“Which is about the time M texted me,” I said.
“Correct,” Sampson said. “Signal dies completely after that.”
“And nothing since,” Bree said. “Just over three hours since last contact.”
Mahoney said, “I think he’s going to let you hang on the hook a bit, Alex.”
I nodded. I’d anticipated that at a bare minimum.
“How are you holding up?” Bree said.
“You’re all here,” I said. “This isn’t all riding on my shoulders. Have we gotten access to his texts?”
Rawlins said, “Working on it. And that hat.”
“What hat?”
“The one the cowboy was wearing at Union Station.”
“Dad!” Jannie screamed in the kitchen.
I spun and bolted around the table, past the two agents setting up computer equipment, and into the kitchen. Jannie was on the floor, cradling Nana Mama’s head in her lap and crying.
“She had trouble breathing, Dad,” she said, sobbing. “And then she just kind of sagged into me!”
Chapter 91
I got down on the floor next to my grandmother. Her eyes were shut, her breathing rapid and shallow.
“Nana?” I said, checking her pulse. It was elevated but not racing.
“I’m here,” she said weakly, and her eyelids fluttered open. “I... I just got dizzy there all of a sudden.”
Bree said, “Should I call an ambulance?”
“No,” my grandmother moaned. “I am not spending another night in a hospital. I just got anxious thinking about Ali and how scared my sweet boy has to be. Someone bring me my inhaler from my bed stand. I’ll be okay.”
“I’ll get it!” Sampson said, and he rushed off.
“And you take slower breaths, Nana,” I said.
She tried, and once John returned with her inhaler, she got a couple of puffs into her lungs. Ten minutes after she’d sagged into Jannie’s arms, she felt better. Five minutes after that, she sat up on her own.
My grandmother looked around at us all and said, “Note to self: If you want to keep living, you need to keep breathing.”
We all smiled and laughed.
“Write that down,” Jannie said, tears welling as she hugged my grandmother.
Nana Mama got to her feet, and, with me trailing, she climbed the stairs under her own power. At her door, I said, “Do you want Bree or Jannie to come and help you get ready for bed?”
“No,” she said. “I can take care of myself from here.”
But she held my hand for a long moment and gazed sadly into my eyes. “I’ll pray for him before I sleep, and I’ll pray for him when I wake up.”
“I know you will.”
She squeezed my hand. “I’ve seen my share of senseless tragedies, and God knows you have too. But I have faith.”
I kissed her forehead and hugged her, trying not to break down. “I know you do. We both do. Thank you for reminding me.”
She went into her room and shut her door.
I met Jannie on the stairs. She said she was suddenly exhausted and was going to bed.
“I’m going to try to sleep too,” Bree said.
“I’m not there yet,” I said, and I headed to the dining room.
Rawlins looked up from his computer. “We’ll have text access in five minutes. Meantime, this is the clearest image I can get of that cowboy at Union Station.”
He swiveled his laptop so we could all see that he’d come in tight on the front of the crown of the hat, right where it met the brim. Even through the rain-splattered plastic cover, you could see two crossed sabers in scabbards and knotted gold cord below it.
“What’s that insignia?” I asked.
“U.S. Army Cavalry,” Mahoney said. “Like Custer wore.”
That confused me a moment. Rawlins turned his computer around, started typing, said, “Okay, I’m inside Verizon and your account, Dr. Cross, and your data.”
That sickening feeling came back as I walked around the table to stand behind the cybercrime expert, and I didn’t know exactly why. He had the screen split, half of it showing the cowboy hat and insignia, the other a long string of data.
“Tell me what I’m looking for,” Rawlins said.
“Everything Ali texted for the last three days. Calls. Data usage. Browser history. All of it.”
“You got it,” he said, typing.
I was about to turn away but I looked at the insignia again.
“Cavalry,” I said. “That’s tanks now, right?”
“Tanks and heavy armor,” Mahoney said. “Why?”
“Here are Ali’s texts,” Rawlins said. “Last one to this number.
It’s a San Diego area code. Recognize it?”
I shook my head. “What’s it say?”
He highlighted the phone number, clicked it, and the text came up: I’m here. Can’t wait.
“That’s at three thirty-two, five minutes before Ali’s phone goes off,” Sampson said.
“Go backward,” I said. “Open them all up.”
There were twenty-two texts to and from that number. But I didn’t have to read them all to understand who had my son.
The back-and-forth was all about mountain biking and what route should be taken on a ride after school got out. The first text of the day, from the California number, read Captain W here. Change of plans and phone. Got mine drowned and it died. I’m going to take a chance and ride this afternoon. You up for it?
And the day before, Ali had gotten a text from Abrahamsen’s regular number at dinnertime, when Nana Mama was spouting one-liners. I remembered how he had smiled as he read the text.
Yes, I am back from Texas, that text read. Shoulder’s still a little too sore to be riding. Hope you are well, my young friend.
“He’s M?” I said, shaking my head in disbelief. “Former tank commander, now with defense intelligence, U.S. Army captain Arthur Abrahamsen?”
Chapter 92
At five the next morning, the two-story Colonial on the east side of Eaglebrook Court in Fort Hunt, Virginia, was just as dark as it had been when Sampson and I parked a surveillance van down the street shortly after midnight.
There was a large dumpster in the front yard. According to records Rawlins pulled, Abrahamsen had a permit to remodel the house. Beyond the dumpster was that van with the decal wraps of the U.S. Armed Forces bicycle team.
In my mind, I could see Abrahamsen pulling up in front of Ali in that van and my son jumping in.
Mahoney trotted up to the surveillance van, climbed in, shut the door quietly.
“People are going to start waking up and wondering what this van is,” I said.
“Just waiting for a judge to give us the okay,” he said. “I brought an infrared sensor. Should pick up anyone inside.”
The sensor looked like a large, fat gun with a screen attached to the rear. I opened the window, aimed the gun at Abrahamsen’s house, and turned it on.
The screen showed the house radiating massive amounts of heat.
“He must have the furnace turned up to ninety,” Mahoney said. “Can’t make out any heat differentiations in there.”
“Maybe why he’s got the heat cranked up,” Sampson said from the driver’s seat.
Ned’s phone rang. He answered, listened, and said, “ETA?” Then he listened again and hung up.
“Judge is reading our support material,” he said, pulling out an iPad and calling up the Google Earth view of the house. “If we get his signature, they’ll bring the warrant to us. I’m going to have HRT start to filter into position.”
The FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team. The best in the business. I should have been elated that HRT was coming to rescue my son, but the father in me wanted to be the one to lead the charge, knock Abrahamsen silly, and bring Ali home safe and sound.