The Abduction (33 page)

Peter was in the bedroom packing a suitcase for Chicago when his telephone rang. It was the phone on the nightstand on his side of the bed, the private line that he used primarily for business. He dropped the Armani suit on the bed and answered it.

“Hello.”

He heard a click, then a message. “You have e-mail.” Another click. Then the dial tone.

He laid the phone in its cradle, staring at it in confusion. The voice was familiar. It was that standard, recorded voice that plays automatically whenever you turn on the computer and there’s e-mail in your mailbox—the “personal” touch in an impersonal world, like that mysterious woman from the long distance company who jumps in after you dial with your credit card and says, “Thank you for using AT&T.”

Peter stood still for a moment, mulling it over. The message was clearly for him, not Allison. The call had come on his own line—no one ever called Allison on that line. Obviously, they wanted him to check his computer. He walked cautiously toward his briefcase on the other side of the room. He removed the notebook computer and plugged the modem into the phone jack. He
dialed his office in New York, watching the screen as his notebook computer interfaced with his business computer in New York.

“You have e-mail,” said the computerized voice—the same recorded voice he’d heard on the phone. It unnerved him at first. He couldn’t help feeling as though the caller had recorded
his
personal message. But he knew that 40 million people subscribed to his same Internet carrier, all of whom received the same “You have e-mail” message. It wasn’t like someone would have had to access his personal computer to record it and play it back to him over the telephone.

The computer screen blinked on. Scores of unanswered e-mail messages appeared in his mailbox. Each specified the date and time received. All but one identified the sender. The most recent one, received today at 3:54
P.M
., had an unintelligible entry next to the “Sender” designation. The sender, Peter realized, had managed to scramble his screen name to protect his identity.

Peter clicked his mouse on the most recent e-mail. The typewritten message flashed on the screen. He stared at it carefully, reading it once, then again.

CHANGE IN PLANS. MEET ME IN ROCK CREEK PARK AT THE WATER FOUNTAIN EAST OF THE OLD PIERCE MILL.
5:00
P.M
.

His pulse quickened. There was no signature, of course, but the postscript indicated an attachment. He clicked his mouse again, downloading the attachment to his computer. He clicked once more and opened the file. A photograph slowly emerged on his screen. Bright red everywhere, splattered on white. The image came into better
focus: a young girl in a bathtub, covered in blood. The focus sharpened further: The girl was plainly Kristen Howe.

Peter closed the file, wiping the photograph from the screen. The original message popped back on the screen—
MEET ME AT ROCK CREEK PARK.
He sighed deeply, collecting his thoughts.

Rock Creek Park bordered on Georgetown. He had jogged there hundreds of times. He knew exactly where the meeting spot was.

He also knew the handiwork—the girl in the bathtub covered in animal blood. It was as good as a signature. Vincent Gambrelli.

He switched off his computer and placed it back in his briefcase. He stepped to the window and peeled back the bedroom drapes. Below, a few members of the media were still waiting outside the townhouse, but the crowd had thinned greatly. Most had apparently inferred that Allison wasn’t coming back when they saw her assistant leaving with her suitcase.

Peter checked his watch—4:15. Even if he took a few circuitous turns to shake the media, he could easily make it to Rock Creek Park in forty-five minutes. He put on his jacket and grabbed his car keys, then stopped, turned, and disappeared into the closet. Down on one knee, he peeled back the carpeting in the corner, uncovering the floor safe. With three quick turns of the combination dial, it opened.

A semiautomatic pistol lay inside.

He checked the ammunition clip to make sure it was loaded. It was. He tucked it inside his jacket and closed up the safe, then quickly headed for the door.

A foggy mist clung to the city as dusk turned to early evening darkness. City lights glistened on the glossy-wet streets and sidewalks, though there were still a few dry patches beneath the urban trees and storefront overhangs. Some rush-hour commuters had popped their umbrellas. Others seemed oblivious to the precipitation,
sans
weather gear, rushing through crosswalks and heading for the Metro as on any other day. It was the meteorological version of classic Washington ambiguity—raining, but not really raining.

Moisture gathered steadily on the taxicab’s windshield as Peter rode alone in the dark rear seat. The wipers were on intermittent speed, clearing the windshield about every half-block along Q Street. Peter looked ahead to the next intersection. Streetlights grew brighter as the gray sky darkened into night. The fog began to swirl in the beaming headlights of oncoming traffic. Like searchlights, thought Peter, hundreds and hundreds of them. He drew a deep breath and shook off the paranoia.

The taxi stopped at the red light, and Peter glanced out the rear window. He couldn’t be absolutely certain that no one had been tailing him, but he had been riding around Georgetown for the past twenty minutes and was now on his fifth cab. Had someone been following, he figured he would have noticed.

“This will do, driver,” he said as he passed up a five-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”

He opened the door and stepped onto the sidewalk. He was standing at the P Street entrance to Rock Creek Park, eighteen hundred acres of remarkably preserved green space right within the district—the smaller Washingtonian version
of New York’s Central Park. It was a year-round home to deer and other wild fauna, as well as a cool summer oasis for D.C. residents. Picnic areas dotted either side of Rock Creek, the babbling waterway that snaked through the meadows and scattered groves of dogwood, beeches, oak, and cedar. November, however, was not the most beautiful time to visit, and the darkness made the woodlands seem nearly impenetrable. Still, after four years of coming here, Peter knew his way around the miles of bicycling routes and hiking and equestrian trails.

He checked his watch. Almost 4:45. The park would close in fifteen minutes. Not that it mattered; in this weather and at this time of year, the park would be virtually empty at any time of day. He tugged at his jacket and checked his gun, then entered the park and headed south along the creek, toward the old Pierce Mill.

The sounds and lights of the city faded into the background as he headed down the trail. He could hear the creek nearby, the soothing sounds of moving water against the rocks. Still, he was tense. What was the change in plans? he wondered. What did Gambrelli want? Money, Peter figured. With Gambrelli, it was always about money.

He stopped near the old Pierce Mill. It was the park’s major tourist attraction, a restored nineteenth-century gristmill powered by the falling water of Rock Creek. The sign said it was closed on Mondays and Tuesdays, so the area was even more deserted than Peter had expected. In fact, it was
totally
deserted.

He stood by the water fountain and waited, as instructed. He hadn’t smoked a cigarette in years, but he suddenly felt the urge. He checked his
watch. Two minutes before five o’clock. Gambrelli was the punctual type. When he said five o’clock, he meant exactly five.

“Hello, Peter.”

He wheeled at the sound of a woman’s voice. He squinted in the darkness. She was wearing a hooded raincoat, barely recognizable in the foggy mist. But he knew that voice, that face.

“Allison?” he said nervously. Their eyes locked. His face was ashen. “What are you doing here?”

She stepped from beneath the shadow of the oak tree. “I’m the one who sent you the invitation. What are
you
doing here?”

She could see in his eyes that he was scrambling for an explanation. He was breathing nervously, audibly. His eyes darted as the words stumbled out. “I, uh, I thought I could catch these guys. I thought I would ambush them.”

“All by yourself?” she asked incredulously.

He was sputtering, speaking fast but barely coherent. “Yes. I—just. Yes. By myself. I would come and, you know, when they got here I would, like, arrest them.”

Her eyes flashed with rage, then pity. “Stop the lies, Peter.”

“I’m serious. I was going to arrest them. I even brought my gun.” He pulled a pistol from his pocket.

Allison stepped back. “Put the gun away.”

He smiled pathetically. “Don’t worry. I would never hurt you. I love you. All I’ve ever done is love you.”

She grimaced, bewildered and disgusted. “You call this
love
? Did you honestly think that hiring someone to kidnap Kristen Howe would help me win the election?”

His eyes darkened. The voice filled with bitterness. “No, darling. I thought it would make you lose.”

Allison shuddered. “Make me
lose
?”

“It was the only way to save us.”

“Save us from what?”

He froze, as if debating whether to say more.

“Peter,” she said sternly. “Save us from
what
?”

“I can’t say it.”

She stepped closer. “Damn it, Peter, you’re
going
to tell me. Or I’m calling in the FBI right now and you can tell it to them.”

He lowered his eyes. “We can get past this, Allison. You and I can get past anything.”

“I can’t get past it if I don’t know what it is.”

He looked up, speaking softly. “I overheard you and your old fiancé talking that night at the gala, two months ago—you and Mitch O’Brien.”

Allison stiffened, recalling the mysterious footsteps in the hallway.

He continued, “I saw the way you looked at each other. I watched you duck out to the hall. I saw him follow. So I followed, and I listened. I heard what he said about how you met him in that hotel room in Miami Beach.”

“Mitch was talking nonsense. We never shared a hotel room.”

“Then why did you refuse to answer the adultery question at the debate?”

“That was purely a matter of principle.”

“Don’t patronize me,” he said sharply. “I know you fucked him. Maybe others, too. There would only be more after you were elected. All the men presidents had lovers. Why would the first woman be any different? I’d be a laughingstock. Not just among our friends. Not just in our hometown. The
entire world would know that Peter Tunnello couldn’t satisfy his wife. I couldn’t let that happen to us. I
wouldn’t
let that happen to
me
.”

Allison glared. “Mitch is dead, isn’t he? That’s why no one can find him.”

“Who cares? He was a drunken slob who couldn’t keep his hands off my wife.”

“You sent me that photograph with the lipstick—the one with the scarlet letter on it.”

“It was just to scare you, Allison.”

“Is that why you hired someone to kidnap Kristen—just to scare me?”

“I did it for
us,
Allison. If you won the election, I knew I would lose you.”

“God! You should have just killed me. I
wish
you had just killed me.”

His expression changed again, sweeter now—deranged. “
Kill
you? I
love
you, Allison.”

She cringed. “How could you hurt an innocent child?”

“I swear, I never planned to hurt her. For a hundred thousand dollars they were supposed to keep her until the sympathy threw the election in Howe’s favor, and then let her go. But they got greedy, I guess, and demanded a ransom. When Howe refused to pay, they wanted
me
to cough up the million dollars. When I said forget it, they called and demanded the ransom from you. What could I do then but pay it? You have to believe me, Allison. The thing just snowballed. Once I pushed the button it was too late to reel these guys back in.”

Her glared tightened. “What about Emily?”

He looked away, then back. “If you can forgive me, I promise I can help you find her.”

“
Forgive
you?” She took a half step closer, her
voice shaking. “If you know where Emily is, you are going to tell me.”

A silent projectile whistled past her ear. Two quick thuds pounded on Peter’s chest. He fell backwards, landing in a twisted heap on the asphalt trail.

“Peter, no!”

She ran to him and fell to her knees at his side. His chest was soaked in blood. Frantically, she looked toward the mill to gauge the line of fire. She saw no one.

“Peter, talk to me!”

She checked his pulse. Nothing. She lifted him by his jacket, but his head dropped back against the pavement, lifeless. She held him with all her strength, shocked, refusing to believe. Tears streamed down her face as she released her grip. His body slipped away.

She looked up, startled by the sound of approaching footsteps. Two men were running toward her. She pried the gun from Peter’s hand and jumped to her feet.

“FBI!” they shouted.

She shook the lead agent by the jacket, nearly knocking him over. “I told you not to follow! Why did you shoot! Why!”

“We didn’t shoot!”

Allison froze as the agent spoke into his headset.

“Civilian down, Rock Creek Park at Tilden and Beech Drive. Possible sniper. Need back up immediately at all park exits. Request K-9 and helicopter search support.”

The agent kept talking, and the rain was falling harder. Her hair and coat were soaked. Peter lay motionless in a puddle. The adrenaline flowed
and emotions surged at the sight of her dead husband—gone, though he was never the man she’d thought he was. She knelt at his side, her voice shaking as the cold rain pelted herlips.

“Don’t,” she said softly. “You bastard, don’t take Emily with you.”

Vincent Gambrelli slashed through the forest at a dead run. Low-hanging branches slapped his face. He slipped on wet leaves and mosses. His lungs were burning. Over the years, he had kept his lean body in excellent condition, but he wasn’t twenty-five years old anymore. He stopped when he reached an isolated trail. He leaned forward, hands on his thighs, catching his breath.

“Shit,” he muttered, seeing he’d stepped in horse dung. Then his eyes brightened at the sight of even more droppings all along the trail. A good thing, he thought—he had to be near the Equestrian Center. He jogged ahead and stopped. The stable was dead ahead.
A horse!

He sprinted another fifty yards down the trail, slowing as he reached the stable. A light burned inside. He pulled the pistol from his jacket, reattached the silencer, and peered through the open stable door. An old man was grooming one of the horses in his stall. He appeared to be alone.

Gambrelli concealed his weapon in his sleeve and walked inside. The sound of the falling rain pattered on the roof. His footsteps were silent on the cement floor. One of the horses snorted as he passed, but the old man was too absorbed in his work to notice. Gambrelli stopped at the lighted stall.

The old man was standing beside the gelding, whistling some made-up tune as he combed through the black tangled mane. The whistling stopped when he noticed the stranger. “Sorry, mister. I’m closed.”

“Permanently,” said Gambrelli. He raised his arm and fired a muffled shot.

The old man clutched his chest and fell to the ground. He lay motionless at the horse’s hoof. Gambrelli rushed inside the stall and saddled up the horse. He put one foot in the stirrup, then stopped. This was suicide, he realized. No way could he ride out of this park like the Lone Ranger. The FBI would surely see or hear him galloping away.

A thin smile creased his lips. He had a better idea.

He jumped down, grabbed the old man, and threw him in the saddle. He tied his feet in the stirrups with leather straps. A long leather lunge line was hanging on the post. He snatched it and tied the old man’s torso around the horse’s neck. He looked like a jockey leaning forward in the homestretch.

“Come on, boy,” he said as he led the horse from the stall, then out the stable door. They stopped at the trail. Gambrelli looked up and listened. He could hear helicopters in the sky.

Perfect,
he thought.

He aimed the horse toward the meadow, then laid the barrel of his gun flat on the horse’s hind quarters. It was grazing the skin, so the animal would feel the burn and the flesh wound without serious injury. He fired once. The startled horse screeched and took off. In seconds, the mysterious night rider was galloping across the meadow at full speed.

Gambrelli ran in the opposite direction, through the woods. He felt stronger now that he had a plan. He ran at full speed, reaching for every bit of long-distance stamina. He ran along the side of the creek—upstream, figuring the FBI might expect him to be swimming downstream toward the Potomac. He ducked beneath the bridge at the north end of the park, continuing right through, quickly covering another hundred yards on the other side, where he noticed the impressive granite monuments. He leaped over one, never losing speed. Headstones, he realized. He’d reached Oak Hill Cemetery. The terraced cemetery overlooked the park, making the climb like a giant staircase. Gambrelli reached the top terrace before he finally turned and looked behind him.

Helicopters with searchlights were circling over the meadow. He smiled to himself. The diversion had worked.

He turned away, toward the city lights and the street beyond the cemetery wall. He gave an extra burst of energy for the last hundred yards, then hopped the fence and landed in the bushes on the other side. He brushed himself off and walked to the sidewalk, giving one more quick glance over the park. The choppers were hovering over the meadow. It looked like SWAT members were swooping down on ropes. In a few seconds they’d realize their mistake—a few seconds too late.

He checked traffic and crossed the street, hailing a taxi in front of a restaurant. The cab pulled up to the curb, and he jumped in the back.

“Where to?” asked the cabbie.

“Downtown,” he said as he burrowed into the backseat. “And hurry.”

Allison stared into her steaming cup of black coffee. She was in the passenger seat of a parked FBI van, her body wrapped in a blanket to keep off the wet chill. The rain sounded like golf balls bouncing off the metal roof. Her chin dropped. She tugged at the microphone clipped to her sweater. Harley Abrams opened the driver’s side door and jumped in the seat beside her.

She stared out the windshield, into the inky darkness of the park. “He’s going to get away, isn’t he?”

Harley didn’t respond.

“It’s my fault,” she said. “I’m the one who got the bloody photo from Tanya Howe. I sent Peter the message. I’m the one who told you not to follow me. If you hadn’t put a tail on Peter after I called you, the FBI wouldn’t have even been in the neighborhood when this happened. I might have been killed.”

“It was a good plan, Allison. Just because something goes wrong doesn’t mean it was the wrong thing to do.”

“Now I just wish I hadn’t picked such an isolated meeting spot.”

“Peter had to believe he was meeting with the man he hired. If you were a hit man, you’d pick an isolated spot, wouldn’t you?”

She unclipped the microphone from her sweater and handed it over. “You heard it all, I assume.”

He nodded, not sure what to say. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

Her voice filled with sadness. “Part of me still doesn’t want to believe it. The whole time I was waiting in the park, ready to spring the trap, I kept hoping I was wrong. That it wasn’t Peter. Then there he was. And I knew.”

“I guess I can’t even imagine how that feels. To be searching all these years. Then to find out it’s your husband.”

She looked up. “You want to know how it feels? Think of the first time you walked into the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. The walls are covered with photographs of happy, innocent kids. It gives you a sick feeling to think that every single one of them is in a place very different from where their picture was taken. Then you walk down the hall, and there’s another wall with more photos. But this time the sign above the children doesn’t say ‘Missing.’ It says ‘Recovered’ You can’t help but feel a rush of relief and excitement. Until you realize that ‘Recovered’ doesn’t necessarily mean recovered
alive.

“Multiply that feeling—that letdown—by a factor of about ten thousand.
That’s
how I feel right now.”

“Allison, after something like this, it’s natural for you to go through the full range of emotions. But guilt shouldn’t be one of them.”

“Too late,” she scoffed. “I’ve already told myself about a hundred times that if I hadn’t let Peter into my life, Emily never would have been abducted. And maybe if I hadn’t been campaigning all over the country, I could have seen the warning signs in Peter. Maybe I could have gotten him some help before it came to this.”

“Don’t do that to yourself. It’s like blaming a woman for marrying a perfect man who turns out to be a child abuser. Look, Peter was smart. He hid his problems not only from you, but from the media, your own political party, Lincoln Howe’s campaign sharks, the FBI, and everybody else who vetted the guy when you got involved in
national politics. There’s no reason you should have known.”

She nodded, knowing he was right. But she still felt nauseous. “Do you think the shooter followed me here, or Peter?”

“Definitely you. If he had followed Peter, he probably would have noticed the agents who were tailing your husband. He would never have pulled the trigger if he thought the FBI was around.”

“What do you think set him off?”

“He’s tailing you, probably to make sure you’re heeding his warning to stay away from the FBI. You lead him out to the park, he sees you meeting your own husband. What else could it possibly look like? He probably thought Peter called you out here to get the two of you away from the FBI and everybody else—so he could confess in total privacy, no eavesdroppers. He couldn’t just stand by and let Peter tell you who he hired. So he wastes him.”

“How would he have heard what we were saying?”

“He didn’t have to hear a thing. One look at your face probably told him you weren’t out here bird watching.”

Allison shivered, recalling Peter’s words. “I still don’t totally understand it. He said he could help me find Emily. Why would he have taken my four-month-old daughter?”

“As I recall, you said he fell in love with you pretty quick, and you weren’t exactly responding the way he wanted. I mean, adopting a baby and telling a guy you’re not interested in marriage doesn’t give him much encouragement.”

“Yeah, but steal my daughter?”

“Maybe his plan was supposed to be just like the Kristen Howe thing. He hired somebody to take Emily away for a few days. Just long enough for him to step forward like a hero and offer a reward with his own money. All the courageous things that eventually made you fall in love with him.”

“Then why didn’t he give Emily back to me?”

“Maybe he got to like things the way they were. A strong, beautiful woman who’s been reduced to a basket case. She needs him, depends on him, can’t get through the day without him. Bringing Emily back would have destroyed all that.”

She grimaced. “That’s sick.”

“It’s psychopathic. But it happens every day. Some men beat their wives. Some men strangle prostitutes. Some men burn their girlfriend’s high school yearbook and photo albums. Domination and control. It’s what drives them.”

Allison massaged her throbbing temple.

Harley said, “If you look back at your relationship with Peter, I’ll bet he was happiest and most loving when you needed him. When you had a crisis. When things were tough at work. When someone close to you was sick or dying.”

“When I was losing an election,” she added.

Their eyes met. Each could tell the other was suddenly thinking of Kristen Howe. Allison’s phone rang in her purse, breaking the silence. Harley nodded. Allison answered.

“Hello.”

The response was cool, cocky. “Did you know that in the last eight years only a hundred and nineteen infants under the age of six months have been abducted in the United States?”

“What do you want?”

“Did you know that of those abductions, a hundred and ten were recovered? Most within a few days.”

Allison’s hand shook. She said nothing.

“Your Emily was one of the nine they never found.
Nine.
Have you done the math on this, Allison? Nine babies in the whole United States in eight years. Over four million births each year. What are the odds of being on the short end of
that
stick? But, of course, you’re used to beating the odds, aren’t you? How many women have been attorney general? How many women have run for president?”

“What’s your point, jerk?”

“My point?” he scoffed. “I’d say fate has found you, Ms. Leahy. For better.
And
for worse. See you at the hotel. Nine o’clock. Or both kids are dead.”

The line clicked.