The Abduction (24 page)

Vincent Gambrelli woke at sunrise, five minutes before the alarm would have sounded. He’d risen the same time every morning for more than thirty years, since his first night as a Green Beret in the jungles in Vietnam. He’d never really needed an alarm clock, and he’d only started setting one in the last few months, as he neared the half-century mark. It was a kind of competition for him, man against machine. The day his body no longer knew it was time to get up was the day he would no longer trust it.

His six-foot frame was covered in his usual sleepwear, dark green sweat pants and a camouflage T-shirt. He dropped to the carpet and lay on his back, knees up, bracing his ankles beneath the bed frame. He breathed audibly, inhaling and exhaling at regular intervals as he ripped off two hundred sit-ups. He rolled onto his chest, facedown with his hands planted firmly in the push-up position. His back was rigid as a steel rod for the first set of fifty. Up on his fingertips for fifty more. Another twenty-five using just his right arm, then twenty-five more using only the left.

He sprung to his feet, pumped with energy. He swung his arms across his body, stimulating the circulation as he crossed the room and entered the bathroom. Stripped of the T-shirt, he checked
himself in the mirror. The red glow of the heat lamp gave him an evil cast, which he rather liked. Thick purple veins bulged from his forearms and biceps. His clean-shaven head glistened with tiny beads of sweat. He turned for a look at his profile. Lean. Nothing he didn’t need. Not an extra gram of body fat. Not an extraneous hair on his head. Not a hint of compassion in the cold, dark eyes.

He showered and dressed quickly. Hunger pangs gripped his belly, but that would have to wait.

He pulled a duffel bag from the closet, laid it on the floor, and unlocked the zipper. He smoothed out the bedspread and pulled on a pair of thin rubber surgical gloves. Gloves were a must when handling the equipment. No prints.

Carefully, almost lovingly, he reached inside the bag and removed a sleek and lightweight AR-7 rifle, laying it on the bed. The barrel was already broken down for storage inside the stock with the clip, and the serial number just above the clip port had been completely drilled out. Beside it, he laid the three-to-six-powered rifle scope, powerful enough to ensure deadly accuracy up to sixty-five yards. That was far more scope than he’d needed last night. From across the street, Repo had been easy prey.

With a small screwdriver he methodically disassembled the rifle. He ran a wire cleaning brush down the bore, then used a rattail file to alter the barrel, shell chamber, loading ramp, firing pin, and ejector pin—all the parts that created ballistic markings. It seemed like overkill in a way, going to all this trouble to thwart an unlikely attempt by police to match the bullets in Repo’s body to the ballistic markings on Gambrelli’s weapons. Even
if the cops could find Gambrelli—
good luck
—no one was likely to find Repo’s body in the smoldering ashes, let alone the bullets. A generous sprinkling of wood alcohol and a single match had taken care of the crime scene. The police would likely surmise that some crack-addicted vagrant in search of shelter had broken into a vacant house and forgotten to open the flue before lighting the fireplace, setting the place ablaze and toasting himself in the process.

Still, it was good practice—if not just an ingrained Gambrelli habit—either to dump the weapons or change the ballistic markings after every kill. With General Howe’s granddaughter in the next room, this wasn’t the time to be out shopping for a new gun. That left only one choice.

A knock on the door broke his concentration. On impulse, he grabbed his pistol from the duffel bag.

“It’s me,” came the voice from behind the door. “Tony.”

Gambrelli looked up from his disassembled rifle. “Come in.”

The door opened. Tony Delgado stood in the doorway. His eyes were slits, still crusted with sleep. “You want me to feed the kid?”

Gambrelli was deadpan. “Did I tell you to feed the kid?”

“No.”

“Then don’t feed the kid. Don’t blow your nose, don’t wipe your ass. From now on, don’t do anything unless I tell you to do it.”

Delgado lowered his head like a chided boy. “You know, nobody feels worse about what happened to Johnny than I do.”

Gambrelli shook his head, the disapproving
uncle. “Siddown,” he said, pointing to the chair in the corner.

He moved without a sound, slow but obedient.

Gambrelli said, “Johnny was family, but he was a fuckup. Too damn cocky for his own good. Somebody was gonna do him, sooner or later.”

Delgado made a face. “That’s it?
C’est la vie?
”

“Shut up, Tony.
I’m
talking here.”

A lump swelled in the younger man’s throat, visible from across the room.

Gambrelli narrowed his eyes. “Let me explain something to you, Tony. Your brother was how old, twenty?”

“Twenty-one.”

“When I was his age, I had one concern. Kill the Viet Cong before they killed me. One mistake, you were dead. You can see it in my eyes—I lived because I killed. Take a good look at me, then look at somebody like your little brother. Johnny and every kid born after him is part of an entire generation of whiny little brats who think the whole damn world is a video game. You screw up, you put another quarter in the slot. And Mommy never lets you run out of quarters. That’s why boys like Johnny never grow up to be men. Their idea of fighting for their own survival is going on TV talk shows to bitch about having to put on a condom before they fuck their fifteen-year-old girlfriend. Useless. An entire generation. Utterly
useless.
”

“Are you saying Johnny deserved to die?”

“I’m saying that with one less Johnny or Repo or Kristen Howe, for that matter, the world is no worse off. It’s better off.”

“What about me?”

“You’re older,” Gambrelli said with a shrug. “I
thought maybe you were different. I trusted you with this job, Tony. It was just my bad fucking luck that after twenty years in the business, my biggest job ever comes after I’m married and retired. My old lady’s not cool, you know what I’m saying? I can’t tell her I’m taking the week off to go kidnap General Howe’s granddaughter. But this job was too big to pass up. So I figured, hey, Tony can handle this. He’s got guts. Got some brains. I figure I’ll be like a general myself, in the background, you know, giving orders. So I cut the deal, I get everything lined up. All you gotta do is stick to the plan. Next thing I know, Johnny’s dead on the kitchen floor with a knife in his chest, you’re hung over from too much tequila, and the girl’s fucking gone—she’s flying down the highway with some amateur named Repo, like a twelve-year-old Bonnie and a shit-for-brains Clyde.”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“
Shut up,
Tony.” He gnawed his lower lip in anger, glaring at his nephew. “I don’t like doing it this way, me being directly involved. This is one of those jobs where the triggerman should never know his client, and the client should never know the triggerman. Too much publicity in this case, too much risk of people talking. When people talk, they start pointing fingers. But if the middleman does his job, the client can’t finger the triggerman, and the triggerman can’t finger the client. Ever. Which makes it real tough for the cops to prove a conspiracy. Thanks to you, asshole, I’m not the middleman anymore. Now there’s a direct link between the client and triggerman.
That’s
why I’m pissed at you, Tony.”

Tony sank in his chair. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything. Just don’t screw up. Ever again.”

He lowered his head. “I won’t.”

Gambrelli took a deep breath, cooling his anger. The kid was appropriately contrite, remorseful. If he weren’t family, he’d be dead. But like it or not, he
was
family. If Gambrelli had to keep him around, he had to lift his spirits. A partner with no self-confidence was a dangerous liability. He reached across the bed and grabbed a white spiral binder from the nightstand, which he’d been reading last night before going to sleep. “Here,” he said as he tossed it to him.

He caught it and checked the title:
Missing and Abducted Children: A Law Enforcement Guide to Case Investigation and Program Management.

Gambrelli said, “It’s published by the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. The bible for cops who chase child abductors. The bible for men like us who elude them.”

“You want me to read this whole thing?”

“I want you to
absorb
it. You have to start thinking like the FBI. That book, right there, it’s written by an FBI special agent named Harley Abrams. If you read this, you know exactly how he thinks—very analytical, step-by-step. Last night I was rereading the part where he lays out all the possible motives for child abductions. Sexual savagery, ransom, sale of children for profit, a few others. He comes up with a total of seven most likely motives. At the end, he theorizes that an eighth possible motive is political gain. But this is very interesting. He says that never in the history of the United States has there been a documented case of a child abduction for political purposes. What do you think of that, Tony?”

His eyes widened, like the kid in class who hated to be called on. “I don’t know. Guess it means there are easier ways to screw up an election than to kidnap a child.”

“Smart boy,” he said with approval. “Very smart boy. I suppose the FBI could be thinking that. What else could they be thinking?”

He made a face, thinking. “That there’s a first time for everything.”

Gambrelli smiled thinly. “Sometimes I think you’re too ugly to be my sister’s kid. But you just might be smart enough.”

He cracked a thin smile.

Gambrelli winked. Mission accomplished. His confidence was building; the boy was back on the team. He pulled a Polaroid camera from his duffel bag, then popped open the film compartment and loaded it. “You just go on and read that book, okay? Study hard. I have to go shoot some pictures.”

“Pictures? What kind of pictures?”

Gambrelli looked up. All traces of a smile had fallen from his face. “You’ll see. Just one good shot is all I’m after. The kind of shot that drains mothers of emotion. And families of their bank accounts.”

Allison tugged the bedroom drapes aside no more than an inch, just far enough to peek inconspicuously at the quaint Georgetown street below. The neighborhood was normally peaceful on Sundays at sunrise. From her upstairs window, however, she could see the media camped outside her townhouse. Some were sleeping inside parked cars and vans, staying warm. Others huddled in chatty circles along the old brick sidewalk, their faces indistinguishable in the eerie predawn glow from the decorative old street lamps. Dressed in wool hats and bulky winter jackets, they shifted their weight from one foot to the other in a dancelike ritual, fighting off the morning chill. Heads occasionally rolled back in laughter as they cavorted over steamy paper cups of coffee. She wondered what they jabbered about to pass the time. Football? Basketball? Or maybe the beloved blood sport of Washington, the ultimate spectator thrill—watching yet another presidential hopeful tumble off the high wire and splatter onto Pennsylvania Avenue.

She turned away from the window and crawled back into bed. Peter was sitting up with his back against the headboard, still in his pajamas, devouring the
Washington Post.
It was well before his normal Sunday waking hour, but they’d both
been wide awake when the paper landed on the doorstep. The headline said it all:
LEAHY SUSPENDED AS ATTORNEY GENERAL
.

President Sires had indeed kept his promise and issued the White House press release. His chief of staff was scheduled to appear later in the day on
Meet the Press
to explain the suspension. Allison’s running mate, Governor Helmers, was appearing at that very moment on another morning newscast, doing his best at damage control. Late last night, the Leahy/Helmers campaign strategists had agreed that Helmers, not Allison, should do the early morning shows. He could stand up for her without sounding defensive, and he could draw out some of the sting on the less popular early morning shows so that Allison would be better prepared when the sharpshooting TV journalists fired away on the prime-time shows between 9:00
A.M
. and noon.

Allison lay listlessly on the bed, her voice filled with dread. “I have to get ready.”

Peter looked up from the newspaper. “You sound like you’re going to a funeral.”

“I am, in a way. President Sires said it last night, and my own pollsters are saying the same thing. Statistically, I’m a lost cause.”

He tossed the newspaper aside. “I don’t hear any fat lady singing. Helmers and Wilcox and the rest of those guys wouldn’t be scrambling the way. they are if they thought it was really over.”

Allison shook her head. “At this point, everyone is just running on momentum, not enthusiasm. They’re not looking for me to pull off a come-from-behind miracle in the next two days. They’re just trying to keep my taint from spoiling Helmers’s shot at the White House in another four years.”

“Does Wilcox or Helmers know anything about how you agreed to pay Kristen Howe’s ransom?”

“No.”

“What about the president? Did you tell him?”

“No. I couldn’t. If any of those guys find out, they’ll exploit it. They’ll leak it to the press, try to portray me as a hero and swing the election back in my favor.”

“What,” he scoffed, “you don’t want to win?”

“Of course I want to win. But not at any cost. If word hits the street that you and I have agreed to pay the very ransom that General Howe refused to pay, it would be disastrous. Howe could override his daughter and forbid us from paying. The publicity could make the kidnappers back off and kill Kristen. Any number of things could happen, none of them good.”

“So—I’m confused. Are we paying the ransom or not?”

“Yes, we are. If they still want it.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The kidnappers are sending out some mixed signals. On Friday they demanded the money, then yesterday someone else called and said that Kristen is safe until the election is over. It sounds like they may be arguing among themselves, but we still have to be prepared to deliver the ransom if they call on Monday morning, like they said they would.”

“Do you really think you’re going to be able to keep this quiet?”

“We have to. I know it must be hard for you to understand, especially with headlines like today’s. But I promised Tanya Howe we’d keep this quiet because that’s the only way it will work. Bear that in mind when you’re finalizing the money. You
might want to use several different banks, keeping each individual transfer and withdrawal small, so that no suspicions are aroused. Just do whatever you can to obscure the fact that we’re paying the ransom.”

He made a face. “In essence, you want me to promise that I won’t try to capitalize on the one thing that could help you pull off the election.”

“In a way, yes.” She shook her head, almost laughing at the absurdity. “I know it’s crazy. A year ago in this very room you begged me not to run for president. You said it would screw up our lives. Now look where we are. How ironic is this?”

“If you could only imagine.”

“Please, Peter. I don’t want anyone turning this ransom payment into a political football. Especially not you. Do you promise me that?”

He fell quiet, as if his mind were in another place. Then his hand slid across the sheets and he touched her face, his mouth curling into a soft, reassuring smile. “Of course, darling. I promise.”

Tanya Howe recognized her father’s black limousine in the driveway. She turned away from the window and glared at her mother. “What’s
he
doing here?”

Natalie was sitting at the kitchen table, stirring half-and-half into her morning coffee. The shaking spoon clattered as she laid it in the saucer. She spoke in a soft, nearly apologetic tone. “Your father asked if he could come over. I told him it was okay.”

“Why on earth would you tell him that?”

“Tanya, people are talking. The press is starting to say mean things. It reflects poorly on your
father if he never even stops by the house when his own daughter is suffering.”

“So you told him he could stop by for a campaign photo op?”

“Sweetheart, no. I just thought—I hoped—that if the two of you got together in the same room, for whatever reason, maybe something good would come of it.”

“Forget it. He’s not coming inside.”

The doorbell rang. Tanya didn’t flinch. Natalie looked anxiously toward the living room, then back at her daughter. “Tanya, please. Do this for me.”

An FBI agent stepped into the kitchen. “Ms. Howe, it’s your father. Would you like me to let him in?”

Tanya struggled to say no, but she couldn’t get past her mother’s pained expression. She sighed with frustration. “All right. Fine. He can come in.”

“Thank you,” said Natalie. She rose from the table and scurried into the living room.

Tanya stared out the kitchen window as she waited, her eyes clouding over as she looked toward the old swing set in the backyard. She recalled how Kristen had needed a push from Mommy when it first went up. Before long, Mommy was dead meat if she even suggested her baby was swinging too high and shouldn’t be so daring. Kristen hadn’t used it much in the last few years, but Tanya had left it up anyway. Part of her had refused to accept that her daughter was growing up—the same part that refused to believe she wasn’t coming home.

“Hello, Tanya,” said General Howe. His deep voice snatched her from her memories. He stood alone in the doorway with his trench coat draped over his forearm.

Tanya’s face showed no emotion. “Hello.”

He took another half-step into the room and closed the pocket door behind him. “Mind if I sit down?” he said as he pulled up a chair at the table.

She voiced no objection. He laid his coat on the chair beside him, then looked her in the eye from across the kitchen table. “Tanya, I think you know why I’m here.”

“Yes,” she scoffed. “Mom explained.”

He nodded, seemingly pleased to be able to dispense with the groundwork. “Good. I know it’s a difficult subject for you, but I’d appreciate it if you could just tell me whatever you know about it.”

Tanya winced with confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“You know. This whole thing with the accident.”

Her face showed even more confusion.

“You did say your mother explained, didn’t you?” he asked.

She shook her head slowly, sensing that this meeting had been arranged under false pretenses. Anger was beginning to boil inside—not just at her father, but at her mother, too, for sandbagging her. “Explain
what
?”

He paused to organize his thoughts. “Maybe I’d better back up a little. It’s like I told your mother. Sources tell me that the FBI is looking into the car accident that killed Mark Buckley.”

She shivered inside. It had been twelve years since she’d even heard her father invoke the name of Kristen’s father. “Is that so?”

“I’ve come here because I think you might know something about all this sudden renewed interest.”

“Why would I know anything?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything. I was just wondering, has anybody come by to ask you any questions?”

“Maybe.”

“Tanya, this is no time to be coy.”

“What did you expect me to be? Submissive? Obedient?”

“Just honest.”

“All right. Here’s something I can say in all honesty. I’d like to know the truth about Mark’s death.”

“Tanya, you know the truth. We all know the truth. I hope you’re not looking to rewrite history.”

“No,” she said in a serious voice. “I just think a very important part of this history was never recorded.”

He glared sternly across the table, speaking in a level tone. “The boy hit an oak tree going eighty-five miles an hour. He was drunk out of his mind. That’s all the history you need.”

She sat erect, looking him in the eye, as if to say his tone would not intimidate her. “That night—that night Mark died. He called me. Very short conversation. He sounded drunk. Didn’t really even sound himself. All he said was, ‘Tanya, I think you should have an abortion.’”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him no, obviously. But this isn’t about what I said. It’s about what he said. It was very strange. An abortion was the last thing Mark wanted. He wanted me to have this child.”

“You don’t know that. What twenty-year-old boy really knows what he wants?”

“He knew. We both knew.”

“Okay. So he got drunk and said something he didn’t mean.”

“That’s what I used to think. But to this day, I can’t forget the tone in his voice. He didn’t sound like he was just saying it for effect, or even like he was saying it to be cruel. He sounded…scared.”

“Lots of boys get scared when they knock up their girlfriend.”

“I wasn’t
knocked up.
And it wasn’t that kind of scared. It was different. He was scared like I’ve never heard anybody be scared. Like, scared for his life.”

The general swallowed hard.

Tanya leaned forward, boring in with eyes that burned. “I think he knew what was coming.”

“That’s ridiculous. The boy got drunk. He got in his car. He smashed into a tree. End of story.”

“Then why were there no skid marks?”

The general paused, but his voice was firm. “Because he was so cockeyed drunk he passed out at the wheel.”

“That’s your theory, Father.”

“That was the coroner’s theory.”

“The coroner wasn’t there.”

He snapped, “Why the hell else wouldn’t he hit the brakes?”

“You tell me.”

“I can’t, Tanya. I don’t have a damn clue.”

“I think you do.”

“Don’t you
dare
show me that disrespect.”

She pushed on, defiant. “I know Mark didn’t really want me to have an abortion.”

“Tanya—”

“I think he said it because he was forced.”

“Stop.”

“He didn’t say it because he was drunk. I think he was drunk because he was scared.”

“Stop right there.”

“I think he was scared because he was threatened.”

“Stop it.”

“I think there were no skid marks because he killed himself. Because he had no other option.”

“Shut up, Tanya!”

“Because
you
gave him no other option.”

“Damn you!”

“Because
you
threatened him!”

“So what!” he shouted as he shot from his chair.

Tanya fell back in her chair, shaking and exhausted. A frigid silence filled the room. “So
what
?” she asked incredulously.

The general took several deep breaths, checking his anger, considering his words. He walked away from the table, leaning over the sink as he stared out the window. Finally, he turned back to face her, speaking in a firm, even tone. “I told him to stay away from my daughter. That’s
all
I ever said to him. You want to call that a threat, that’s your choice. But I don’t hold myself responsible for some fool who gets himself drunk, gets behind the wheel, and kills himself.”

“But I do,” she said with contempt. “I most certainly do.”

A combination of anger and disgust swelled within her until she could no longer stand to be in the same room with him. She rose from the table and started for the living room, then stopped suddenly at the closed pocket door, preferring not to have to deal with her mother—the woman who had surreptitiously arranged this meeting in the first place. She turned and took the rear hallway to her bedroom.

A flurry of emotions brought a tear to her eye.
In need of a tissue, she made a quick turn for the back bathroom, which was accessible primarily from the front hallway, but also from a walk-in storage closet in the back of the house. She passed through it. The bathroom door was closed, but she was too consumed in her own thoughts to even think about knocking before entering. She opened it, then froze.

One of the FBI agents was standing at the counter before the vanity mirror. Surprise covered his face, as if he were unaware that a second entrance to the room even existed, or at least that anyone ever used it. The door to the front hallway was closed and locked. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and he was wearing rubber gloves. A pair of tweezers lay on the counter, right beside a hairbrush she recognized as belonging to her mother. His left hand clutched a clear plastic evidence bag. His right was stuffed inside an unzipped cosmetic bag—also her mother’s.