The Abduction

The Abduction-by James Grippando



Prologue: March 1992

At eleven o’clock, the screaming finally stopped.
It had started as a whimper, faint but steady. With each shaky breath it strengthened, growing more shrill by the minute, culminating in a desperate spate of primal pleas that defied the bounds of language, that barely sounded human.
Tonight, like every night, Allison Leahy could only cringe at the cries of her four-month-old daughter. That the pediatrician declared it “normal” didn’t make it any softer on the ears. Something had to be bothering her baby, though Allison had the distinct and helpless feeling that little Emily would probably reach puberty by the time Mommy figured it out.
She did have a few theories—fears, actually, that tormented her in flashes of panic. It could be serious, a psychological sign that Emily was rejecting her adopted mother. Maybe it was one of those dreaded syndromes, the lasting legacy of an unknown teenage mother on a prenatal diet of vodka and cigarettes. Or was the problem just Allison? It was entirely possible her friends were right: It was crazy for a thirty-nine-year-old career woman to adopt a newborn when there was no father on the horizon.
Fortunately, her paranoia usually melted at the mere sight of that little face—the turned-up nose and perfect little mouth that prompted people to say she looked just like her mother. Not her biological mother. Her real mother. Allison relished the resemblance, even if it was mere coincidence.
“You asleep, pretty baby?” she whispered hopefully.
Emily slumped in her car seat, multiple chins on her chest. The silence was a clear “affirmative.”
Allison switched off the clothes dryer. She couldn’t recall where she’d picked up the helpful tip, but perching an infant in a car seat atop a warm, vibrating dryer was like mechanical Sominex. She bundled her baby in her arms and headed across the kitchen. They paused before the portable television that rested on the Corian countertop. Anthony Hopkins was happily thanking the academy for his Best Actor award. Emily’s sleepy eyes popped open, as if she were somehow taken by the Hollywood magic.
Allison smiled and continued down the hall, speaking in a soft, gooey mommy voice as they entered the nursery. “That’ll be you someday, sweetheart. Maybe by then even all those silly old men out in Hollywood will realize they don’t give separate awards for ‘best boy director’ and ‘best girl director,’ so they don’t need ‘best actress’ and best actor,’ either. You’ll be Emily Leahy, best actor. Better than all the boys and all the girls. Because you’re just the best. Yes,” she gushed, “that’s what you are: duh best!”
She laid her little fourteen-pound prize atop the pink cotton sheets in the crib, thankful that her chronic inability to keep her convictions to herself hadn’t in this instance rendered ninety minutes of standing over the dryer completely futile. Emily was sound asleep. Maybe she was getting used to a mother who wasn’t afraid to air her views. She’d better, thought Allison.
Allison had been raised during the Eisenhower era in a small town north of Chicago, where at age nine she was kicked out of the Catholic school for fattening the lip of an old nun who’d said her mother was going to hell because she was divorced. She completed her education in public schools, graduating second in her class at the University of Illinois College of Law, class of ’76. In just two years she gained national recognition as counsel for the Consumer Safety Defense Fund. Eleven infants thought to have died from sudden infant death syndrome were actually the victims of knock-off teddy bears stuffed with old rags that still bore the remnants of an odorless but highly toxic cleaning solvent. Allison paved the way for the government to bring slam-dunk criminal charges against the top executives who had approved the cost-cutting scheme. Her tenacity had caught the eye of the United States Attorney, who promptly hired her. In six years she’d never lost a case. After a four-year stint in Washington as the youngest-ever chief of the Justice Department’s public integrity section, she came home to Chicago and entered the world of real politics. At age thirty-six she won the hotly contested race for Cook County State Attorney, with 60 percent of the vote. The female half of the electorate had clearly responded to her message that women were too often the victims of violent crime. Even her own pollsters, however, weren’t sure whether male voters had been moved by the issues or by what her sexist opponent called the “Princess Grace factor.” The burdens of three years in office hadn’t robbed her of the look, though her long blond hair was now shoulder-length, and her big hazel eyes more often blinked with skepticism. She was a woman in transition, her mother had recently told her, from striking beauty to elegant self-assuredness.
“Good night, darling,” she said as she planted a kiss on Emily’s forehead. She placed the transmitter for the electronic baby monitor on the dresser beside the crib. The small cordless receiver fit easily into the deep pocket of her terry cloth robe. She switched on the volume. It was like eaves-dropping on your own baby, a one-way wiretap of sorts that allowed worried parents to wander around the house or sleep in another room without missing a single coo or gurgle. Allison adjusted her receiver to clear the static, then switched off the Winnie the Pooh lamp on the dresser and headed for the master bedroom.
The phone rang, striking panic. She snatched up the cordless telephone and ran to the guest bedroom at the other end of the house, far away from the sleeping angel for whom there would be hell to pay if she woke up now.
“Hello,” she answered in a husky whisper.
“Hi, it’s Mitch.”
She sighed. Mitch O’Brien, her ex-fiancé. Their engagement had lasted three years, until Allison finally admitted that her failure to set a wedding date wasn’t mere procrastination. It had been nearly eight months since their amicable breakup, but ever since he’d called three months ago to congratulate her on the adoption, he’d made a habit of calling every Monday night. Allison didn’t mind, though when she’d told him she hoped they could remain friends, she didn’t exactly mean best friends.
“So how’s little Miss America?” he asked.
“That was last week. This week she’s best actor.”
“You mean best actress.”
“We’ll see about that,” she said coyly.
A happy gurgle crackled over the baby monitor. Emily seemed to concur.
Allison smiled. “Actually, she’s so chatty lately I may groom her to replace Oprah in 2010. How’s this for her first show? Michael Crichton and Martha Stewart jointly touting their delicious new cure for cancer.”
Mitch laughed, then changed the subject. He was soon fishing to see how things were going in the dating department. She did have a new “significant other,” though a long-distance relationship with a man who lived in New York hardly seemed significant compared to what was in the next room. Allison was tuning out, focusing instead on the happy sounds of her baby transmitted by the monitor. To all else she was nearly oblivious—to Mitch’s words, to the passage of time.
To anything in the world that didn’t revolve around Emily.


“The Taker” was getting interference. He’d been parked at the end of Royal Oak Court for over ninety minutes, where the radio signal had been strong and clear. A steady chorus of gurgles and sighs, followed by intermittent snorts—the infantile version of sawing logs. Now, the airwaves were filled with annoying static, peppered with an occasional lapse into inane conversation between Allison Leahy and Mitch O’Brien.
She’s on a cordless phone, he realized. The combined radio frequencies were screwing up the signal he’d intercepted from the Leahy’s baby monitor.
He switched off the digital electronic scanner on the dashboard. The crackling stopped. The van was dark and silent. He cracked the driver-side window to release stale cigarette smoke, then crushed out his Camel in the overflowing ashtray. The blinking orange light on the console said the miniature cassette tape was still recording. He hit the stop button, then eject. He had all the recorded cooing and baby grunts he needed—nearly ninety minutes worth, counting the audiotape he’d made on last week’s stakeout.
Thanks to his earlier handiwork, the streetlight was out on the corner, leaving the Leahy residence in a shroud of darkness. He removed his sport shirt and slipped the top half of a hooded Nomex body suit over his torso. It fit like a wet suit, a sleek and perfect nighttime complement to his black jeans and black sneakers. He checked himself in the rearview mirror and covered his face with black greasepaint. His camouflage complete, he wiped his hands and pulled on black rubber gloves. He never used leather. Animal skin left its own set of distinctive patterns, like fingerprints. Quietly, he stepped down from the van.
The ranch-style house sat toward the back of a heavily wooded quarter-acre lot. A thick, ten-foot-high hedge enclosed the yard for privacy. Beneath the twisted limbs of towering oak trees, a curved front walk stretched seventy-five feet from street to doorstep. He selected the tallest oak, the one closest to the house, then quietly broke through the hedge and started up the tree. In a matter of seconds he was stretched out on a long limb that hovered over the roof. Gently, he lowered himself onto the cedar shingles.
With three silent steps he reached the chimney. He knew from an earlier drive-by that the alarm box was fastened on the back of the chimney. It was the size of a large lunch box, painted gray. It was padlocked, but it had slats on the front that allowed the noise to escape when the alarm sounded. He zipped open his pouch and removed a spray can, then fastened a six-inch plastic straw to the nozzle. The straw fit perfectly between the slats on the alarm box. He pressed the nozzle, unleashing a stream of white foam insulation that expanded to fill the entire box. It hardened in seconds. The alarm was silenced without cutting a wire.
He stuck the spray can back in his pouch, zipped it up quickly, and climbed back down the oak tree. In thirty seconds he was crouched beneath the bedroom window in the rear of the house. The room was dark, but the little dancing bears on the curtains told him he was in the right place. He moved closer to inspect, almost touching the pane with the tip of his nose. No security bars or fancy locks here. Just the standard latch and filament that wired the window to the disabled alarm. It might be linked to a central alarm station, but he could count on them to take at least five or ten minutes to respond.
He smirked, as if it were too easy. Sure doesn’t take much to beat home security.


It was almost midnight when Allison hung up the phone. Mitch didn’t want to say good night, but she was tired and finally had to be almost rude about it. For the third week in a row their conversation had ended on an awkward note. This time he wanted to know if her single motherhood was causing any political backlash. To be sure, she was concerned about her continued electability. One newspaper had already raised questions about a system that allowed a certain state attorney to get in line for adoption before her wedding day and to stay on the list after her engagement fizzled. Nonetheless, she wanted a child. She didn’t think she should have to marry the wrong man to get one. And she was convinced that—right or wrong—adoption by an unmarried woman wouldn’t evoke the same moral judgments or create the same political baggage as a pregnancy out of wedlock.
Allison switched off the bedroom lamp and walked sleepily down the hall. The cordless receiver in her pocket continued to emit little Emily’s normal nighttime sounds. A little baby noise was nothing to worry about. It was sustained silence that sent new mothers rushing to the crib to make sure all was well.
She smiled with anticipation as she neared the darkened nursery. She peeked through the doorway, then caught her breath. The baby was on her stomach. Allison never laid her on her stomach. The recommended SIDS position was on the side or back. She hurried to the crib and leaned over the rail.
Her scream pierced the darkness.
A doll lay in Emily’s place. Allison frantically pitched it aside and unfurled the blanket, knocking something to the floor. She flipped on the light switch. It was a hand-held Dictaphone emitting the sounds of her baby.
She screamed louder and rushed to the window. The latch was unlocked. A round hole had been drilled through the glass—just big enough to allow a thin metal rod or a pointed stick to pass through and unlock the latch. Her horrified expression was reflected in the window.
“Emily!”
She raced from the nursery and down the hall, grabbing the portable phone. Without breaking stride she checked the kitchen, the bathroom, every room in the house, shouting her child’s name. She was still running as she dialed 911, then stopped at the kitchen counter.
“Somebody’s got my baby!” she told the operator.
“Just calm down, ma’am.”
“Calm down! My four-month-old daughter’s been snatched from her crib. Send a squad car right now. Nine-oh-one Royal Oak Court.”
“Are they still there?”
“No. I don’t know. I don’t see anyone. They took my baby!”
“I’ll dispatch a unit right now, ma’am. They’re on their way. Just stay inside.”
A car, thought Allison. They must have a car! She flew through the living room and out the front door.
“Emily!”
She checked the porch, the shrubs and the rose bed by the walkway. Thorny branches tore into her skin and shredded her robe. She sprinted to the street and checked for cars or pedestrians—anyone at all. Her chest heaved with a shortness of breath. A pain ripped her belly from the inside out, and a flood of tears warmed her cheeks. She glanced left, then right, toward both ends of the street. There was no sign of anyone.
“Ma’am,” said the 911 operator, “are you still there?”
Allison couldn’t answer. She fell to her knees at the end of the sidewalk, her shoulders heaving with great racking sobs. A crackling noise was coming from her pocket. Her hand shook as she reached inside her robe and pulled out the receiver.
A chill ran through her as she realized what it was. The baby monitor was still transmitting from the nursery. The Dictaphone was still on.
The recorded sounds of Emily were playing in her hand.