The Abduction

by Mark Gimenez

Junior said nothing. Ben grabbed Junior’s right arm and twisted it back until Junior fell face down on the ground. Ben put a knee in his back, then ripped the bandage from Junior’s right hand and held the hand out flat on the ground, thumb and two fingers spread.

  “John, hand me that hatchet.”

  John walked over to a small woodpile and picked up the hatchet. He returned and handed it to Ben. Junior’s eyes were wide, looking at the hatchet and then at his hand.

  “You can’t do this! I got rights! This is America!”

  “Junior, you lost your rights when you took Gracie.”

  Ben swung the hatchet down hard. John turned away. Junior screamed.

  When Junior opened his eyes, the hatchet was buried in the ground barely an inch from his right hand. He still had a thumb and two fingers. The first thought that entered his mind was he couldn’t afford to lose another finger because then he’d have to masturbate with his left hand.

  “I won’t miss next time, Junior.”

  Way Junior figured, he’d probably do two to five in a federal penitentiary for weapons violations. No way they could tie him to the murders of that judge or those prosecutors or FBI agents. Or even McCoy. Shit, if they did, he could blame it all on the major! Of course, a kidnapping conviction might get him another two to five, but he never touched her and he saved her from Bubba, that should count for something. Sure, sleazy Norman the lawyer could do something with that: brother reunites with long lost sister, show the jury pictures of her room, she’ll testify that he fixed her hot baths and breakfasts, and, best of all, Elizabeth Austin will have to testify. Sleazy Norman the lawyer will crucify the bitch, ruin her career, her family, her life. And besides, time the trial’s over, Junior might have himself a movie deal. Maybe Tom Cruise would play him.

  “She’s out back.”

  John followed Junior and Ben around to the back of the cabin. Junior abruptly stopped at a woodpile.

  “There,” he said.

  Junior was pointing at the woodpile. John didn’t understand, but Ben put his shoulder to the wood and pushed the pile over. He dropped to the ground and frantically threw the remaining logs aside. A small air vent was sticking up out of the ground.

  Ben looked up. “You buried her?”

  Junior shrugged. “She needed some discipline.”

  John’s entire body began trembling but not with fear. A lifetime of bullies and beatings, of not fighting back, of shame and sorrow, of not being much of a man—all the humiliation and pain came rushing back and washed over John like a tidal wave. His face felt hot. Junior was looking at him with that bemused smile so familiar to John Brice.

  “Hell, you ain’t even her daddy,” he said.

  John’s eyes fell. He had always thought Gracie had gotten her blonde hair and blue eyes from Ben. But she couldn’t have; John had been adopted. So she had gotten her hair and eyes from … and John suddenly understood everything. It all came together: Elizabeth, her disappearance ten years ago, her sudden change of heart toward him when she returned, the quick marriage, the move to Dallas, Gracie’s birth eight months later. He knew the truth now. But it didn’t matter. The only truth that mattered was Gracie down there. He raised his eyes to Junior.

  “I’ve loved her since the day she was born and I’ll love her till the day I die. That makes me her daddy.”

  “Yeah? We’ll see about that when she learns the truth at my trial.”

  But John’s 190-IQ mind was way ahead of poor Junior.

  “There’s not gonna be a trial, Junior.”

  John put the .45 to Junior’s head and shot him dead.

  “I didn’t see that,” Agent O’Brien said.

  John wiped Junior’s blood from his face, then dropped the gun, fell to his knees, and joined Ben, digging with his hands. They hit metal in minutes.

  Gracie was buried in a U.S. Army munitions container. A hole had been cut in the top and the air vent inserted. They brushed the remaining dirt off the top. They released the latches and opened the lid. Gracie lay still and straight inside; her eyes were closed and her arms lay across her chest. Her face was dirty. John reached down and touched her face gently. A tear rolled off his cheek and fell onto her face.

  “Oh, Gracie, baby.”

  “Let’s get her out,” Ben said.

  They grabbed her coat and pants and gently lifted her out of the box then laid her on the ground. Ben checked her pulse.

  “She’s alive. Let’s get her into town!”

  Ben picked Gracie up and groaned; he carried her to the Land Rover. Her arms and legs hung limp. Agent O’Brien ran ahead, opened the back door, and got in. John jumped into the driver’s seat. Ben handed Gracie to O’Brien, and they laid her across the back seat. Ben shut the door.

  “Turn this thing around and be ready to roll.”

  Ben ran into the main cabin. Minutes later, he emerged, ran to the Rover, and jumped in.

  “Go!”

  John punched the accelerator. “Ben, where’s your rifle?”

  Ben said softly, “I don’t need it anymore.”

  7:27 A.M. PACIFIC TIME, BONNERS FERRY

  FBI Director Stanley White loved flying about the country at five hundred miles per hour in the Bureau’s Gulfstream Executive jet—nothing but the best for the United States government!—the leather seats, the burled elmwood trim, the state-of-the-art avionics, the 3,500-mile range, the six-foot-one-inch cabin height, more than enough for his five-seven height. This morning, instead of flying back to D.C. from Chicago, he was en route to Bonners Ferry, a 1,500-mile flight, three hours flight time, including a quick stop in Des Moines to pick up Agent Devereaux, who was now sitting in the seat behind Stan. His attitude hadn’t improved since their earlier conversation.

  “Prepare to land, Chief,” the pilot said over the intercom.

  Stan gazed out the window to the east. They were descending into a valley surrounded by mountain ridges, down to the Boundary County Airport just north of Bonners Ferry, Idaho. At that moment, one of the mountains erupted like a volcano.

  “Jesus!”

  The entire mountaintop was engulfed in a huge fireball of red-orange flames of a kind White had seen only once before when the Army had demonstrated for the FBI Terrorism Task Force the destructive capacity of napalm.

  Agent Devereaux’s voice came from behind: “Kingdom come, Stan.”

  7:39 A.M. PACIFIC TIME, BONNERS FERRY

  They were driving across the Moyie River Bridge; Gracie’s head was in Ben’s lap. He was stroking her face. He reached inside his overalls, unbuttoned his shirt pocket, and pulled out the Silver Star and chain. He pressed it into the palm of her hand. Her hand closed around it, almost like a reflex.

  Gracie is standing on the threshold of double doors as they slowly open to a bright world beyond, a beautiful world beckoning to her. She steps forward—but something shiny on the ground catches her eye. She bends over and picks it up, a Silver Star on a silver chain—and the doors close.

  She opened her eyes. The light was too bright; she squinted. Something shielded her eyes. After a moment, her vision cleared and she saw Ben’s face. She smiled.

  “I knew you’d come,” she said.

  9:40 A.M. CENTRAL TIME, DALLAS

  FBI Special Agent Jan Jorgenson pulled open the double doors leading into the sanctuary of the Catholic church. The pews were packed. She searched the congregation, but she could not spot Mrs. Brice from her location.

  She walked up the center aisle.

  Her legs were trembling and tears were welling up in her eyes. Heads turned her way; she realized she was still wearing her raid jacket with FBI in big gold letters. She neared the front and spotted Mrs. Brice, second pew from the front, on the aisle. The Brice boy and the grandmother sat next to her. Jan came to Mrs. Brice and stood there, tears running down her face.

  Elizabeth’s gaze was locked on the big crucifix above the altar when she realized the priest had stopped short the Mass. Her eyes moved to him. He was looking
directly at her. The altar girls were looking at her. Everyone was looking at her. She turned to Kate; her hands were over her mouth, her eyes were wide, and she was looking in Elizabeth’s direction, but not at her—at someone behind her.

  Elizabeth spun around and saw Agent Jorgenson, tears rolling down her face. Elizabeth’s heart froze with fear. She stood and stepped out of the pew. Jorgenson wiped her face. And she smiled.

  “Gracie’s safe.”

  All strength left her legs, and Elizabeth dropped to her knees. Tears flooded her eyes. She again looked up at the crucifix. Their bond with evil had been broken.

  But who had to die to break that bond?

  8:15 A.M. PACIFIC TIME, BONNERS FERRY

  “There’ll be a full investigation, Mr. Brice!”

  FBI Director White and his entourage had arrived within minutes after Gracie had been brought into the hospital. Now the short bald man was pointing a finger at Ben.

  “That’s Colonel Brice,” Agent Devereaux said.

  “You obstructed an ongoing federal investigation!”

  They were standing outside Gracie’s room—Ben, the director, the sheriff, and Agents Devereaux and O’Brien. John and the doctor were in with Gracie.

  The director turned on Agent O’Brien.

  “O’Brien, you had the camp staked out. What the hell happened?”

  FBI Agent Pete O’Brien did not blink in the face of the director’s lethal glare. Pete had learned that morning the difference between right and wrong. He had learned that even the Federal Bureau of Investigation could be wrong and had been wrong. Now, he had an important choice to make: tell the truth, which would normally be the right thing to do, in which case Colonel Brice and John Brice would likely be arrested and charged with murder and those terrorists would live on in the media, which would be a bad thing; or, lie, which would normally be the wrong thing to do, in which case the Brices would take Gracie home and live happily ever after and the terrorists’ barbecued bodies would rot on that stinking mountain, which would be a good thing. His decision came easily.

  “Shit, Chief, all I know is I’m sitting up there and suddenly there’s this huge explosion. I mean, I thought it was a goddamn volcano! I hightailed it down the mountain. These men gave me a ride to town. They must’ve gotten wind we were on to them, so they blew themselves up, committed suicide.” He shrugged innocently. “Another Waco, Chief.”

  The director blinked. “Unh-hunh.”

  Ben turned as the doctor came out of Gracie’s room.

  “Are you the FBI Director?” the doctor asked White.

  “Yes,” the director said.

  “You may want to hear what she has to say.”

  They followed the doctor into Gracie’s room.

  “What is it, Gracie?” Ben said.

  Her voice was quiet. “What day is today?”

  Ben said, “Easter Sunday.”

  “They’re going to kill the president.”

  The director nodded. “They were plotting to kill McCoy. We wanted to insure that we had all the players, but your grandfather took care of that.”

  “There’s another man,” Gracie said. “Red hair, with a black rifle. He’s going to shoot President McCoy at Camp David on Easter Sunday. Today.”

  The director’s head swiveled around to Agent O’Brien.

  “No one with red hair was in that camp,” O’Brien said.

  The director looked funny at Gracie. “How do you know this?”

  “I saw him,” Gracie said. “In Wyoming. They said something about making it look like Muslims did it.”

  The director checked his watch.

  “Mister?”

  “Yes?”

  “Hurry.”

  The director ran out the door, followed by the other agents.

  Sheriff J. D. Johnson was standing just inside the door to the girl’s room. Doc Sanders and the colonel and the father were over by the bed. Doc turned and came to the door. He was smiling.

  “She’ll be fine,” he said as he opened the door and left.

  The colonel leaned over the bed and kissed the girl, and then he came over to the sheriff. He seemed a bit pale; he was probably just tired.

  “Trick to life, Colonel, is living long enough for life to work out.”

  The colonel collapsed to the floor. J.D. yelled for Doc Sanders. He knelt and unzipped the colonel’s overalls and saw his bloody shirt. He heard the girl’s shrill scream.

  “Ben!”

  DAY FIFTEEN

  5:35 P.M.

  “Run, Gracie, run!”

  FBI Special Agent (no longer on probation) Jan Jorgenson was standing off to the side of the goal at one end of the field, the goal toward which Gracie Ann Brice was now running. She was kicking the ball out in front of her, chased by the other team. The parents were cheering in the stands.

  “Take it to the goal, Gracie!”

  “Go, Gracie! Score!”

  Gracie suddenly cut across the field and ran directly toward Jan; she kicked the ball past the diving keeper and into the net. The crowd cheered. Jan clapped.

  Gracie’s momentum carried her to within twenty feet of Jan. She stopped and was about to turn back to the field when her eyes met Jan’s. Gracie stared at her, a quizzical expression on her face, as if wondering whether they had met. The other girls surrounded Gracie and pulled her away. Halfway across the field, Gracie turned back. Jan gave her a thumbs up.

  I didn’t quit on you, Gracie Ann Brice.

  She had not wanted this assignment to the Dallas field office, but now she understood. She was meant to be here for Gracie. She was meant to find her place in life. She was not Clarice Starling. She was Jan Jorgenson and she was catching a flight to St. Louis to join Agent Devereaux.

  A six-year-old girl had been abducted by a stranger.

  The parents in the low bleachers were cheering for his daughter. But no one cheered louder than John Brice.

  “Go, Gracie! You’re the girl! Be the girl, baby!”

  John R. Brice was now worth $3.5 billion, but he had decided not to buy the Boston Red Sox for Sam or a bunch of radio stations for Gracie. Or even a jet. But he had written a $10 million check to Gary Jennings’s wife. She said she and her baby were going back to Nebraska to live with her parents on their farm. She said she would be all right, in time. She said she had prayed for Gracie’s return. And Gracie had come home. She was back, the bullies were gone, and with them, Little Johnny Brice.

  John R. Brice was a man now.

  A different man. The mountain had changed him. He had learned about himself on that mountain. And he had learned about life. He had always held firmly to the theory that life was just an endless succession of coincidences, random events completely without meaning or connection; he had always believed that human beings were like molecules bouncing randomly off each other in the atmosphere. Whom we hit was nothing more than pure coincidence.

  It was just a coincidence that Ben Brice and John’s real father had been assigned the same dorm room at West Point, which led them both to Vietnam and SOG Team Viper and Major Charles Woodrow Walker.

  It was just a coincidence that Ben had balked at shooting the old Vietnamese woman by the river, which led to an ambush and to John’s real father being killed and to a massacre, which led to a court-martial where Ben’s testimony convicted Major Walker.

  It was just a coincidence that Ben and Kate had adopted John, which led to Army bases and Army brats who bullied him, which led him to his room and his Apple computer and to learn computer code, which led him to MIT and to the Justice Department and to Elizabeth.

  It was just a coincidence that a hobo spider had bitten Junior, which led to Major Walker’s capture and to Elizabeth’s abduction and to Gracie, which led Elizabeth to John and to the son of Walker’s accuser marrying the mother of his child.

  It was just a coincidence that Fortune had run a feature on John R. Brice with the family portrait, which led Junior and Jacko to Gracie’s soccer game and to
the Viper tattoo on the game tape.

  It was just a coincidence that John had been on the phone with Lou and the trial had delayed Elizabeth’s arrival at the park, which led Gracie to the concession stand without her parents and into Junior’s trap.

  It was just a coincidence that Junior’s POS SUV had needed repairs, which led them to Clayton Lee Tucker’s gas station and to his recognizing Gracie’s Amber Alert photo and calling the FBI hotline, which led Ben and John to Tucker and to Bonners Ferry.

  It was just a coincidence that Bubba had walked into Rusty’s Tavern, which led them past the booby traps and up the mountain called Red Ridge and to Agent O’Brien, who saved John’s life so John could save Ben’s life so Ben could save Gracie’s life so Gracie could save the president’s life.

  It was all just an endless succession of coincidences.

  That had always been his theory of life.

  He had always been completely wrong.

  Life is not random. There are no coincidences. Human beings are more than mere molecules bouncing around life without reason. We bounce around life with a purpose. We are meant to bounce off specific other human beings during our lives, other human beings who will change the content and course of our lives. We are meant to be exactly who we are. John R. Brice was meant to be husband to Elizabeth, father to Gracie and Sam, and son to Roger and Mary and now Ben and Kate. He was meant to be exactly who he was today: a man standing on a soccer field on a fine spring day with his family.

  And he felt pretty dang robust about that.

  John started yelling again: “Yeah, Gracie! You go, girl! Hoo-yah! Be the girl, baby! You’re the girl! Unh-hunh!”

  Elizabeth leaned into her husband and kissed him. She whispered in his ear, “I love you.”

  When he had returned from Idaho, she saw in his eyes that he had learned the truth about her and about Grace. But he had not spoken of it. Last night, lying in bed with him, she started to bring it up, but he put his fingers to her lips.

  “I don’t care how Gracie came into my life,” he said. “I care only that she’s in my life and that we have her back. The past—mine, yours, Gracie’s—it died on that mountain.”