The Abduction

14

Since leaving Nashville, Repo and Tony Delgado had taken turns driving virtually nonstop. They cruised well below the posted speed limits, taking no chances on being pulled over by highway patrol. By 2:00 A.M. Wednesday they were fifty miles outside Richmond, Virginia, heading north.

“You think she’s awake yet?” asked Repo.
Tony didn’t respond. He was slumped in the passenger seat, eyes shut.
The glow of the dashboard illuminated Repo’s worried face. He switched on the radio, trying to wake his partner.
Tony stirred. “What the hell?”
“Sorry,” he said, switching off the volume. “I was just thinking, you know. That injection you gave the girl. How long is she out for?”
“Twenty-four hours, at least. Don’t worry about her.”
“I—” He stopped, reluctant to speak his mind. “I just thought, you know, somebody should kind of be there when she wakes up. Maybe explain what’s happening. She’s only twelve. It’s gotta be pretty scary to wake up with a bag over your head, not knowing where the hell you’re at or where you’re going.”
Tony snorted, then shot him a funny look. “What are you, a mommy?”
“No. I just don’t see no need to scar the kid for life, that’s all.”
Tony straightened up in his seat, giving his partner an assessing look. “You’re making me real nervous, the way you’re talking. I picked you for this job because I thought you had guts.”
“I got guts, sure. Just we agreed wasn’t nobody supposed to get killed.”
“Are you still f*cking obsessing about that old man?”
“It’s murder, Tony. You guys killed him.”
Tony paused, then turned very serious. “Do you have any idea how many people I’ve killed in my lifetime?”
“All I know is you killed that guy for nothing.”
“It wasn’t for nothing. We had to do it. Those are the rules. We all gotta be willing to do whatever it takes to get the job done.”
Repo stared into the oncoming headlights, thinking. “Maybe. But an old man is one thing. I don’t see any reason why we gotta make it any worse for the kid than absolutely necessary. She’s just a girl.”
Tony grabbed him by the wrist, seizing his attention. “She’s not a girl. She’s a bargaining chip. Don’t ever forget it.”
Repo’s eyes darted, meeting Tony’s glare.
He released his grip, then looked away.
Repo’s attention turned back to the road. He said nothing, steering down the expressway in uneasy silence.


Red Weber stumbled up the stairway at the Thrifty Inn, an old motor lodge that offered rooms by the week, day, or hour, and that provided clean towels and sheets only with a cash deposit. After leaving Buck LaBelle, he’d stopped at a bar to celebrate his renegotiated deal. He closed down the Tennessee Tavern at 2:00 A.M., but it took him another forty-five minutes to find his way back to his hotel. He knew he’d have a tequila hangover in the morning. But he’d also be $50,000 richer.
That’ll buy a shitload of aspirin.
The old wooden stairs creaked beneath his feet. The banisters had been ripped from the stairwell, so he took one step at a time—slowly, balancing himself with flailing arms, like a novice on a tightrope. He stopped at the top of the stairs, smiling with a silly sense of accomplishment. With both hands he dug the room key from his front pocket, then aimed it at the keyhole, one hand steadying the other as he poked unsuccessfully around the lock. Frustrated, he gave up and tried the knob. The door opened.
He could have sworn he’d locked it, but he just laughed as he stepped inside.
He fumbled with the lamp but managed only to knock it off the dresser. He laughed at the mess he’d made, then went rigid. His stomach heaved. The last shot of tequila was doing an about-face. He ran for the bathroom, tripping in the darkness.
Just as he reached the threshold, the bathroom door slammed in his face, knocking him back onto the floor. He staggered to his feet. The door suddenly flew open. He saw his reflection standing in the doorway—or maybe it was a shadow. He squinted to focus.
“What the hell?”
The shadow lunged toward him. A blow to the head stunned him, and Red went down with a thud. His chin was on the carpet as the boots raced by his eyes. He tried to yell, but he’d bitten his tongue and couldn’t speak. He heard the door fly open, then the sound of footsteps in the hallway, like somebody running.
Dizzy and groggy, he lifted himself from the floor. He limped to the door and peered down the hall. Nothing. He grimaced with pain, then froze.
The negatives, he thought—and he was suddenly sober.
He flipped on the light and ran to the closet. He grabbed his camera bag and zipped it open. The camera was gone.
“Shit!”
He checked the film pack. No film. No negatives. He checked every zip pocket, every side pouch, searching frantically. It was all gone, even the film he hadn’t used yet.
Red fell to his knees, feeling a $50,000 pit in the bottom of his stomach. “Son of a bitch,” he groaned.


At 5:00 A.M. the telephone rang in David Wilcox’s hotel room. He was already awake, sipping coffee, reworking a press release he hoped to be able to persuade Allison to issue later in the day.
“Hello,” he answered.
“Mission accomplished,” said the voice on the line.
“You found him?” asked Wilcox.
“Wasn’t too difficult. Aren’t that many photographers running around Nashville who look like Bozo the clown. Red Weber’s his name. Staying at some dive called the Thrifty Inn.”
“Anybody see you?”
“Nah. He caught me by surprise before I left, but I blew by him so fast he couldn’t have seen a thing.”
“What about the pictures?”
“I got the camera and the film. He had probably half a dozen shots of Ms. Leahy down by the river. Her and that FBI guy, Abrams.”
Wilcox sneered. “Sneaky bastards. Hiring their own damn photographer to make Allison look like a publicity hound. Burn the damn pictures.”
“Okay. But I don’t think you want me burning everything. It’s kind of a godsend, but I came across some shots of General Howe that may actually be worth keeping.”
“Is that so?” he said with a thin smile. “Tell me about them.”