The Abduction

33

Harley had slept only four hours since arriving in Nashville last night, having risen well before the Saturday morning sun. At 8:00 A.M. he’d held a case briefing for the Metro Nashville Police, Davidson County Sheriff’s Department and various other local law enforcement agencies involved in the multi-jurisdictional task force. He’d spent another hour with his key people at the local command center—the lead room manager, the hot-line operators and investigators, and their local supervisors. The system was apparently working well. Each agency was using uniform lead sheets and hot-line intake forms, uniform summary reports and tracking forms, uniform statement forms and consent forms. Follow-up appeared to be good as well. All information was properly collected, entered into the computer database, analyzed, and compared. As far as Harley could tell, there was just one problem. No Kristen.

The unexpected phone call from Allison hadn’t really changed his plans, though it was mid-afternoon before he was able to set aside a block of time to visit Tanya Howe’s residence in Enchanted Hills. The most positive thing to come out of last night’s meeting, in Harley’s view, was that Allison had secured Tanya’s agreement to allow the FBI back inside to monitor her phones. The technical agents had arrived early Saturday and should have been fully operational by now. Harley was stopping by not so much to check on their work—those guys knew what they were doing—but to let Tanya know that she had the ear of someone in the FBI with authority. And to take a closer look at Natalie Howe—discreetly.
Natalie greeted him at the door, pleasant and presentable. Some mothers and even grandmothers neglected their appearance in times like these. Not Natalie Howe. Hair looked good, makeup was in place.
She wore lipstick, too. Red.
“Come in, please,” she said.
Harley nodded appreciatively as she took his coat and led him down the hall to the family room.
“Can I get you anything, Mr. Abrams? Coffee? Tea?”
How about a hair sample? he thought. “Nothing, thank you.”
The technical agents had transformed the family room into a small-scale nerve center. The ivory leather couch had been pushed into the corner. In its place was a rectangular worktable loaded with state-of-the-art track and trace equipment. A thick power supply cable snaked across the carpet, feeding to a tower computer terminal under the table and a backup desk terminal. Two relatively young agents were busy behind the worktable. They talked their techie lingo while adjusting the color monitor and double-checking the phone line connection.
Tanya was seated on a bar stool at the kitchen counter. She was deep in conversation with an agent Harley had called up from the Atlanta office, Pat Collins, a black woman about Tanya’s age who had worked as a family counselor before joining the FBI.
“Is everything okay here?” Harley interrupted.
Tanya looked up. Her eyes were dark, vacuous pools, as if life itself had been slowly seeping away since the moment she’d lost her precious reason for living. “Nothing is okay.”
Harley merely blinked. Over the years, grieving parents had snapped at him, screamed at him, even punched him. Never did he take it personally.
Agent Collins said, “We’ve covered everything at least once, some of it twice. I was just giving Tanya some tips on how to control her emotions on the line. When the call comes, she’ll be ready.”
The phone rang. Harley and his colleague exchanged glances, as if it were almost too weird. The technical agents jumped into action, throwing on headphones, adjusting their tracking and recording devices.
“It’s cellular,” one of them said urgently. “A clone. It bypassed the central office computer cutoff—just like the call to the AG’s house.”
A second ring pierced the tension.
Harley nodded to Tanya, confirming this was probably the real thing. “Remember to stretch. We need time to pinpoint the call.”
A third ring. Tanya breathed deeply, standing beside the phone, unable to sit down. She looked at her mother for support, then answered on the fourth ring. “Hello.”
“Tanya Howe?”
The distorted message came across deep and mechanical, just like yesterday’s call. But it somehow sounded different—like a different person. Tanya shuddered, confused and creeped out by the voice. “Yes, it’s me.”
On the other end of the line, Repo adjusted the bulky extension on the mouthpiece. He was behind the steering wheel in a parked car, speaking through a voice-altering device. “I’m calling to tell you your daughter is safe.”
“Where is she?”
“Stay calm. I’m keeping her with me until after the election. Someone wants her dead. I’m not going to let that happen.”
“Let me talk to her—please.”
Repo ripped off the voice-altering equipment and tossed it on the dashboard, then shot a stern look at Kristen. “You have twenty seconds. No more.”
She nodded, then eagerly snatched the phone. Repo leaned across the console and kept a close ear, listening in.
“Mom?”
“Kristen!” Her heart swelled with joy and pain. She was pacing, suddenly oblivious to everyone else in the room.
“I’m okay, Mom.”
“Oh, sweetheart, thank God. Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“It’s so cold outside. Are you warm enough?”
“Fine, yeah.”
“Are they feeding you?”
“Yes. Froot Loops and stuff.”
“Do you know where you are? You don’t have to tell me where. Just, do you know?”
Repo shot Kristen a look, shaking his head.
“I can’t answer that, Mom. But everything’s okay. Really. Please, don’t worry.”
Repo pointed at his watch, signaling the time.
“Mom, I have to hang up now.”
“No!” She struggled not to lose it, but her thoughts scattered. Tears began to flow. Through misty eyes she watched the agents busy at their computers.
Blinking coordinates dotted the bright blue screen. She knew vaguely that they were tracking radio signals from cellular transmission towers, calculating angles and points of intersection, but the flashy high-tech gadgets only added to her confusion. Abrams shot her an urgent look, as if a few more seconds would do it.
“Kristen, I love you,” her voice cracked.
“Mom, please don’t cry.”
Repo grimaced, feeling for her mother. He checked his watch again. Forty seconds. Way too long. “Say good-bye,” he whispered frantically.
“I love you, too, Mom. I’ll be home soon. I promise.”
The line disconnected. Abrams looked at Tanya, then at the agents, bursting with anticipation. The computer screen blinked as two yellow dots intersected. It blinked again, superimposing a grid map over the coordinates. Data scrolled in a separate window, rolling like a slot machine. It stopped suddenly and flashed a range of possible addresses.
The techies leaped from their chairs, shouting in unison, “Got it!”
“Where?” asked Harley.
“Right here! Nashville.”
Harley snatched the phone and dialed headquarters.