The Abduction

13

The Nashville skyline was alight across the river, stretching from the traditional old State Capitol dome to the modern BellSouth Tower that resembled an ice palace. Police had roped off a stretch of the Cumberland River’s east bank, north of the Victory Memorial Bridge that fed into downtown and south of the Jefferson Street Bridge—the exact area Harley Abrams had ordered divers to search.

Allison had been alerted immediately to the discovery of a body. She arrived in an FBI sedan at 10:20 P.M., just as divers were pulling the body from the moving water.
In less than five hours, the temperature had dropped even further to a brisk twenty degrees. Lights from emergency vehicles bathed the law enforcement crowd in orange and yellow swirls. Swarms of helicopters—some media, some law enforcement—buzzed overhead. Divers struggled to maintain their footing as they climbed out of the river. Search and rescue team members stood ankle-deep in cold mud, guiding the polypropylene line that reeled in the catch.
Allison was thirty feet from the river when the body bag broke the surface. Water gushed from the bag’s mesh openings. It looked large for a little girl, though she knew bodies could bloat after a day in the river.
“It’s the bus driver,” said Abrams.
Allison started. He had seemingly come out of nowhere.
“Any sign of Kristen?” she asked.
“No.”
She felt relief and sadness at the very same time. “I want a top-notch forensic pathologist doing the autopsy. The locals can watch.”
He gave her a funny look, as if she were stating the obvious. “I’ve already called Walter Reed Hospital.”
“What kind of shape is the body in?”
“Water’s pretty cold, so there’s not much decomposition. But he’s pretty banged up.”
“Rivers can do that.”
“Yeah,” he scoffed. “So can thugs. I’ll be curious to see what our pathologist thinks.”
In the distance, Allison noticed a black limousine racing down a street that ran parallel to the river. It rocked to a quick halt in the parking lot above them, twenty yards away. The door flew open. Out stepped Lincoln Howe. His movement was erratic, almost spastic. An FBI agent approached him. Allison could see them talking. The general leaned against the car, apparently relieved. Allison presumed he’d just been informed that the body wasn’t Kristen’s.
“Excuse me a moment,” she said to Abrams. She started up the embankment, toward the limousine. It was a steep climb, and she was slightly winded when she reached the top.
The general was still talking to the FBI agent, but he stopped in mid-sentence when he saw Allison.
“Lincoln,” she said in a sympathetic tone. “Can I talk to you for a minute, please?”
He seemed surprised to see her. “Sure,” he said. He thanked the FBI agent, then opened his car door, inviting her in with a jerk of the head. “It’s warmer in here.”
He held the door as she slid into the backseat, then he slid in beside her and closed the door. He signaled with his eyes, and the driver and Secret Service escort emptied the front seat to give them privacy.
Allison swallowed hard, finding it difficult to speak. “I just wanted to say how very sorry I am that this horrible thing had to happen.”
“Thank you.”
“How is your daughter holding up?”
“About the way you’d expect.”
Allison blinked. She knew the feeling too well. “I know you’re probably hearing from hundreds of well-meaning friends who tell you that if there’s anything they can do, just ask. Well, I’m obviously one of the few people who is actually in position to do something helpful. I won’t let you down. I’ve ordered the Department of Justice to call upon its every resource to launch the largest manhunt in American history. We’ll find Kristen. We’ll bring her kidnappers to justice.”
“You sound like tomorrow’s press release.”
His tone surprised her. “I know we’ve had our differences. But this comes from the heart.”
“Thank you for sharing that. But let me be very frank with you. I heard about the little campaign photo session you held out here today.”
She flinched. Word traveled fast. Harley Abrams must have said something to his superiors. “That was a complete misunderstanding.”
“Call it whatever you like. I simply won’t stand for anyone using my granddaughter’s abduction for political gain.”
“And I would never politicize a matter like this. You have my word on that.”
“That’s not enough.”
“I don’t know what more I can give you.”
His eyes narrowed. “Then let me spell it out for you. I want you completely out of the investigation. Just step aside and let the FBI do its job. Director O’Doud is more than capable. He doesn’t need you looking over his shoulder for your own political purposes.”
Her mouth opened, but words came slowly. “This affects all of us, Lincoln. If it hadn’t been your granddaughter, it could have been my husband. Or maybe some fanatic with a high-powered rifle plans to take out me or you. Just because I’m a candidate doesn’t mean the country has to be without an attorney general. I won’t just step aside.”
“Fine,” he said with a steely glare. “Then prepare to be pushed.”
Their eyes locked in a tense stare. Allison broke it off, then opened the door. “Good night, Lincoln.” She stepped out, then glanced back. “And in case you’re wondering, I always push back.”
The door closed with an emphatic thud.


At 1:00 A.M. Wednesday Buck LaBelle was still on the telephone in his Opry Land Hotel suite. Since his promotion to national campaign director, he’d been living on three hours of sleep each night. A stained coffee cup and a bottle of bourbon rested on the table. Cigar ash dotted the front of his shirt. The television was on, but the sound was muted. He’d spent the last forty-five minutes screening the new campaign commercials for the final push to election day. A Madison Avenue media consultant was on the other end of the line. Buck was pacing furiously, fired up with anger as he shouted into the phone.
“I don’t want to see one more cotton-pickin’ commercial showing Lincoln Howe shaking hands with a black man. That demographic is already in our hip pocket.” He paused, still pacing as he listened with the phone pressed to his ear. “I don’t care if it does send a new message. Messages are lost on these people anyway. Hell, half the black men in America think Lincoln Howe was named after a f*cking town car. I want a new ad by five o’clock, and I want it geared toward white women. You got it? That’s our target group. White women!”
He slammed down the phone, then belted back the last of his bourbon. A knock at the door brought a groan from his belly. What now? he thought.
He checked the peephole. His lips curled into a smile as he opened the door.
In walked a man dressed in torn Levi’s, a flannel shirt, and an insulated hunting vest. His dark red hair was shoulder length. He took off his Atlanta Braves baseball cap, exposing his shiny crown of baldness.
“Pay dirt,” the man said with a devious grin. He pitched a manila envelope on the desk.
LaBelle eagerly opened the envelope and inspected the large glossy photographs. He shuffled through the entire stack, sucking on his cigar more intently as he moved from one to the next. They’d obviously been shot in quick succession, all of the same subject: Lincoln Howe, sobbing in the backseat of his limousine.
LaBelle grimaced as he looked up from the stack. “I can’t use a single one of these.”
The photographer leaned against the wall, stunned. “It’s what you wanted. Lincoln Howe in a sensitive moment.”
“Sensitive, yeah. Something that will make a hard-nosed old army general more appealing to female voters. Maybe a shot of him consoling his distraught daughter. Maybe even the general himself getting a little choked up and misty eyed. You didn’t bring me sensitive. You brought me a grown man blubbering like a baby in the face of personal crisis. How on God’s green earth do you expect me to get a marshmallow elected president?”
“You should have been more explicit.”
“Damn it, Red. Five years ago did I have to tell you to bring me a picture of Congressman Butler bopping his secretary? No. All I had to say was get him in a compromising position. That’s all I’ve ever had to say. You knew the drill. Except now, on the most important job I’ve ever given you, you suddenly go stupid on me.”
He shook his head. “Look, I did my job. It wasn’t easy tailing Lincoln Howe with all the extra Secret Service protection around him. And at least the first part of the assignment went off without a hitch. I made Leahy look like a political whore down by the river. I’m sure the FBI thinks she hired me herself to do a photo shoot of the attorney general on the crime scene. I was damn lucky to get out of there before Leahy caught on. I earned my five grand. A deal is a deal.”
LaBelle glared. He felt like telling him to take a flying leap, but he didn’t want to risk trouble from a malcontent with the election so close. He laid his briefcase on the desk, unlocking it with the combination. He removed a thick envelope and handed it over. “Fifty one-hundred dollar bills,” he said, chomping on his cigar.
Red peeked inside, then stuffed the envelope inside his vest. “Pleasure doing business with you. You can keep the photos.”
“Screw the photos. I want the negatives.”
He smirked coyly. “Well, now, that wasn’t exactly part of our deal. I never sell my negatives. That’ll cost you extra.”
LaBelle grumbled as he opened his briefcase. “You bastard. How much?”
“Fifty grand.”
The cigar nearly fell from his mouth. “For negatives I can’t even use?”
“Maybe you can’t use them,” he said with a shrug. “But now that I’ve taken a closer look at them, I can think of somebody who might be able to use a photograph of a presidential candidate looking…how did you put it? Like a blubbering baby in the face of personal crisis?”
LaBelle clenched his fists. The veins in his thick neck were about to burst. “You son of a bitch. This is extortion. I’m not forking over fifty grand.”
“Fine,” he said as he started for the door. “I’m sure somebody will.”
He was fuming, then blurted, “All right, all right.”
Red stopped at the door. “That’s more like it.”
“I don’t keep that kind of money just lying around a hotel room. Give me till noon tomorrow.”
“Nine A.M. Not a minute later.”
LaBelle made a face, but he didn’t argue. He unlocked the door. “I don’t appreciate being treated this way by people I trust.”
“Hey, I still love you, Buck.” He winked on his way out. “But you know what they say about love and war, right?”
“All’s fair,” he said, losing the smile as he closed the door. And there are casualties in both.