Abduction

Wanda L. Dyson

abduction

Wanda
L. Dyson

© 2003 by Wanda L. Dyson

ISBN 1-58660-812-6

All rights reserved. No part of
this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means
without written permission of the publisher.

All Scripture quotations are taken
from the H
oly
B
ible
, N
ew
I
nternational
V
ersion
®.
niv
®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible
Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s
imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people,
organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

Published by Mariah Press, Winston
Salem, NC 27105

Printed in the United States of
America.

5 4 3 2 1

dedication

This book is
dedicated to Danielle van Dam, Samantha Runnion, and to all the
children—treasured on earth, adored in heaven—you are not forgotten, though you
are greatly missed.

prologue

1983

T
he day he chose to kill her, a warm breeze and bright
skies seemed to promise that summer was going to show up on
schedule. It was the kind of day kids love. Wish
for. Dream of. The kind of day when anything seemed possible and fantasies were
ripe for the making. Big, fat, fluffy clouds begged for someone to come and
discover the rabbits and the horses and the castles. Parks waited
for
someone to notice how pleasant it would be to stroll across the lush green
grass or stretch out under the branches of a shady oak. Play-grounds
anticipated skipping feet, and toys grew anxious for curious hands.

It was the
kind of day when little girls giggled and little boys tried not to notice how
silly they were when they did.

A perfect day
for murder.

He watched them from the top of the bleachers as
they skipped out of the gray brick school building with a group of other
ten-year-old girls. They wore matching sandals and pink shorts and T-shirts and
carried identical yellow and pink book bags. The two girls began walking across
the softball field in the direction of their home, talking, giggling, oblivious
to anyone who might be watching.

But he was
watching.

He had been
watching the twins for some time. He knew everything about them—had made it his
business to know. They were ten, with identical curly blond hair, smoky green
eyes, and bright smiles full of teeth and gums. One tended to be outgoing,
making big gestures and laughing boisterously loud. But it was the other one
who caught his attention. The shy one. While her sister was looking to be the
center of attention, not so Amy. Sweet, quiet little Amy.

They lived on
Grafton Street with their mother. Their father had left two months earlier. The
mother now worked part-time at
Raffe’s
Department Store in the children’s department and would
n’t be home for
another hour.

Once home, the
girls would go in and stay there until their mother arrived home to make
dinner. They had been instructed in all the right things to do—lock the doors,
don’t open the door to strangers, and if anything happens, call the police.

They didn’t
know he’d already cut the phone line. The older one would try to call for help
but would be at a loss as to what to do. No one had told her about a backup
plan in case the phone lines were down—which he greatly appreciated. By the
time the mother arrived home, he’d have an hour’s head start.

And Amy would
be his.

Forever.

Slowly he
descended the bleachers, his sneakers making no sound, keeping one eye on the
girls. Not that he needed to at this point. He knew from watching them every
day exactly which way they went home. And exactly where they crossed the street
at Blocker. And exactly where he planned to be when they went past the alley.

Amy.

Sweet little
Amy. With the shy smile and the wary looks. He knew she sensed him. He could
read it in her eyes. The way she was always looking around for him but never
seeing him. It was a game he enjoyed. Watching her grow wary. . .nervous. .
.fearful. She knew he was coming for her.

It only made
the game more fun.

She would be
so frightened. Too frightened to speak. . .to scream. . .to try to run. Oh,
yes, she would be an excellent player in the game. She would be so afraid of
the pain. So afraid of dying.

So afraid of
him.

Anticipation
mounted, growing restless deep within him. It was time. All the planning and
the watching had led to this day.

This moment.

And now. . .it
was time to start the game.

chapter
1

Twenty years later

T
ed?
Mr. O’Connell wanted to see you as soon as you got back from lunch.” The
receptionist, a young woman in her early twenties, handed him three phone
messages and then turned her attention back to the ringing phones. “King,
Marlow, and Winters. How may I help you?”

“Thanks,” Ted murmured as he strolled down the
hallway back to the accounting department. Winding his way through the maze of
gray cubicles, he nodded to the few faithful souls who had returned early from
lunch or had skipped going out to eat altogether. He used to be one of
them—foolish enough to think that his talent and intelligence were actually
going to be appreciated. It hadn’t taken him long to figure it out; production
was all that mattered to keep your job; being connected was all you needed to
advance.

He pushed
through a pair of glass doors and strolled through another maze of cubicles
until he reached his own. It was the standard size—small—but tucked along the
outside wall, which meant that he at least had a window. As one of four senior
accountants, he had a coveted view of the park. But the goal was that corner
office that boasted three times the square footage, a view of the park
and
the lake, and a bonus package that made the accompanying salary irrelevant. Of
course, unless you were related to someone on the board, or at least a college
buddy, you didn’t have a chance.

Ignoring the
light flashing on his phone, he tossed the messages down on his desk,
straightened his tie, and headed for the office of the controller.

O’Connell was
as wide as he was tall, with oversized tortoise-rim glasses framing his round
face and bald head. Most company employees made the mistake of thinking that
either his girth, his ridiculous glasses, or his constant blinking and
fidgeting was an in-dication that he wasn’t all that bright. Ted knew better.
O’Connell was no idiot. But when it came to numbers, Ted could run circles
around the man. Ted’s brilliant mind still couldn’t trump the fact that
O’Connell had a brother on the board. O’Connell surrounded himself with men
like Ted to make himself look good.

O’Connell was
sitting at his desk staring intently at an open file as Ted rapped gently on
the open door. O’Connell looked up, blinked, and waved Ted in.

“Shut the door
and have a seat, Ted.”

Ted eased the
door shut. “You wanted to see me?” He crossed the room, keeping his eyes on
O’Connell as he sank in the leather chair in front of the desk. “Anything
wrong?”

“Yes.”
O’Connell closed the file and leaned back, his chair groaning in protest. “How
well do you know Maryanne Bubeck?”

Ted shrugged
as he relaxed in his chair. “Not well. She’s been with us about two years,
keeps to herself, seems to do her work with minimum fuss.”

“Know anything
about her personal life?”

“Not really. I
don’t think she’s married, but I don’t know if she ever has been or not. Can’t
say I know much more than that.”

O’Connell pushed his glasses back up his nose and
blinked rap
idly a few times as he sighed. “Have you noticed her acting
strange lately?”

“Strange?” Ted
shook his head again. “Can’t say that I have, but her desk is way in the back,
so I don’t see her that much. Has she done something?”

“We’re not
sure.” O’Connell blinked again as he began tapping his forefinger mindlessly on
the arm of his chair. “I don’t want to accuse someone without absolute proof.”

“Accuse
someone of what?”

“Embezzlement.”

It was Ted’s
turn to blink as his mouth dropped. “You’re kidding! Bubeck is embezzling from
us?”

“We’re not
sure. Security has already cleared you. That’s why I wanted to see you.”

Ted jerked
back.
“Cleared
me?”

“Until we
eliminate suspects, everyone has to be cleared. I hope you understand our
position.”

“It’s just
strange to be hearing that I might have been a suspect in something like this.”

“This person’s
been using everyone’s access and passwords, but one of the times the system was
accessed using your password, you were in Chicago at a conference.”

“So how much
money has been taken?”

“None. What
our suspect doesn’t realize is that we have a safeguard on the system. Any time
someone tries to transfer funds without using a special access code, it alerts
security. Right now our suspect thinks he’s moved about a hundred and
twenty-five thousand, but he hasn’t. The Feds have already been called in.”

“The Feds?”
Ted blew out a heavy breath. “This is big stuff.”

“This is a
major crime.”

“Well, I’m
glad I’m no longer a suspect.” Ted’s laugh lacked any real amusement. It stung
to think that he’d been a suspect in the first place. The years he’d put in. .
.the long hours.

“I’m sorry, Ted. It couldn’t be helped. Anyway,
security has nar
rowed this down to Miss Bubeck. I’d like you to keep an
eye on her and let me know if you notice anything suspicious.”

Nodding, Ted
rose to his feet. “I’ll watch her. Is there anyone else who might be a
suspect?”

O’Connell shrugged. “They don’t tell me
everything they’re thinking. For now, they say they’re watching Bubeck, so we
watch Bubeck.”

“Gotcha.”

Ted walked
slowly back to his desk, his thoughts swimming with money transfers and federal
agents. He glanced toward Maryanne Bubeck’s desk, but she wasn’t there.
Probably not back from lunch. He sank down in his chair, scooted up to his
desk, and stared at the phone messages still waiting to be handled.

Why was he
being asked to watch Bubeck? Sure, he was the senior accountant in the
department, but rarely did that earn him
the
right to be privy to the inner workings of the department. Did they
think he was involved? Were they just setting him
up? Were they
monitoring his every
move? Watching whom he talked to? Listening
in on his phone calls?

Convinced he
was being watched, Ted stood up, slipped off his coat, hung it up, rolled up
his sleeves, and sat back down at his desk. He picked up the phone and returned
the first message. Might as well let them see just how boring his day really
was.

By five, Ted
had a splitting headache. He tossed the budget reports he was working on into
his briefcase and drove home. He needed a handful of aspirin and some peace and
quiet, but the idea of peace and quiet was shattered the minute he opened his
front door and stepped in.

Jessica was
screaming at the top of her lungs.

Ted tossed his
coat over the back of a sofa chair, pulled his tie loose, and started working
on the top button of his shirt as he entered the kitchen. His wife had her head
buried in the freezer.

Karen was a
petite woman with large, round eyes that hinted of brown, gold, and green.
Since having the baby, she was carrying about twenty extra pounds that
stubbornly refused to melt away, so she’d taken to wearing baggy clothes that
hid her figure. He noted with distaste that she was wearing the same black
shorts as the day before. Of course, quite a few things had started to slide
since Jessica had been born. The house wasn’t quite so spotless, meals ran late
most of the time, clothes kept piling up in the laundry room for several days
before being washed.