James Grippando - The Abduction

“Harley?” she asked.

Another crackle, but Harley’s voice was breaking up. Then a click, as if he were switching radio frequencies.

“Allison, can you hear me?”

“Barely.”

“We’re losing radio between ground level and the subway station below, and it’s only getting worse. Forest Glen is the deepest station in the metro system-twenty-one stories straight down an elevator shaft. There’s not even an escalator. I won’t be able to talk to you. Turn back.”

“I’m not turning back.”

“Damn it, Allison, I don’t want you seventy meters underground with some lunatic.”

“Then send someone with me.”

“All right, I’m sending agents to pose as riders.”

“Make it quick. I’m boarding the train in ninety seconds.”

“Allison-” His voice cut off. The radio was dead.

She stepped off the escalator and hurried toward the machines that sold Farecards. The line was long and slow-moving. She rushed to the old man at the head of the line and handed him a twenty-dollar bill.

“Buy me a card and you can keep the change,” she said urgently.

The people behind shot dirty looks and grumbled. The old man snatched the crisp bill and inserted it in the slot. The fare was only a few dollars. Allison left him the change, as promised, and grabbed her Farecard. The train arrived as she dashed through a turnstile that led to the platform. She elbowed through the crowd of commuters and stopped at the blinking granite lights on the edge of the platform, waiting for the doors to open. She checked her watch. Exactly 10:10. This was definitely the train. Her mind raced. She could abort and run the risk that the kidnappers would kill Kristen when she didn’t show at the Forest Glen station. Or she could just keep going.

The chimes sounded, signaling that the train’s automatic doors were about to close. She swallowed hard and stepped inside, hoping the FBI was somewhere nearby. The doors closed, and the train pulled away from the platform. She glanced out the window. The billboards and signs along the platform became a blur as the train picked up speed, then the view turned to darkness as she entered the black tunnel to the lowest point beneath the city.

She turned and surveyed the crowded car. She wondered if any of the passengers were actually FBI. She wondered if any were actually the kidnapper.

No turning back now, she thought.

Tanya rode to the hotel in the backseat of her mother’s car, crouched on the floor, hidden from public view by the tinted bulletproof glass. She couldn’t drive her own car without the media following. The only way to get out was to pull another car into the attached two-car garage, crawl into the backseat, and let someone else drive past the mob at the end of her driveway.

They reached the hotel at half-past nine Nashville time. The driver waited with the car while Tanya headed straight for the fitness center. A guest pass was waiting for her at the reception desk. She checked her coat in the locker room and quickly changed into her bathing suit. The attendant offered her a terry-cloth robe that bore the Opry Land Hotel monogram.

“Thank you,” said Tanya as she slipped it on. “Just looking for the hot tub.”

“Straight through that door,” the attendant replied.

She paused to collect her wits, then pushed open the door.

The room was small, but the mirrored walls on all sides made it seem bigger. Granite tile surrounded the octagon-shaped hot tub. The sun streamed in through the skylight, making the bubbles glisten atop the churning water. Tanya could feel the heat rising from the tub, but the sight of Buck LaBelle still gave her chills.

“Come on in,” he said. He was submerged to his armpits, his thick neck rising from the waterline like an old stump from the swamp. His arms extended out languidly along the ledge. His head was cocked back comfortably, resting against a rolled-up towel at the base of his neck.

Tanya stepped to the edge of the tub and removed the robe. Her bright yellow bathing suit was a bit more revealing than she would have liked under the circumstances. She caught him gawking in the mirror, like a pimple-faced teenager peeking into the girls’ shower.

“Guess you work out a little, huh, Tanya?”

She ignored him, lowering herself into the tub and glaring at eye level across the foamy water. “Okay, I’m here. What’s this about?”

The lecherous grin faded from his face. “Your father told me about your conversation last night. I don’t know what you think you heard us saying, but you obviously misunderstood.”

“I know what I heard. There’s no misunderstanding. You used Mitch O’Brien to create a phony scandal about adultery, and now you’re out to silence him before the FBI can find him.”

“All your father meant was find him and talk some sense into the man.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well, you’d better believe us.”

She looked at him coldly. “Or what, Mr. LaBelle?”

He pulled himself from the water and sat on the ledge. His body was red from heat. His face was even redder, compounded by his anger. “Listen, you may be General Howe’s daughter, but let’s leave that out of this. The bottom line is, you threatened us-your father, me, the entire campaign. Now, it’s my job to respond to threats.”

“Is he involved in the kidnapping, Mr. LaBelle, or isn’t he?”

“Where in the world would you get the idea that he is?”

“A lot of little things. And they all add up to one thing. My father would do anything to be elected president.”

“That’s absurd. If that was true, why hire somebody to kidnap his granddaughter? Why not just hire somebody to blow Allison Leahy’s brains out?”

“Too obvious, for one thing. People might immediately suspect his campaign was behind it. And even more important, if you know my father, you know he doesn’t want a meaningless victory over a dead opponent. He wants a mandate. He wants to be elected president, even if it means killing his own granddaughter-anything to win, so long as it appears that his victory was fair and square.”

“You’re psycho, you know that, girl?”

“Maybe. But if my daughter isn’t home by tomorrow morning, this psycho is going on television to tell everyone what she thinks really happened.”

His eyes blazed. “It’s just like your daddy said. You’re nothing but a troublemaker.”

“I didn’t make this. You did.”

“Horseshit. You took one conversation out of context and used it to blackmail your father into doing whatever it takes to get your daughter home before the election. He should have taken you out back and slapped the shit out of you. But he’s such a decent man, his only response is to agree to pony up a million-dollar ransom. That’s a generous move on his part. And maybe it will even help get Kristen back. But let me tell you straight. You and your threats are hurting a lot of people other than your father-people who, up until now, may have been feeling pretty sorry for you and your daughter. You fuck with us, we may not be feeling so charitable.”

“Don’t you dare threaten my daughter.”

“I’m not,” he said with an icy glare. “I’m threatening you. ” He leaned back and flipped off the power switch, stilling the waters between them.

Scores of commuters had come and gone in the several Metro stops between Judiciary Square and Forest Glen station. Allison hadn’t moved from her seat on the right side of the aisle, third seat from the rear. She had a clear view of the entire car. A few empty seats, but most were taken. It was the typical mix of Washington riders. Shoppers with parcels from the downtown stores. Teenage boys clad in baggy clothes listening through headphones to what was undoubtedly rap music. Businessmen and women reading the Washington Post or the latest tell-all bestseller by a fallen Washington star.