James Grippando - The Abduction

Humid breezes rolled off the warm Atlantic, rustling through palm trees at Hotel Fountainbleu. A boardwalk, rolling dunes covered with sea oats, and a wide stretch of open beach separated the ocean from the poolside café. Still, the soothing sounds of gentle waves lapping the shore could be heard in the darkness. Allison sat across from Mitch at a round Cinzano table, sipping a nightcap of Cointreau, straight up.

Allison had just delivered the keynote address at the annual meeting of the National Association of Attorneys General, a large gathering of attorneys general and their staffs from all fifty states. It was a good chance to talk tough on crime as her presidential campaign was turning toward the big autumn push. Mitch surprised her in the lobby as she was heading for the elevator. They hadn’t spoken in eight years. After Emily’s abduction, she’d broken things off with Mitch completely. He left Chicago and moved to Miami. She’d never felt any animosity toward him, however, and his offer to buy her a drink and catch up on lost time seemed harmless enough, preferable in any event to yet another hotel dinner with her aide.

“So,” asked Mitch, “how are things among the National Association of Aspiring Governors?”

Allison smiled. “That’s National Association of Attorneys General. And do you really want to know?”

“No.” He was smiling with his eyes. Mitch had warm, engaging eyes, an asset that this skilled criminal defense lawyer had used to his advantage on many a woman juror. What Allison remembered most about him were his eyes. That, and the irreverent sense of humor that used to make her laugh as she hadn’t laughed in years, since the disappearance of her daughter.

“I feel like we’ve been talking about me all night,” she said. “What’s new with you?”

“The usual crazy South Florida stuff that makes me glad I left Chicago. I’ve been offered a criminal case in Key West that I might actually take.”

“You’re kidding? I thought you’d given up practicing law for good.”

“I said I might take it. Just for grins. One of my sailing buddies got into a little trouble at the annual Ernest Hemingway look-alike contest.”

“Hemingway used to live in Key West, didn’t he?”

“Right. This year, they had the usual parade of gray-bearded macho men in bulky turtleneck sweaters-like the Hemingway postage stamp. Then the last contestant walks out looking every bit as much like the real Ernest Hemingway, but with an added touch: He’s sucking on the business end of a double-barrel shotgun.”

“That’s what you Miamians love about Key West. The rest of the world gets to snicker at your bizarre crimes and say, ‘Only in Miami.’ But every now and then you can look south and say, ‘Only in Key West.’”

“Well, it seems the other Hemingway contestants didn’t see the humor. They grabbed the shotgun, threw the guy in the trunk of an old convertible, and were zipping north on U.S. 1 at ninety miles an hour when a state trooper stopped them. Imagine the look on this trooper’s face when he pulls over a flaming red Cadillac packed full of Hemingways hauling ass up the highway. It’s not clear what their intentions were, but the trooper claims he heard the driver shouting, ‘Death in the afternoon!’ Mister big mouth now wants me to come out of early retirement and represent him. They charged him with kidnapping. Can you believe they’re prosecuting?” He laughed, then finished his sparkling water.

Allison forced a smile, but she didn’t laugh.

He looked up from his empty glass, alarmed by the somber expression on her face. “Something wrong?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I guess I suddenly felt funny about you and me sitting here laughing about a kidnapping.”

Their eyes joined. A stillness fell over their table, as if the sounds of the sea in the background were suddenly more audible. Allison looked away.

Mitch turned very serious. “You blamed me for Emily, didn’t you?”

Her mouth opened, but she said nothing for a moment. The question seemed out of the blue-but then again, it didn’t. “I don’t think blame is the right word, Mitch. I did associate it with you. Maybe that’s not fair, but I can’t get it out of my mind that I was on the phone with you when it happened.”

He glanced at the swimming pool, then back at Allison. “Do you think we would have gotten back together? I mean, if that had never happened.”

“No.”

He fell back in his chair. “Whoa. Didn’t even have to think about that one, did you.”

She sighed. “Mitch, none of this matters. I’m married now. I have a wonderful husband.”

“Yeah, and after seven years he still works in New York and visits you on weekends.”

“How do you know that?”

“You’re a public figure, Allison.”

She shifted uncomfortably. “What else do you know?”

“I know he spent over a million dollars of his own money trying to help you find Emily. I’m truly sorry you never found her.”

“Thank you.”

He leaned forward, cupping his empty glass with both hands. “I’m also sorry that you rewarded his generosity by promising to marry him.”

Allison looked him straight in the eye. Her mouth was suddenly dry.

Mitch didn’t blink. His stare only tightened.

“I really think I should go now.” She rose quickly, digging in her purse for a ten-dollar bill. She dropped it on the table.

He frowned at the money. “You won’t even let me buy you a drink?”

“Good-bye, Mitch.” She turned and started away. Her FBI escort rose from his discreet post by the door, ready to take her to her room.

“Allison,” Mitch called.

She stopped, then turned around reluctantly. It was the eyes. He snared her again with those eyes.

“It’s definitely not your fault,” he said, speaking softly enough so that no one could overhear. “But somebody still loves you.”

She blinked hard, barely comprehending. She turned away nervously and headed for the hotel.

The alarm clock sounded on the nightstand, rousing her from her memories. Her heart skipped a beat as she lunged for the snooze button.

Peter stirred and rubbed his eyes, then rolled toward her. He had the beaming face of a kid cutting school. “Good morning,” he said, looking up from his pillow.

Allison wiped a bead of sweat from her upper lip. “Yes,” she said with a troubled smile. “It’s going to be a very good morning.”

Early Monday morning, David Wilcox entered the White House through the tunnel that connected a subbasement in the East Wing to the basement of the Treasury Building. It was an alternative entrance for recognizable visitors who didn’t want their arrival noted by the press. Wilcox had insisted on using it, fearing that a highly visible, personal visit with the president might be seen as an act of desperation by the Leahy campaign.

Two Secret Service agents led the underground journey. One flanked Wilcox. The other watched Eric Helmers, the popular governor of Georgia whom Allison had selected as her vice presidential running mate. Helmers brought balance to the ticket in more ways than one. Aside from being a handsome and well-spoken southern man, he was a decorated Vietnam War veteran who had lost half of his left foot to a land mine. His lifelong work on behalf of the physically challenged had earned him national acclaim, and his well-publicized participation in the Boston Marathon each year was a genuine inspiration to everyone. Wilcox and the Secret Service agents were struggling to keep pace with him, short of breath and sweating at the brow by the time they emerged from the White House basement.

The meeting was scheduled for seven-thirty in the Oval Office. As usual, President Sires was late. Wilcox and Helmers sat in silence in the first-floor lobby of the West Wing, sipping White House coffee beneath a framed antique map of Colorado, the president’s home state. At eight-fifteen the president’s executive secretary led them to the Oval Office. Barbara Killian, the stoic chief of staff, greeted them at the door.