The Abduction

39

Allison tugged the bedroom drapes aside no more than an inch, just far enough to peek inconspicuously at the quaint Georgetown street below. The neighborhood was normally peaceful on Sundays at sunrise. From her upstairs window, however, she could see the media camped outside her townhouse. Some were sleeping inside parked cars and vans, staying warm. Others huddled in chatty circles along the old brick sidewalk, their faces indistinguishable in the eerie predawn glow from the decorative old street lamps. Dressed in wool hats and bulky winter jackets, they shifted their weight from one foot to the other in a dancelike ritual, fighting off the morning chill. Heads occasionally rolled back in laughter as they cavorted over steamy paper cups of coffee. She wondered what they jabbered about to pass the time. Football? Basketball? Or maybe the beloved blood sport of Washington, the ultimate spectator thrill—watching yet another presidential hopeful tumble off the high wire and splatter onto Pennsylvania Avenue.

She turned away from the window and crawled back into bed. Peter was sitting up with his back against the headboard, still in his pajamas, devouring the Washington Post. It was well before his normal Sunday waking hour, but they’d both been wide awake when the paper landed on the doorstep. The headline said it all: LEAHY SUSPENDED AS ATTORNEY GENERAL.
President Sires had indeed kept his promise and issued the White House press release. His chief of staff was scheduled to appear later in the day on Meet the Press to explain the suspension. Allison’s running mate, Governor Helmers, was appearing at that very moment on another morning newscast, doing his best at damage control. Late last night, the Leahy/Helmers campaign strategists had agreed that Helmers, not Allison, should do the early morning shows. He could stand up for her without sounding defensive, and he could draw out some of the sting on the less popular early morning shows so that Allison would be better prepared when the sharpshooting TV journalists fired away on the prime-time shows between 9:00 A.M. and noon.
Allison lay listlessly on the bed, her voice filled with dread. “I have to get ready.”
Peter looked up from the newspaper. “You sound like you’re going to a funeral.”
“I am, in a way. President Sires said it last night, and my own pollsters are saying the same thing. Statistically, I’m a lost cause.”
He tossed the newspaper aside. “I don’t hear any fat lady singing. Helmers and Wilcox and the rest of those guys wouldn’t be scrambling the way. they are if they thought it was really over.”
Allison shook her head. “At this point, everyone is just running on momentum, not enthusiasm. They’re not looking for me to pull off a come-from-behind miracle in the next two days. They’re just trying to keep my taint from spoiling Helmers’s shot at the White House in another four years.”
“Does Wilcox or Helmers know anything about how you agreed to pay Kristen Howe’s ransom?”
“No.”
“What about the president? Did you tell him?”
“No. I couldn’t. If any of those guys find out, they’ll exploit it. They’ll leak it to the press, try to portray me as a hero and swing the election back in my favor.”
“What,” he scoffed, “you don’t want to win?”
“Of course I want to win. But not at any cost. If word hits the street that you and I have agreed to pay the very ransom that General Howe refused to pay, it would be disastrous. Howe could override his daughter and forbid us from paying. The publicity could make the kidnappers back off and kill Kristen. Any number of things could happen, none of them good.”
“So—I’m confused. Are we paying the ransom or not?”
“Yes, we are. If they still want it.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“The kidnappers are sending out some mixed signals. On Friday they demanded the money, then yesterday someone else called and said that Kristen is safe until the election is over. It sounds like they may be arguing among themselves, but we still have to be prepared to deliver the ransom if they call on Monday morning, like they said they would.”
“Do you really think you’re going to be able to keep this quiet?”
“We have to. I know it must be hard for you to understand, especially with headlines like today’s. But I promised Tanya Howe we’d keep this quiet because that’s the only way it will work. Bear that in mind when you’re finalizing the money. You might want to use several different banks, keeping each individual transfer and withdrawal small, so that no suspicions are aroused. Just do whatever you can to obscure the fact that we’re paying the ransom.”
He made a face. “In essence, you want me to promise that I won’t try to capitalize on the one thing that could help you pull off the election.”
“In a way, yes.” She shook her head, almost laughing at the absurdity. “I know it’s crazy. A year ago in this very room you begged me not to run for president. You said it would screw up our lives. Now look where we are. How ironic is this?”
“If you could only imagine.”
“Please, Peter. I don’t want anyone turning this ransom payment into a political football. Especially not you. Do you promise me that?”
He fell quiet, as if his mind were in another place. Then his hand slid across the sheets and he touched her face, his mouth curling into a soft, reassuring smile. “Of course, darling. I promise.”


Tanya Howe recognized her father’s black limousine in the driveway. She turned away from the window and glared at her mother. “What’s he doing here?”
Natalie was sitting at the kitchen table, stirring half-and-half into her morning coffee. The shaking spoon clattered as she laid it in the saucer. She spoke in a soft, nearly apologetic tone. “Your father asked if he could come over. I told him it was okay.”
“Why on earth would you tell him that?”
“Tanya, people are talking. The press is starting to say mean things. It reflects poorly on your father if he never even stops by the house when his own daughter is suffering.”
“So you told him he could stop by for a campaign photo op?”
“Sweetheart, no. I just thought—I hoped—that if the two of you got together in the same room, for whatever reason, maybe something good would come of it.”
“Forget it. He’s not coming inside.”
The doorbell rang. Tanya didn’t flinch. Natalie looked anxiously toward the living room, then back at her daughter. “Tanya, please. Do this for me.”
An FBI agent stepped into the kitchen. “Ms. Howe, it’s your father. Would you like me to let him in?”
Tanya struggled to say no, but she couldn’t get past her mother’s pained expression. She sighed with frustration. “All right. Fine. He can come in.”
“Thank you,” said Natalie. She rose from the table and scurried into the living room.
Tanya stared out the kitchen window as she waited, her eyes clouding over as she looked toward the old swing set in the backyard. She recalled how Kristen had needed a push from Mommy when it first went up. Before long, Mommy was dead meat if she even suggested her baby was swinging too high and shouldn’t be so daring. Kristen hadn’t used it much in the last few years, but Tanya had left it up anyway. Part of her had refused to accept that her daughter was growing up—the same part that refused to believe she wasn’t coming home.
“Hello, Tanya,” said General Howe. His deep voice snatched her from her memories. He stood alone in the doorway with his trench coat draped over his forearm.
Tanya’s face showed no emotion. “Hello.”
He took another half-step into the room and closed the pocket door behind him. “Mind if I sit down?” he said as he pulled up a chair at the table.
She voiced no objection. He laid his coat on the chair beside him, then looked her in the eye from across the kitchen table. “Tanya, I think you know why I’m here.”
“Yes,” she scoffed. “Mom explained.”
He nodded, seemingly pleased to be able to dispense with the groundwork. “Good. I know it’s a difficult subject for you, but I’d appreciate it if you could just tell me whatever you know about it.”
Tanya winced with confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“You know. This whole thing with the accident.”
Her face showed even more confusion.
“You did say your mother explained, didn’t you?” he asked.
She shook her head slowly, sensing that this meeting had been arranged under false pretenses. Anger was beginning to boil inside—not just at her father, but at her mother, too, for sandbagging her. “Explain what?”
He paused to organize his thoughts. “Maybe I’d better back up a little. It’s like I told your mother. Sources tell me that the FBI is looking into the car accident that killed Mark Buckley.”
She shivered inside. It had been twelve years since she’d even heard her father invoke the name of Kristen’s father. “Is that so?”
“I’ve come here because I think you might know something about all this sudden renewed interest.”
“Why would I know anything?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything. I was just wondering, has anybody come by to ask you any questions?”
“Maybe.”
“Tanya, this is no time to be coy.”
“What did you expect me to be? Submissive? Obedient?”
“Just honest.”
“All right. Here’s something I can say in all honesty. I’d like to know the truth about Mark’s death.”
“Tanya, you know the truth. We all know the truth. I hope you’re not looking to rewrite history.”
“No,” she said in a serious voice. “I just think a very important part of this history was never recorded.”
He glared sternly across the table, speaking in a level tone. “The boy hit an oak tree going eighty-five miles an hour. He was drunk out of his mind. That’s all the history you need.”
She sat erect, looking him in the eye, as if to say his tone would not intimidate her. “That night—that night Mark died. He called me. Very short conversation. He sounded drunk. Didn’t really even sound himself. All he said was, ‘Tanya, I think you should have an abortion.’”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him no, obviously. But this isn’t about what I said. It’s about what he said. It was very strange. An abortion was the last thing Mark wanted. He wanted me to have this child.”
“You don’t know that. What twenty-year-old boy really knows what he wants?”
“He knew. We both knew.”
“Okay. So he got drunk and said something he didn’t mean.”
“That’s what I used to think. But to this day, I can’t forget the tone in his voice. He didn’t sound like he was just saying it for effect, or even like he was saying it to be cruel. He sounded…scared.”
“Lots of boys get scared when they knock up their girlfriend.”
“I wasn’t knocked up. And it wasn’t that kind of scared. It was different. He was scared like I’ve never heard anybody be scared. Like, scared for his life.”
The general swallowed hard.
Tanya leaned forward, boring in with eyes that burned. “I think he knew what was coming.”
“That’s ridiculous. The boy got drunk. He got in his car. He smashed into a tree. End of story.”
“Then why were there no skid marks?”
The general paused, but his voice was firm. “Because he was so cockeyed drunk he passed out at the wheel.”
“That’s your theory, Father.”
“That was the coroner’s theory.”
“The coroner wasn’t there.”
He snapped, “Why the hell else wouldn’t he hit the brakes?”
“You tell me.”
“I can’t, Tanya. I don’t have a damn clue.”
“I think you do.”
“Don’t you dare show me that disrespect.”
She pushed on, defiant. “I know Mark didn’t really want me to have an abortion.”
“Tanya—”
“I think he said it because he was forced.”
“Stop.”
“He didn’t say it because he was drunk. I think he was drunk because he was scared.”
“Stop right there.”
“I think he was scared because he was threatened.”
“Stop it.”
“I think there were no skid marks because he killed himself. Because he had no other option.”
“Shut up, Tanya!”
“Because you gave him no other option.”
“Damn you!”
“Because you threatened him!”
“So what!” he shouted as he shot from his chair.
Tanya fell back in her chair, shaking and exhausted. A frigid silence filled the room. “So what?” she asked incredulously.
The general took several deep breaths, checking his anger, considering his words. He walked away from the table, leaning over the sink as he stared out the window. Finally, he turned back to face her, speaking in a firm, even tone. “I told him to stay away from my daughter. That’s all I ever said to him. You want to call that a threat, that’s your choice. But I don’t hold myself responsible for some fool who gets himself drunk, gets behind the wheel, and kills himself.”
“But I do,” she said with contempt. “I most certainly do.”
A combination of anger and disgust swelled within her until she could no longer stand to be in the same room with him. She rose from the table and started for the living room, then stopped suddenly at the closed pocket door, preferring not to have to deal with her mother—the woman who had surreptitiously arranged this meeting in the first place. She turned and took the rear hallway to her bedroom.
A flurry of emotions brought a tear to her eye. In need of a tissue, she made a quick turn for the back bathroom, which was accessible primarily from the front hallway, but also from a walk-in storage closet in the back of the house. She passed through it. The bathroom door was closed, but she was too consumed in her own thoughts to even think about knocking before entering. She opened it, then froze.
One of the FBI agents was standing at the counter before the vanity mirror. Surprise covered his face, as if he were unaware that a second entrance to the room even existed, or at least that anyone ever used it. The door to the front hallway was closed and locked. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and he was wearing rubber gloves. A pair of tweezers lay on the counter, right beside a hairbrush she recognized as belonging to her mother. His left hand clutched a clear plastic evidence bag. His right was stuffed inside an unzipped cosmetic bag—also her mother’s.
He looked up, stunned, unable to speak or even move.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she snapped.
He nearly melted in her glare. “I, uh—I’m not sure I’m at liberty to explain.”
“Wonderful,” she scoffed. “Then let’s you and I talk to someone who is.”