The Abduction

30

Allison arrived home at midnight, just in time for a telephone conference that would map out the final weekend of the Leahy-Helmers campaign. She pitched her business suit into her bag for the cleaners, threw on a bathrobe, and took the call on the couch downstairs, so as not to wake Peter. Helmers and his chief adviser were patched in from their hotel in California. The media consultants connected from New York. David Wilcox and his lead pollster originated the call from a campaign headquarters that, at this stage of the game, was busy around the clock. Allison and Wilcox had yet to make peace since their blowup earlier that week, but with the election looming, everyone seemed to understand that, like it or not, they were stuck with one another for a few more days.

The meeting followed the usual agenda, beginning with the latest polls. The race was dead even in the popular vote, but Howe was beginning to pull ahead in the decisive electoral college. Two hundred and seventy votes were needed to win. Howe had a lock on a hundred and eight. Leahy could count only seventy as firm—down from over a hundred just two weeks ago. They could write off both Ohio and Pennsylvania, despite last week’s advertising blitz. Florida and California were the big undecided states.
“We need Allison in Florida,” said Wilcox. “Howe is invading the whole damn state.”
Allison rubbed a throbbing temple. Now that she’d actually spoken to the kidnappers, the campaign in some ways was little more than a distraction. But she didn’t dare reveal that she and Peter were preparing to pay Kristen Howe’s ransom. “What about Eric?” she asked.
Helmers cleared his throat. His voice was raw from a week of nonstop stumping. “I think it’s best if I stay on the West Coast. We need both Florida and California to win the election. Howe needs only one or the other, and he’s clearly focusing on Florida. Allison should go head-to-head with him down there, and I’ll do my best to pull in California.”
Allison asked, “What about the pledge I made to devote my full attention to finding Kristen Howe? I told the American people at my press conference that I was suspending all personal appearances.”
“And you did suspend them,” said Wilcox. “You did your job as attorney general to make sure the investigation is properly focused, but now it’s time to resume normal campaign activities. You’re running for president. Not sainthood.”
She bristled at his tone. She was about to put him in his place when Helmers spoke up again. “Allison, think of all the people who believe in you. Thousands of workers who have been out there killing themselves day after day, many of them since New Hampshire. Some haven’t been paid in a month, but they keep showing up for work. It’s all for nothing if you don’t get back out there. Please, I can’t do this by myself.”
Helmers’s voice had actually cracked. His plea seemed to catch everyone off guard, including Allison. An eerie silence lingered as she mulled things over, like the deceptively calm passing of the eye of the hurricane.
“Don’t cheat your destiny,” added Wilcox, breaking the silence. “It’s no accident you’ve come this far. Things happen for a reason.”
Allison paused, confused by his cryptic remark. She shook it off, responding more to Helmers than to Wilcox. “All right, gentlemen. I’ll do Florida.”
A cheery sense of relief buzzed over the phone lines. They were quickly saying good-bye, as if the candidate might change her mind if the meeting continued. She snagged Wilcox before he could sign off. “David, stay on the line.”
The others disconnected, leaving only Allison and her strategist on the line.
“What is it, boss?” His tone was light, like in the old days, when things were good between them.
“I was confused by that comment you made about my destiny. How it’s no accident that I’ve come this far. How things happen for a reason. What exactly were you talking about?”
“Nothing specific.”
“You must have had something in mind.”
He chuckled, but it seemed like a nervous chuckle. “Not really.”
“David, if you don’t tell me what the hell you meant, I’m not going to Florida.”
“Relax, okay? There’s no big mystery here. It’s just something you told me a long time ago, in one of our more serious discussions. You called it the Leahy creed—the way your mother used to say that everything happens for a reason. That’s all I meant.”
She gripped the phone, thinking. She did have a vague recollection of a relatively deep conversation with David over Dewars on the rocks in O’Hare International Airport. “All right. Forget it.”
“What did you think I meant?”
“David, I said forget it.”
“Fine. I’ll fax you a Florida schedule.”
“I can’t wait,” she said, then hung up the phone.


Bright Florida sunshine glistened off the black sheen of limousines as Lincoln Howe’s motorcade entered the University of Miami campus. With the third largest state’s twenty-five electoral college votes still up for grabs, the general had two South Florida stops planned for Saturday morning, then afternoon rallies in Orlando and in Jacksonville.
Two vans and the limos stopped beside the Palm Court of the McLamore Plaza, a central campus meeting spot. A circular fountain shot thin spires of water straight into the air. They bubbled at the apex, spilling foam like huge roman candles. Forty-foot palm trees offered spotty shade, leaving most onlookers in need of hats and sunscreen. More than five thousand people had showed up, even more than expected. The crowd was spread across the campus lawn, facing a stage near the plaza, cheering and squinting into the morning sun as the general stepped down from the limo. A brass band cranked up the campaign theme song, “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy.” The crowd surged forward, but the Secret Service kept them at bay.
“We love you, Lincoln!” a beaming woman shouted over the music. He smiled and touched a few outstretched hands as he moved quickly toward the stage. He paused for the cameras as they passed the press corps, then continued on his way to the backstage area. Buck LaBelle was waiting for him in an out-of-the-way alcove. He pulled the candidate away from the Secret Service escorts for a last-minute pep talk.
“Good turnout,” said the general.
“Good media coverage, too,” said LaBelle. The crowd was clapping to the music, keeping time. LaBelle seemed energized by it. “I think this is the place to drop the bomb.”
“I thought we agreed that was tomorrow.”
“It may be too late by then. I feel it. Now’s the time.”
“Fine by me. The sooner we get this out of the way, the better.”
LaBelle turned serious, shifting into his teaching mode. “Your tone of voice is very important, General. The first part is matter-of-fact: ‘It has come to my attention that the FBI is investigating the possibility that the kidnapping was orchestrated by one of my own supporters, designed to elicit sympathy and further my campaign.’ Second part, get angry and indignant: ‘So far, the only thing political about this kidnapping is the investigation, itself—which is headed by my opponent, the attorney general.’”
Howe winced. “I don’t like the second part.”
“The second part is the key.”
“Leahy has walked on eggshells trying not to say anything that might politicize the investigation. I’ll look like a bully if I start making bald accusations.”
“It’s like we talked about at the airport, General. Sooner or later the press is going to hear that the investigation may be turning against your own campaign. You can’t let Leahy or the White House be the ones to leak it to them. We have to steal their thunder. If they reveal it, you can bet your ass the American people will be suspicious of us. But if we do it ourselves, and if we do it my way, they’ll get angry—not at us, but at them. Trust me.”
“I can’t just get all huffy and say the investigation is being politically manipulated. Let’s face it, Harley Abrams doesn’t come across as a man who’s politically motivated. We need a hook. Something that will lend credence to our claim that Leahy is manipulating things to her advantage.”
The marching band reached its big finish. The crowd clapped to the music, then erupted in one enthusiastic cheer. Howe and his campaign manager were deep in thought, oblivious to the noise.
“I’ve got an idea,” said LaBelle, his face alight. “We’ll tell them, about the campaign spending controversy.”
“What spending controversy?”
“You haven’t heard?” he said, making a face. “It’s unconscionable. Leahy and her band of unscrupulous political hacks have demanded that the Howe family take down all of the Find Kristen billboards we’ve put up across the country. They want us to stop running the TV commercials advertising the tips hot line. According to those cynics, it’s just a backhanded way of promoting the Howe name—and therefore the Lincoln Howe candidacy. They claim it’s illegal campaign spending.”
“They’re actually saying that?” he asked incredulously.
“Well, admittedly it’s just a rumor at this point. But a reliable one.”
“Why didn’t I hear about this before? When the hell did it start?”
“When?” LaBelle said as his mouth curled into a smirk. “Right now. You’re starting it.”
Howe was dumbfounded. From center stage, the speaker’s voice suddenly boomed over the loudspeaker. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, it is my great pleasure to present to you a true American hero, a man who will bring honesty and integrity back to Washington—the next president of the United States of America—General Lincoln Howe!”
The marching band cranked up again. A swarm of red, white, and blue helium balloons raced for the sky. Five thousand people jumped to their feet, cheering wildly.
Howe locked eyes with his campaign manager for a tense, expectant moment, the wheels turning in his head. Finally he drew a deep breath, then gave a quick and solemn nod of agreement. LaBelle smiled thinly, patting him on the back with encouragement.
“Go get ’em, General.”
Howe put on his campaign smile and hurried up to the stage, waving with both hands to throngs of adoring fans.