James Grippando - The Abduction

Tanya Howe was putting on her shoes, seated on the edge of her bed, when she saw her mother’s reflection in the dressing mirror. She turned, concerned by the troubled expression.

“What’s wrong, Mom?”

Natalie stepped into the bedroom and closed the door. “I just came from the grocery store. Buck LaBelle stopped me in the parking lot.”

Her concern heightened. She hadn’t said a word to her mother about the high-level conversation she’d overheard last night. “What did he want?”

“He told me what you did, Tanya. How you threatened your father last night.”

“Is that all he told you? That I made a threat?”

Natalie grimaced, then came and sat beside her on the edge of the bed. “Tanya, I know this ordeal must be agonizing for you. But the notion that you can bring Kristen back by threatening your father is just lunacy.”

“How can you say that, Mom?”

“I’ve been married to your father for forty years. That’s how.”

Tanya narrowed her eyes. “Did you know he intentionally smeared Allison Leahy’s reputation with that phony adultery scandal? He and LaBelle cooked the whole thing up with some guy named Mitch O’Brien.”

She blinked nervously.

“Did you know the FBI is looking for O’Brien? Nobody can find him.”

Her hands began to shake. “I-I don’t need to know about that.”

“Did you know he ordered LaBelle to find O’Brien before the FBI did?”

“Tanya, please.”

“Did you know he threatened Mark the night he died in that so-called car accident?”

She covered her ears. “Tanya-”

“Did you know that when I was pregnant he ordered me to get an abortion?”

She sprung to her feet. “I don’t want to hear it!”

Tanya froze in the chilling silence, her eyes filled with incredulity. “Damn it, Mom. That’s exactly how you’ve managed to stay married to that monster. Ignoring the other women, the brothels overseas. Blocking out the truth. Denying his deceit.”

“Stop it! That’s none of your business.”

“Just listen to me, please.”

“No! You listen to me. Mr. LaBelle is waiting for you. Now you go see him- right now. ”

She winced, confused. “Waiting to see me? Where?”

“At his hotel.”

“You’re his messenger now?”

Her voice quaked. “I love you, Tanya. And I love Kristen. But I won’t stand by and let you destroy your father’s dreams with this whacked-out theory that he’s behind Kristen’s kidnapping. Now go see Mr. LaBelle. He’s waiting at the fitness center on the second floor of the hotel. And bring your bathing suit. He’ll meet you in the hot tub.”

“Hot tub? What kind of nonsense is that?”

“He wants to make sure you’re not wearing a wire, and having you up to your neck in hot water is the only way to guard against that. He thinks you might take something out of context and use it against your father. He simply doesn’t trust you. And may God forgive me for saying this, but I don’t blame him.”

“Forget it. I’m not going anywhere.”

Natalie’s expression turned very serious. “Yes, you are. Mr. LaBelle assured me that this will be the most important conversation you’ll ever have in your life. And I believe him.”

A chill went down her spine. She was suddenly eager to go. “So do I, Mother. Somehow, so do I.”

Allison stopped at Fifth Street, midway between F and G streets. The mammoth redbrick Pension Building loomed before her.

“I’m here,” she said into the microphone, trying not to be too obvious about moving her lips.

Harley’s reply buzzed in her ear. “Got you. Go on inside.”

She checked her watch. She had ten minutes to get through the building and exit back on F Street. She wasn’t sure why the kidnappers wanted her to walk through it, when she could have just as easily walked around it. Maybe they were watching, and they just wanted to make sure she’d go wherever they sent her. Or perhaps they simply had a flair for the poetic, and they were toying with the woman who dreamed of being president. The Pension Building, after all, had been the site of every presidential inaugural ball since Grover Cleveland’s election.

Allison climbed the front steps and entered the vast open atrium-one of the city’s truly great interiors. The eight central Corinthian columns were the largest in the world, rising to a height of seventy-six feet. The plaster casings were painted to resemble Siena marble, and the entire building had the awe-inspiring feel of the Italian Renaissance. As she passed beneath the arching ceilings, she felt dwarfed by it all-physically, but not emotionally. The grand and timeless surroundings seemed to mock the significance of any single person doing any single deed at any single moment in time. Allison, however, was undaunted.

This was important.

She exited on the side, straight onto F Street. She spotted the fireplug the kidnapper had mentioned on the phone. She stopped at the curb, just a few feet from the plug, suitcase firmly in hand.

Harley’s voice was in her ear. “Just stay put. We’re watching you.”

The pay phone rang nearby at the curb. Several pedestrians passed by, ignoring it. It kept ringing. Allison looked around, unsure of what to do. She checked her watch. Exactly ten o’clock.

“Answer it,” said Harley.

She stepped toward the phone and lifted the receiver. “Hello.”

A quick response, a gravelly voice: “Cross F Street to Judiciary Square. Wait at the police memorial.” The line clicked.

She shook her head with confusion, then spoke to Harley. “Did you hear?”

“Yes. Proceed. We’re still watching you.”

She glanced up the sidewalk, then in the other direction, seeing nothing conspicuous. Nice surveillance, she thought, then hurried across F Street.

Judiciary Square was exactly what the name implied, the district’s judicial core, home to both the city and federal courthouses. The police memorial the caller had mentioned had to be the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial, a three-foot-high wall that bore the name of more than fifteen thousand American police officers who had been killed in the line of duty since 1794. Allison had attended the dedication in 1991. Another poetic flair, she presumed-a not-so-subtle message that if the cops were tailing her, there might be a few more names on the wall.

She stopped at a panel near the center of the wall. Behind her, a pay phone rang.

This time she didn’t hesitate to answer. “What now?”

“See the subway station?”

She turned, searching. The tall brown pylon marked METRO was about twenty meters away. “Yes.”

“Go down the escalator. Take the red line, Wheaton train, to the Forest Glen station. Get out and wait on the platform.”

“Which train?” she said with urgency, sensing he was about to hang up. “They run every few minutes.”

“The next train,” he replied. “It leaves at ten past the hour. Don’t miss it. Or Kristen pays.”

The line clicked.

She hung up quickly and looked around, wondering which, if any, of the people milling about the square were her FBI escorts.

“Did you hear?” she asked Harley.

“Yes, wait there. I don’t want you in the subway.”

She started toward the station entrance. “I can’t wait. The train leaves in three minutes.”

She was walking fast, almost jogging, as she reached the escalator that fed into the tunnel. She walked down it, speeding her descent. It was a little unnerving, following a kidnapper’s instructions to climb into what was essentially a big hole in the ground. But she didn’t stop to think.

Suddenly a crackling filled her ear.