“Quiet!” the twerp yelled. He pointed to the TV monitor.
The morning show first up was coming back on the air. The host introduced the reporter on the story, live from Texas, standing on the front lawn, a Gracie button on his lapel, the house looming large behind him.
“DeAnn, Gracie Ann Brice is ten years old”-Grace’s soccer picture flashed on the screen-“and she is missing this Monday morning. She was abducted by a blond man wearing a black cap and a plaid shirt after her soccer game Friday night here in Post Oak, Texas, a wealthy enclave forty miles north of downtown Dallas. I am standing outside her family’s three-million-dollar mansion in this community of mansions.”
Playing on the monitor was a video of Briarwyck Farms, the media circus outside, and their home. The reporter’s voice-over continued: “The park where she was abducted now serves as a makeshift memorial to Gracie.” Now the monitor showed shots of the park and the concession building, the banner, and the flowers. “Children have brought flowers and notes of prayer for their friend. A candlelight vigil was held there last night. Hundreds of people turned out to pray for Gracie’s safe return. Her abduction has frightened the residents of this community.”
The distraught face of a neighbor: “This isn’t supposed to happen in a place like this. We’re supposed to be safe out here.”
The reporter’s voice over video of the search efforts: “Searchers have hunted for Gracie for two days without success. Other than her soccer shorts and shoe, which were found by bloodhounds Saturday, there’s been no sign of her. The Heidi Search Center has organized a massive volunteer effort to search fields and farmland on the outskirts of town.”
The monitor played video of people hugging each other and wiping tears from their faces. “We’re here because our child could be next,” one searcher said.
“At Gracie’s school”-a live shot of kids arriving at Briarwyck Farms Elementary School-“parents clutch their children closer today.”
The face of a young woman above the byline, NORA UNDERWOOD, GRACIE’S FOURTH-GRADE TEACHER: “We’re not supposed to pray in school, but we’re praying today.”
And AMY APPLEWHITE, PRINCIPAL: “We’ve brought in crisis counselors for the children to talk to, to talk out their fears.”
Back live to the reporter out front, holding up the flier with Grace’s picture: “DeAnn, friends and neighbors have distributed thousands of these missing-child fliers throughout the area and as many pink ribbons to show their support. The National Center for Missing and Exploited Children has posted Gracie’s picture on its website at www-dot-missingkids-dot-org, as has the FBI at www-dot-fbi-dot-gov. Her face will be seen around the world. This is a confirmed stranger abduction-the FBI eliminated any family involvement with polygraph exams. The parents are hoping for the best, but fearing the worst. Most children abducted by strangers are dead within a few hours. Gracie’s been missing for over sixty hours. Back to you, DeAnn.”
Elizabeth turned from the monitor and spotted Sam sitting on the sofa in the back of the room and staring stone-faced at a TV monitor. She could see the fear in his eyes. Damnit, where ’ s Hilda? Elizabeth tried to get Sam’s attention to send him out, but the twerp was again gesturing at her and pointing to the monitor. Elizabeth turned away from Sam and looked at the monitor.
Now on the screen was the concerned face of DeAnn, the host in New York, an index finger pressed to her tight lips, a slow sad shake of her well-coifed head. What empathy so early in the morning, Elizabeth thought, and right before she hosts a segment on liposuction. Now she would interview the distressed and tearful parents, who would dutifully slobber and plead for their daughter’s return on national TV, a sure ratings hit. That was the script. That was the way things were supposed to go. Well, DeAnn, hold onto your skirt, girlfriend, because today’s show is going to be a little bit different.
DeAnn, from New York: “We have with us this morning, from their home outside Dallas, Texas, Gracie’s parents, John and Elizabeth Brice.”
The twerp pointed at them; the cameras went live.
“John Brice is the founder of BriceWare-dot-com, which is going public in two days, when he will become another overnight high-tech billionaire. Elizabeth Brice is a prominent Dallas criminal defense attorney. Mr. Brice, your daughter’s kidnapping is a front-page story in the Wall Street Journal today. You were just days from your dream coming true, now your daughter’s been abducted. This must be devastating for you. How do you feel?”
Oh, shit, Elizabeth thought, bracing herself for a blast of John’s goofy geek-speak on national TV, something like, DeAnn, my freaking wetware is fried! I’m talking toast! Some brain-damaged meatbot uninstalled my daughter from my network and that is evil and rude in the extreme!
Instead, John looked into the camera and said softly, “I feel empty.”
Elizabeth stared again at her husband and saw a stranger.
DeAnn, from New York: “Why do you think the abductor left Gracie’s soccer shorts in the woods? And her shoe?”
She was pulling out all the stops to get the tears flowing. But John’s answer momentarily set her back: “I forgot to tie her laces after the game.”
“Well, yes, but this is clearly not a ransom abduction. A sexual predator took your daughter-but Gracie had none of the risk factors associated with children abducted by sexual predators. Why do you think he took your daughter?”
John shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Were there problems at home? Could she have run away?”
“No. She knows we love her.”
DeAnn appeared visibly frustrated now. “Do you think she’s still alive?”
“Yes.”
Still no tears.
“Mr. Brice, were there problems in your marriage?”
“My marriage? ”
The rage stirred and stretched and required all of Elizabeth’s strength to hold it back; if this nationally televised therapy session continued much longer, the rage would escape her grasp. She interrupted.
“DeAnn,” Elizabeth said, and the camera zoomed in on her. “We’re not here for marriage counseling. We’re here because a stranger abducted my daughter. He took her, and we want her back. And we will pay to get her back. For information leading to the safe return of my daughter, we will pay twenty-five million dollars, cash.”
Elizabeth imagined viewers across America spitting out their morning coffee; she had just seized control of her audience.
“If you’ve seen Grace, call us and you’re rich.”
A slight pause for effect, but not long enough for DeAnn to break in.
“Another offer, this one to the abductor: release my daughter, alive and well, and we will pay you the twenty-five million instead. We will deposit the funds in a Cayman Island bank account under a pin number-it’s completely anonymous. The IRS cannot trace the money, the FBI cannot trace you. You can wire the money anywhere in the world. You can get on a plane and fly to Costa Rica, Thailand, the Philippines, where you can have all the little girls you want. You’re rich and you’re free to pursue your perverted desires-what more could you want? All I want is my daughter back. My offer remains open until midnight Friday, Dallas time. Twenty-five million dollars for my daughter. It’s a good deal. You’d better take it.”
Now a slight lean forward and her best intimidate-the-witness glare into the camera: “Because if you don’t take this deal, if you don’t release my daughter by the deadline, if you can’t release my daughter because you’ve already killed her, know this and know it welclass="underline" you’re a dead man. I’m putting a bounty on your head same as the government put on Osama bin Laden’s head: commencing one minute after midnight Friday, we will pay the twenty-five million to anyone who hunts you down and kills you like the disgusting perverted animal you are. And know this: you’re not going back to prison to serve a few years then get released only to violate another little girl-that is not going to happen! You’re either going to release my daughter or you’re going to die. It’s your choice.”