James Grippando - The Abduction

Allison closed her eyes, like a woman with a migraine. So much for being discreet, Harley, she thought. “Tanya, please. I can explain.”

In minutes, she told her about the scarlet letter photograph, the message scrawled in red lipstick, the traces of saliva found at the lab, the need for a DNA sample to test for a match. She skirted around the ever-elusive Mitch O’Brien, focusing instead on the two female suspects they’d identified so far-one of whom was her mother.

Allison braced herself for a loyal daughter’s fury, but Tanya’s response was slow in coming. Finally she simply said, “You should have told me what you were doing.”

Her tone was surprisingly reasonable, putting Allison somewhat at ease. “I’m sorry,” said Allison. “Honestly, I thought the chances of your mother being involved were so remote that I didn’t want to alarm you.”

“You’re right. My mother would never do that. And even if your DNA test confirms that the lipstick was hers, that doesn’t mean my mother was involved.”

“DNA tests are very reliable.”

“I’m sure they are. But that doesn’t rule out the possibility that someone took my mother’s lipstick and scrawled the message, without her knowledge. Someone like my father.”

Allison paused. Suddenly the chances of a DNA match seemed much greater. “That sounds more plausible to me.”

Tanya was silent, as if thinking something over. “Or,” she said quietly, “I suppose someone could have scrawled the message with her knowledge.”

“Is there something in particular that makes you say that?”

“Not a big thing, but big enough. My father came by this morning to see if I knew anything about the FBI looking into the death of Kristen’s father. My mom arranged the meeting, which doesn’t sound bad in itself. She just did it in a very surreptitious way. She obviously knew that my father wanted to grill me about Mark, but she never even gave me a clue about the purpose of his visit. In fact, she led me to believe it was going to be another attempt at father-daughter reconciliation. I never would have thought she’d mislead me like that, especially while my daughter is kidnapped. I guess my father has more control over her than I thought.”

Allison drummed her nails on the countertop, thinking. “Tanya, I don’t like to ask you to play spy, but is there any possible way you could get your mother and father together and just watch them? See how they act toward one another, listen to what they say to each other about Kristen’s kidnapping?”

“It would be hard. My father is campaigning full blast now.”

“He has to sleep somewhere tonight. Maybe he could spend the night with your mother in the spare bedroom. Tell your mother you’d like to have the family pull together as the crisis comes to a head.”

“He and I had a pretty big blowup before he left this morning. I don’t know that he’ll ever come back, even if my mother and I both ask him.”

“He’ll come back. If nothing else, I’m sure the image of family togetherness is something that appeals to his campaign instincts. To be honest with you, it wouldn’t hurt for the kidnappers to at least think that you’re pulling together. It might make them think they have an even greater chance of collecting a ransom.”

“Is this really necessary?”

“We’ve reached the point where we have to do everything we possibly can, as quickly as we can. If anywhere in your heart you feel there’s even a remote possibility that your father is in any way involved in that scarlet letter photograph I received or in the kidnapping of your daughter, then I’d say it’s absolutely necessary for you to get him in a position where you can watch him, at least for a little while. I hate to scare you, Tanya. But Harley and I both think we’re running out of time.”

“Don’t worry about scaring me,” she said. “I’m beyond scared.”

“I know you are. Just don’t let it paralyze you.”

She sighed deeply. “I’ll take care of it,” she said in a shaky voice. “Somehow I’ll get the general back here tonight.”

Kristen wasn’t sure she was awake. The last thing she’d heard was that voice in the alley, the scary guy who’d tackled her and said she’d never escape. The last thing she’d felt was that needle in her leg, like when those men had dragged her into the van and injected her with something to make her pass out. This time, however, the sleep seemed even deeper, harder to shake. Maybe this time she was waking before the drugs had worn off. Maybe this time a part of her just didn’t want to wake up.

Kristen Howe is not afraid. She thought it, formed the words in her mind, could almost see her mantra etched in big puffy white letters across a bright blue sky. But she didn’t believe, couldn’t make herself believe it. This time the mantra was nothing more than words. Less than words. Just lofty thoughts in the air that faded into smoke and dissolved in the wind.

She felt sticky, smelly, wet. Then a flash hit her eyes, though her eyes were not open. Another white flash, like lightning at midnight that brightens a black room and then leaves you in darkness. She opened her mouth to catch the raindrops on her tongue. But it wasn’t raining. And she heard no thunder.

She struggled to open her eyes, but the lids were too heavy. The harder she tried, the heavier they seemed. Sight was the one sense that completely eluded her. The others, however, were slowly come back to her. Taste, salty. And the smell was familiar. Like meat. Bloody, red meat.

Panic raced through her. Am I bleeding ?

Couldn’t be. No pain, not anywhere on her body. And the blood was cold-icy cold, as if it had been stored in the refrigerator. That’s what it was! It was like the pig’s blood in biology class, when the teacher took it from the refrigerator in the middle school laboratory, and the students put a drop on the glass slide to examine it under the microscope. The same pig’s blood she’d tasted on a dare from her girlfriends. The pig’s blood she’d smelled when those boys dropped the jar on the floor.

Pig’s blood. All over her body.

Another flash, this time even brighter. She was floating. Not just in her mind, but physically floating. Her eyes began to open, the left, then the right. Two narrow slits unaccustomed to light, unable to form images.

Suddenly it was raining. Warm water pelting her body, rinsing the sticky, thick, smelly mess from her body. Steam filled the air, more like a hot shower than any rain she’d ever known. The wet warmth made her sleepier. Her eyes were closing once again, but not without a lucid moment. White everywhere. White tiles above. White curtain at her side. Smooth white porcelain all around her. A dark red stream swirling down the drain at her feet.

Another jab in her leg-that needle again. Then blackness and a quick return to blissful sleep.

The pain was worse at the end of the day. Allison had been going through the motions since last night’s meeting with President Sires, never really absorbing the full impact of her “suspension.” Finally it was beginning to hurt. Friends were already expressing their condolences. Foes were smiling and sharpening their knives for the November version of the bloody Ides of March.

The mob of reporters outside her door had dealt the first blow. It was only a few steps from her front door to the curb, but it had seemed like miles. Without Secret Service leading the way, she might never have reached her limousine. The ride to the studio had offered a moment of peace, but it was fireworks again on ABC’s political talk show, This Week in Washington. One outspoken panelist, in particular, seemed out to get her.