The Abduction

4

Friday was a waste. Allison had tried to talk substance. She’d even pitched her proposal for “zero tolerance” of teenage drinking and driving—any amount of alcohol in a teenage driver’s blood should be illegal, since it’s illegal for teenagers to drink in the first place. But all anyone wanted to hear about was her sleeping habits.

Her mind really had been elsewhere since the morning limo ride, when the accusatory tone of her own campaign manager got her to thinking that perhaps her husband, too, had doubts. His uncharacteristic failure to return her phone call at lunch hadn’t exactly allayed her fears. She canceled her final Friday-evening appearance to make sure she was home in her own bed tonight, with Peter at her side.
At 10:55 P.M. the private Carrier jet finally landed at Washington National Airport. From the terminal she rode home alone in the back of her limousine. Her usual escorts rode in front, two of the four FBI agents who had guarded the attorney general even before she’d announced her candidacy and became an even more appealing target in need of Secret Service protection.
The trappings of Washington power and history illuminated the night sky along the expressway. The crowning Jefferson Memorial. The towering Washington Memorial. The Capitol dome in the distance. The ride brought back memories of her first family trip to Washington, forty years ago, when she’d slugged her ten-year-old brother for telling her only boys could become president. Viewed through the cracked windshield of the family station wagon or the dark tinted windows of the attorney general’s limousine, the impressive stone monuments had a way of inspiring dreams and dignifying politics.
What an illusion, she thought.
She switched on the small television mounted into the console. The screen blinked on, bathing her in flickering light. It was just past eleven-thirty. Out of morbid curiosity, she wanted to see what the talk show hosts were saying about her tonight. Jay Leno was just beginning his Tonight Show monologue. He was standing before a cheering crowd, wearing his usual dark suit and devilish grin.
“But in all fairness to Attorney General Leahy,” cracked Leno, “she has been hit with some really tough questions. Just today, a reporter asked her point blank if she ever talks dirty to her husband while having sex. Ms. Leahy candidly responded, ‘Only if I answer the telephone.’ Now that’s a classy lady, folks. She is simply not going to take this sex controversy lying down!”
Leno grinned, the crowd roared. The band banged out a heavy-guitar version of Roy Orbison’s “Pretty Woman,” an old song now best remembered as the theme from Julia Roberts’s movie about a street-walking prostitute.
Allison switched off the television as the limo stopped at the curb outside her nineteenth-century Federal-style townhouse at 3321 Dent Place. It was a simple abode rich with nostalgia: Freshman Senator Jack Kennedy and his wife, Jackie, had made it their first Washington home nearly fifty years ago. It wasn’t Allison’s first choice and wasn’t even listed for sale at the time. But Peter figured that if they were going to own real estate in the capital, they might as well get a piece of Camelot.
The car door opened, and her FBI escort stepped to the side. She gathered her purse and briefcase and stepped onto the sidewalk, wrapped in her navy blue trench coat. Her escort walked her past the twelve-foot-high iron-picket gate to the front door. The porch light cast an eerie yellow glow in the darkness. Her breath steamed slightly in the chilly night air as she dug for her house key. It lay buried at the bottom, naturally.
“Good night, Roberto,” she said with a polite smile.
He responded with a simple nod, then turned away without saying a word. Allison watched from her front porch as he headed down the old brick sidewalk, back to the limo. He had always been the strong and silent type, but he seemed even more silent tonight. Perhaps he, too, thought less of her now.
Or maybe you’re just paranoid.
She opened the front door, stepped into the marble-floored foyer, and deactivated the alarm.
“Peter?” she called. The downstairs was completely dark. Allison dropped her briefcase and hung her coat on the rack, then flipped on the hall light and started upstairs. Her heels clicked on the old oak steps. As she reached the top she could hear the television playing in the bedroom. Her stomach knotted. She hoped Peter wasn’t watching the Tonight Show.
The bedroom door was half open. With a gentle push, it opened the rest of the way. A Tiffany lamp on the dresser softly illuminated a room filled with French antiques, most of them purchased straight from the Louvre des Antiquaires in Paris. A Baccarat chandelier hung from the fourteen-foot coffered mahogany ceiling. The décor was more her taste than Peter’s, though she’d have been the first to admit that it wasn’t her government salary that made it affordable. Early in their relationship, Peter had seemed to derive a sense of purpose from buying her expensive things, replacing her memories, bankrolling the complete makeover that passed for life after Emily.
From the doorway, she first noticed the beam of light from the walk-in closet, and then the suitcase lying atop the four-poster bed. She took the remote control from the nightstand and switched off the television.
“Peter?”
“In here.” His muffled voice came from deep inside the closet.
She tentatively crossed the room, glancing at the half-packed suitcase. The shirts were folded. Socks and underwear were neatly arranged. It didn’t look as if he was unpacking. Her eyes clouded with concern. “What are you doing?”
He emerged from the closet carrying three business suits on hangers in one hand, a pair of dress shoes in the other. He shrugged, as if her question were stupid. “Packing.”
She suddenly felt as if she had grossly underestimated Peter’s reaction to the debate. Her voice shook. “What for?”
He dropped the business suits on the bed. “There’s only eleven days until the election. If I was ever going to hit the campaign trail at your side, I’d say now was the time.”
Her eyes brightened as she came to him, hugged him with relief, and said softly, “Thank you. Thank God. You scared the hell out of me. I thought you were leaving me.”
He stepped back, looking her in the eye. “Were you scared I was leaving, Allison? Or scared I was leaving before the election?”
His words hit like ice water. Deep down, she knew it was both. But that didn’t mean she loved him any less. “My feelings for you have nothing to do with politics.”
He smiled, then led her to the bed and sat her down beside him, squeezing her hand as he spoke. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking in the last twenty-four hours. I feel like this adultery scandal is at least partly my fault.”
“Your fault?”
“Yeah. The fact is, people are bound to have questions about our marriage if they don’t see me with you. Look at the way Lincoln Howe’s wife has been on the road campaigning for him. Just because I’m not the typical First Lady doesn’t mean I should make myself invisible.”
“You haven’t made yourself invisible. I just haven’t done enough to include you.”
“You do want me involved, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do. But I’ve made it so complicated, at least in my own mind. You know what a total wreck I was after Emily disappeared. In one night I went from a career woman who thought she could raise a child on her own to—well, I don’t even want to think about it. You’re the one who helped me want to go on living. You made me get out of bed every morning, get on my feet, get a life. I needed you like I’ve never needed anyone. But no one can go on needing someone like that forever. At least not if you want some self-respect.”
“Sounds like you almost resent me.”
“Not at all, darling. I still need you, but in different ways. I think part of me just wanted to say, Hey, I’m back. I can do this. I can do it on my own.”
“Come on, Allison. You’re running for president of the United States, not president of the Elvis Forever Fan Club. No one will fault you for enlisting a little help from your husband.”
She smiled thinly, then turned serious. “Once you jump in, you’ll be fair game.”
“Like I’m not already? Hell, half the world thinks I have to stand in line to have sex with my wife.”
Allison lowered her eyes.
He brushed her cheek. “Hey, I’m sorry. I only said that to show how ridiculous these rumors are, not to hurt your feelings. I know the reason you dodged that question last night was to protect our privacy. That took courage. It means a lot to me that you’re willing to take the political knocks to protect what’s important to us. I have never doubted you, and this media circus isn’t about to make me start.”
Allison leaned closer and gave him a hug. He was right. She was trying to protect their privacy. But that didn’t completely ease her conscience. The fact was, there were things the public didn’t need to know. Strange things the media might misconstrue. Not things she had done, but things that had happened to her. Secrets she hadn’t told anyone—including Peter.
“Peter, I—” She paused, struggling with what she was about to tell him.
“What?”
She put her arms around him, resting her chin on his shoulder. It was a tactical move, a way of embracing him without looking him in the eye. “I love you,” she said with her eyes wide open.
She stared over his shoulder and kissed the back of his neck, leaving it at that—for now.


At midnight Lincoln Howe was in his pajamas, staring out the window from the twentieth floor of the Houston Hyatt. Two days ago Texas was Leahy territory. Not anymore.
He pulled back the swag drapes for a panoramic view. A half moon hung low in the night sky. A sea of lights from a deserted downtown and sprawling suburbia blanketed the landscape. He took a deep breath, as if he had the power to draw fresh air from some faraway Texas plain.
“Lincoln, come to bed,” his sleepy wife grumbled.
Natalie Howe was the general’s wife of forty-one years, the youngest and prettiest daughter of a Southern Baptist preacher. As a homemaker she’d virtually raised their three children alone while their father served his country in Korea and Vietnam. At sixty-three, she retained much of the beauty that had attracted the young enlisted man she’d married in her hometown of Birmingham, Alabama. Dark, almond eyes and smooth, healthy skin were the trademarks of her Ethiopian ancestry. Her shiny black hair was usually worn up or straight back to frame the beauty of her face. She never left the house without her makeup, and she weighed only five pounds more than on the day they were married.
Lincoln rubbed his hands together. “I’m too excited to sleep.” He glanced over his shoulder at his wife. She was lying on her back beneath the covers in the twin bed farthest from him. He stepped from the window and sat at the edge of her bed.
“This is the turning point, Natalie. Leahy has finally made the fatal blunder. It’s like we’ve retaken Paris. Now it’s on to Berlin.”
“A lot can happen in eleven days.”
“True,” he said confidently. “But something tells me it will only get better.”
Natalie propped herself up on an elbow. Her eyes narrowed with disapproval. “Must you gloat so much?”
“I have every right to gloat.”
“It bothers me the way you’re acting. It’s as if you’re more excited about her losing than your winning.”
“You can’t feel sorry for the enemy, Natalie. The minute you do, they’ll stick a bayonet in your belly.”
“Maybe. But I honestly don’t think what she did is all that horrible.”
He winced with disbelief. “What she did was downright cowardly. There is nothing the American people hate more than a politician who won’t answer a question.”
Her eyes became lasers. She had yet to say anything about the debate, but his bravado and self-righteousness were suddenly more than she could stand. “I can certainly think of one thing worse than a woman who won’t answer any questions about marital fidelity.”
“What’s that, honey?”
She rolled away, speaking into the pillow. “A man who lies about it.”
He froze, not sure what to say. It wasn’t like the debate, where he could simply look into the camera and deny it. They’d passed that point long ago, before the apologies.
He laid a hand on her shoulder, but she didn’t respond. He rose from her bed and switched off the lamp, saying nothing.