The Abduction

51

It was a political first, she figured—a presidential candidate ducking the press a day before the election. But the last thing Allison wanted was another wrestling match with the media outside her front door. Peter took one of her assistants back to the townhouse to pack her a bag for her trip to Chicago and to box up the old videotapes Harley had suggested she review. She made some phone calls while waiting at her office, starting with her campaign strategist.

“I’m through campaigning, David.”
“What?” His voice was shrill, beyond urgent.
She considered telling him the truth, but it was too complicated. “My life’s in grave danger. The Secret Service has advised me to cancel my appearances.”
His long pause confirmed that she’d hit the right nerve. Self-preservation. Self-interest. Those were motivations a hack like Wilcox could appreciate.
“Forget the public appearances. We just need a media response. You have to explain what the hell happened in the subway. A teenage boy is dead. The speculation is that you botched the ransom delivery—that Kristen Howe is as good as dead.”
“She’s not dead.”
“You were delivering the ransom, weren’t you?”
She struggled, preferring not to say too much. “I can’t get into it, David.”
“You have to get into it. If we play it right, the spin can be extremely positive. You risked your life for someone else’s child. You were altruistic enough to use your own money for the ransom. For God’s sake, Allison. Even if it’s just a written statement, we have to say something.”
She grimaced. David was right, politically speaking. But if the kidnapper sensed she was making political mileage out of this, she might never see Emily. “David, I just can’t focus on that right now.”
“When can you?” he scoffed. “After the election?”
“Tonight, at the hotel.”
“So you are still going to the party?”
She made a face, heeding the kidnapper’s warning that she lead everyone to believe her plans were unchanged. “Yes, I’ll be there. But if I issue any statement on the kidnapping, it has to be late. Some time after nine o’clock.”
“That’s no damn good. We need something for the early evening national news.”
“Can’t do it.”
“Why the hell not?”
“David, it’s literally a matter of life and death. And I’m not exaggerating.”
“I’m not exaggerating either. The ten and eleven o’clock news is too damn late. By that time, the only thing that could possibly turn this election around is if you personally drop off the kidnappers at the county jail, then drive Kristen Howe home safely to her mother and tuck her into bed.”
If all goes well…she thought. “We can talk more later.”
“But—”
“See you at the hotel,” she said, then switched off the phone.


Allison’s assistant returned to the office at 1:15 with the suitcase and videotapes Peter had packed for her. The plan was to stay at the hotel in Washington tonight and then fly to Chicago in the morning, so that Allison could vote in her hometown. Peter had decided to stay back at the townhouse until it was time to leave for the party.
Allison ordered a sandwich from the Justice cafeteria and ate alone in the small conference room in her office suite. The box of videotapes lay on the rectangular table. The television and VCR were on a metal stand, facing her. She was trying to be selective, knowing she didn’t have near enough time to view each one from start to finish. She started with the videotape of the scene outside her house on the night Emily was taken. Eerily, the police had recorded it for the very reason she was now watching it: Abductors have been known to return to the scene, even to assist in the search.
Chills hit her spine as the camera panned the late-night hysteria. It started at the street and crept steadily toward the house. Police cars with swirling lights had pulled onto the sidewalk and front lawn. Friends and neighbors were pulling up, concerned and curious. Police kept them behind the yellow crime scene tape. In the center of it all she saw herself—standing on the front porch, talking to an officer. She looked numb, in shock. She leaned against the door, barely able to stand. Her robe was torn at the hem. Leaves and twigs dangled from the sleeve, remnants of the bushes she’d charged through in her frantic search for her baby.
The conference room began to spin. She stared at the television, watching herself, the numbness returning. The voice-over on the tape startled her. It had been eight years, but she recognized the voice as that of one of the officers on the scene. “Date: March thirty-first, nineteen-ninety-two, twelve-thirty-five A.M. Location: nine-oh-one Royal Oak Court. Subject: Emily Leahy, white female, four months old. Case Number: nine two—one zero one three seven.”
Allison felt her heart flutter. The night that had changed everything. One minute, Emily was a sleeping angel in her crib. For the next eight years, she was Case Number 92-10137.
Draining as it was, Allison made it through the entire tape—and more. The crime scene tapes, the search tapes, the neighborhood Crime Stopper tapes, recordings of the local news coverage—she screened each one, carefully examining each person lurking in the background. Some tapes she watched on fast-forward to get through more quickly. As she finished with each one, she dropped it into another box on the floor. In between sips of Diet Pepsi she jotted a few notes on her yellow legal pad. Ninety minutes of viewing, however, had failed to produce a suspect along the lines that Harley had hoped for. She didn’t see anyone in any of the tapes who had suspiciously returned into her life.
It was almost three o’clock when her phone rang. She hit the PAUSE button on the video remote and answered it.
“It’s me, Harley. I know you don’t want FBI protection, but I have something you should know—with or without us.”
“Did you find O’Brien?”
“No. Still no sign of him. But we finally got the DNA results back from the lab on the traces of saliva we found in the lipstick on your scarlet letter photograph.”
“What’s the verdict?”
“Negative on Diane Combs—you know, that woman we found dead in Philadelphia, who I thought might be connected to the kidnappers.”
“What about Natalie Howe?”
“Negative on her, too.”
“Where does that leave us?”
“Process of elimination is leading to Mitch O’Brien.”
She scoffed. “Unless Mitch has really changed in the last eight years, I don’t think he wears lipstick.”
“No. But you do.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We verified the brand of lipstick that was used to scrawl that letter A on your forehead. It’s Chanel.”
“That’s my brand.”
“I figured. I want you to get a DNA sample to the lab. I’m willing to bet the saliva on the lipstick is yours.”
“Which means what? I sent the marked-up photograph to myself? We’ve been down this road before, Harley. You’re going in circles.”
“Don’t you see? It’s one more link to O’Brien. He probably swiped a tube of lipstick from your purse when he saw you at the hotel in Miami Beach, or maybe at that gala in Washington.”
Allison fell silent.
“Allison?” he asked. “You’ll get us that DNA sample over to the lab, right?”
She didn’t respond.
“Allison?”
“Sure, Harley. I’ll get it to you. Just as soon as I can.”
“This is very important.”
“You have no idea,” she said flatly. “I’ll talk to you later.” She hung up, staring blankly into the middle distance. Harley definitely had her thinking. She dug into the box of tapes on the floor—the tapes she’d already viewed. There was one thing, in particular, she needed to see again.
Now that her eyes had been opened.