The Abduction

7

From her hotel suite in Los Angeles, Allison watched as much of the Monday evening news as she could while getting cleaned up and dressed for the evening schedule. She was combing through tangled, wet hair when an in-depth report on ABC caught her attention. A smart-looking female reporter was standing before a huge colored map, pointing out eight key states that used to be Allison’s but were now “undecided.”

“Without question,” said the correspondent, “Ms. Leahy’s recent public appearances with her husband at her side have been effective damage-control measures. Yet insiders say that morale is at an all-time low among the rank and file in the Leahy campaign. Many are angry that Ms. Leahy ducked the adultery question in the first place. Others are incensed that this election may be determined by what they view as a bogus character issue.
“The bright spot for the Democrats is that even some of General Howe’s supporters are quietly beginning to wonder if the debates will have a lasting impact. With less than eight days remaining until voters head for the polls, the experts seem to agree on just one thing: The first presidential election of the twenty-first century could well be the closest in American history.”
Allison switched off the set. Interesting, she thought. The minute a politician acts on principle the immediate assumption is that she has something to hide. Then again, there was something inherently suspect about a politician acting on principle.
She combed through the last of the knots, then stopped and shot herself an assessing look in the mirror. Who are you kidding?
Sure, her refusal to answer was based in part on principle. She vividly recalled her reaction to the late Senator John Tower’s confession of adultery on national television in 1988—how embarrassing it was for everyone, how little it contributed to meaningful political discourse. But no decision—even one based on principle—was made in a vacuum. The simple fact was, there were recent ambiguities she’d really rather not explain.
Her eyes shifted toward the king-sized bed, where tonight’s evening gown lay beside her handbag. She’d worn it once before, just two months ago. Wearing it again would probably keep her from repeating as one of People magazine’s annual “Best Dressed”—oh, horror of horrors. But Peter liked it and had picked it out specially, so to hell with the fashion police. Of all the dresses in her closet, however, his fancy for this one was terribly ironic. The last time she’d worn it was just a week after her poolside reunion in Miami Beach with Mitch O’Brien. She and Peter were at a gala in Washington—where Mitch had made a surprise reappearance.
Her gaze lingered, until the hundreds of tiny beads and sequins on the gown began to blur and move about, the way the stars began to swirl if you lay on your back in a field of grass and stared into outer space. The tiny points of light distorted her vision, yet they sharpened her mind’s eye in hypnotic fashion. She felt oddly detached, trancelike, as her memory drifted back to that crowded ballroom at the Capitol Hilton, where things with Mitch really started to get strange…
“Excuse me,” said the eighty-six-year-old senator from South Carolina. In one false step, he’d crushed Allison’s foot and spilled champagne down her dress.
Allison dabbed the stain with a cocktail napkin. “That’s okay, Senator. But usually I don’t bathe in champagne until after the party.” She tantalized him with a wink. The old bigot was her biggest detractor on the Hill, though his ringing endorsement of Lincoln Howe had been somewhat neutralized after a reporter overheard him tell his aide he’d vote for the Little Rascals’ Buckwheat before putting a woman in the White House.
He apologized nervously, then forged through the crowd.
Beyond being the world’s most prestigious black-tie gathering of influential Italians and Italian Americans, the annual gala for the National Italian American Federation was one of those see-and-be-seen events for Washington heavyweights, Italian and non-Italian alike. Since Allison had become attorney general, it was the one annual event that Peter actually looked forward to. This year, as usual, Allison found herself mingling alone in the political circles while Peter went off with his Sinatra-esque rat pack, working his way through the other three thousand guests who wanted to rub elbows with the likes of Nicolas Cage and John Travolta.
“Damn it,” she muttered as the cold champagne soaked through to her skin. She checked for the nearest exit to the rest rooms, then suddenly did a double take.
Mitch was standing alone by the bar when Allison spotted him, staring right at her, cocktail in hand. He was as handsome as ever in classic black tie, but she immediately recognized the glazed look in his eyes. Allison answered his smile with a cold stare. With a subtle jerk of her head she directed him to the double doors leading to an isolated hallway near the kitchen. Mitch took the hint and started for the exit. Allison waited a few moments, then excused herself from her circle of conversation. A Secret Service agent met her at the door.
“That won’t be necessary,” she said politely. She clutched her evening bag, indicating that she was carrying her panic button. “I’ll beep you if I need you.”
He nodded, allowing her to pass through the doors alone.
The west hallways leading to the Grand Ballroom were part of a secured area, so they were virtually deserted. Mitch was waiting around the corner in a dimly lit alcove. He leaned against the wall, smirking in the glow of a crystal wall sconce.
“What are you doing here?” Her tone was harsh, but she kept her voice low.
He slapped his forehead in an exaggerated, comedic fashion. “Jeez, I forgot. My last name doesn’t end in a vowel. It begins with one. Ah, no problem,” he said, grabbing his crotch and laying on the accent, “I can tawk Italian.”
“You’re drunk.”
He shrugged, dismissing it. “I’m Irish.”
“You’re obnoxious. You were always obnoxious when you drank. How many times did I have to tell you that?”
His smile faded. “About as many times as I had to ask you when we were getting married. Why didn’t you just pick a date, Allison? Any date. Why mess with a guy’s mind and tell him you’ll marry him if you won’t say when?”
She blinked with disbelief. “That was eight years ago.”
“What about last week?”
“What about it?”
“Doesn’t what I said to you mean anything?”
“You think I’m supposed to melt or something, just because out of the blue you tell me you still love me? Get over it, Mitch. And knock off the self-pity.”
“F*ck you, Allison. Is that what you think? That I’ve spent the last eight years drowning my sorrows over you? Well, I got news for you, baby. Any married woman who’s willing to meet an old lover at a Miami Beach hotel is hardly worth the liver damage.”
She glared. Never mind that it was he who had tracked her down at the hotel. She knew, however, that arguing was pointless. This was the ugly side of Mitch that had made it impossible for her to marry him. Still, she wasn’t totally sure if it was just the liquor talking, or if he was deliberately trying to make last week at the Hotel Fountainbleu sound like something it wasn’t.
“I don’t know what trouble you’re trying to start. But nothing happened between us last week, and nothing ever will. Got it? So don’t follow me again—ever. Now get out of here before I call security.”
He challenged her with a stare, but Allison didn’t blink. Finally he staggered away mad, like the bad old days when Allison used to banish him to the sofa to sleep it off.
Her gaze fixed on the back of his head until he disappeared around the corner. Part of her wanted to run after him and strangle him. But another part wanted to grab him and shake him and tell him to stop wasting his life.
Suddenly, she heard heels clicking on the marble floor. Was he coming back?
She listened more intently. It couldn’t be Mitch. It was the lonely sound of someone walking in the opposite direction, away from her, down a side corridor. Security? she wondered.
She peered around the corner. The footsteps stopped. She ducked back into the alcove and listened again. The clicking resumed, but it was muffled this time, as if someone were walking more carefully, sneaking away.
It wasn’t like security to skulk like a stalker.
Quietly, she walked halfway down the long corridor, then stopped and listened. All was still.
A door slammed, echoing through the marble hallway.
She hurried ahead, made a quick turn at the bank of telephones, and found a metal fire door. She pulled the handle. Locked. She peered through the small window at eye level. Up or down, she saw endless flights of concrete steps with metal railings. She put her ear to the door. Silence. She opened her evening bag—the panic button would summon a team of FBI and Secret Service agents to her side in an instant. But what would she tell them? That she was having a spat with her ex-fiancé? She closed the bag. Better to leave this one alone.
“Is everything all right, Ms. Leahy?”
It was Secret Service. “Yes,” she said, her heart in her throat. “I was just looking for the ladies’ room.”
“This way,” he said, offering to lead her.
She walked at his side, a half step behind him. After several steps, she noticed his shoes. They were the rubber-soled type. They didn’t make a sound. No clicking of the heels, like before. It definitely wasn’t security she’d heard earlier.
Her hands shook as she tucked her evening bag beneath her arm. She walked with her head up, keeping her composure. But fear was gripping her by the throat as one thought consumed her: Had someone overheard everything?…
“Allison, aren’t you ready yet?”
“Huh?” she said, shaken from her memories by the sound of Peter’s voice. He was standing in the doorway that divided their suite—dressed and ready to go. She was still seated at the vanity mirror in her robe and wet hair.
“The helicopter leaves in fifteen minutes.” He leaned forward and kissed the top of her head. “Don’t make me leave without you.”
She smiled awkwardly. “I’ll be ready in ten.”
He returned the smile and headed for the door.
“Peter?” she said, stopping him in his tracks. Her expression was serious. “Do you really think I did the right thing at the debate?”
“Absolutely, darling.” He raised an eyebrow, sensing her anguish. “I hope you’re not second-guessing yourself.”
She sighed, wishing she had just told him everything two months ago. She knew his temper, however, and telling him that an ex-fiancé was still in love with her seemed utterly pointless at the time. And what would he think if she told him now, well after the fact, on the heels of her public refusal to confirm or deny that she’d ever had an affair? Would anyone believe that nothing had happened?
“No second thoughts,” she said with a forced but appreciative smile. “I’m still convinced that silence was the right response.”
He nodded in agreement, then left the room.
She checked her reflection in the mirror, still shaky from the memory of Mitch at the gala. Maybe she was paranoid, but she had a horrible gut feeling that she was being set up—that someone wanted her to deny she’d ever cheated on Peter, only to hit her with a tape recording and a mystery witness who would totally distort her encounter with Mitch. She’d be worse than an adulteress. She’d be an adulteress and a liar, another presidential hopeful sinking on the charter boat Monkey Business. With that, she was indeed convinced that silence was the correct response.
More convinced than ever, she told the troubled face staring back at her in the mirror.