The Abduction (29 page)

“You’re in my seat,” he said.

She didn’t look up, stared straight ahead.

“Lady,” he said, this time leaning forward, staring down at her. “I said, you’re in my seat.”

“You’re in my face,” she said. “Get out.”

He scoffed, gyrating with some rhythmic motion that, with a little more animation, could have passed for dancing. “You think I’m in your face? This ain’t nothin’, bitch.” He arched his back, raising his crotch toward her. “How about you open real wide and I stick it
right
in your face. I bet you’d like that, huh?”

“Leave her alone.” It was the businessman seated across the aisle.

The punk glared. “This ain’t about you, asshole.”

“Just leave us alone,” he said, though with slightly less conviction.

Another punk strutted down the aisle, backing up his buddy. He wore exactly the same outfit.
Gang attire. “What’s this?” he scoffed, towering over the man. “The accountant cops an attitude?”

“Look,” said Allison. “Everybody just calm down, okay?”

The punk raised his voice. “Calm down, you say? You want
me
to calm down? Just get the fuck outta my seat, I’ll calm down.”

Allison went rigid. The car was silent, no one moving. The homeless guy in the handicap seat was mumbling in his sleep. Allison moved slowly and said, “All right, I’ll move.” She rose, taking the suitcase firmly in her hand. Halfway across the aisle, the punk grabbed it.

“Hey!” she shrieked, fighting him off.

“Leave her!” said the accountant as he intervened.

A third punk raced down the aisle. The homeless guy leaped to his feet, shouting something, no longer mumbling. “Now!” he cried.

The train screeched on the rails, sliding to a halt. Passengers flew into the backs of the seats in front of them. Allison tumbled hard to the floor. The suitcase flew straight up the aisle, halfway up the car. One of the gang members rolled after it, grabbed it.

“My bag!” cried Allison.

The homeless guy braced himself on a pole and pulled out a pistol. Allison gasped. Passengers screamed and scurried for cover.

“FBI!” he shouted. “Freeze!”

The punk hurled the suitcase at him. His buddy pulled out a gun. The homeless guy fired, hitting him in the chest. Blood splashed onto Allison’s coat as he fell in the aisle beside her. She dove toward him and pried the gun from his fingers. She looked up. The disguised FBI agent had
the other two under control, pinning them on the floor at gunpoint.

The wounded one looked up at her, choking for his life.
Just a kid,
she thought. But her pity waned as she suddenly thought of Kristen, the plan gone awry, and the kidnappers turning violent when they didn’t get their money.

“You screwed everything up!” she shouted, wishing she could help him and kill him at the same time. “You idiot! What the hell were you doing?”

His body trembled. His eyes were rolling back into his head. She shook him, reviving him. “Who are you?”

He didn’t respond.

“Who
are
you?”

He was breathing loudly, sucking for air. His eyes briefly seemed to focus. He was struggling to speak, nearly strangling on his words. “Shit, lady. Just wanted the fucking suitcase.”

“Who?
Who
wanted it?”

His lips quivered. His eyes began to drift.

“Damn it, tell me! Who sent you? Who wanted the suitcase!”

His head rolled to one side.

Her grip tightened on his jacket, but his body was dead weight. A sick feeling swelled inside her, a rising bitterness in her throat. She rose slowly from her knees, oblivious to the hot blood staining her hands and clothes. She turned toward the FBI agent guarding the other two punks. Her eyes filled with rage.

“I want to talk to those boys,” she said through clenched teeth.

It took nearly twenty minutes for the FBI to bring the two surviving gang members up from the subway. That the train had stopped midway in the tunnel between stations only made the task more difficult. Forest Glen station had been closed and roped off as a crime scene, which forced the media and other onlookers to wait outside the chain-link fence surrounding the parking lot. Allison was hoping to rush to the FBI van without being recognized, but other passengers on the train had already confirmed her involvement. The media erupted as she emerged from the station, zooming in with their camcorders from thirty yards away and snapping her picture through telephoto lenses. Reporters shouted an endless string of questions, but it was pure cacophony.

Allison quickly disappeared into the lead FBI van. A second carried the suspects and arresting agents. A team of police motorcycles with sirens blaring led the entourage back into the district toward FBI headquarters. Allison watched on a portable TV set in the back of the van as aerial shots of the speeding motorcade flashed live across the country. Her heart sank as the coverage shifted to the just-recorded footage of her exit from the station. Her hair was a mess. Splattered blood was clearly visible on her coat. She looked
like a refugee from an air raid. The television camera froze on that image as the anchorman announced a station break.

“When we return, more of our continuing coverage of the Kristen Howe kidnapping and the failed rescue effort that has resulted in the unconfirmed death of at least one teenage boy. Stay tuned.”

The network switched to a commercial. Allison closed her eyes in despair. They might as well have said that she had personally put a gun to the head of a Boy Scout and pulled the trigger. She turned off the set and removed her bloody coat, passing it to the agent in the front.

“Here,” she scoffed. “Exhibit A at my congressional lynching.”

She grabbed the phone and called Peter back at the Justice Building basement just to assure him she was unhurt. As she’d expected, he’d watched it all unfold on television.

“Do you still have the money?” were his first words.

“Yes,” she answered, a little dismayed by his priorities. “And by the way,
I’m
fine, too.”

“Sorry, honey. You looked fine on television. I just didn’t see the suitcase.”

“The FBI recovered it along with the suspects. We’re all heading to headquarters now.”

“That’s right across the street. I’ll meet you there.”

“Peter, I think you should just stay put for now. There’s a mob of reporters outside the Justice Building. I don’t want you to have to deal with that.”

“All right, I’ll wait here. Love you.”

“I love you, too.” She hung up and dialed
Harley Abrams at the Op Center. They spoke as the FBI van raced through the red lights along Georgia Avenue, toward the heart of the district.

“If Nashville was strike one, Harley, this is definitely strike two.”

“I’m sorry, Allison. I just thank God you’re okay. You sure you don’t want to go to the hospital or something? Or I can have a doctor check you out when you get here.”

His concern for her safety took some of the bite out of her reply—but not all of it. “I’m fine, really. I just want to know what the hell happened down there.”

“Don’t know yet. When I lost radio contact with you, we flooded the train with undercover agents—seventeen boarded at various stops. I need to talk to all of them to piece things together.”

“Who stopped the train?”

“We did. The agent posing as the homeless guy in your car was in contact with the control car. The radios worked between points in the same tunnel. It was the surface-to-tunnel communication that we were having trouble with. When things looked like they were getting out of control, our agent gave the word to stop the train.”

“Any leads on those idiots who hassled me?”

“Nothing promising as yet. We faxed their fingerprints right from the Metro station. They all have records. Two have been charged before as adults. Small-time stuff. Drugs, car theft.”

The vans entered the FBI garage. Heavy metal doors rolled down, shutting out the pursuing media. The phone crackled with interference from the thick cement walls. “We’re here,” she said. “Meet me at the interrogation room.”

“I hope you’re not entertaining thoughts of interrogating the suspects yourself.”

“No, but I want to observe. Or at least listen.”

She watched as the suspects were taken from the van and rushed inside. The two boys looked confused, overwhelmed.

She grimaced, still speaking into the phone. “You know, these kids don’t look at all like the savvy criminals who would plan a kidnapping. They look more like the five or six people on the planet who still haven’t heard that Kristen Howe has been kidnapped.”

“We won’t know until we question them. Looks can be deceiving.”

“The one thing that has me really curious is something one of them said—the leader, the one who attacked me and grabbed the suitcase. Before he died, he said something like ‘Just wanted the suitcase, lady.’ Somebody had to tell him there was money in the suitcase. Why else would they target it? Why else would they spring their attack right before the Forest Glen station, where the kidnapper told me to drop the money?”

“We’ll get into all that in the interrogation. We’ll get the answers.”

“I know you will,” she said. “Unless the only one with the answers is the kid we shot on the train.”

Harley didn’t reply. She switched off the phone and entered the building.

Tanya Howe listened in disbelief to the live radio broadcast from Washington, alone in the backseat of her mother’s town car. She felt paralyzed, wanting desperately to know what it all meant for Kristen but far too afraid to consider the possibilities.

The driver had said nothing during the trip
back from the hotel. She could only imagine his thoughts. The tips of her fingers were still pruned from the hot tub. Her skin smelled like chlorine. Her wet bathing suit was soaking through her overcoat. She had rushed from the hotel fitness center after the threat from LaBelle, too sickened and shaken to shower and change back into her clothes.

She peered through the town car’s tinted windows as they neared her driveway. Remarkably, the media presence had expanded on the street and sidewalk. Twice as many vans. Many more reporters and cameras. The usual sit-around-and-wait mode was over. They had sprung into action with live reports from Tanya Howe’s residence, filling airtime even though they had nothing to report.

The car radio suddenly regained her attention. The announcer had mentioned her father’s name—something about his arrival at Washington National Airport.

“Turn it up, please,” she told the driver.

The volume increased. The voices were jumbled, like shouting traders on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. Her father was reportedly at the airport, but it sounded like he was being mauled. Slowly the background noises filtered away. A reporter had apparently gotten a microphone in the candidate’s face. He spoke in a controlled but angry voice.

“I’m in no position to make a statement at this time,” said Howe. “However, I would like to express my sympathies to the family of the young boy who was killed in this morning’s shoot-out. I have no idea what our suspended attorney general was trying to accomplish. My only hope is that
her rash and irresponsible actions do not result in further loss of life. Thank you,” he shouted over the follow-up questions. “I’ll have more to say later today.”

The announcer was back on the radio, but Tanya’s attention was turning to the mob blocking the entrance to her driveway. The car forged ahead like a wedge, splitting the crowd into two camps. The garage door opened. The car rolled in, and the door closed behind them. Tanya jumped from the backseat and ran to the kitchen door, eager to turn on the television. Her mother was waiting at the kitchen table. One of the FBI agents was across from her. The television on the counter was tuned to CNN’s coverage of the subway debacle. The volume was low, almost inaudible, as if her mother could bring herself to watch but not listen.

Neither Natalie nor the agent said a word. Her mother’s sullen eyes drew Tanya’s attention to the large brown envelope on the table.

“What’s that?” asked Tanya.

“It came by courier while you were out,” said Natalie.

“Who’s it from?”

“It doesn’t say.”

“What’s in it?”

“I didn’t open it. It’s addressed to you.”

The agent said, “We took it down to the field office. Our lab scanned it, had the dogs sniff it. No poisons or explosives. We brought it back for you to open.”

Tanya started to remove her coat, then realized she was still wearing her bathing suit. With her coat on she sat at the table, beside her mother and across from the agent. She reached for the envelope, but the agent stopped her.

“Let me open it,” he said. “If there are fingerprints or other physical evidence, we don’t want to lose them.”

Tanya nodded, acquiescing.

The agent pulled on a pair of thin latex gloves. Carefully, he slit open the envelope on the bottom, not the top, so as not to destroy any traces of saliva the sender may have left behind when licking the flap. With a large pair of tweezers he removed a flat piece of cardboard about the size of a legal pad. He held it up at the edges without touching the surface, the way an artist might hold a still-wet masterpiece.

The agent seemed to freeze.

Tanya trembled at his reaction. He was holding the cardboard square at eye level. She could see the back side as he examined the front. She shuddered at the message scrawled in blue ink:
PIG’S BLOOD THIS TIME. NEXT TIME IT’S KRISTEN’S. KEEP THE FBI OUT OF THIS.

The agent lowered the cardboard and looked straight at Tanya. “It’s a photo,” he said. “It’s Kristen. I don’t think you should see it.”

“It’s phony blood,” said Tanya. “Read the message on the back.”

The agent flipped it over, careful not to let Tanya see the photo. He glanced back at the front side, taking an even closer look at the photo. He seemed relieved, but he was still firm. “I still don’t think you should see this. This is a very cruel psychological ploy.”

Tanya shook. “You mean the message or the photo?”

“The sender obviously intended for you to see the photo before you read the message. He’s one heartless and manipulative son of a bitch.”

“Is Kristen okay?”

“I believe so,” said the agent. “That’s what the message implies. But the photo was obviously staged to make you think otherwise.”

“Show me,” said Tanya.

“That’s not a good idea.”

“Show me,”
she said.

The agent drew a deep breath. Slowly he turned the cardboard, revealing the Polaroid snapshot to her.

Tanya gasped—like she wanted to scream but had no voice. She only looked for a second. That was all it took. Anyone else would have needed time to confirm that beneath the blood-soaked clothing the girl in the bathtub was indeed Kristen Howe. Tanya knew that face in an instant—even splattered red. She closed her eyes and looked away, instinctively burying her face in her mother’s bosom.

Natalie stroked her daughter’s head, her voice shaking. “It’s not real, Tanya. It’s phony blood. Kristen’s still all right.”

The agent laid the photograph face down on the table. “I do believe it’s staged,” he said.

Tanya lifted her head and wiped a tear from her cheek. She glanced at her mother. It was an awkward moment, as if Tanya suddenly remembered that she and her mother needed a good talk to sort out the threat from Buck LaBelle.

“There’s more in here,” said the agent. With tweezers he removed another envelope from inside the larger envelope. It was sealed separately. On the front was scrawled another message:
PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL
, it read.
DELIVER TO ALLISON LEAHY
.

The three of them read it simultaneously. The agent looked at Tanya. “I guess I’ll take this.”

Tanya grabbed his hand. “No you won’t.”

“Excuse me,” he said. “The message says it’s for Allison Leahy.”

“It came in a package addressed to me. The instructions told me to leave the FBI out of this.”

“I don’t think it wise to follow those instructions.”

Tanya glanced at the television on the counter. It was still tuned to the subway coverage. One of the frightened passengers from the train was being interviewed. She glanced back at the agent. “I think I’ll take my chances without you guys. Give me the envelope.”

He grimaced. “It says it must be delivered to Allison Leahy.”

She snatched it from his hand. “I’ll make sure she gets it.”