The Abduction

by James Grippando

  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, t
hey 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.”

  54

  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?”