The Abduction

41

Kristen wasn’t sure she was awake. The last thing she’d heard was that voice in the alley, the scary guy who’d tackled her and said she’d never escape. The last thing she’d felt was that needle in her leg, like when those men had dragged her into the van and injected her with something to make her pass out. This time, however, the sleep seemed even deeper, harder to shake. Maybe this time she was waking before the drugs had worn off. Maybe this time a part of her just didn’t want to wake up.

Kristen Howe is not afraid. She thought it, formed the words in her mind, could almost see her mantra etched in big puffy white letters across a bright blue sky. But she didn’t believe, couldn’t make herself believe it. This time the mantra was nothing more than words. Less than words. Just lofty thoughts in the air that faded into smoke and dissolved in the wind.
She felt sticky, smelly, wet. Then a flash hit her eyes, though her eyes were not open. Another white flash, like lightning at midnight that brightens a black room and then leaves you in darkness. She opened her mouth to catch the raindrops on her tongue. But it wasn’t raining. And she heard no thunder.
She struggled to open her eyes, but the lids were too heavy. The harder she tried, the heavier they seemed. Sight was the one sense that completely eluded her. The others, however, were slowly come back to her. Taste, salty. And the smell was familiar. Like meat. Bloody, red meat.
Panic raced through her. Am I bleeding?
Couldn’t be. No pain, not anywhere on her body. And the blood was cold—icy cold, as if it had been stored in the refrigerator. That’s what it was! It was like the pig’s blood in biology class, when the teacher took it from the refrigerator in the middle school laboratory, and the students put a drop on the glass slide to examine it under the microscope. The same pig’s blood she’d tasted on a dare from her girlfriends. The pig’s blood she’d smelled when those boys dropped the jar on the floor.
Pig’s blood. All over her body.
Another flash, this time even brighter. She was floating. Not just in her mind, but physically floating. Her eyes began to open, the left, then the right. Two narrow slits unaccustomed to light, unable to form images.
Suddenly it was raining. Warm water pelting her body, rinsing the sticky, thick, smelly mess from her body. Steam filled the air, more like a hot shower than any rain she’d ever known. The wet warmth made her sleepier. Her eyes were closing once again, but not without a lucid moment. White everywhere. White tiles above. White curtain at her side. Smooth white porcelain all around her. A dark red stream swirling down the drain at her feet.
Another jab in her leg—that needle again. Then blackness and a quick return to blissful sleep.


The pain was worse at the end of the day. Allison had been going through the motions since last night’s meeting with President Sires, never really absorbing the full impact of her “suspension.” Finally it was beginning to hurt. Friends were already expressing their condolences. Foes were smiling and sharpening their knives for the November version of the bloody Ides of March.
The mob of reporters outside her door had dealt the first blow. It was only a few steps from her front door to the curb, but it had seemed like miles. Without Secret Service leading the way, she might never have reached her limousine. The ride to the studio had offered a moment of peace, but it was fireworks again on ABC’s political talk show, This Week in Washington. One outspoken panelist, in particular, seemed out to get her.
“Why didn’t you just stay out of the investigation from the beginning,” he’d asked pointedly, “and simply avoid the whole conflict-of-interest controversy?”
“It’s interesting you ask that,” was her dry reply. “Especially since you’re the one who blasted me in last week’s editorial for not doing more to save Kristen Howe.”
It had been downhill from there. Worse, actually. More like falling off a cliff.
How things change, she thought. Four years ago, her first appearance on a Sunday morning political talk show had been a virtual love fest—Allison Leahy, Washington’s new wonder woman. Back then, even the president had seemed taken with her. She recalled their first chat in her new office suite, just a day or so after her Senate confirmation. A photographer had snapped a shot of the two of them in front of the fireplace as they looked up with admiration at the portrait of Robert Kennedy hanging over the mantel. Later, the president had personally signed and inscribed the photograph for her: “Someday a new attorney general will be admiring a portrait of you.”
Fat chance. She had the sinking feeling that her place in history was now considerably lower, more like the basement of the Justice Building, tucked behind the group portrait of former Nixon Attorney General John Mitchell and his prison-garbed Watergate coconspirators.
At 10:00 P.M. her limousine was finally taking her home from the airport. She’d filled Sunday afternoon with quick appearances in Philadelphia and New Jersey, followed by an in-flight meeting with her strategists to approve some new commercials. Somewhere between it all she did manage to call Harley to tell him about her conversation with Tanya Howe. He loved the idea of luring the general to Tanya’s house, though he had a more active notion of daughter-turned-spy than Allison had envisioned. She figured she’d leave it to Harley to Work out the details, knowing that Tanya wasn’t the kind of woman who could be talked into anything that made her uncomfortable.
“Should I run them over?” asked her FBI driver.
Allison peered ahead through the windshield, shaking off her thoughts. Reporters were still crowding outside her townhouse awaiting her return. She was tempted to say yes.
“That’s okay. I’ll just phone ahead and ask Peter to dump the pot of boiling oil out of the second-story window.”
The agent smiled, then braced himself for the frantic members of the media rushing toward the moving car. Excited faces and probing cameras filled the car windows, but Allison knew the tinted glass made it impossible for anyone to see inside. From her vantage point, they were everywhere—front, back, both sides. Had the limo stopped rolling they would have jumped on the hood. It was a theater of the absurd, the way they hollered and gawked, pressing their noses against the glass, assuming that Allison was inside and listening. She thought of the underwater exhibit at Sea World, where you could sit on the safe side of protective glass and watch sharks and barracudas swim by in the tank.
The limo stopped directly in front of her townhouse. One of her FBI escorts forced his door open, muscled his way around the car, and opened Allison’s door for her. With an agent on each arm she made it to the iron gate, bathed in almost constant blinding light from camera flashes. She opened the gate and hurried to the front door. One agent stayed outside, the other followed her in.
“Thank you,” she told him. She was out of breath, exhausted from the gauntlet. It was then that she noticed the package tucked under the agent’s arm.
He handed it to her. “A mutual friend asked me to give this to you.”
She looked at him curiously, taking it. It was wrapped in brown paper, about the size of a shoe box. “What is it?” she said with some trepidation.
“It’s okay. I’ve checked it out.” He gave her a thin smile, then said good night and let himself out. The noise cranked up when the front door opened, then leveled off at an audible level of disappointment the moment the crowd realized it was only an FBI agent.
Allison carried the package to the kitchen and laid it on the table. She filled a glass with ice water and drank half of it while staring at the package. It creeped her out a little. A mysterious package from “a mutual friend.” But she’d known her escort for almost six months. If he said he’d checked it out, he’d surely checked it out.
She tore away the packaging. It was indeed a shoe box. With care, she removed the lid and tissue paper. She paused.
What in the heck?
A smile came to her face as she removed the pink fuzzy slippers; then she chuckled to herself. The card was on the bottom. She tore open the envelope and read it to herself: COULDN’T FIND A TATTERED ROBE. STRONGLY DISCOURAGE THE CYANIDE TABLETS. HANG IN THERE. HARLEY.
Her heart swelled. For a brief moment, she didn’t feel so bad. “Thank you, Harley,” she said with a grin.


By 10:30 P.M., the pit in Tanya’s stomach had grown to canyon proportions. Allison had been right. All she had to do was ask, and her father would come.
Not only was he coming, but he had made a point of telling everyone all about it at every stop along his Sunday campaign trail. A family pulling together in a time of crisis did indeed mesh perfectly with the general’s campaign strategy.
Tanya rose from the couch and switched off the ten o’clock evening news. If she heard one more sappy news report about the general taking time away from his busy campaign schedule to be at his daughter’s side, she would surely vomit.
She heard a commotion outside the house. She knew that sound by now, had come to react to it, the way others might respond to the bark of their dog or the ring of their doorbell. The ever-present media watch was stirring to life, signaling the arrival of a visitor to the Howe household. She stepped to the front window and peered from behind the draperies. It was the black limo brigade.
Tanya flinched at the hand on her shoulder. Her mother withdrew her touch and said, “I’m proud of you, Tanya. It’s important for you and your father to come together at a time like this. He’s a wonderful man. He can be a real source of strength.”
She stared straight ahead, fixing on the candidate waving at the media as he cut across her lawn. She felt a pang of guilt about deceiving her mother, about not telling her the real reason she’d invited him. But she had to put Kristen first.
“Tanya, you’re doing the right thing.”
She turned and looked her mother in the eye. “Yes. I know I am.”