The Abduction Read Online Free PDF

respected national war hero, a general in the United States Army.”
    “Lincoln Howe is no Dwight Eisenhower.”
    They fell silent again, until the limo passed a towering cylinder that resembled a seventy-story silo.
    “I think you should answer the question.” He stared out the window as he spoke.
    Allison shot him a look. “No.”
    “ Are you hiding something? Is that why you won’t answer?”
    She grimaced. “I stood before fifty million viewers last night and refused to answer any questions about marital fidelity—based on principle. If I check the public opinion polls twelve hours later and decide I will answer, what would that say about my principles?”
    His eyes were suddenly bulging. “It’s not just your reputation that’s at stake here, okay? I don’t make a name for myself in this business by losing elections in the homestretch. A year of my life—eighteen-hour days, seven days a week—has gone into your campaign with one goal: getting you elected. I won’t have it pissed away by some weekend romp with some nineteen-year-old campaign volunteer you won’t tell me about.”
    “Is that really what you think of me?” she asked bitterly.
    “I don’t know what to think. I just deserve to know the truth.”
    “The only person who deserves to know anything is Peter. And you know what? Peter didn’t even think to ask such a stupid question before he left the hotel this morning. But if you really must know, I’ll tell you: No, I have never cheated on Peter. Now, would you like to know what positions I prefer?”
    His cellular phone rang. He looked away and answered it. “Wilcox.”
    Allison took some deep breaths as he took the call. It surprised her that even her own strategist would question her integrity. It hadn’t occurred to her until now, but maybe Peter could have used a little reassurance, too. Maybe it wasn’t really “business” that made him check out of the Ritz earlier than expected.
    Her glance shifted back to Wilcox. He was massaging his temple as he switched off the phone. She asked, “What is it?”
    “The results of last night’s Gallup poll are in. Your six-point lead is down to one and a half. With the statistical margin of error, you and Howe are in a dead heat.” He blinked hard, then looked her in the eye. “You realize what this means, don’t you?”
    “Yeah,” she said in disbelief. “It’s 1952 all over again.”
     
    From a hotel suite fifteen stories above Atlanta, Lincoln Howe smiled down upon the scene of last night’s rout. The old Fox Theatre was built like a mosque, complete with onion domes and minarets, a grandiose monument to America’s passing fascination with “anything Egyptian” after the discovery of King Tut’s tomb in 1922. The marquee above the main entrance on Peachtree Street still proclaimed, PRESIDENTIAL DEBATES, TONIGHT 9:00 P.M . The general’s eyes lit up, wishing it were tonight, wishing he could live it all over again.
    “Ironic, isn’t it?” he said as he turned away from the window. But his campaign director wasn’t listening. As usual, Buck LaBelle was on the telephone with five lines holding.
    For years, General Howe had known the forty-four-year-old LaBelle by reputation as a cigar-chomping former Texas state legislator, a graduate of Texas A&M University, and a campaign spin doctor who could have made the Alamo sound like a resounding American victory. As chairman of the Republican National Party in the early nineties, he was a tenacious fund-raiser and a principal author of the Republican National Committee Campaign Handbook. Howe had personally recruited him to serve as his Texas state chairman in the Republican primary, seeing him as the perfect experienced complement to a candidate who’d never before run for public office. By Memorial Day, LaBelle had earned himself the top spot as national campaign director.
    Howe shot a commanding look across the room. LaBelle dutifully hung up the phone, lending the general