The Abduction (16 page)

The distraught face of a neighbor: “This isn’t supposed to happen in a place like this. We’re supposed to be safe out here.”

The reporter’s voice over video of the search efforts: “Searchers have hunted for Gracie for two days without success. Other than her soccer shorts and shoe, which were found by bloodhounds Saturday, there’s been no sign of her. The Heidi Search Center has organized a massive volunteer effort to search fields and farmland on the outskirts of town.”

The monitor played video of people hugging each other and wiping tears from their faces. “We’re here because our child could be next,” one searcher said.

“At Gracie’s school”—a live shot of kids arriving at Briarwyck Farms Elementary School—“parents clutch their children closer today.”

The face of a young woman above the byline, NORA UNDERWOOD, GRACIE’S FOURTH-GRADE TEACHER: “We’re not supposed to pray in school, but we’re praying today.”

And AMY APPLEWHITE, PRINCIPAL: “We’ve brought in crisis counselors for the children to talk to, to talk out their fears.”

Back live to the reporter out front, holding up the flier with Grace’s picture: “DeAnn, friends and neighbors have distributed thousands of these missing-child fliers throughout the area and as many pink ribbons to show their support. The National Center for Missing and Exploited Children has posted Gracie’s picture on its website at www-dot-missingkids-dot-org, as has the FBI at www-dot-fbi-dot-gov. Her face will be seen around the world. This is a confirmed stranger abduction—the FBI eliminated any family involvement with polygraph exams. The parents are hoping for the best, but fearing the worst. Most children abducted by strangers are dead within a few hours. Gracie’s been missing for over sixty hours. Back to you, DeAnn.”

Elizabeth turned from the monitor and spotted Sam sitting on the sofa in the back of the room and staring stone-faced at a TV monitor. She could see the fear in his eyes.
Damnit, where
’
s Hilda?
Elizabeth tried to get Sam’s attention to send him out, but the twerp was again gesturing at her and pointing to the monitor. Elizabeth turned away from Sam and looked at the monitor.

Now on the screen was the concerned face of DeAnn, the host in New York, an index finger pressed to her tight lips, a slow sad shake of her well-coifed head. What empathy so early in the morning, Elizabeth thought, and right before she hosts a segment on liposuction. Now she would interview the distressed and tearful parents, who would dutifully slobber and plead for their daughter’s return on national TV, a sure ratings hit. That was the script. That was the way things were supposed to go. Well, DeAnn, hold onto your skirt, girlfriend, because today’s show is going to be a little bit different.

DeAnn, from New York: “We have with us this morning, from their home outside Dallas, Texas, Gracie’s parents, John and Elizabeth Brice.”

The twerp pointed at them; the cameras went live.

“John Brice is the founder of BriceWare-dot-com, which is going public in two days, when he will become another overnight high-tech billionaire. Elizabeth Brice is a prominent Dallas criminal defense attorney. Mr. Brice, your daughter’s kidnapping is a front-page story in the
Wall Street Journal
today. You were just days from your dream coming true, now your daughter’s been abducted. This must be devastating for you. How do you feel?”

Oh, shit, Elizabeth thought, bracing herself for a blast of John’s goofy geek-speak on national TV, something like,
DeAnn, my freaking wetware is fried! I’m talking toast! Some brain-damaged meatbot uninstalled my daughter from my network and that is evil and rude in the extreme!

Instead, John looked into the camera and said softly, “I feel empty.”

Elizabeth stared again at her husband and saw a stranger.

DeAnn, from New York: “Why do you think the abductor left Gracie’s soccer shorts in the woods? And her shoe?”

She was pulling out all the stops to get the tears flowing. But John’s answer momentarily set her back: “I forgot to tie her laces after the game.”

“Well, yes, but this is clearly not a ransom abduction. A sexual predator took your daughter—but Gracie had none of the risk factors associated with children abducted by sexual predators. Why do you think he took your daughter?”

John shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Were there problems at home? Could she have run away?”

“No. She knows we love her.”

DeAnn appeared visibly frustrated now. “Do you think she’s still alive?”

“Yes.”

Still no tears.

“Mr. Brice, were there problems in your marriage?”

“My
marriage?
”

The rage stirred and stretched and required all of Elizabeth’s strength to hold it back; if this nationally televised therapy session continued much longer, the rage would escape her grasp. She interrupted.

“DeAnn,” Elizabeth said, and the camera zoomed in on her. “We’re not here for marriage counseling. We’re here because a stranger abducted my daughter. He took her, and we want her back. And we will pay to get her back. For information leading to the safe return of my daughter, we will pay twenty-five million dollars, cash.”

Elizabeth imagined viewers across America spitting out their morning coffee; she had just seized control of her audience.

“If you’ve seen Grace, call us and you’re rich.”

A slight pause for effect, but not long enough for DeAnn to break in.

“Another offer, this one to the abductor: release my daughter, alive and well, and we will pay you the twenty-five million instead. We will deposit the funds in a Cayman Island bank account under a pin number—it’s completely anonymous. The IRS cannot trace the money, the FBI cannot trace you. You can wire the money anywhere in the world. You can get on a plane and fly to Costa Rica, Thailand, the Philippines, where you can have all the little girls you want. You’re rich and you’re free to pursue your perverted desires—what more could you want? All I want is my daughter back. My offer remains open until midnight Friday, Dallas time. Twenty-five million dollars for my daughter. It’s a good deal. You’d better take it.”

Now a slight lean forward and her best intimidate-the-witness glare into the camera: “Because if you don’t take this deal, if you don’t release my daughter by the deadline, if you can’t release my daughter because you’ve already killed her, know this and know it well: you’re a dead man. I’m putting a bounty on your head same as the government put on Osama bin Laden’s head: commencing one minute after midnight Friday, we will pay the twenty-five million to anyone who hunts you down and kills you like the disgusting perverted animal you are. And know this: you’re not going back to prison to serve a few years then get released only to violate another little girl—that is not going to happen! You’re either going to release my daughter or you’re going to die. It’s your choice.”

DeAnn, in New York: “Mrs. Brice, this is national TV! You can’t—”

Now, the closer: “Take the deal. Take the money. Give us Grace.”

Elizabeth would repeat the same offer on the other network morning shows.

“Well, ain’t that neat, our own goddamn Powerball lotto!”

The mayor hurled a paperweight against the far wall of his office in the town hall. He had a pretty fair arm for a fat boy. Chief of Police Paul Ryan stood out of harm’s way, watching the mother on TV and enduring another mayoral venting.

“Twenty-five million dollars! That much money, she made goddamn sure her kid stays on national news every goddamn day!”

His Honor let loose with a stapler this time.

“And we’re gonna stay on national TV until you find her body or her killer!”

“You mean kidnapper.”

“I mean killer. She’s dead just like that reporter said and you know it. Goddamnit, Paul, find this pervert!”

“Mayor, we’re rounding up every sex offender in the county but—”

A stiff fat finger in Ryan’s face: “No buts, Paul! Find him, arrest him, and get us off national TV! Or else!”

Paul Ryan exited the mayor’s office, imagining himself driving a golf cart with a flashing yellow light around a parking lot twelve hours a day and wondering what kind of retirement plan Wal-Mart offered its security guards.

“Do you have twenty-five million dollars in cash?” FBI Special Agent Eugene Devereaux asked the mother.

Without looking at him, she said, “My husband arranged a line of credit. He put up his stock. It’ll be worth a billion dollars in two days. We’ve got it.”

Before the mother’s image had faded from the TV screen, every fax machine in the command post was spitting out paper, every light on every phone was blinking, and a dozen federal agents were logging leads into the computer as fast as they could type:

“You saw her, in Houston?”

“You’re sure it was her? Where in Oklahoma?”

“Arkansas?”

“Louisiana?”

“Mexico? New Mexico the state or Mexico the country?”

Devereaux would personally review the computer’s analysis of the leads and determine which leads to follow, hoping in his heart they were legit but knowing in his head they were worthless calls from people after a piece of the reward, calling in to report every blonde girl they saw, hoping theirs might hit, like buying a lottery ticket.

He heard Agent Floyd’s voice: “Uh, no, ma’am, you can’t get any of the reward for being close. This isn’t horseshoes.”

And Agent Jorgenson’s: “And who is she with? … A man and woman? … And you’re in a grocery store in Abilene with them right now? … I hear someone saying ‘mommy.’ Is that the girl? … Well, ma’am, if the girl is calling the woman ‘mommy,’ maybe that’s her mother.”

Devereaux turned to the mother. “Well, Mrs. Brice, we’ve had almost five hundred sightings in the two hours since you offered the reward.” He was standing in the middle of the command post with the mother.

“Excellent.”

“No, ma’am, not really. At this rate, I won’t have the manpower to clear that many leads.”

The mother looked at Devereaux like she had told a joke and he was too dumb to get it.

“I don’t expect you to. Grace isn’t walking around some shopping mall somewhere—you think he bought her new shorts? If she’s alive, she’s with him. I offered the reward to pressure him to give her up. That’s the only chance we have to get her back alive, and you know it.”

Devereaux had to remind himself of his own rule: getting into a pissing contest with the mother wouldn’t put him one step closer to finding the girl or apprehending the abductor. And odds are, the child’s dead anyway.

“Her body, it is cold.”

Angelina Rojas stood five feet tall and weighed two hundred pounds. She was wearing a pink sweat suit. She had teased her hair into a nice tall mound atop her round face to which she had applied extra makeup. She wanted to look her best today.

Angelina lived and worked in the Little Mexico area of Dallas. Normally at this time on a Monday morning, she would be contacting the spirits of dead relatives of poor Mexicans or reading their futures in their palms or tarot cards.
Angelina Rojas, el medium
. She was a psychic. At least that’s what it said on her business card.

But yesterday she had opened the Sunday paper and seen the kidnapped girl’s picture on the front page; she had been drawn to the image. She had stared at the picture, then she had touched it. She had felt something and heard something. Something real this time. Something that scared her. “
La madre de Dios
,” she had said.
Mother of God
.

So she had woken this morning, gotten dressed, and made Carlos put on a shirt and drive her out here. When they had arrived at the big gates, she explained the purpose of her visit to the guard, but he refused to let them in. She begged him to call
Señora
Brice. When he refused that also, Carlos said he was going to get out of the Chevy and kick his fat Anglo ass. The guard decided that making a phone call was a smarter move than having some Hispanic
hombre
in a low-rider pounding on him with his muscular left arm, the one with the tattoo of the Virgin Mary. So he called, but he got
Señor
Brice instead. He let them in.

Carlos had stayed in the car at the end of the street outside the police barricade; he was nervous due to the fact that he had immigrated to America via the Rio Grande just outside Laredo. She had then walked down the street and up to the front door of the house—it was as big as the office building she used to clean each night, before she had become a full-time psychic. Normally she insisted her clients pay her in cash up front; Angelina did not accept personal checks or credit cards, not that her clients had bank accounts or credit cards. But today she did not care about money. In fact, she did not want money. She just wanted to give them the girl’s message and get back home.

Angelina Rojas was afraid that she might really be psychic.

Now she was sitting in the kitchen across a table from
Señor
Brice and several other Anglos; her eyes were closed and she was clutching the girl’s white school blouse tightly to her face, trying to feel the child. Another cold chill ran through her considerable body, more intense than the first one. But it was not Angelina who was cold.