The Abduction (10 page)

On Wednesday morning, the press room at the United States Department of Justice was filled to capacity. Eager reporters sat shoulder to shoulder in crowded rows of folding chairs. A simple blue backdrop displayed two round seals, one of the Department of Justice, the other of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The American flag was draped on a pole.

At precisely 10:30
A.M
., Allison entered from a side door, leading a somber entourage of men in dark suits to the rostrum. James O’Doud, FBI director, was directly behind her. Six other FBI and Justice Department officials filed in behind them. Cameras clicked and reporters jostled for position as she stepped up to the podium.

“Good morning,” she said. “As you all know by know, Kristen Howe, the twelve-year-old granddaughter of General Lincoln Howe, is missing. At nine o’clock central time yesterday morning, Kristen left Wharton Middle School in Nashville, Tennessee. She and the driver, Reggie Miles, were the only persons aboard the school jitney. Somewhere in transit the bus was apparently hijacked. As yet, we don’t know how or by whom.

“Last night, divers recovered the school van in the Cumberland River, near downtown Nashville. Later last night, we recovered the body of Reggie
Miles, the driver. His official cause of death has yet to be determined. Kristen Howe is still unaccounted for.

“Let me say first that we condemn these cowardly acts. The Department of Justice has called upon its every resource to launch the largest manhunt in American history. Director O’Doud has assembled a team of the FBI’s most talented agents, and they are working literally around the clock. We will find Kristen Howe. We will bring these criminals to justice. I, personally, am devoting my full attention to these matters as attorney general. My presidential campaigning has been suspended.”

She paused and surveyed the crowd. “I will briefly take questions.”

Reporters leaped from their seats. Allison singled one out.

“Ms. Leahy,” he said, “the American people will elect their next president in just six days. The photographs of General Howe that surfaced this morning make it clear that this personal tragedy has hit him very hard. Do you agree with those who say that the long-term psychological effects of the abduction may leave General Howe in no condition to serve as president of the United States? And do you think his reaction says anything at all about his ability to lead the nation in times of crisis?”

She gripped the podium, responding without hesitation. “I don’t intend to politicize this tragedy in any way. My heart goes out to General Howe and his family. As I’ve stated, the safe return of Kristen Howe is now the number-one priority of the United States Department of Justice.”

She pointed to another reporter in the second row.

He rose. “Ms. Leahy, will the Justice Depart
ment seek the death penalty for the murder of Reggie Miles?”

She paused. With a hostage still in the kidnapper’s hands, she knew it just wasn’t smart to say anything publicly about the death penalty.

“It’s premature to talk about that. The medical examiner has not even ruled Mr. Miles’s death a homicide yet. Even if it is homicide, it would not be a federal crime unless it can be shown that his murder was part of an interstate kidnapping. So, in response to your specific question, the answer is no, we have not yet made any decisions concerning the death penalty.”

O’Doud stepped forward. “Let me add one quick thought here.”

Allison glanced over her shoulder, containing her surprise. O’Doud did not retreat. He stood beside the podium as he spoke.

“Although the current administration has yet to execute a single federal prisoner for any federal crime, the FBI will treat this case as if capital punishment were a real option. By that, I simply mean that we will lawfully endeavor to gain all evidence that is relevant to an informed determination of whether the death penalty fits this particular crime. We fully expect that the prosecutorial arm of the next administration will evaluate that evidence and see to it that the appropriate punishment is imposed.”

He glanced at Allison, then returned to his place beside the American flag. Reporters pressed forward, arms waving, shouting a flurry of follow-up questions. Allison quickly determined it was time to shut things down.

“Thank you,” she said. “That’s all for now.”

Eager reporters continued to hurl questions,
but they went unanswered. Allison and her DOJ representatives exited first, followed by O’Doud and his assistants. When they reached the hall, she pulled the director into a vacant office and closed the door, nearly slamming it shut.

“What the hell was that all about?” she demanded.

O’Doud shrugged, feigning ignorance. “Just doing my job.”

She moved closer, using her height advantage in heels. “It’s not your job to talk about the death penalty. Prosecutors will make that decision. Not the FBI.”

“I wasn’t making any decisions. I was just telling it like it is.”

“You were campaigning against me and my record on the death penalty, that’s what you were doing. This was supposed to be an apolitical press conference.”

He stepped back, guffawing. “Apolitical, my foot. Thirty minutes before you appear on national television, the press somehow gets its hands on some mysterious photos that make the general look like a sniveling wimp. What do you call that? Coincidence?”

“Are you suggesting
I
released those photographs?”

“Are you denying it?”

Her face reddened. “Yes, I deny it.”

“Fine. But unless you’d enjoy having to deny these kinds of accusations to the American public, I suggest you take the advice I gave you from the start. Stay out of the investigation.”

“Am I hearing things,” she scoffed, “or did one incredibly pompous ass just threaten to smear my name in the media?”

“I’m not threatening anything. I simply won’t allow this investigation to be directed by an attorney general who may be more interested in winning an election than solving a crime.”

“You won’t
allow
it?” she said incredulously. “You work for me, O’Doud.”

He made a face. “A mere technicality, given the circumstances. Somehow, I don’t think the director of the FBI is in any real danger of being fired by the president just twenty-four hours after the nation’s biggest kidnapping since the Lindbergh baby. Somehow, I don’t think you want to be skewered as the attorney general who is more interested in protecting her own turf than saving the life of a twelve-year-old girl.”

“You’re the most amoral human being I’ve ever met.”

“You’re the politician, not me. It’s you who has the conflict of interest.”

“Who the hell gave
you
the authority to decide whether I have a conflict of interest?”

His expression turned cold, but smug. “The next president of the United States. That’s who.”

She watched in silence as he left the room, numbed by his words. Alone.

Repo switched off the television set and rubbed his tired eyes. The drive from Nashville to Baltimore had been exhausting, but he and Tony Delgado were both too full of caffeine to sleep.

The living room went dark without the light from the television. Old heavy drapes blocked out the morning sun. The green sculptured carpet reminded Repo of his grandmother’s house, only this place was even smaller. The tiny Formica kitchen with harvest gold appliances was in full view from the combined living and dining rooms. The vintage sixties bathroom was at the end of the hall. On the right was the master bedroom, where Tony and his brother Johnny would sleep. Kristen was in the other bedroom. Repo got the couch.

The toilet flushed, the bathroom door opened, and Tony came back in the living room.

Repo switched on the table lamp, then sank back into the couch, glaring. “They’re seeking the death penalty.”

“What?”

“I just heard the press conference. The head of the FBI just said they’re gonna seek the death penalty for the murder of Reggie Miles.”

“They gotta catch us first.”

Repo shook his head, exasperated. “I’ve been thinking about this since Nashville, and I’m
telling you straight up. Your brother is trouble.”

A sarcastic smile came to Tony’s face. “And I think you’re a pussy. So that makes us the perfect triangle. Nobody trusts nobody.”

“I’m not kidding around.”

Tony’s smile faded. “What do you want me to do, Repo?” He turned in anger, grabbing the phone. “You want me to call Elliot Ness right now and turn Johnny in?” His voice rose as he slammed down the phone and grabbed his gun. “You want me to blow Johnny’s brains out when he gets here?
You
wanna blow his brains out? Is that what you want? Tell me. Because I’m sick of your whining.”

Repo stared him down. “I took this job because
you
were heading it up. You’re the one with the brains. Not Johnny. If you just rubber-stamp every stupid mistake your brother makes, this ship is going down. I just want you to have the balls to keep your own brother in line. That’s all.”

“Don’t tell me how to handle Johnny. If he makes a mistake, I’ll deal with him the way I’d deal with you. But killing Reggie Miles was no mistake. In fact, Johnny did us a favor.”

“A
favor
? Thanks to him, now we got the death penalty hanging over our heads.”

“Which is perfect. Now it’s an all-or-nothing game, and we’re free to do whatever it takes to pull off the job. No matter what else we do, they can only execute us once. So if we need to kill a cop, we’re free to kill a cop. If some hero gets in our way, we’re free to kill him, too. We’re free—absolutely free—to do whatever we want. Which means that if we have to kill Kristen Howe…”

Repo’s expression fell.

He smiled thinly. “Say it, Repo. I want to hear you say it. If we have to kill Kristen Howe…”

Repo blinked hard, then looked away.

Tony laughed and headed for the kitchen. “Free at last, free at last! Thank God Almighty, we’re free, at last!”

Allison went home for lunch, not so much to eat as to talk to Peter. She couldn’t remember the last time she and her husband had eaten together alone in their own dining room, but after the morning press conference and the exchange with O’Doud, she simply needed to get out of the Justice Building and clear her head. It seemed everyone around her had a political stake in her next move.

She dropped her coat on the sofa and fixed on the news-at-noon broadcast blaring from the television in the kitchen. She recognized her voice, but it was old footage—almost a year old. As attorney general she had downplayed her own personal tragedy, lest she be typecast as an irrational zealot with no respect for the rights of the accused. She knew, however, that the media would dig up the past once she launched her presidential campaign. Upon announcing her candidacy last December, therefore, Allison had granted just one “tell-all” prime-time interview to talk about Emily’s abduction and her own eight-year ordeal. The strategy was to get it out of the way early and move forward with the real campaign issues. With Kristen Howe’s abduction, the media had resurrected that old interview, replaying one sound bite in particular.

“One thing remains as true today as it was then,” Allison said in the taped interview. “The first twenty-four hours are crucial in any case involving the abduction of a child by a nonfamily member.”

The reporter was back on the television screen
live, standing outside the FBI headquarters. “This afternoon, as the investigation into Kristen Howe’s disappearance moves into its second day, the attorney general’s words of one year ago weigh heavy in the minds and hearts of all Americans. We can only hope for a happier ending than there was for Allison and Emily Leahy.”

The anchor replied in a solemn voice, “Absolutely.”

Allison cringed.
Absolutely
—the TV journalists’ all-purpose idiotic response, suitable for any occasion. Hotter than blazes out there today, eh, Ted? Traffic’s a mess this morning, isn’t it, Jamie? Sure hope we’re first on the scene when they pull that girl’s dead body out of the woods, huh, boys? Absolutely, absolutely, absolutely.

Nice to know they care.

“Hi, sweetheart.” It was Peter, emerging from the dining room. He had blocked out a week of work in New York to campaign with his wife, but with Allison’s sudden diversion he was sort of on vacation, in the most absurd sense of the word.

Allison gave him a quick kiss, then switched off the television. She followed him to the dining room table and sat at the place setting across from him. She was deep in thought, shaking off that television reporter’s last crack about a “happier ending” and trying to focus on the morning’s disastrous press conference.

Peter sipped his iced tea, studying the stressed-out look on his wife’s face. “Well,” he said, “Wally is at football practice, and Beaver has to stay after school for letting a toad loose in Mrs. Mergatroid’s science class.”

Allison shook herself free from alpha-land. “Huh?” she said, not really listening.

Peter’s eyes warmed. “Why don’t you tell me what’s rattling around in your head?”

She sighed, then held her thought as their multilingual housekeeper served them boneless chicken breasts baked in what she called a lovely “moose turd” sauce, which Allison was relieved to discover was actually a mustard sauce. When the housekeeper left, she spent the next twenty minutes telling Peter all that had happened, never once lifting a fork.

Peter pushed his half-empty plate aside, then said, “Are you really that surprised by any of this? The stakes don’t get any higher, and you’re dealing with Washington egos. You have to expect some political maneuvering.”

“It’s more than just maneuvering. I feel like the whole kidnapping is being…manipulated.”

The word hung in the air. “In what way?” he asked.

“In every way. First a cameraman ambushes me at the river trying to make me look like a publicity hound. Then the press runs photos of Lincoln Howe that make him look like a wimp. This morning the FBI director tells me point-blank that Howe has ordered him to cut me out of the investigation. It seems like nobody gives a damn about getting Kristen Howe back alive. All that matters is the spin.”

“If that’s the way it is, maybe you’re better off being out of the investigation.”

She shook her head. “Don’t you see it, Peter? By cutting me out, they’re pushing me into a no-win position. If Kristen is found, Howe’s campaign will vilify me as the missing attorney general who wouldn’t lift a finger to help save her opponent’s own granddaughter. But, God forbid, if something
goes wrong, you can bet I’ll get all the blame. I’m the attorney general. The ultimate responsibility for Kristen’s life is mine.”

Peter poured another iced tea from the pitcher. “Sounds to me like you’re suggesting that the kidnapping isn’t just being politically manipulated. Sounds like you think it was politically motivated.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that everything that has happened in the past twenty-four hours isn’t just a bunch of political strategists reacting to a terrible tragedy. Maybe the terrible tragedy was part of the strategy in the first place.”

Allison looked him in the eye. “I would hate to attribute those kinds of motives to anyone.”

“It doesn’t seem beyond the realm of possibility. Some die-hard supporter of General Howe snags his granddaughter in the demented hope that the sympathy factor will help push him over the top.”

She swallowed hard. “Or a die-hard Leahy supporter who figures the kidnapping will send the Howe campaign into utter chaos, will take the public’s eye off the bogus infidelity issue that nearly ruined me at the debate, and will allow me to flood the media with tough-on-crime speeches for a solid week before the election.”

“I hadn’t thought about it being someone on your side.”

“I have. How much ink have the media spilled on adultery since Kristen’s abduction? Not a drop. Overnight, it went from becoming the deciding factor in the election to a complete nonissue.”

“Well,” he said, arching an eyebrow. “Which side is the bad guy on? Howe’s? Or yours?”

Allison sighed, then looked out the window. “Honest to God, Peter. I don’t have a clue.”