James Grippando - The Abduction

“Don’t do that to yourself. It’s like blaming a woman for marrying a perfect man who turns out to be a child abuser. Look, Peter was smart. He hid his problems not only from you, but from the media, your own political party, Lincoln Howe’s campaign sharks, the FBI, and everybody else who vetted the guy when you got involved in national politics. There’s no reason you should have known.”

She nodded, knowing he was right. But she still felt nauseous. “Do you think the shooter followed me here, or Peter?”

“Definitely you. If he had followed Peter, he probably would have noticed the agents who were tailing your husband. He would never have pulled the trigger if he thought the FBI was around.”

“What do you think set him off?”

“He’s tailing you, probably to make sure you’re heeding his warning to stay away from the FBI. You lead him out to the park, he sees you meeting your own husband. What else could it possibly look like? He probably thought Peter called you out here to get the two of you away from the FBI and everybody else-so he could confess in total privacy, no eavesdroppers. He couldn’t just stand by and let Peter tell you who he hired. So he wastes him.”

“How would he have heard what we were saying?”

“He didn’t have to hear a thing. One look at your face probably told him you weren’t out here bird watching.”

Allison shivered, recalling Peter’s words. “I still don’t totally understand it. He said he could help me find Emily. Why would he have taken my four-month-old daughter?”

“As I recall, you said he fell in love with you pretty quick, and you weren’t exactly responding the way he wanted. I mean, adopting a baby and telling a guy you’re not interested in marriage doesn’t give him much encouragement.”

“Yeah, but steal my daughter?”

“Maybe his plan was supposed to be just like the Kristen Howe thing. He hired somebody to take Emily away for a few days. Just long enough for him to step forward like a hero and offer a reward with his own money. All the courageous things that eventually made you fall in love with him.”

“Then why didn’t he give Emily back to me?”

“Maybe he got to like things the way they were. A strong, beautiful woman who’s been reduced to a basket case. She needs him, depends on him, can’t get through the day without him. Bringing Emily back would have destroyed all that.”

She grimaced. “That’s sick.”

“It’s psychopathic. But it happens every day. Some men beat their wives. Some men strangle prostitutes. Some men burn their girlfriend’s high school yearbook and photo albums. Domination and control. It’s what drives them.”

Allison massaged her throbbing temple.

Harley said, “If you look back at your relationship with Peter, I’ll bet he was happiest and most loving when you needed him. When you had a crisis. When things were tough at work. When someone close to you was sick or dying.”

“When I was losing an election,” she added.

Their eyes met. Each could tell the other was suddenly thinking of Kristen Howe. Allison’s phone rang in her purse, breaking the silence. Harley nodded. Allison answered.

“Hello.”

The response was cool, cocky. “Did you know that in the last eight years only a hundred and nineteen infants under the age of six months have been abducted in the United States?”

“What do you want?”

“Did you know that of those abductions, a hundred and ten were recovered? Most within a few days.”

Allison’s hand shook. She said nothing.

“Your Emily was one of the nine they never found. Nine. Have you done the math on this, Allison? Nine babies in the whole United States in eight years. Over four million births each year. What are the odds of being on the short end of that stick? But, of course, you’re used to beating the odds, aren’t you? How many women have been attorney general? How many women have run for president?”

“What’s your point, jerk?”

“My point?” he scoffed. “I’d say fate has found you, Ms. Leahy. For better. And for worse. See you at the hotel. Nine o’clock. Or both kids are dead.”

The line clicked.

Tony Delgado was moving as fast as he could, cursing his Uncle Vince for leaving him to do the grunt work. The temperature inside the garage was no more than fifty degrees, but sweat had soaked through his shirt at the armpits. In half an hour, he had completely loaded the van through the double rear doors. He shoved the last of the plastic five-gallon buckets into the cargo hold, then stood back to admire his work from behind the van. Fifty buckets in all, forty pounds apiece. They were stacked four-high, floor-to-ceiling, along each side of the van. The center was open from front to back, like a long narrow aisle.

He turned and lifted a large black trunk. It was light, empty. He slid it into the open space and opened it, like a casket.

“Good job, Tony boy,” he told himself.

He walked back into the house, stopping at the kitchen sink for a glass of water, then continuing to the back bedroom. The door was closed, but he opened it without knocking.

Kristen Howe was sitting on the floor, dressed and ready to go. She was blindfolded. Her mouth was taped. Her hands and feet were bound. Her body stiffened at the sound of approaching footsteps.

Tony unlocked the handcuffs that secured her to the bedpost. “Time to go,” he said. “Get up.”

She rose slowly, obediently. He untied her feet, then faced her toward the door. “Walk,” he said.

She took small steps. Her world was black from the blindfold, making each step a leap of faith. She could feel her captor’s hand on her shoulder, leading her across the room and down the hall. She heard a door open. Colder air hit her face. A step down. The floor now felt like cement. The garage ?

“Be still,” he said.

She cringed as he lifted her off the ground.

“In you go,” he said. He laid her in the trunk long ways, front to back. He checked her blindfold and the tape on her mouth. He readjusted the plastic cuffs on her hands and bound her ankles. All secure. He slid the trunk forward as far as possible, leaving a small space in the back by the doors. Finally he loaded the last bit of cargo into the van-a carpet cleaning machine, hoses, and a big canvas tarp.

The doors slammed shut. The sign on the back read, CAPITOL CITY CARPET CLEANERS.

He opened the driver’s door and jumped behind the wheel. The engine rumbled with a turn of the key. He turned around to check his cargo. The air holes on the sides seemed sufficient. She lay perfectly still, no trouble at all.

“You want to go home, don’t you?” he asked.

She nodded.

“You want to be safe, right?”

She nodded once more.

“Then lay there on the floor like a good girl. Don’t twitch an inch. Don’t make a sound.” He lowered the lid and covered the trunk with the canvas tarp, glancing at the buckets stacked all around her. “And whatever you do,” he said with a smirk, “don’t light a match.”

By six o’clock, the media vans were streaming into Rock Creek Park for live on-the-scene reports. With SWAT personnel leaping from helicopters and speculation running wild on police band radio, the story was breaking fast.

Allison and Harley were still in the FBI van when the SWAT leader radioed with more bad news about the murdered stable manager. She felt a tinge of sadness for the old man, followed by anger and more than a little fear. It chilled her to think she had just talked to the old man’s killer. He’d sounded so calm and incredibly cool-utterly remorseless for the taking of another’s life.

Harley and Allison scurried beneath the rain from the van to an unmarked car. They were headed down Massachusetts Avenue before the media mob had even confirmed her involvement in the park.