The Abduction Read online

  “They’re not eating doughnuts,” Harris pointed out sourly. “You are.”

  John Falconer addressed the blogger. “What do you want?”

  “I want to help,” Sehorn replied readily. “Even though you’re out of jail, a lot of people still don’t accept your innocence. We can turn that around.”

  “How?” asked Aiden.

  “By telling your story on my Web site. I believe that things will go better for Margaret if you’re not the bogeymen anymore. A sympathetic public might convince her captors to let her go. Or the extra attention could produce tips that lead to her rescue. I can make that happen — if you’ll let me.”

  “All right, that’s enough,” the agent interrupted. “Get out of this house or I’ll run you in for breaking and entering.”

  “No.” Louise Falconer indicated the laptop. “This one paragraph shows more understanding than we’ve ever seen from the FBI. We’ll do this interview. We’ll do whatever it takes to bring Meg home.”

  “You’ll have approval over every word before I post it on the site,” the Blog Hog assured her.

  Harris took a swig of cold coffee and reached for a doughnut. “But when the interview’s over, you’re gone, got it?”

  The pastries tasted like sawdust, even though Aiden was starving. He was too anxious to eat. If this interview really was the key to saving Meg, they had to get every word exactly right.

  But deep down, he had a sinking feeling that nothing so important was ever so simple.

  Meg paced the room like a penned animal.

  Some room, she thought in disgust. More like a concrete box, lit with a bare bulb inside a metal protective cage. Shadows of the cage were cast over every surface — images of bars, fences, captivity.

  The only thing missing is barbed wire….

  This was a prison cell, and there was no way out.

  The space was empty except for a pile of wooden shipping pallets in one corner. The skids were half rotted by long exposure to damp air. The walls, floor, and ceiling weren’t in much better shape — ancient and crumbling. Whatever this place was, it hadn’t been occupied in a very long time.

  At least she could see again. The kidnappers had untied her wrists and ankles before literally tossing her into her prison. She’d ripped the pillowcase off her head just in time to catch a glimpse of the Spider-Man mask disappearing behind the heavy steel door. That made sense. He belonged to the gruff voice and seemed to be the muscles of the operation. He was good at it, too. She rubbed her hip, which throbbed in pain where it had made contact with the cement floor.

  She looked around. What was this place? The only feature was a narrow horizontal window high above her at ceiling level. Could this be a basement? That would certainly explain the dank chill and moldy smell. But the basement of what?

  She peered at the window. It was scratched and dirty, and the sharp angle made it difficult to see outside.

  A sudden click made her jump. The door swung open and in stepped the smaller kidnapper — the one in the Mickey Mouse mask. Fearfully, Meg backed up a few steps. There was nowhere to run in this concrete dungeon — and nothing she could use to defend herself.

  Mickey Mouse held out a McDonald’s bag. “You must be hungry.”

  She had thought this might be the woman, but the voice was male. It was the younger-sounding man, the one who’d been kind to her in the backseat of the car.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Don’t get excited. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

  “You’ve already hurt me,” she accused. “It feels like someone took a sledgehammer to my head.”

  “That’s just the chloroform,” Mickey Mouse explained. “We don’t mean you any harm. We just want — ”

  Meg pounced on the opening. “You want what? What’s this about? Why have you brought me here?”

  The mask hid his expression, but the sudden tension in his shoulders told Meg that he was wary of saying too much.

  “Here’s your dinner.” He set the bag down on the floor. “Maybe some food will cure your headache.”

  Meg was starving. Yet her every instinct was to take this meal that smelled so tantalizing and throw it right in his face.

  But you’ll need to keep up your strength if you want to have a chance to escape.

  And that was something she intended to do.

  She took a step forward, picked up the bag, and looked inside. A Big Mac. She couldn’t resist showing a touch of defiance. “I hate the special sauce.”

  “I usually scrape it off,” offered Mickey. He paused. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

  “A ride home,” Meg replied bitterly.

  “Hang in there. We’ll get through this.” He walked out, snapping the lock into place.

  The sheer unfairness of that statement brought tears of frustration to her eyes. We’ll get through this. Like he was her fellow victim and not one of the perpetrators of this crime.

  What did they want? Ransom? One thing was clear — they knew exactly who she was. They knew her name. She wasn’t just some random girl they’d snatched. Were they Falconer haters taking revenge on a family they considered traitors? Or was this something else, something Meg hadn’t even considered?

  Stop it! she ordered herself. You’re kidnapped. It doesn’t matter why. All that’s important is what happens now.

  It was a lesson she and Aiden had learned on the run. Fugitives had no time for the big picture. All their energy had to be focused on what came next. The next move, the next challenge, the next minute. Often it had come down to seconds.

  Her gaze tracked up the crumbling cement to the tiny window. That would be next for Meg.

  How can I climb a twelve-foot concrete wall in an empty room?

  Her eyes fell on the mound of discarded and broken pallets, laced with silvery spiderwebs.

  No, not empty. Not empty at all.

  The setup resembled a home video game system, like Xbox without the joysticks. Aiden had to remind himself that the equipment had nothing to do with fun and recreation. It was surveillance gear designed to monitor and trace all phone calls to the Falconer home.

  “What are you looking at?”

  The FBI tech was regarding him over the tangle of wires, a sour expression on his face.

  “I was just watching.” Aiden was good at science, electronics in particular.

  The tech scowled at him. “I’ve got a tough enough job to do, kid, without you sticking your nose in it. Go break out of jail or something.”

  Aiden backed up a step. It wasn’t his first nasty rebuke from a Falconer hater. But this guy worked for the FBI. Hadn’t he noticed that his own agency had found Mom and Dad innocent and dropped all charges against Aiden and Meg, too?

  If we have enemies inside the FBI, will they even try to rescue Meg?

  It was hard to think of the word “enemy” without associating it with Emmanuel Harris. The six-foot-seven agent was now officially heading up the investigation of Meg’s disappearance. How ironic was that? The man who had come within a hair of destroying the Falconer family had been placed in charge of saving it.

  Harris was in the kitchen, briefing Mom and Dad, when Aiden entered the room. “… and you have to watch what you say to Rufus Sehorn. His background check came up clean, but he’s no ordinary reporter. A blogger has no editors, no standards, and no rules.” He scrolled through www.bloghog.usa on the notebook computer on the table. “Here, for example, where you talk about how good Meg is at cards — ”

  “Rufus specifically asked for personal details,” Louise Falconer explained coldly. “We’re trying to humanize Meg. To humanize the whole family, really, to undo some of the damage that’s been done to our reputation.”

  “That’s fine,” Harris said patiently, “but you have to use common sense. When the kidnappers see ‘card player,’ they might conclude that Meg has an exceptional memory — maybe even a photographic memory. That would make it harder for them to release her.
They’d be afraid she’d remember something that might help the police track them down.”

  Mom uttered a cry of pain, as if she’d been slapped.

  Aiden tried to soothe his mother. “Come on, how could you be expected to think of that when Meg’s been kidnapped?”

  Dad shook his head. “What kind of criminologists are we? Failing our own daughter.”

  “No one’s failed anybody yet,” Harris reminded them. “Let’s just be extra careful around a blogger. There’s an awful lot riding on what we do.”

  Aiden spoke up. “Has anybody spotted the exterminators’ van?”

  Harris nodded. “Bethesda PD found it abandoned in an alley. No fingerprints except your sister’s.”

  “The kidnappers must have been wearing gloves,” Dad mused.

  “If the van was in Bethesda,” Aiden challenged, “why aren’t you searching every house in town?”

  “We think Bethesda was just a transfer point,” the agent informed them. “There were tire tracks under the gravel next to the abandoned van. Our crime scene people are checking it out. Looks like a car, not a van or SUV, probably GM or Chrysler. We’ve modified the alert.”

  “But that’s half the cars on the road!” Aiden protested. “By the time you find the right one, Meg could be …” His voice trailed off.

  “I know it’s not much,” Harris admitted, “but it’s all we’ve got right now. At least till there’s a ransom demand, or some kind of direct message from the kidnappers.”

  “What if they don’t want ransom?” Mom asked. “What if they want a dead Falconer? Remember, they tried to take Aiden, too — ” She was trying to stay professional, but the shakiness of her voice gave her away.

  “I almost wish they had gotten me,” Aiden said hoarsely. “Not that I want to be kidnapped. I just hate that Meg’s all alone. We were kind of good together. You know, in tough spots.”

  “That’s nothing to celebrate,” Dad scolded. “No child should ever have to endure what you and your sister did.” He cast a scorching look at Harris.

  “Let’s just keep our heads,” the agent advised. “For Meg’s sake.”

  For Meg’s sake.

  Magic words, thought Aiden. They had the power to make the Falconer family cooperate with the hated Emmanuel Harris.

  Meg stepped back to survey her handiwork. One of the wooden pallets was propped up at an angle beneath the small window. Another stood on top of it, extending like a ladder to the narrow opening. This wobbly arrangement was anchored in place by four more skids, laid out across the floor, braced against the opposite wall.

  It wasn’t pretty. But would it get the job done?

  She placed a foot on one of the slats and was genuinely amazed that the entire mess didn’t collapse like a house of cards under her weight. Encouraged, she hoisted herself to the higher skid. This was a much more precarious balance, since it stood nearly flat against the wall.

  She climbed carefully, leaning her weight forward in an attempt to keep the pallet from tipping over backward. The prospect of bashing her brains out on the hard cement wasn’t appealing. But the thought that the kidnappers might barge in to investigate the noise of the crash was even worse.

  Another shaky foothold. Her outstretched arm was just eighteen inches from the window. Gritting her teeth, she raised a trembling leg to the next rung. The pallet shimmied, and she pressed her shoulder into the wood to keep it in place.

  Eight inches separated Meg’s hand from the window. One more step. She could make it. She would make it.

  One … two … three!

  Her fingers slapped onto the window ledge. Breathing hard, she hoisted herself to the opening.

  Her first close look at the window brought a gasp of disappointment. Security glass — with wire mesh inside the immovable pane. There was no way she could ever get through it.

  As her body slumped in defeat, the toe of her sneaker nudged the top of the skid ever so slightly away from the wall. It teetered backward, passing the point of no return.

  In a panic, she tried to catch it with a dangling foot and succeeded in wedging her ankle between the slats. The effort twisted her out of position, and she lost her grip on the ledge with her left hand, hanging on doggedly with her right. Her free arm flailed wildly, fingers clamping onto the bars of the protective cage around the light.

  Her weight proved too much for the deteriorating ceiling. With a sickening crunch, the crumbling cement gave up its hold on the metal cage.

  She was falling.

  She sucked back the scream that tried to explode from her throat. The pallet around her ankle hit the floor and smashed into pieces. The force pitched her backward. Her head struck a skid, cracking rotted wood.

  Everything went dark.

  * * *

  Sleep.

  Aiden snorted into his pillow. Yeah, right. Like that was going to happen.

  It had been Harris’s advice as he’d headed out the door. “Get some sleep.”

  “You’re leaving?” Aiden had exclaimed in disbelief. “But there’s no news — no progress! What — Meg can only be in danger during work hours?”

  “I’ve got two agents here around the clock,” Harris assured him. “Our tech people are monitoring your e-mail accounts in case the kidnappers try to contact you that way. We’re covered.”

  Reluctantly, Aiden had to admit it made sense. Even on the run, the Falconer kids had found time for rest. It had been the only way for them to stay sharp. The FBI couldn’t rescue Meg if they were too exhausted to function.

  He had finally drifted into an uneasy slumber when the shouting started.

  Heart thumping, he scrambled to the window. Squinting in the darkness, he could just make out one of the FBI men wrestling with an unknown assailant near the front bushes.

  The kidnappers? Have they come back for me? It made no sense, and yet …

  The door burst open and another agent ran onto the scene. The glint of metal was unmistakable. A gun!

  “Freeze!”

  As the intruder stopped struggling, the light coming from inside fell on his Greenville Cubs baseball cap.

  Aiden sprinted for the stairs.

  His pajama-clad father grabbed him on the first landing.

  “It’s Richie!” Aiden exclaimed.

  “At midnight?”

  “That’s high noon for him — remember?”

  Richie’s parents both worked nights, turning their son into the ultimate night owl. He’d memorized every late-late-show science fiction movie word for word. The kid was fluent in Klingon. He used to show up at all hours, calling Aiden by bouncing pebbles off his window. That had probably been Richie’s plan tonight before the feds pounced on him.

  Dad strode for the door, Aiden hot on his heels. “Don’t shoot! It’s my son’s friend!”

  By the time they reached the scene, poor Richie was flat on his face in the grass, his hands cuffed tightly behind his back.

  Between them, the two Falconers managed to convince their FBI protectors that the intruder was harmless.

  “Sorry, kid,” apologized the agent who unlocked the shackles. “But you’ve got to admit that most people skulking outside a house at midnight have nothing good in mind. Especially this house.”

  Richie nodded meekly.

  Maybe now he’ll understand why I can’t go back to being his old buddy, Aiden reflected, leading Richie inside. This is my life now — cops and guns.

  “Don’t stay up too late,” Dad advised them before heading upstairs. “This isn’t the time for a slumber party.”

  Aiden pushed his friend into a kitchen chair and cracked open two bottles of water. “You okay, Rich?”

  Richie took a long drink. “How’d you know it was me?”

  Aiden cast him a ghost of a smile. “Because the Greenville Cubs only have one fan.” It faded quickly. “You can’t hang around here, Rich. We’ve got serious trouble.”

  “Your sister. It was on the late news. I came as soon as I heard. Wh
o would kidnap Meg? Do you think it’s the group that framed your parents?”

  Aiden shrugged helplessly. “They’re all either dead or in jail. But there are plenty of people who hate us out there. I really don’t want to talk about it.”

  “What can I do to help?” Richie asked earnestly.

  For some reason, this offer of assistance actually made Aiden feel worse. “Nothing,” he mumbled.

  Richie wouldn’t take no for an answer. “Just say the word. Even if it’s as simple as picking up your homework until all this is over.”

  Until all this is over. That simple phrase underscored the huge chasm that had opened up between Aiden and his friend. To Richie, until all this is over referred to a time when this situation was resolved, and life could go on.

  To Aiden, it was very different.

  When “all this” was over, Aiden Falconer might very well not have a sister.

  It was the worst headache Meg could ever remember. With it came double vision, which scared the daylights out of her. When her sight cleared and she recalled where she was, that scared her even more.

  The escape attempt. A twelve-foot fall into a pile of wooden skids. Sharp pain and then blackness. How long had she been unconscious? She listened for signs of the kidnappers, waiting for them to burst through the door. Surely they must have heard her fall.

  No one came. Well, at least that was something. She could try again. There had to be some way out….

  If only her head would stop throbbing!

  Aiden had always accused her of having a head like a cannonball. It had probably saved her from a concussion or worse tonight.