The Abduction

21

The titanium-coated knife hurled through the air, sticking into the plasterboard wall with a quick thud.

Tony Delgado crossed the living room to inspect the damage. Concentric circles drawn in black Magic Marker covered the living room wall, forming the rings of a makeshift dartboard. Inch-long puncture marks dotted the target, most within a few inches of the bull’s-eye.
“Good shot,” Tony told his younger brother. He yanked the knife from the wall.
Repo sat erect on the couch, stewing in his thoughts.
Tony sucked down the last of his Budweiser, then checked the refrigerator. The twelve-pack his brother had brought with him from Philadelphia was gone. “Repo!” he shouted. “Your turn for a beer run.”
“I’m not even drinking.”
Tony gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Hey, you didn’t kill Reggie Miles, either. But we’re all in this together.”
The Delgado brothers shared a laugh.
Repo rose from the couch, grumbling. “You two are a couple of real jokesters.”
“Just lighten up,” said Tony.
Repo turned. “That’s your answer to everything. I just gotta roll with it every time you two dickheads change the plan. Well, that isn’t the deal I cut. Nobody was supposed to get killed, and there wasn’t supposed to be a ransom. All we were supposed to do is hold the girl until after the election.”
“That’s right. That’s what we were supposed to do.”
“Then why’d the guy on the news say there was a ransom demand?”
“Because I leaked it to them, that’s why. It’s just strategy. Kidnapper says don’t leak it to the cops, then the kidnapper leaks it to the press. Gets everybody on the other side all f*cked up, everybody pointing fingers at each other.”
“So the ransom demand isn’t for real? It’s just a ploy?”
Tony stepped forward, tapping the flat side of the blade against his palm. “You ask too damn many questions, Repo.”
“I got as much on the line here as anybody. Is it too much to ask who the hell hired us? Who’s in control?”
Tony smiled thinly. “That’s two very different questions. Who hired us? That’s none of your concern. Who’s in control?” He turned and flung the knife at the wall, sticking a bull’s-eye. “So long as we got the girl, I’m in control.”


At 2:00 A.M. Repo lay restless on the couch, staring at shadows on the ceiling in the dark living room, thinking of Kristen Howe alone in the basement. He knew she was terrified. He’d seen it in her eyes. He was the only human being who had looked into those eyes since the abduction. Tony and Johnny had no interest in caring for a twelve-year-old girl, so Repo had volunteered. Every three or four hours he’d don his ski mask to walk her to the bathroom or bring her a sandwich and a glass of water. Tony had ordered him to keep her blindfolded at all times, but Repo figured it would be less scary for her if every few hours she could see that she wasn’t buried alive in a coffin or tied to a stake in some imaginary snake pit.
The furnace kicked on, giving Repo a start. Tonight was colder than last, and the drafty old house seemed incapable of warming to a comfortable room temperature. He covered his exposed toes with the blanket, then thought again of the girl. The basement was colder than the rest of the house, and he wasn’t sure if the heating vents were open down there. She could be freezing. He slid off the couch, pulled on his trousers, then grabbed his ski mask and headed for the stairway.
He paused halfway down the hall. Loud snoring poured from the master bedroom, where Tony and his brother lay sleeping off a case of beer. He peeked into their room. Sprawled across the bed in their underwear, they seemed more unconscious than asleep. But for the snoring, they almost looked dead—not a wholly unappealing prospect, thought Repo. Quietly he stepped back into the hall and closed the bedroom door.
He stepped slowly toward the door that led to the basement steps, so as not to make a sound. Before opening it, he pulled on his ski mask. He glanced over his shoulder, making sure the Delgados hadn’t heard him, then froze. His reflection showed in the bathroom mirror at the end of the hall.
He looked frightening as hell.
He gripped the doorknob as he thought things over. He couldn’t let her see his face, but he didn’t have to look like a terrorist, either. He pulled off the mask, then grabbed a small hand towel from the bathroom sink and tied it around the lower half of his face. He checked himself in the mirror. He looked like those bank robbers in the old movie westerns. Effective, but not terribly scary. Perfect.
He grabbed the flashlight that was hanging on the wall, then opened the door. He started down the narrow staircase, closing the door behind him.
The wood steps creaked with each step. The light fixture in the stairway was broken, so the narrow beam of the flashlight showed the way. He paused halfway down the steps, taken by the familiar smell. It reminded him of his old house in Philadelphia as a kid, where he’d spent countless hours in a virtual hole in the ground playing Ping Pong and bumper pool. Funny, the way basements all seemed to smell alike.
He stopped at the base of the steps, shining the flashlight ahead of him. Cracked linoleum covered the cold cement floor. It had buckled along the baseboards, where groundwater had seeped in. Mildew stained the corners. Warped sheets of old wood paneling covered the walls, as if some previous owner had made a half-hearted attempt to give the basement a finished look. The small ground-level window, high over the sink, had been boarded from the outside.
Repo fumbled for the lamp on the bar. He switched it on and cut off the flashlight.
In the dim ball of light he saw Kristen lying beneath an old army blanket, her body stretched across the thin mattress of a convertible sofa. Metal cuffs secured one hand to the frame at the top, near the sofa back. Her ankle was cuffed at the opposite end. A black blindfold covered her eyes, and a wide strip of silver duct tape covered her mouth.
Her body tensed with the sudden awareness of someone else in the room.
Repo approached slowly, so as not to startle her, then sat in the chair beside the bed. He leaned forward and whispered, “I’m going to take off your blindfold now.”
She didn’t move.
He reached behind her head and untied the blindfold. With a gentle tug, it slid out from beneath the pillow. Her long lashes fluttered. Even the dim glow of light from across the basement seemed to bother her unadjusted pupils. Repo watched as she struggled to bring her big brown eyes into focus. Like a sleeping angel, he thought, waking to a nightmare. Finally their eyes met.
She looked confused at first, as if expecting to see the ski mask. She still looked frightened, but less so than before.
“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said in a hushed voice. “And if you just let me help you, ain’t nobody else gonna hurt you either.”


It was after 3:00 A.M. before Allison finally bid Harley Abrams good night. She headed upstairs, quickly got ready for bed, and quietly crawled beneath the covers beside Peter. He was sound asleep.
She lay on her back, her head sinking into the soft pillow. Her body was exhausted, but her mind was still at work. Just keeping her eyes shut required concentration. They opened instinctively, and as her pupils dilated familiar objects began to take shape in the darkness.
She glanced at Peter. His profile was barely visible, and she wasn’t completely sure if she was actually seeing or remembering it. She was good at recalling little details about people—the shape of the eyes, the curve of the cheek. It was an acquired skill, something she’d worked on ever since Emily had disappeared. Memory has a way of improving when it’s all you have.
Memory, however, was a two-edged sword. The four-hour conversation with Harley Abrams about Emily had stirred up the bad old days, the sleepless nights. She laid the extra pillow across her eyes, enveloping herself in fluffy goose down. In minutes, the feeling approached sensory deprivation. Hearing nothing. Seeing nothing. Her only connection to the night was the air she breathed. She could feel her eyeballs moving beneath the weight of the pillow. She saw nothing, but the emptiness before her was turning white. As her mind drifted into sleep, the whiteness took shape. A white building. A white door. White columns. The White House…
Allison closed the heavy front door at the north portico and stepped into the formal front entrance hall. The State Floor was like she’d never seen it before. Dark and quiet. She flipped the wall switch, lighting the brass chandelier above the grand staircase. She walked to the base of the stairs and called out tentatively, “Hello?”
Her voice echoed. There was no reply. She felt a chill down her spine, a sudden realization. She was home. This was her home. And she was all alone.
She started up the stairs to the executive mansion, the upstairs living quarters. Halfway up she heard a noise. She stopped to listen, then climbed quickly to the top of the staircase.
A long hallway stretched to either side, east and west. Crystal wall sconces provided just enough illumination for her to see all the way to the end of each hallway, right and left. She wasn’t sure which way to turn—until she head the noise again, clearer this time.
“Mommy.” It was the voice of a young girl, calling from the east bedroom.
Instinctively Allison rushed to the door. She tried the knob, but it wouldn’t turn. She pounded with both fists. “Emily!” she shouted. “I’m here! I’m here!”
She shoved with her shoulder, but the door wouldn’t budge. Frantically, her eyes searched the hall for a chair or something to help break down the door. Then she froze. At the other end of the long hallway stood a dark-haired girl wearing a pleated pink dress. Allison could barely see her face in the dim lighting, but she could hear the voice as if she were standing right beside her.
“My name’s not Emily,” she said. “It’s Kristen.”
Allison sprinted the length of the hall, but the girl disappeared into the bedroom and slammed the door. Again, the knob wouldn’t turn.
“Kristen, open the door!” She pounded on the door in frustration, then stopped suddenly, intuitively, as she felt an eerie presence. She turned. At the opposite end of the hall stood a little blond girl wearing the same pink dress. The face was not quite discernible. The voice, however, was plainly heard.
“My name’s not Kristen. It’s Emily.”
“Emily!” She peeled down the hall, past the center stairwell. She was just a few steps away when the girl ducked back into the room and slammed the door. Allison dove for the knob. This time, it turned. She flung the door open, then stopped cold.
Her heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t a bedroom. It wasn’t even a room.
She took a deep breath, absorbing the strange surroundings. Thick red velvet curtains shrouded the dark entrance. Four empty chairs faced a brass railing, with more darkness beyond. Allison stepped closer to the rail, then back, frightened. Beyond the rail was a theater full of patrons facing a lighted stage. The audience laughed at one of the actor’s lines.
Her mouth went dry. She was standing on a balcony.
A shuffling noise emerged from behind the curtain. She felt the urge to run, but destiny wouldn’t allow it. She turned quickly, coming face-to-face with an angry man who resembled no one she knew, yet she had the strange sensation that she knew him well. Her lips were about to utter his name as he aimed his pistol at point-blank range. The thundering crack echoed throughout, robbing Allison of her voice, her sight, and all sense of time. She was falling backward, tumbling over the rail, moving in slow motion. The world seemed to ooze as the cries of a grieving woman filled the old Ford Theater, a haunting replay of the unforgettable words of Mary Todd Lincoln.
“They’ve killed the president! They’ve killed—”
“Allison?”
Allison shot up in bed at the sound of Peter’s voice. She was soaked in sweat, completely out of breath.
“Are you okay?” asked Peter as he switched on the lamp.
She blinked hard, adjusting to the light. Her heart was racing. She squeezed Peter’s hand. “What a horrible dream,” she said, her voice quivering. “I think I’m driving myself nuts.”
“It’s all right. I’m here for you.”
“Honest to God, Peter. If they don’t find Emily soon, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“Kristen,” he corrected her.
“Huh?”
“You said, ‘If they don’t find Emily.’ You mean Kristen.”
Her eyes turned misty. “Of course,” she said as Peter held her tight. “I meant Kristen.”