James Grippando - The Abduction

“Do you still have the money?” were his first words.

“Yes,” she answered, a little dismayed by his priorities. “And by the way, I’m fine, too.”

“Sorry, honey. You looked fine on television. I just didn’t see the suitcase.”

“The FBI recovered it along with the suspects. We’re all heading to headquarters now.”

“That’s right across the street. I’ll meet you there.”

“Peter, I think you should just stay put for now. There’s a mob of reporters outside the Justice Building. I don’t want you to have to deal with that.”

“All right, I’ll wait here. Love you.”

“I love you, too.” She hung up and dialed Harley Abrams at the Op Center. They spoke as the FBI van raced through the red lights along Georgia Avenue, toward the heart of the district.

“If Nashville was strike one, Harley, this is definitely strike two.”

“I’m sorry, Allison. I just thank God you’re okay. You sure you don’t want to go to the hospital or something? Or I can have a doctor check you out when you get here.”

His concern for her safety took some of the bite out of her reply-but not all of it. “I’m fine, really. I just want to know what the hell happened down there.”

“Don’t know yet. When I lost radio contact with you, we flooded the train with undercover agents-seventeen boarded at various stops. I need to talk to all of them to piece things together.”

“Who stopped the train?”

“We did. The agent posing as the homeless guy in your car was in contact with the control car. The radios worked between points in the same tunnel. It was the surface-to-tunnel communication that we were having trouble with. When things looked like they were getting out of control, our agent gave the word to stop the train.”

“Any leads on those idiots who hassled me?”

“Nothing promising as yet. We faxed their fingerprints right from the Metro station. They all have records. Two have been charged before as adults. Small-time stuff. Drugs, car theft.”

The vans entered the FBI garage. Heavy metal doors rolled down, shutting out the pursuing media. The phone crackled with interference from the thick cement walls. “We’re here,” she said. “Meet me at the interrogation room.”

“I hope you’re not entertaining thoughts of interrogating the suspects yourself.”

“No, but I want to observe. Or at least listen.”

She watched as the suspects were taken from the van and rushed inside. The two boys looked confused, overwhelmed.

She grimaced, still speaking into the phone. “You know, these kids don’t look at all like the savvy criminals who would plan a kidnapping. They look more like the five or six people on the planet who still haven’t heard that Kristen Howe has been kidnapped.”

“We won’t know until we question them. Looks can be deceiving.”

“The one thing that has me really curious is something one of them said-the leader, the one who attacked me and grabbed the suitcase. Before he died, he said something like ‘Just wanted the suitcase, lady.’ Somebody had to tell him there was money in the suitcase. Why else would they target it? Why else would they spring their attack right before the Forest Glen station, where the kidnapper told me to drop the money?”

“We’ll get into all that in the interrogation. We’ll get the answers.”

“I know you will,” she said. “Unless the only one with the answers is the kid we shot on the train.”

Harley didn’t reply. She switched off the phone and entered the building.

Tanya Howe listened in disbelief to the live radio broadcast from Washington, alone in the backseat of her mother’s town car. She felt paralyzed, wanting desperately to know what it all meant for Kristen but far too afraid to consider the possibilities.

The driver had said nothing during the trip back from the hotel. She could only imagine his thoughts. The tips of her fingers were still pruned from the hot tub. Her skin smelled like chlorine. Her wet bathing suit was soaking through her overcoat. She had rushed from the hotel fitness center after the threat from LaBelle, too sickened and shaken to shower and change back into her clothes.

She peered through the town car’s tinted windows as they neared her driveway. Remarkably, the media presence had expanded on the street and sidewalk. Twice as many vans. Many more reporters and cameras. The usual sit-around-and-wait mode was over. They had sprung into action with live reports from Tanya Howe’s residence, filling airtime even though they had nothing to report.

The car radio suddenly regained her attention. The announcer had mentioned her father’s name-something about his arrival at Washington National Airport.

“Turn it up, please,” she told the driver.

The volume increased. The voices were jumbled, like shouting traders on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. Her father was reportedly at the airport, but it sounded like he was being mauled. Slowly the background noises filtered away. A reporter had apparently gotten a microphone in the candidate’s face. He spoke in a controlled but angry voice.

“I’m in no position to make a statement at this time,” said Howe. “However, I would like to express my sympathies to the family of the young boy who was killed in this morning’s shoot-out. I have no idea what our suspended attorney general was trying to accomplish. My only hope is that her rash and irresponsible actions do not result in further loss of life. Thank you,” he shouted over the follow-up questions. “I’ll have more to say later today.”

The announcer was back on the radio, but Tanya’s attention was turning to the mob blocking the entrance to her driveway. The car forged ahead like a wedge, splitting the crowd into two camps. The garage door opened. The car rolled in, and the door closed behind them. Tanya jumped from the backseat and ran to the kitchen door, eager to turn on the television. Her mother was waiting at the kitchen table. One of the FBI agents was across from her. The television on the counter was tuned to CNN’s coverage of the subway debacle. The volume was low, almost inaudible, as if her mother could bring herself to watch but not listen.

Neither Natalie nor the agent said a word. Her mother’s sullen eyes drew Tanya’s attention to the large brown envelope on the table.

“What’s that?” asked Tanya.

“It came by courier while you were out,” said Natalie.

“Who’s it from?”

“It doesn’t say.”

“What’s in it?”

“I didn’t open it. It’s addressed to you.”

The agent said, “We took it down to the field office. Our lab scanned it, had the dogs sniff it. No poisons or explosives. We brought it back for you to open.”

Tanya started to remove her coat, then realized she was still wearing her bathing suit. With her coat on she sat at the table, beside her mother and across from the agent. She reached for the envelope, but the agent stopped her.

“Let me open it,” he said. “If there are fingerprints or other physical evidence, we don’t want to lose them.”

Tanya nodded, acquiescing.

The agent pulled on a pair of thin latex gloves. Carefully, he slit open the envelope on the bottom, not the top, so as not to destroy any traces of saliva the sender may have left behind when licking the flap. With a large pair of tweezers he removed a flat piece of cardboard about the size of a legal pad. He held it up at the edges without touching the surface, the way an artist might hold a still-wet masterpiece.

The agent seemed to freeze.

Tanya trembled at his reaction. He was holding the cardboard square at eye level. She could see the back side as he examined the front. She shuddered at the message scrawled in blue ink: PIG’S BLOOD THIS TIME. NEXT TIME IT’S KRISTEN’S. KEEP THE FBI OUT OF THIS.