The Abduction

53

Peter was in the bedroom packing a suitcase for Chicago when his telephone rang. It was the phone on the nightstand on his side of the bed, the private line that he used primarily for business. He dropped the Armani suit on the bed and answered it.

“Hello.”
He heard a click, then a message. “You have e-mail.” Another click. Then the dial tone.
He laid the phone in its cradle, staring at it in confusion. The voice was familiar. It was that standard, recorded voice that plays automatically whenever you turn on the computer and there’s e-mail in your mailbox—the “personal” touch in an impersonal world, like that mysterious woman from the long distance company who jumps in after you dial with your credit card and says, “Thank you for using AT&T.”
Peter stood still for a moment, mulling it over. The message was clearly for him, not Allison. The call had come on his own line—no one ever called Allison on that line. Obviously, they wanted him to check his computer. He walked cautiously toward his briefcase on the other side of the room. He removed the notebook computer and plugged the modem into the phone jack. He dialed his office in New York, watching the screen as his notebook computer interfaced with his business computer in New York.
“You have e-mail,” said the computerized voice—the same recorded voice he’d heard on the phone. It unnerved him at first. He couldn’t help feeling as though the caller had recorded his personal message. But he knew that 40 million people subscribed to his same Internet carrier, all of whom received the same “You have e-mail” message. It wasn’t like someone would have had to access his personal computer to record it and play it back to him over the telephone.
The computer screen blinked on. Scores of unanswered e-mail messages appeared in his mailbox. Each specified the date and time received. All but one identified the sender. The most recent one, received today at 3:54 P.M., had an unintelligible entry next to the “Sender” designation. The sender, Peter realized, had managed to scramble his screen name to protect his identity.
Peter clicked his mouse on the most recent e-mail. The typewritten message flashed on the screen. He stared at it carefully, reading it once, then again.
CHANGE IN PLANS. MEET ME IN ROCK CREEK PARK AT THE WATER FOUNTAIN EAST OF THE OLD PIERCE MILL. 5:00 P.M.
His pulse quickened. There was no signature, of course, but the postscript indicated an attachment. He clicked his mouse again, downloading the attachment to his computer. He clicked once more and opened the file. A photograph slowly emerged on his screen. Bright red everywhere, splattered on white. The image came into better focus: a young girl in a bathtub, covered in blood. The focus sharpened further: The girl was plainly Kristen Howe.
Peter closed the file, wiping the photograph from the screen. The original message popped back on the screen—MEET ME AT ROCK CREEK PARK. He sighed deeply, collecting his thoughts.
Rock Creek Park bordered on Georgetown. He had jogged there hundreds of times. He knew exactly where the meeting spot was.
He also knew the handiwork—the girl in the bathtub covered in animal blood. It was as good as a signature. Vincent Gambrelli.
He switched off his computer and placed it back in his briefcase. He stepped to the window and peeled back the bedroom drapes. Below, a few members of the media were still waiting outside the townhouse, but the crowd had thinned greatly. Most had apparently inferred that Allison wasn’t coming back when they saw her assistant leaving with her suitcase.
Peter checked his watch—4:15. Even if he took a few circuitous turns to shake the media, he could easily make it to Rock Creek Park in forty-five minutes. He put on his jacket and grabbed his car keys, then stopped, turned, and disappeared into the closet. Down on one knee, he peeled back the carpeting in the corner, uncovering the floor safe. With three quick turns of the combination dial, it opened.
A semiautomatic pistol lay inside.
He checked the ammunition clip to make sure it was loaded. It was. He tucked it inside his jacket and closed up the safe, then quickly headed for the door.


A foggy mist clung to the city as dusk turned to early evening darkness. City lights glistened on the glossy-wet streets and sidewalks, though there were still a few dry patches beneath the urban trees and storefront overhangs. Some rush-hour commuters had popped their umbrellas. Others seemed oblivious to the precipitation, sans weather gear, rushing through crosswalks and heading for the Metro as on any other day. It was the meteorological version of classic Washington ambiguity—raining, but not really raining.
Moisture gathered steadily on the taxicab’s windshield as Peter rode alone in the dark rear seat. The wipers were on intermittent speed, clearing the windshield about every half-block along Q Street. Peter looked ahead to the next intersection. Streetlights grew brighter as the gray sky darkened into night. The fog began to swirl in the beaming headlights of oncoming traffic. Like searchlights, thought Peter, hundreds and hundreds of them. He drew a deep breath and shook off the paranoia.
The taxi stopped at the red light, and Peter glanced out the rear window. He couldn’t be absolutely certain that no one had been tailing him, but he had been riding around Georgetown for the past twenty minutes and was now on his fifth cab. Had someone been following, he figured he would have noticed.
“This will do, driver,” he said as he passed up a five-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”
He opened the door and stepped onto the sidewalk. He was standing at the P Street entrance to Rock Creek Park, eighteen hundred acres of remarkably preserved green space right within the district—the smaller Washingtonian version of New York’s Central Park. It was a year-round home to deer and other wild fauna, as well as a cool summer oasis for D.C. residents. Picnic areas dotted either side of Rock Creek, the babbling waterway that snaked through the meadows and scattered groves of dogwood, beeches, oak, and cedar. November, however, was not the most beautiful time to visit, and the darkness made the woodlands seem nearly impenetrable. Still, after four years of coming here, Peter knew his way around the miles of bicycling routes and hiking and equestrian trails.
He checked his watch. Almost 4:45. The park would close in fifteen minutes. Not that it mattered; in this weather and at this time of year, the park would be virtually empty at any time of day. He tugged at his jacket and checked his gun, then entered the park and headed south along the creek, toward the old Pierce Mill.
The sounds and lights of the city faded into the background as he headed down the trail. He could hear the creek nearby, the soothing sounds of moving water against the rocks. Still, he was tense. What was the change in plans? he wondered. What did Gambrelli want? Money, Peter figured. With Gambrelli, it was always about money.
He stopped near the old Pierce Mill. It was the park’s major tourist attraction, a restored nineteenth-century gristmill powered by the falling water of Rock Creek. The sign said it was closed on Mondays and Tuesdays, so the area was even more deserted than Peter had expected. In fact, it was totally deserted.
He stood by the water fountain and waited, as instructed. He hadn’t smoked a cigarette in years, but he suddenly felt the urge. He checked his watch. Two minutes before five o’clock. Gambrelli was the punctual type. When he said five o’clock, he meant exactly five.
“Hello, Peter.”
He wheeled at the sound of a woman’s voice. He squinted in the darkness. She was wearing a hooded raincoat, barely recognizable in the foggy mist. But he knew that voice, that face.
“Allison?” he said nervously. Their eyes locked. His face was ashen. “What are you doing here?”
She stepped from beneath the shadow of the oak tree. “I’m the one who sent you the invitation. What are you doing here?”
She could see in his eyes that he was scrambling for an explanation. He was breathing nervously, audibly. His eyes darted as the words stumbled out. “I, uh, I thought I could catch these guys. I thought I would ambush them.”
“All by yourself?” she asked incredulously.
He was sputtering, speaking fast but barely coherent. “Yes. I—just. Yes. By myself. I would come and, you know, when they got here I would, like, arrest them.”
Her eyes flashed with rage, then pity. “Stop the lies, Peter.”
“I’m serious. I was going to arrest them. I even brought my gun.” He pulled a pistol from his pocket.
Allison stepped back. “Put the gun away.”
He smiled pathetically. “Don’t worry. I would never hurt you. I love you. All I’ve ever done is love you.”
She grimaced, bewildered and disgusted. “You call this love? Did you honestly think that hiring someone to kidnap Kristen Howe would help me win the election?”
His eyes darkened. The voice filled with bitterness. “No, darling. I thought it would make you lose.”
Allison shuddered. “Make me lose?”
“It was the only way to save us.”
“Save us from what?”
He froze, as if debating whether to say more.
“Peter,” she said sternly. “Save us from what?”
“I can’t say it.”
She stepped closer. “Damn it, Peter, you’re going to tell me. Or I’m calling in the FBI right now and you can tell it to them.”
He lowered his eyes. “We can get past this, Allison. You and I can get past anything.”
“I can’t get past it if I don’t know what it is.”
He looked up, speaking softly. “I overheard you and your old fiancé talking that night at the gala, two months ago—you and Mitch O’Brien.”
Allison stiffened, recalling the mysterious footsteps in the hallway.
He continued, “I saw the way you looked at each other. I watched you duck out to the hall. I saw him follow. So I followed, and I listened. I heard what he said about how you met him in that hotel room in Miami Beach.”
“Mitch was talking nonsense. We never shared a hotel room.”
“Then why did you refuse to answer the adultery question at the debate?”
“That was purely a matter of principle.”
“Don’t patronize me,” he said sharply. “I know you f*cked him. Maybe others, too. There would only be more after you were elected. All the men presidents had lovers. Why would the first woman be any different? I’d be a laughingstock. Not just among our friends. Not just in our hometown. The entire world would know that Peter Tunnello couldn’t satisfy his wife. I couldn’t let that happen to us. I wouldn’t let that happen to me.”
Allison glared. “Mitch is dead, isn’t he? That’s why no one can find him.”
“Who cares? He was a drunken slob who couldn’t keep his hands off my wife.”
“You sent me that photograph with the lipstick—the one with the scarlet letter on it.”
“It was just to scare you, Allison.”
“Is that why you hired someone to kidnap Kristen—just to scare me?”
“I did it for us, Allison. If you won the election, I knew I would lose you.”
“God! You should have just killed me. I wish you had just killed me.”
His expression changed again, sweeter now—deranged. “Kill you? I love you, Allison.”
She cringed. “How could you hurt an innocent child?”
“I swear, I never planned to hurt her. For a hundred thousand dollars they were supposed to keep her until the sympathy threw the election in Howe’s favor, and then let her go. But they got greedy, I guess, and demanded a ransom. When Howe refused to pay, they wanted me to cough up the million dollars. When I said forget it, they called and demanded the ransom from you. What could I do then but pay it? You have to believe me, Allison. The thing just snowballed. Once I pushed the button it was too late to reel these guys back in.”
Her glared tightened. “What about Emily?”
He looked away, then back. “If you can forgive me, I promise I can help you find her.”
“Forgive you?” She took a half step closer, her voice shaking. “If you know where Emily is, you are going to tell me.”
A silent projectile whistled past her ear. Two quick thuds pounded on Peter’s chest. He fell backwards, landing in a twisted heap on the asphalt trail.
“Peter, no!”
She ran to him and fell to her knees at his side. His chest was soaked in blood. Frantically, she looked toward the mill to gauge the line of fire. She saw no one.
“Peter, talk to me!”
She checked his pulse. Nothing. She lifted him by his jacket, but his head dropped back against the pavement, lifeless. She held him with all her strength, shocked, refusing to believe. Tears streamed down her face as she released her grip. His body slipped away.
She looked up, startled by the sound of approaching footsteps. Two men were running toward her. She pried the gun from Peter’s hand and jumped to her feet.
“FBI!” they shouted.
She shook the lead agent by the jacket, nearly knocking him over. “I told you not to follow! Why did you shoot! Why!”
“We didn’t shoot!”
Allison froze as the agent spoke into his headset.
“Civilian down, Rock Creek Park at Tilden and Beech Drive. Possible sniper. Need back up immediately at all park exits. Request K-9 and helicopter search support.”
The agent kept talking, and the rain was falling harder. Her hair and coat were soaked. Peter lay motionless in a puddle. The adrenaline flowed and emotions surged at the sight of her dead husband—gone, though he was never the man she’d thought he was. She knelt at his side, her voice shaking as the cold rain pelted herlips.
“Don’t,” she said softly. “You bastard, don’t take Emily with you.”