The Abduction

55

Tony Delgado was moving as fast as he could, cursing his Uncle Vince for leaving him to do the grunt work. The temperature inside the garage was no more than fifty degrees, but sweat had soaked through his shirt at the armpits. In half an hour, he had completely loaded the van through the double rear doors. He shoved the last of the plastic five-gallon buckets into the cargo hold, then stood back to admire his work from behind the van. Fifty buckets in all, forty pounds apiece. They were stacked four-high, floor-to-ceiling, along each side of the van. The center was open from front to back, like a long narrow aisle.

He turned and lifted a large black trunk. It was light, empty. He slid it into the open space and opened it, like a casket.
“Good job, Tony boy,” he told himself.
He walked back into the house, stopping at the kitchen sink for a glass of water, then continuing to the back bedroom. The door was closed, but he opened it without knocking.
Kristen Howe was sitting on the floor, dressed and ready to go. She was blindfolded. Her mouth was taped. Her hands and feet were bound. Her body stiffened at the sound of approaching footsteps.
Tony unlocked the handcuffs that secured her to the bedpost. “Time to go,” he said. “Get up.”
She rose slowly, obediently. He untied her feet, then faced her toward the door. “Walk,” he said.
She took small steps. Her world was black from the blindfold, making each step a leap of faith. She could feel her captor’s hand on her shoulder, leading her across the room and down the hall. She heard a door open. Colder air hit her face. A step down. The floor now felt like cement. The garage?
“Be still,” he said.
She cringed as he lifted her off the ground.
“In you go,” he said. He laid her in the trunk long ways, front to back. He checked her blindfold and the tape on her mouth. He readjusted the plastic cuffs on her hands and bound her ankles. All secure. He slid the trunk forward as far as possible, leaving a small space in the back by the doors. Finally he loaded the last bit of cargo into the van—a carpet cleaning machine, hoses, and a big canvas tarp.
The doors slammed shut. The sign on the back read, CAPITOL CITY CARPET CLEANERS.
He opened the driver’s door and jumped behind the wheel. The engine rumbled with a turn of the key. He turned around to check his cargo. The air holes on the sides seemed sufficient. She lay perfectly still, no trouble at all.
“You want to go home, don’t you?” he asked.
She nodded.
“You want to be safe, right?”
She nodded once more.
“Then lay there on the floor like a good girl. Don’t twitch an inch. Don’t make a sound.” He lowered the lid and covered the trunk with the canvas tarp, glancing at the buckets stacked all around her. “And whatever you do,” he said with a smirk, “don’t light a match.”


By six o’clock, the media vans were streaming into Rock Creek Park for live on-the-scene reports. With SWAT personnel leaping from helicopters and speculation running wild on police band radio, the story was breaking fast.
Allison and Harley were still in the FBI van when the SWAT leader radioed with more bad news about the murdered stable manager. She felt a tinge of sadness for the old man, followed by anger and more than a little fear. It chilled her to think she had just talked to the old man’s killer. He’d sounded so calm and incredibly cool—utterly remorseless for the taking of another’s life.
Harley and Allison scurried beneath the rain from the van to an unmarked car. They were headed down Massachusetts Avenue before the media mob had even confirmed her involvement in the park.
“Where to?” she asked.
Harley slowed as they approached DuPont Circle. “We need some time to regroup before nine o’clock. I suggest we go to the field operations center we’ve set up for tonight. It’s just a block away from the hotel where you’re supposed to drop the ransom. The place still looks like a vacant retail outlet, so no one knows it’s there. Right now, it’s probably the one place in Washington you can visit without being noticed.”
“How are you going to get the ransom to me so I can deliver it?”
“It’s in a vault back at headquarters. I’ll have someone bring it to us once we get to the field operations center.”
She nodded.
Harley said, “It’s going to be difficult to keep this story quiet. You’ve got park rangers, metropolitan police, the medical examiner’s office, FBI. Lots of opportunities for leaks. I’m sure the press already knows two people are dead. Within the hour they’ll know one of them’s your husband—no matter how tight we try to screw on the lid.”
“I didn’t expect to keep it quiet.”
“What are your expectations?”
“I expect to find Emily. And to get Kristen Howe home safely.”
He nodded. “I was thinking about that last phone call. Kind of interesting that after all that just happened in the park, the kidnapper still wants you to stick to the plan and go to the hotel.”
“What do you mean, ‘interesting’?”
“It just leads me to believe that he must have a pretty elaborate plan. No matter what happens, he won’t change the venue. You have to meet him at the Hyatt at nine o’clock.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Cuts both ways. On the one hand, it gives us time to check things out. We have agents posed as hotel employees. They’ve been discreetly inspecting the hotel and surrounding area, making sure all is secure. No bombs, booby traps, what have you. On the other hand—well, he must have some reason for picking that particular place.”
“Are you trying to tell me yet again that this is too dangerous for me?”
He stopped the car at the traffic light, glancing her way. “He did authorize you to wear a disguise, Allison. That makes it easier for us to use a double, if you want.”
She shook her head. “Now, more than ever, this is my responsibility. Even if it’s true that Peter told the kidnappers to return Kristen unharmed, the fact remains that he hired them. It’s like that example they teach you in law school—you can’t fire a bazooka into a crowd and say, sorry, folks, but I didn’t really intend to hurt anybody.”
He shook his head, not quite comprehending. “So you feel compelled to risk your life for Kristen Howe because it turns out your husband is a psychopath?”
“Partly,” she said. “But mostly because Emily is still my daughter.”
The traffic light changed. Harley hit the gas. “You know, Allison, only two people heard Peter’s confession. You and me. The media may find out your husband was killed. But I don’t see any reason for them to know your husband was behind the kidnapping. I mean, we’ll have to file a report. But that doesn’t have to be tonight.”
“Thank you. But there is one other person who is going to hear it tonight.”
“Who?”
“Tanya Howe,” she said, staring at the raindrops on the windshield. “It’s time I told her who kidnapped her daughter.”