The Abduction (9 page)

“Sorry, sir. But it is late.”

His heart sank with disappointment. He turned slowly and walked back to the car. A sadness washed over him that bordered on despair. Being turned away by his daughter was bad enough.
But had God shut His doors?

They walked side by side down the chapel’s front steps, until the agent stopped short. His expression turned very serious as he adjusted the ear piece on his radio.

The general watched with concern. “What is it?”

The agent paused, then looked him in the eye. “Divers found a body in the river, sir. No positive ID yet. They’re pulling it out now.”

His mouth went dry. “Where?”

“South of the Jefferson Street Bridge.”

He looked away, suddenly in a daze. “Let’s go there.”

The agent helped him into the backseat, then walked around to the front of the car.

As the engine started, the general’s hands began
to tremble. A tightness gripped his chest. He suddenly needed air. He’d felt this way only once before in his life, some thirty years ago, after getting word that his best friend had stepped on a powerful land mine off the Ho Chi Minh Trail. He reached forward and closed the partition between the back and front seat, so the driver and the agent wouldn’t be able to see him. Then his chin hit his chest as he fought back the tears.

They flowed slowly at first, then like never before. In a matter of moments he was sobbing cathartically, releasing emotions that had been swelling for years.

A hundred yards away, from the front seat of a Ford Taurus parked at the dark end of the grassy campus quadrangle, a photographer focused his telephoto lens. The infrared camera cut through the darkness, zeroing in on the general’s face as if it were daylight. Howe looked haggard and beaten, much older than his years. Tears were plainly visible.

The shutter clicked. A perfect shot.

The limousine pulled away from the chapel.

The old Ford raced in the opposite direction, picking up speed with each passing second.

The Nashville skyline was alight across the river, stretching from the traditional old State Capitol dome to the modern BellSouth Tower that resembled an ice palace. Police had roped off a stretch of the Cumberland River’s east bank, north of the Victory Memorial Bridge that fed into downtown and south of the Jefferson Street Bridge—the exact area Harley Abrams had ordered divers to search.

Allison had been alerted immediately to the discovery of a body. She arrived in an FBI sedan at 10:20
P.M.
, just as divers were pulling the body from the moving water.

In less than five hours, the temperature had dropped even further to a brisk twenty degrees. Lights from emergency vehicles bathed the law enforcement crowd in orange and yellow swirls. Swarms of helicopters—some media, some law enforcement—buzzed overhead. Divers struggled to maintain their footing as they climbed out of the river. Search and rescue team members stood ankle-deep in cold mud, guiding the polypropylene line that reeled in the catch.

Allison was thirty feet from the river when the body bag broke the surface. Water gushed from the bag’s mesh openings. It looked large for a little girl, though she knew bodies could bloat after a day in the river.

“It’s the bus driver,” said Abrams.

Allison started. He had seemingly come out of nowhere.

“Any sign of Kristen?” she asked.

“No.”

She felt relief and sadness at the very same time. “I want a top-notch forensic pathologist doing the autopsy. The locals can watch.”

He gave her a funny look, as if she were stating the obvious. “I’ve already called Walter Reed Hospital.”

“What kind of shape is the body in?”

“Water’s pretty cold, so there’s not much decomposition. But he’s pretty banged up.”

“Rivers can do that.”

“Yeah,” he scoffed. “So can thugs. I’ll be curious to see what our pathologist thinks.”

In the distance, Allison noticed a black limousine racing down a street that ran parallel to the river. It rocked to a quick halt in the parking lot above them, twenty yards away. The door flew open. Out stepped Lincoln Howe. His movement was erratic, almost spastic. An FBI agent approached him. Allison could see them talking. The general leaned against the car, apparently relieved. Allison presumed he’d just been informed that the body wasn’t Kristen’s.

“Excuse me a moment,” she said to Abrams. She started up the embankment, toward the limousine. It was a steep climb, and she was slightly winded when she reached the top.

The general was still talking to the FBI agent, but he stopped in mid-sentence when he saw Allison.

“Lincoln,” she said in a sympathetic tone. “Can I talk to you for a minute, please?”

He seemed surprised to see her. “Sure,” he
said. He thanked the FBI agent, then opened his car door, inviting her in with a jerk of the head. “It’s warmer in here.”

He held the door as she slid into the backseat, then he slid in beside her and closed the door. He signaled with his eyes, and the driver and Secret Service escort emptied the front seat to give them privacy.

Allison swallowed hard, finding it difficult to speak. “I just wanted to say how very sorry I am that this horrible thing had to happen.”

“Thank you.”

“How is your daughter holding up?”

“About the way you’d expect.”

Allison blinked. She knew the feeling too well. “I know you’re probably hearing from hundreds of well-meaning friends who tell you that if there’s anything they can do, just ask. Well, I’m obviously one of the few people who is actually in position to do something helpful. I won’t let you down. I’ve ordered the Department of Justice to call upon its every resource to launch the largest manhunt in American history. We’ll find Kristen. We’ll bring her kidnappers to justice.”

“You sound like tomorrow’s press release.”

His tone surprised her. “I know we’ve had our differences. But this comes from the heart.”

“Thank you for sharing that. But let me be very frank with you. I heard about the little campaign photo session you held out here today.”

She flinched. Word traveled fast. Harley Abrams must have said something to his superiors. “That was a complete misunderstanding.”

“Call it whatever you like. I simply won’t stand for anyone using my granddaughter’s abduction for political gain.”

“And I would never politicize a matter like this. You have my word on that.”

“That’s not enough.”

“I don’t know what more I can give you.”

His eyes narrowed. “Then let me spell it out for you. I want you completely out of the investigation. Just step aside and let the FBI do its job. Director O’Doud is more than capable. He doesn’t need you looking over his shoulder for your own political purposes.”

Her mouth opened, but words came slowly. “This affects all of us, Lincoln. If it hadn’t been your granddaughter, it could have been my husband. Or maybe some fanatic with a high-powered rifle plans to take out me or you. Just because I’m a candidate doesn’t mean the country has to be without an attorney general. I won’t just step aside.”

“Fine,” he said with a steely glare. “Then prepare to be pushed.”

Their eyes locked in a tense stare. Allison broke it off, then opened the door. “Good night, Lincoln.” She stepped out, then glanced back. “And in case you’re wondering, I always push back.”

The door closed with an emphatic thud.

At 1:00
A.M
. Wednesday Buck LaBelle was still on the telephone in his Opry Land Hotel suite. Since his promotion to national campaign director, he’d been living on three hours of sleep each night. A stained coffee cup and a bottle of bourbon rested on the table. Cigar ash dotted the front of his shirt. The television was on, but the sound was muted. He’d spent the last forty-five minutes screening the new campaign commercials for the final push to election day. A Madison Avenue media consultant was on the other end of the line. Buck was pacing
furiously, fired up with anger as he shouted into the phone.

“I don’t want to see one more cotton-pickin’ commercial showing Lincoln Howe shaking hands with a black man. That demographic is already in our hip pocket.” He paused, still pacing as he listened with the phone pressed to his ear. “I don’t care if it does send a new message. Messages are lost on these people anyway. Hell, half the black men in America think Lincoln Howe was named after a fucking town car. I want a new ad by five o’clock, and I want it geared toward white women. You got it? That’s our target group. White women!”

He slammed down the phone, then belted back the last of his bourbon. A knock at the door brought a groan from his belly.
What now?
he thought.

He checked the peephole. His lips curled into a smile as he opened the door.

In walked a man dressed in torn Levi’s, a flannel shirt, and an insulated hunting vest. His dark red hair was shoulder length. He took off his Atlanta Braves baseball cap, exposing his shiny crown of baldness.

“Pay dirt,” the man said with a devious grin. He pitched a manila envelope on the desk.

LaBelle eagerly opened the envelope and inspected the large glossy photographs. He shuffled through the entire stack, sucking on his cigar more intently as he moved from one to the next. They’d obviously been shot in quick succession, all of the same subject: Lincoln Howe, sobbing in the backseat of his limousine.

LaBelle grimaced as he looked up from the stack. “I can’t use a single one of these.”

The photographer leaned against the wall, stunned. “It’s what you wanted. Lincoln Howe in a sensitive moment.”

“Sensitive, yeah. Something that will make a hard-nosed old army general more appealing to female voters. Maybe a shot of him consoling his distraught daughter. Maybe even the general himself getting a little choked up and misty eyed. You didn’t bring me sensitive. You brought me a grown man blubbering like a baby in the face of personal crisis. How on God’s green earth do you expect me to get a marshmallow elected president?”

“You should have been more explicit.”

“Damn it, Red. Five years ago did I have to tell you to bring me a picture of Congressman Butler bopping his secretary? No. All I had to say was get him in a compromising position. That’s all I’ve ever had to say. You knew the drill. Except now, on the most important job I’ve ever given you, you suddenly go stupid on me.”

He shook his head. “Look, I did my job. It wasn’t easy tailing Lincoln Howe with all the extra Secret Service protection around him. And at least the first part of the assignment went off without a hitch. I made Leahy look like a political whore down by the river. I’m sure the FBI thinks she hired me herself to do a photo shoot of the attorney general on the crime scene. I was damn lucky to get out of there before Leahy caught on. I earned my five grand. A deal is a deal.”

LaBelle glared. He felt like telling him to take a flying leap, but he didn’t want to risk trouble from a malcontent with the election so close. He laid his briefcase on the desk, unlocking it with the
combination. He removed a thick envelope and handed it over. “Fifty one-hundred dollar bills,” he said, chomping on his cigar.

Red peeked inside, then stuffed the envelope inside his vest. “Pleasure doing business with you. You can keep the photos.”

“Screw the photos. I want the negatives.”

He smirked coyly. “Well, now, that wasn’t exactly part of our deal. I never sell my negatives. That’ll cost you extra.”

LaBelle grumbled as he opened his briefcase. “You bastard. How much?”

“Fifty grand.”

The cigar nearly fell from his mouth. “For negatives I can’t even use?”

“Maybe
you
can’t use them,” he said with a shrug. “But now that I’ve taken a closer look at them, I can think of somebody who might be able to use a photograph of a presidential candidate looking…how did you put it? Like a blubbering baby in the face of personal crisis?”

LaBelle clenched his fists. The veins in his thick neck were about to burst. “You son of a bitch. This is extortion. I’m not forking over fifty grand.”

“Fine,” he said as he started for the door. “I’m sure somebody will.”

He was fuming, then blurted, “All right, all right.”

Red stopped at the door. “That’s more like it.”

“I don’t keep that kind of money just lying around a hotel room. Give me till noon tomorrow.”

“Nine
A.M.
Not a minute later.”

LaBelle made a face, but he didn’t argue. He unlocked the door. “I don’t appreciate being treated this way by people I trust.”

“Hey, I still love you, Buck.” He winked on his way out. “But you know what they say about love and war, right?”

“All’s fair,” he said, losing the smile as he closed the door.
And there are casualties in both.

Since leaving Nashville, Repo and Tony Delgado had taken turns driving virtually nonstop. They cruised well below the posted speed limits, taking no chances on being pulled over by highway patrol. By 2:00
A.M
. Wednesday they were fifty miles outside Richmond, Virginia, heading north.

“You think she’s awake yet?” asked Repo.

Tony didn’t respond. He was slumped in the passenger seat, eyes shut.

The glow of the dashboard illuminated Repo’s worried face. He switched on the radio, trying to wake his partner.

Tony stirred. “What the hell?”

“Sorry,” he said, switching off the volume. “I was just thinking, you know. That injection you gave the girl. How long is she out for?”

“Twenty-four hours, at least. Don’t worry about her.”

“I—” He stopped, reluctant to speak his mind. “I just thought, you know, somebody should kind of be there when she wakes up. Maybe explain what’s happening. She’s only twelve. It’s gotta be pretty scary to wake up with a bag over your head, not knowing where the hell you’re at or where you’re going.”

Tony snorted, then shot him a funny look. “What are you, a mommy?”

“No. I just don’t see no need to scar the kid for life, that’s all.”

Tony straightened up in his seat, giving his partner an assessing look. “You’re making me real nervous, the way you’re talking. I picked you for this job because I thought you had guts.”

“I got guts, sure. Just we agreed wasn’t nobody supposed to get killed.”

“Are you still fucking obsessing about that old man?”

“It’s murder, Tony. You guys killed him.”

Tony paused, then turned very serious. “Do you have any idea how many people I’ve killed in my lifetime?”

“All I know is you killed that guy for nothing.”

“It wasn’t for
nothing.
We had to do it. Those are the rules. We all gotta be willing to do whatever it takes to get the job done.”

Repo stared into the oncoming headlights, thinking. “Maybe. But an old man is one thing. I don’t see any reason why we gotta make it any worse for the kid than absolutely necessary. She’s just a girl.”

Tony grabbed him by the wrist, seizing his attention. “She’s not a girl. She’s a bargaining chip. Don’t ever forget it.”

Repo’s eyes darted, meeting Tony’s glare.

He released his grip, then looked away.

Repo’s attention turned back to the road. He said nothing, steering down the expressway in uneasy silence.

Red Weber stumbled up the stairway at the Thrifty Inn, an old motor lodge that offered rooms by the week, day, or hour, and that provided clean towels and sheets only with a cash deposit. After leaving
Buck LaBelle, he’d stopped at a bar to celebrate his renegotiated deal. He closed down the Tennessee Tavern at 2:00
A.M
., but it took him another forty-five minutes to find his way back to his hotel. He knew he’d have a tequila hangover in the morning. But he’d also be $50,000 richer.

That’ll buy a shitload of aspirin.

The old wooden stairs creaked beneath his feet. The banisters had been ripped from the stairwell, so he took one step at a time—slowly, balancing himself with flailing arms, like a novice on a tightrope. He stopped at the top of the stairs, smiling with a silly sense of accomplishment. With both hands he dug the room key from his front pocket, then aimed it at the keyhole, one hand steadying the other as he poked unsuccessfully around the lock. Frustrated, he gave up and tried the knob. The door opened.

He could have sworn he’d locked it, but he just laughed as he stepped inside.

He fumbled with the lamp but managed only to knock it off the dresser. He laughed at the mess he’d made, then went rigid. His stomach heaved. The last shot of tequila was doing an about-face. He ran for the bathroom, tripping in the darkness.

Just as he reached the threshold, the bathroom door slammed in his face, knocking him back onto the floor. He staggered to his feet. The door suddenly flew open. He saw his reflection standing in the doorway—or maybe it was a shadow. He squinted to focus.

“What the hell?”

The shadow lunged toward him. A blow to the head stunned him, and Red went down with a thud. His chin was on the carpet as the boots raced by his eyes. He tried to yell, but he’d bitten
his tongue and couldn’t speak. He heard the door fly open, then the sound of footsteps in the hallway, like somebody running.

Dizzy and groggy, he lifted himself from the floor. He limped to the door and peered down the hall. Nothing. He grimaced with pain, then froze.

The negatives,
he thought—and he was suddenly sober.

He flipped on the light and ran to the closet. He grabbed his camera bag and zipped it open. The camera was gone.

“Shit!”

He checked the film pack. No film. No negatives. He checked every zip pocket, every side pouch, searching frantically. It was all gone, even the film he hadn’t used yet.

Red fell to his knees, feeling a $50,000 pit in the bottom of his stomach. “Son of a bitch,” he groaned.

At 5:00
A.M
. the telephone rang in David Wilcox’s hotel room. He was already awake, sipping coffee, reworking a press release he hoped to be able to persuade Allison to issue later in the day.

“Hello,” he answered.

“Mission accomplished,” said the voice on the line.

“You found him?” asked Wilcox.

“Wasn’t too difficult. Aren’t that many photographers running around Nashville who look like Bozo the clown. Red Weber’s his name. Staying at some dive called the Thrifty Inn.”

“Anybody see you?”

“Nah. He caught me by surprise before I left, but I blew by him so fast he couldn’t have seen a thing.”

“What about the pictures?”

“I got the camera and the film. He had probably half a dozen shots of Ms. Leahy down by the river. Her and that FBI guy, Abrams.”

Wilcox sneered. “Sneaky bastards. Hiring their own damn photographer to make Allison look like a publicity hound. Burn the damn pictures.”

“Okay. But I don’t think you want me burning everything. It’s kind of a godsend, but I came across some shots of General Howe that may actually be worth keeping.”

“Is that so?” he said with a thin smile. “Tell me about them.”