James Grippando - The Abduction

“We didn’t shoot!”

Allison froze as the agent spoke into his headset.

“Civilian down, Rock Creek Park at Tilden and Beech Drive. Possible sniper. Need back up immediately at all park exits. Request K-9 and helicopter search support.”

The agent kept talking, and the rain was falling harder. Her hair and coat were soaked. Peter lay motionless in a puddle. The adrenaline flowed and emotions surged at the sight of her dead husband-gone, though he was never the man she’d thought he was. She knelt at his side, her voice shaking as the cold rain pelted herlips.

“Don’t,” she said softly. “You bastard, don’t take Emily with you.”

Vincent Gambrelli slashed through the forest at a dead run. Low-hanging branches slapped his face. He slipped on wet leaves and mosses. His lungs were burning. Over the years, he had kept his lean body in excellent condition, but he wasn’t twenty-five years old anymore. He stopped when he reached an isolated trail. He leaned forward, hands on his thighs, catching his breath.

“Shit,” he muttered, seeing he’d stepped in horse dung. Then his eyes brightened at the sight of even more droppings all along the trail. A good thing, he thought-he had to be near the Equestrian Center. He jogged ahead and stopped. The stable was dead ahead. A horse!

He sprinted another fifty yards down the trail, slowing as he reached the stable. A light burned inside. He pulled the pistol from his jacket, reattached the silencer, and peered through the open stable door. An old man was grooming one of the horses in his stall. He appeared to be alone.

Gambrelli concealed his weapon in his sleeve and walked inside. The sound of the falling rain pattered on the roof. His footsteps were silent on the cement floor. One of the horses snorted as he passed, but the old man was too absorbed in his work to notice. Gambrelli stopped at the lighted stall.

The old man was standing beside the gelding, whistling some made-up tune as he combed through the black tangled mane. The whistling stopped when he noticed the stranger. “Sorry, mister. I’m closed.”

“Permanently,” said Gambrelli. He raised his arm and fired a muffled shot.

The old man clutched his chest and fell to the ground. He lay motionless at the horse’s hoof. Gambrelli rushed inside the stall and saddled up the horse. He put one foot in the stirrup, then stopped. This was suicide, he realized. No way could he ride out of this park like the Lone Ranger. The FBI would surely see or hear him galloping away.

A thin smile creased his lips. He had a better idea.

He jumped down, grabbed the old man, and threw him in the saddle. He tied his feet in the stirrups with leather straps. A long leather lunge line was hanging on the post. He snatched it and tied the old man’s torso around the horse’s neck. He looked like a jockey leaning forward in the homestretch.

“Come on, boy,” he said as he led the horse from the stall, then out the stable door. They stopped at the trail. Gambrelli looked up and listened. He could hear helicopters in the sky.

Perfect, he thought.

He aimed the horse toward the meadow, then laid the barrel of his gun flat on the horse’s hind quarters. It was grazing the skin, so the animal would feel the burn and the flesh wound without serious injury. He fired once. The startled horse screeched and took off. In seconds, the mysterious night rider was galloping across the meadow at full speed.

Gambrelli ran in the opposite direction, through the woods. He felt stronger now that he had a plan. He ran at full speed, reaching for every bit of long-distance stamina. He ran along the side of the creek-upstream, figuring the FBI might expect him to be swimming downstream toward the Potomac. He ducked beneath the bridge at the north end of the park, continuing right through, quickly covering another hundred yards on the other side, where he noticed the impressive granite monuments. He leaped over one, never losing speed. Headstones, he realized. He’d reached Oak Hill Cemetery. The terraced cemetery overlooked the park, making the climb like a giant staircase. Gambrelli reached the top terrace before he finally turned and looked behind him.

Helicopters with searchlights were circling over the meadow. He smiled to himself. The diversion had worked.

He turned away, toward the city lights and the street beyond the cemetery wall. He gave an extra burst of energy for the last hundred yards, then hopped the fence and landed in the bushes on the other side. He brushed himself off and walked to the sidewalk, giving one more quick glance over the park. The choppers were hovering over the meadow. It looked like SWAT members were swooping down on ropes. In a few seconds they’d realize their mistake-a few seconds too late.

He checked traffic and crossed the street, hailing a taxi in front of a restaurant. The cab pulled up to the curb, and he jumped in the back.

“Where to?” asked the cabbie.

“Downtown,” he said as he burrowed into the backseat. “And hurry.”

Allison stared into her steaming cup of black coffee. She was in the passenger seat of a parked FBI van, her body wrapped in a blanket to keep off the wet chill. The rain sounded like golf balls bouncing off the metal roof. Her chin dropped. She tugged at the microphone clipped to her sweater. Harley Abrams opened the driver’s side door and jumped in the seat beside her.

She stared out the windshield, into the inky darkness of the park. “He’s going to get away, isn’t he?”

Harley didn’t respond.

“It’s my fault,” she said. “I’m the one who got the bloody photo from Tanya Howe. I sent Peter the message. I’m the one who told you not to follow me. If you hadn’t put a tail on Peter after I called you, the FBI wouldn’t have even been in the neighborhood when this happened. I might have been killed.”

“It was a good plan, Allison. Just because something goes wrong doesn’t mean it was the wrong thing to do.”

“Now I just wish I hadn’t picked such an isolated meeting spot.”

“Peter had to believe he was meeting with the man he hired. If you were a hit man, you’d pick an isolated spot, wouldn’t you?”

She unclipped the microphone from her sweater and handed it over. “You heard it all, I assume.”

He nodded, not sure what to say. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

Her voice filled with sadness. “Part of me still doesn’t want to believe it. The whole time I was waiting in the park, ready to spring the trap, I kept hoping I was wrong. That it wasn’t Peter. Then there he was. And I knew.”

“I guess I can’t even imagine how that feels. To be searching all these years. Then to find out it’s your husband.”

She looked up. “You want to know how it feels? Think of the first time you walked into the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. The walls are covered with photographs of happy, innocent kids. It gives you a sick feeling to think that every single one of them is in a place very different from where their picture was taken. Then you walk down the hall, and there’s another wall with more photos. But this time the sign above the children doesn’t say ‘Missing.’ It says ‘Recovered’ You can’t help but feel a rush of relief and excitement. Until you realize that ‘Recovered’ doesn’t necessarily mean recovered alive.

“Multiply that feeling-that letdown-by a factor of about ten thousand. That’s how I feel right now.”

“Allison, after something like this, it’s natural for you to go through the full range of emotions. But guilt shouldn’t be one of them.”

“Too late,” she scoffed. “I’ve already told myself about a hundred times that if I hadn’t let Peter into my life, Emily never would have been abducted. And maybe if I hadn’t been campaigning all over the country, I could have seen the warning signs in Peter. Maybe I could have gotten him some help before it came to this.”