The Abduction

12

The disappearance and likely abduction of Kristen Howe was the lead story on the Tuesday evening national news. The FBI had reportedly ruled out nothing at this point, including the possibility that she’d been abducted by her own bus driver, who, along with the middle school van, was also still missing.

Lincoln Howe watched the evening network news from the backseat of his limousine while en route from the Nashville International Airport. After reporting what little information that had actually been confirmed, the broadcast segued into “news analysis,” which amounted to nothing more than wild speculation about the possible political ramifications of the abduction. Lincoln watched intently as a stoic young female correspondent reported from outside the Wharton Middle School in Nashville.
“While no one has claimed responsibility,” she reported, “the public perception so far seems to be that the most likely culprits are political extremists who want to keep Lincoln Howe from becoming president. That perception, combined with a nationwide outpouring of sympathy for the Howe family, has already propelled General Howe anywhere from five to seven points ahead of Attorney General Leahy in the latest polls, with the election just one week from today.”
Howe switched off the television. Never had he reacted so flatly to news of his own political momentum.
The limo slowed as it reached a redbrick house with a mansard roof. At least a dozen media vans were parked across the street, each with a different logo—EYEWITNESS NEWS, ACTION NEWS, and others. Wires and cables crisscrossed the normally quiet street. Television reporters primped and reviewed their notes in preparation for live broadcasts on the late news. Cameramen toting heavy equipment on their shoulders paced the sidewalk, searching for the best view of the house.
Lincoln peered out of the limo. The name HOWE on the mailbox brought a lump to his throat. Tonight marked his first visit to his daughter’s home.
Lincoln had seen very little of Tanya Howe since she’d dropped out of college thirteen years ago to give birth to Kristen. She had since earned a bachelor’s degree at night school, and she now taught art history at the community college. Most of what Lincoln knew about her adult life had come through his wife. Despite the differences between father and daughter, Natalie had remained close to her. She had been at Tanya’s side since noon today, with the first reports of Kristen’s disappearance.
The media encircled the limousine in the driveway. Three Secret Service agents pushed the mob back to the street. General Howe emerged without ceremony and headed up the walkway to the front door. His wife Natalie answered. She was incredibly calm with a stiff expression, but Lincoln knew she was just trying to be strong in front of their daughter. She led him straight to the dining room, where Tanya was seated at the table. Two FBI agents sat across from her, one taking notes as she spoke. The conversation stopped as General Howe and his wife appeared in the doorway.
Tanya was blessed with her mother’s looks and her father’s brain. Her sparkling eyes normally lit up the room. Tonight, Lincoln noted, they were puffy and red. Her hand clenched a wadded tissue.
She glanced at the FBI. “Excuse me a moment, please.”
They gathered their notes and disappeared into the kitchen. Natalie followed. Lincoln laid his trench coat aside and closed the pocket door between the kitchen and dining room, giving them privacy. He waited for his daughter to rise, feeling the urge to embrace her, despite their past differences. She didn’t move. He took the chair at the far end of the table, away from Tanya.
She stared at him, saying nothing in the dim glow of a brass chandelier. Her face was expressionless, her troubled eyes impassive. Finally she spoke.
“I wondered if you’d come.”
“Of course I would come. You’re my daughter.”
“And Kristen? What is she?” Her eyes narrowed. “Is it still that hard for you to say she’s your granddaughter?”
“Let’s not get into that, okay?”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m here for you. Right now, that’s all that matters.”
“Did you wave to the cameras on your way in?”
“That’s not why I came.”
“Exactly why did you come, then? To tell me this is God’s way of punishing me for having a child out of wedlock? Or to tell me if I had listened to you and had an abortion in the first place I never would have gotten myself into this mess?”
He winced and shook his head. “How can you say those things?”
“Look me in the eye and tell me you haven’t thought those things.”
He blinked, then look away. “I can’t change the past. I know I haven’t been much of a grandfather.”
“You don’t even know Kristen. All she’s ever been to you is an illegitimate political liability.”
“That isn’t true, Tanya. But even if you think those things, we have to put our differences aside now. I know this is the worst thing that could ever happen to a parent, and I understand your anger. Maybe you even blame me for putting our family in the public spotlight.”
“I blame you for putting us at risk. You knew that something like this could happen. But you ran anyway.”
He paused, then spoke in his most sincere tone. “I want you to know I’ll do everything in my power to bring Kristen back.”
“Oh, really?” she said with doubt in her eyes. “What if the kidnappers are genocidal racists who will do anything to keep a black man from being elected president? What if they threaten to kill Kristen unless you withdraw from the race and let your white opponent or your white VP walk into the White House? Would you do that?”
He struggled. “We can’t just give in to terrorism. I know you don’t want me to do that.”
“Yes.” Her voice shook. “I do want you to do that. I want my daughter back—period. So don’t you dare come into my house and tell me you’ll do whatever it takes to get her back if you don’t mean it.”
“I will do whatever it takes. Within reason.”
“Within reason? What’s more important than the life of an innocent twelve-year-old child?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is that simple.” Her glare tightened. “Mother may have forgiven you for the way you’ve lived your life, but I haven’t. You’ve always made the wrong choices. You chose the military over your wife and children. And you’ll choose the presidency over the life of your own granddaughter. Family first—so long as it doesn’t get in the way of your ambition. It’s your nature, Lincoln Howe. It’s just your nature.”
He tried to speak, but emotion had hold of his throat. “I—”
She rose from her chair, cutting him off with a wave of her hand. “Please, just leave.” She crossed the room and handed him his coat.
He rose slowly, then stopped before the pocket door, his shoulders slumped. His eyes met hers. “Tanya, I’m truly sorry.”
Her lips quivered. “Tell it to Kristen,” she said, then showed him the door.


Allison took a room at the airport Marriott. She wasn’t sure if she was spending the night in Nashville, but she needed a place to change clothes and shower off the smell of the river. While unpacking, she realized Peter was waiting for her at a previously arranged fund-raiser in Kansas City. Surely by now he realized he was going stag. She phoned him anyway and told him all she knew, which wasn’t much more than he’d already heard on the evening newscasts.
“I can’t believe this happened,” she said as she grabbed a diet soda from the mini-bar.
He scoffed. “The only thing I can’t believe is that stuff like this doesn’t happen more often. The world is crazy. You should know that better than anyone. Maybe in your own mind you’ve tried to downplay the dangers of campaigning, so that you’re not checking over your shoulder for some lunatic every time you take a step. But if you truly can’t believe this happened, you’ve brainwashed yourself too thoroughly.”
“I didn’t mean I literally can’t believe it. I just meant it’s horrible when something like this happens. I know you worry about me, Peter. But I’m not stupid.”
“Allison, I love you. And you’re without a doubt the smartest woman I’ve ever met. But every now and then, I honestly do worry that your view of politics is a little too romantic for your own good.”
She kicked off her shoes and plopped on the bed. “Peter, I ran my first election in Chicago—a city where my grandmother voted for six years after she was dead. I’m well aware that politics is no romance.”
“Your roots are solid, that’s for sure.” He lowered his voice, turning more sincere. “It’s the more recent experiences that I’m worried about. I hinted at this over a year ago, when you were first talking about running. But you just didn’t seem to want to hear it.”
She sat up against the headboard. “Hear what?”
“In hindsight,” he said with some difficulty, “don’t you think the loss of your daughter made your introduction to Washington a little…misleading?”
“What does Emily have to do with this?”
He paused, well aware of the delicate nature of the subject matter. “That was the greatest tragedy of your life, no doubt. But at the same time, it was your greatest unspoken political advantage.”
“I never used Emily for political advantage.”
“Of course not. But the fact is, no one could attack a woman who had lost a child. Not your opponents, not the press. Even when you were nominated for attorney general, you were insulated from the usual character assassination that goes on in Senate confirmation hearings. The city embraced you—exulted in you—from the day you stepped foot into the Justice Building. You’re a wonderful person and extremely talented. I’m not dismissing that. But at least part of the reason they loved you so much is because, deep down, they felt sorry for you and wanted to see you rebound. It’s human nature.”
“As much as I’d like to, I can’t change my past.”
“And now, Lincoln Howe can’t change his. So don’t be surprised if voters feel the same sympathy toward him. More important, don’t be surprised if he milks it.”
“Funny. That’s what David Wilcox thinks, too.”
“You disagree?”
She gazed into the mirror above the bureau, thinking of the way her opponent had run with the adultery accusations. “After the debates,” her voice tightened, “I guess nothing would surprise me.”


Photographers peered through the windows as the general’s stretch limo pulled away from the house. He was oblivious to the swarming media, alone in the backseat and deep in his thoughts. What his daughter had said wasn’t far from the truth. He had indeed made choices. The jungles of Vietnam over the birth of his son. A tour in Korea over Tanya’s school plays and piano recitals.
And now this.
They rode in expressway traffic for several minutes, then he glanced out the window. They were crossing the river. A chill hit his spine. He knew at that very moment divers were feeling their way through inky black river water, groping for anything that resembled a body.
A sudden nausea swelled from within. He leaned forward and tapped on the privacy partition that separated him from the driver and Secret Service agent in the front seat. The partition slid open.
“I want to make a stop,” he said.
The driver caught his eye in the rearview mirror. “But, sir, your plane.”
“I don’t care. Exit here.”
General Howe directed them past the downtown area, toward Fisk University and the surrounding neighborhood from which Kristen had been abducted. He drew several deep breaths as they passed Martin Luther King, Jr., High School, the destination she’d never reached. Wooden barricades and yellow police tape blocked access to Seventeenth Avenue, her usual route.
“Stop here,” said Howe.
The limo stopped in the intersection, perpendicular to the temporarily closed Seventeenth Avenue. The lighting was poor, but with some effort the general could still see all the way down the street, clear to Fisk University. The FBI and other law enforcement officers were slowly walking the area, searching for evidence. Flashlights dotted the neighborhood like flittering fireflies. Scent dogs from K-9 patrol zigzagged down both sides of the street. The steady whump of helicopters beat overhead, scanning the fields with infrared sensors, picking up body heat in the darkness. To the general, it seemed about as futile as the “urine sniffers” used in Vietnam, high-tech sensors that detected concentrations of excrement so that American bombers could pinpoint the enemy—or obliterate hapless groups of wandering peasants and smelly herds of water buffalo.
Anxiety set in as he watched from the back of his limo, the image of twelve-year-old Kristen burning in his mind. Who would do such a thing? he wondered. To be sure, a man didn’t reach his stature without making enemies. Some of his decisions had ended promising military careers. Many of his orders had gotten soldiers killed. Too, he couldn’t rule out the lunatic who simply didn’t like the way he looked.
An FBI agent tapped on the windshield. The driver opened the window.
“You can’t park here,” said the agent.
The driver was about to protest, but Howe intervened. “It’s okay,” he told his driver. “Let’s be on our way.”
A traffic cop rerouted them to a side street. They rode in silence for several short blocks, until they reached Fisk University.
“Stop here,” said Howe.
The driver stopped beside Fisk Memorial Chapel. Howe peered out the window. The old brick building was impressive in the moonlight, with a tall center bell tower and Gothic stone windows.
“I want to get out.”
The Secret Service agent did a double take. “Here?”
Howe nodded. “I want to say a prayer,” he said with a lump in his throat. “For my granddaughter.”
The agent sighed, but he couldn’t argue. He spoke into his hand-held radio. “This is Bravo-one. Short stop at Fisk campus. Must leave the vehicle.” After a brief pause, a clipped confirmation crackled over the radio. He glanced back at the general. “Let’s go.”
The agent led him up the steps to the double doors beneath the arched Romanesque entrance. He pulled on one door. Locked. He tried the other. Also locked.
“Sorry, sir. But it is late.”
His heart sank with disappointment. He turned slowly and walked back to the car. A sadness washed over him that bordered on despair. Being turned away by his daughter was bad enough. But had God shut His doors?
They walked side by side down the chapel’s front steps, until the agent stopped short. His expression turned very serious as he adjusted the ear piece on his radio.
The general watched with concern. “What is it?”
The agent paused, then looked him in the eye. “Divers found a body in the river, sir. No positive ID yet. They’re pulling it out now.”
His mouth went dry. “Where?”
“South of the Jefferson Street Bridge.”
He looked away, suddenly in a daze. “Let’s go there.”
The agent helped him into the backseat, then walked around to the front of the car.
As the engine started, the general’s hands began to tremble. A tightness gripped his chest. He suddenly needed air. He’d felt this way only once before in his life, some thirty years ago, after getting word that his best friend had stepped on a powerful land mine off the Ho Chi Minh Trail. He reached forward and closed the partition between the back and front seat, so the driver and the agent wouldn’t be able to see him. Then his chin hit his chest as he fought back the tears.
They flowed slowly at first, then like never before. In a matter of moments he was sobbing cathartically, releasing emotions that had been swelling for years.
A hundred yards away, from the front seat of a Ford Taurus parked at the dark end of the grassy campus quadrangle, a photographer focused his telephoto lens. The infrared camera cut through the darkness, zeroing in on the general’s face as if it were daylight. Howe looked haggard and beaten, much older than his years. Tears were plainly visible.
The shutter clicked. A perfect shot.
The limousine pulled away from the chapel.
The old Ford raced in the opposite direction, picking up speed with each passing second.