybody come by to ask you any questions?”

“Maybe.”

“Tanya, this is no time to be coy.”

“What did you expect me to be? Submissive? Obedient?”

“Just honest.”

“All right. Here’s something I can say in all honesty. I’d like to know the truth about Mark’s death.”

“Tanya, you know the truth. We all know the truth. I hope you’re not looking to rewrite history.”

“No,” she said in a serious voice. “I just think a very important part of this history was never recorded.”

He glared sternly across the table, speaking in a level tone. “The boy hit an oak tree going eighty-five miles an hour. He was drunk out of his mind. That’s all the history you need.”

She sat erect, looking him in the eye, as if to say his tone would not intimidate her. “That night-that night Mark died. He called me. Very short conversation. He sounded drunk. Didn’t really even sound himself. All he said was, ‘Tanya, I think you should have an abortion.’”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him no, obviously. But this isn’t about what I said. It’s about what he said. It was very strange. An abortion was the last thing Mark wanted. He wanted me to have this child.”

“You don’t know that. What twenty-year-old boy really knows what he wants?”

“He knew. We both knew.”

“Okay. So he got drunk and said something he didn’t mean.”

“That’s what I used to think. But to this day, I can’t forget the tone in his voice. He didn’t sound like he was just saying it for effect, or even like he was saying it to be cruel. He sounded…scared.”

“Lots of boys get scared when they knock up their girlfriend.”

“I wasn’t knocked up. And it wasn’t that kind of scared. It was different. He was scared like I’ve never heard anybody be scared. Like, scared for his life.”

The general swallowed hard.

Tanya leaned forward, boring in with eyes that burned. “I think he knew what was coming.”

“That’s ridiculous. The boy got drunk. He got in his car. He smashed into a tree. End of story.”

“Then why were there no skid marks?”

The general paused, but his voice was firm. “Because he was so cockeyed drunk he passed out at the wheel.”

“That’s your theory, Father.”

“That was the coroner’s theory.”

“The coroner wasn’t there.”

He snapped, “Why the hell else wouldn’t he hit the brakes?”

“You tell me.”

“I can’t, Tanya. I don’t have a damn clue.”

“I think you do.”

“Don’t you dare show me that disrespect.”

She pushed on, defiant. “I know Mark didn’t really want me to have an abortion.”

“Tanya-”

“I think he said it because he was forced.”

“Stop.”

“He didn’t say it because he was drunk. I think he was drunk because he was scared.”

“Stop right there.”

“I think he was scared because he was threatened.”

“Stop it.”

“I think there were no skid marks because he killed himself. Because he had no other option.”

“Shut up, Tanya!”

“Because you gave him no other option.”

“Damn you!”

“Because you threatened him!”

“So what!” he shouted as he shot from his chair.

Tanya fell back in her chair, shaking and exhausted. A frigid silence filled the room. “So what ?” she asked incredulously.

The general took several deep breaths, checking his anger, considering his words. He walked away from the table, leaning over the sink as he stared out the window. Finally, he turned back to face her, speaking in a firm, even tone. “I told him to stay away from my daughter. That’s all I ever said to him. You want to call that a threat, that’s your choice. But I don’t hold myself responsible for some fool who gets himself drunk, gets behind the wheel, and kills himself.”

“But I do,” she said with contempt. “I most certainly do.”

A combination of anger and disgust swelled within her until she could no longer stand to be in the same room with him. She rose from the table and started for the living room, then stopped suddenly at the closed pocket door, preferring not to have to deal with her mother-the woman who had surreptitiously arranged this meeting in the first place. She turned and took the rear hallway to her bedroom.

A flurry of emotions brought a tear to her eye. In need of a tissue, she made a quick turn for the back bathroom, which was accessible primarily from the front hallway, but also from a walk-in storage closet in the back of the house. She passed through it. The bathroom door was closed, but she was too consumed in her own thoughts to even think about knocking before entering. She opened it, then froze.

One of the FBI agents was standing at the counter before the vanity mirror. Surprise covered his face, as if he were unaware that a second entrance to the room even existed, or at least that anyone ever used it. The door to the front hallway was closed and locked. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and he was wearing rubber gloves. A pair of tweezers lay on the counter, right beside a hairbrush she recognized as belonging to her mother. His left hand clutched a clear plastic evidence bag. His right was stuffed inside an unzipped cosmetic bag-also her mother’s.

He looked up, stunned, unable to speak or even move.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she snapped.

He nearly melted in her glare. “I, uh-I’m not sure I’m at liberty to explain.”

“Wonderful,” she scoffed. “Then let’s you and I talk to someone who is.”

Driving toward Georgetown, Harley Abrams considered a variety of clever and surreptitious ways to reach Allison’s townhouse without being noticed by the media. Certainly an early Sunday morning meeting between the lead investigator and the recently suspended attorney general would raise questions. But if he tried to keep it secret and was nonetheless detected, a “secret rendezvous” would make even better headlines. He decided against the furtive approach. Short of a sex change and digging a tunnel, nothing was foolproof anyway.