ice (ais) n. 1 : frozen water, 2 : a substance resembling ice, 3 : a state of coldness, 4 : a flavored, frozen dessert.
***
The two FBI agents watched as Donovan, Cody, and Monica walked up the stairs and entered the home of the AG.
"What did you say they call him?" asked the youngest of the two who had only been working in the field for six months.
"Ice," answered the second, older agent.
"I can see that. The Ice Man," said the first, remembering Donovan's face as he glanced around the estate just before disappearing throught he front door.
"No, not Ice Man, just Ice," the other said, shaking his head. "You're supposed to draw your own conclusions as to what it's referring to."
"Why's that?"
"Because of the way he got it," answered the older agent enigmatically.
***
The Blizzard of '94 hit with a ferocity that would be talked about for years coating most of the East Coast in snow, but in Washington, DC. and the surrounding area it was ice. Lots of it. It fell continuously, draping itself on every surface, turning everything into some surrealistic frozen landscape. Everything within the capitol city came to a standstill while trucks tried to dump sand and salt onto the roadways, snow plows slid over the roads trying to keep up with the onslaught and failing miserably. Emergency calls went out for owners of 4-wheel drive vehicles to come to hospitals, police and fire stations. They were then sent on their way to pick up stranded nurses, doctors, and emergency personnel, along with police officers and fire personnel to take them to their assigned jobs. Trees shattered and fell to the ground as the ice built up on branches; power lines, heavy with icicles, broke leaving many without power; everyone was advised to stay at home.
Frank Donovan was one of those people who would have loved to have stayed at home, but that morning he had gotten a page. Somebody had chosen this day to kidnap someone. Driving as carefully as he could, he arrived at the home just in time to see a police car slide into another one that was parked in the driveway of the monolithic house. After parking his car, he gingerly walked over to the two police cars to make sure that the driver was all right. He was surprised to find an old friend fighting his way out of the driver's side past an inflated air bag.
"Phil, are you all right?" he asked grinning broadly because he knew that the only thing hurting his friend right now was his pride.
"Frank, if I'm around when we catch this guy, you're going to have to hold me back," answered Philip Longstreet, Lieutenant in the DC Metro Violent Crimes Unit. "Who the hell would pick today to kidnap someone?"
Putting an arm around Philip's shoulder and walking towards the front door of the house Donovan said, "Well I think the guy actually did the deed sometime yesterday and we're just getting the notification today. The family didn't want to contact us at first."
"What changed their mind?"
"I don't know, but I imagine we'll find out soon," answered Donovan, knocking on the front door.
***
"My mother is 67 years old, Mr. Donovan."
Donovan was seated on an antique French Provincial divan next to the daughter of the kidnapped victim. His first thought when he had been asked to sit was that he hoped he wouldn't break it.
Mrs. Valentine had both of Donovan's hands in hers as she tried to tell him of her mother's heart condition.
"Mrs. Valentine," said Donovan softly trying to get the woman's eyes to meet his, "could I please get a glass of water?"
"Oh!" Her hands flew to her face as she realized that she had neglected her hostess duties, something that was as ingrained in the rich and famous as their blue blood. "I'm sorry. Of course." She stood up and went to the doorway and gently pulled on the bell pull hanging next to it. Then she moved over to her husband's side on a matching couch directly opposite from the one she had just left and that Donovan still sat upon.
Turning his attention to Mr. Valentine, he asked, "Sir, how many people know that your mother-in-law lives alone?"
Valentine shook his head. "Not many, really. She only has the one servant and she doesn't entertain. Just us on occasion." He looked over at his wife as she took his hand and began stroking it. "She is a private person ... always was, even when she lived here with her husband. He wanted to have parties, but she was never comfortable in crowds."
"Yes," nodded Mrs. Valentine. "I remember as a child they would argue about it. Finally Father gave in as long as Mother would at least put in an appearance at the beginning of the party. If she did that, she had his permission to leave and go upstairs to her room. That seemed to make her happy. When I got old enough, I played hostess," she said with pride.
"Most of Mother's friends have passed on," added Mr. Valentine. "In fact, I don't think she's ever had anyone over to her penthouse except us since she moved in there."
Donovan's eyes left the Valentine's and scanned the room they were in. It was a room meant for the family to gather in for before dinner drinks or after dinner, to discuss the days events that didn't get mentioned while at dinner. As his eyes lit on several photographs lined up on the marble fireplace, he stood and walked over to them. His hand went to one that included both Valentines and two children. The girl appeared to be in her early twenties and was just what you would expect of the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. James Valentine, Esq., beautiful but with a look of superiority in the set of the chin, the gleam in the blue eyes, the set of a perfectly shaped and lipsticked mouth. The son, Donovan guessed, was in his late teens and was just as handsome as the daughter was beautiful, but where the daughter showed elegance and supremacy, the photographer had caught a young man who was timid, almost feeble-minded. Donovan wondered why Mr. and Mrs. Valentine displayed this photograph. It was at it's heart not very flattering to their children.
Lost in thought it was a few moments before Donovan realized that someone was standing at his side. Looking down, he saw a glass of ice water sitting on a silver serving dish being held by a demure young girl dressed in the inevitable maid's costume.
"Thank you," he said to her as he took the preferred glass of water. He smiled when he won the mental bet he made with himself when the young girl curtsied before turning to leave the room.
"Your son and daughter ... do they know what's happened?" he asked, turning back towards where the Valentines sat perched on the divan.
"Oh no," she said. "We couldn't tell them. It would break their hearts to know that something like this had happened to their Grandmama."
Nodding in acceptance, he walked back to them and sat down again.
"Mr. Valentine, are you prepared to pay the ransom?"
Donovan was sure that Valentine wanted ... would say no it it were not for his wife.
"Yes," Valentine mumbled. "I'll pay anything to get my mother-in-law back safely."
"Good. It might come to that," said Donovan, watching the other man's face closely.
"But you will try to find her first ... get her back from them before we have to resort to that?" asked Valentine.
"Them?"
"Well you know, whoever has her? It could be more than one, couldn't it?"
"Of course," said Donovan. His mind's eye narrowed as he watched Valentine's face and unbeknownst to him, a small flame of suspicion ignited.
Another agent walked into the room and stood in the doorway. "Frank, we're set up."
Donovan looked up and nodded. "Thank you. I'll be there in a moment." Looking back at the Valentines he added, "We have all of our equipment set up in the kitchen. When the kidnapper calls back, we'll be able to trace the it. I think Mr. Valentine, you should be the one to talk to the him. Mrs. Valentine will you do me a favor? Will you make up a list of people who might have a grudge against you or your family ... an old servant whom you had to dismiss, something along those lines."
Both Valentines nodded with Mrs. Valentine immediately rising from the divan. "I'll go into the den and get some paper and a pen. I don't know how many people I can come up with, Mr. Donovan. We don't make enemies."
Donovan rose as well. "It doesn't necessarily have to be someone you consider an enemy, Mrs. Valentine. A simple slight by you or anyone in your family is sometimes enough to cause this type of behavior."
"I see. Well if you say so. This is all so barbaric. These things aren't supposed to happen in a civilized household."
"Unfortunately Mrs. Valentine, these things happen quite frequently in civilized households," said Donovan.
***
Donovan was seated at a table in the kitchen where the HRT had set up their equipment. He sat staring at the cold cup of coffee that was on the table. Something about all of this was bothering him. Something was not quite right and he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Something that was said by one of the two adult Valentines, or something in their attitude or maybe it was just the whole atmosphere of the house. His mind went back to the maid who had brought him the glass of water.
Ice. This house was ice-cold. Not in terms of temperature, but emotionally. Mrs. Valentine showed little emotion concerning her mother. Mr. Valentine showed no emotion at all except concern that they might have to pay the ransom. Above all, he wanted to know where the two kids were and what they were up to. It was time to do a little research.
***
What was now Valentine money was old money. Its origins went back to the halcyon days of gold mining in California during the 1800s.
Jasper Hardesty was one of the first to arrive in California when word spread that gold had been found at Sutter's Mill in 1848. Setting up a small claim on the banks of the Sacramento, he pulled in enough gold to make himself a very wealthy man. Taking that wealth to Washington, D.C., he used it to broker land deals, making himself even wealthier as time went on. Subsequent generations of Hardesty men wisely invested and no Hardesty ever wanted for anything.
Today, however, there were no Hardesty men left. The last generation belonged to a woman ... Mrs. Rose Hardesty, who had married the last Hardesty man, William Hardesty ... and now she had been kidnapped. Her fate lay not only in the hands of whoever had kidnapped her, but in Donovan, her daughter, and her daughter's husband.
James Valentine had little money of his own when he met and married Rebecca Hardesty. What he did have were exceptional good looks and a family name and heritage of the kind found only in the Who's Who of America's Rich and Famous. He was a perfect match for the young ingenue ... not too many working brain cells to get himself into trouble, but manners that Emily Post would have been proud of.
Donovan read through the file on the Hardestys/Valentines with interest. His mind was creating scenarios that he wasn't real fond of, but which he had seen happen before and probably would again. It was the nature of some to be greedy and not willing to wait for nature to take its course. In this case, all the money was still under Rebecca Hardesty's control. The Valentines had little money of their own. Bank records indicated that all four Valentines received an allowance every month for personal items. The upkeep of the house, taxes, etc. were paid by the Rebecca Hardesty's attorneys. Donovan decided that while waiting for the next phone call from the kidnappers and for agents to locate the whereabouts of the Valentine children, it was time to talk to Rebecca Hardesty's lawyer.
***
The outer office of Manheim, Webster, and Walker was just what Donovan expected of a law firm that had been handling billions of inherited wealth for over a century. Dark, oak paneling lined the walls of a room sparsely furnished with brass-studded leather chairs. The one large, oak desk would have dominated the room except for the person seated behind it.
Mrs. Pullman had been the receptionist for Manheim, Webster, and Walker for close to 35 years. She was a large woman with iron gray hair and eyes to match. She had always been able to intimidate even the most pugnacious of men who had stepped through the door to be confronted by her. However, in Frank Donovan, she met her match.
"Mrs. Pullman. I do not have time to stand here and argue with you," he said placing the knuckles of both hands on the edge of her desk and leaning down to stare into her eyes. "If you do not get me in to see whichever one of these gentlemen that handle the Hardesty affairs, I'll either have you arrested for interfering with an FBI investigation or I'll just shoot you ... whichever one would get the fastest results. You chose," said Donovan reaching for the pistol he kept in a break-a-way holster under his jacket.
Apparently deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, Mrs. Pullman pushed a button on her phone and picked up the receiver. "Mr. Walker, there is a Frank Donovan from the FBI here to see you concerning the Hardestys ... No sir, I don't know what he wants exactly, he won't tell me ... Yes sir, I'll send him right in."
As Donovan walked down the hallway in the direction that Mrs. Pullman had indicated, he grinned. He lost it, though, as soon as he heard "Come in," as soon as he knocked on Walker's door.
He immediately sized up the man seated behind the captain's desk that took up one corner of the giant office and knew that threats would not work on him. The man who now stood with one hand outstretched toward Donovan was extremely tall and slender. Donovan guessed his age at about 65, but a very healthy 65 who dieted and exercised if the grip of the handshake was any indication.
"Mr. Donovan," said Walker pointing to a chair in front of his desk before sitting himself. "I understand that you want to discuss Mrs. Hardesty and her family."
"Yes, sir. Before we begin, would you like to see my ID?" asked Donovan.
"If you think it's necessary," answered Walker.
Donovan extracted his ID case from an inside jacket pocket and passed it across the desk to Walker. "I believe it will expedite our discussion," he said. He waited for Walker to look at it and then pass it back. Donovan put it away. "Mr. Walker the news I'm about to give isn't the type of news I like to deliver or that most people wish to hear." Donovan paused, waiting for a response from Walker. He was not surprised to see that the man remained nonplussed. "Mrs. Hardesty was kidnapped yesterday afternoon. I was called into negotiate her release this morning."
Walker leaned back in his chair, placing his elbows on the arms while letting his fingertips touch. "Why the delay in bringing you in?"
Donovan wondered if anything could shock this man. It seemed to be the norm from the minute he had first met with the Valentines. Ice. Everyone's reactions were ice cold.
"The kidnapper gave the Valentines the usual about not contacting the authorities and that was what they had planned on doing. When the kidnappers didn't call back this morning as they had said they would, Mrs. Valentine insisted we be called in."
"I see. And now that you have been called in?"
Donovan leaned forward in his chair. "I have a bad feeling about this and I need your help to figure it out."
Walker lifted one hand away from the other, palm up, "Go on."
"First off, what can you tell me about Mrs. Hardesty?"
"Rose Hardesty is one of the finest women I've ever had the pleasure of meeting. If you look around this office, Mr. Donovan, you'll see old school ... lots of oak and leather, coffee and tea served in fine porcelain with finger-trap handles, oil paintings of people no one knows or cares to know. You'll see old men who are particularly snobbish when it comes to the clients they'll take on. Mr. Donovan, this firm has not had a new client in over twenty years because Manheim, Webster, and Walker only handle old money," explained Walker.
"I joined the firm as a law clerk in 1958. The only reason I was allowed in was because my father was friends with Eisenhower and so were the Manheims. No one actually believed that I would ever make partner. I don't have the blood, you see," he said, leaning back in his chair making the leather creak. "My father was a schoolteacher who went to high school with Eisenhower. Anyway, to make an incredibly long story shorter, after I passed the bar I was assigned to assist with the Hardesty account. When I did make partner, Mrs. Hardesty demanded that I be placed in charge of her affairs, much to the chagrin of the other two partners."
Walker got up and walked over to a window to look out of it, turning his back on Donovan. "You see, Mr. Donovan, Mrs. Hardesty didn't care that my background wasn"t equal to hers. She said she just liked my straightforwardness. She liked how I didn't let the blue bloods around here push me around." Walker turned back to face Donovan. "If it wasn't for Mrs. Hardesty, I would be a partner, but I would be a partner with no power."
Walker stared Donovan straight in the eye. "So, Mr. Donovan, which one of her family do you think did this?"
***
"Any word yet from the kidnappers?" Donovan asked the Special Agent in Charge from his cell phone while driving back to the Valentine home.
"No. Not a peep," answered Foster. "Where are you?"
"I'm in my car. I just finished a very interesting interview with Mrs. Hardesty's attorney."
"What?"
"Foster, I don't think we have a run-of-the-mill kidnapping here. I just hope we're not too late if my suspicions are correct."
"What suspicions?" asked Foster.
"I'll let you know when I get there which should be in about fifteen minutes," answered Donovan. "Have you found the two kids yet?"
"Yeah. They're both out at the house they keep in the country. Winter break from school."
"They're being watched, aren't they?"
"Watched? Why?"
"Trust me on this. If they aren't being watched, put someone on it right now," instructed Donovan.
"Donovan ..."
"Foster, do it. Now."
Donovan disconnected, knowing he'd possibly made an enemy, but also knowing that if he was right, it could mean the difference between life and death for Mrs. Hardesty. He put on speed as negotiated the streets back to the Valentine house. He thought of it as a house, not a home. In his mind, it was as far away from a home as snow is from the desert.
He drew a mental picture of Mrs. Hardesty from Walker's description of her. However, not a physical picture, he had seen one photograph of her on the Valentine mantlepiece. This was a picture of her soul.
She was a shy woman, had never made many friends, but those she had made would defend her to the end. She never allowed herself to be put on a pedestal because of her wealth or status. She often told Walker that she felt she'd been born in the wrong family because money and status didn't mean a thing to her. Her maid was more of a friend, a companion rather than a servant. Donovan found himself liking this woman and he prayed he wasn't too late.
***
"Mrs. Hardesty controls every bit of money in this household," explained Donovan to Foster. "Valentine doesn't work, unless you call spending time in the stores updating his wardrobe and then lounging around his club work. Same with Mrs. Valentine. She entertains every weekend, which means a new dress and accessories to go with it, including jewelry. The two children, Victoria and James Jr., are supposed to be attending university. It's actually a condition in Mrs. Hardesty's will that they be either attending school or have graduated from a university during the time they inherit anything. Both only seem to make token appearances at any of their classes."
Donovan had insisted that they talk outside. He wasn't ready to confront the Valentines until he had explained everything to Foster and they had both come to a meeting of the minds.
"But they still have to graduate in order to inherit, right?" asked Foster, shoving his hands in his armpits which even heavy, leather gloves weren't protecting entirely from the cold.
"No. The wording in the will isn't that specific. Originally Mrs. Hardesty hoped that they would see the merits of a higher education. However they seem to have inherited their parents' lack of ambition. Two days ago Mrs. Hardesty asked Mr. Walker to rewrite the will, making it a condition that the children obtain at least a bachelor's degree before they could inherit. She also asked that instead of outright giving the adult Valentines control of the Hardesty assets, that they be put in trust instead to be doled out in increments by Walker," explained Donovan.
"So Walker would be in charge of the money?"
Donovan shook his head. "I know what you're thinking. Walker has the highest regard for Mrs. Hardesty. Besides, if she dies before Walker can make the changes and she signs the new will, Walker loses control."
"This is why you wanted the kids watched. You think they have her?"
Nodding he said, "Yes, I do. Think about it, Foster. I know you've worked kidnappings before. Have you ever met a family who was so ice cold about the victim and the crime? Where the only emotion that is shown is when money is mentioned or when kidnapping is thought of as barbaric only because it shouldn't be happening to people like them? I think the whole damn family is in on it. They don't want her to sign that new will."
"But the ransom?"
"Foster, even if it's paid, who is going to get it? Them. They won't be out a dime."
Foster shook his head. "I don't know Frank. It tracks, but what if you're wrong? What if it isn't them?"
"I'm not wrong."
Sighing deeply, Foster said, "All right, Frank. It's your call. But it's going to be your head if you're wrong. What do you want me to do?"
***
Thirty minutes later Donovan and Foster were back in the room where Donovan had met the Valentines when he first arrived. Donovan was standing at the fireplace waiting for Mr. and Mrs. Valentine to make an appearance. Foster was sitting on one of the divans. The Valentines had been asked to join the two men fifteen minutes ago. On the outside Donovan appeared cool and calm, as if it didn't matter that he was being kept waiting. However on the inside, a fire was starting to burn ... one of conviction that he was right. Why else would the Valentines take their time in joining them? However what drove him the most was fear for Mrs. Hardesty as the minutes ticked by. Once again he prayed that she was all right.
Foster stood signaling to Donovan when the Valentines entered the room. Both had changed their clothing from what they were wearing that morning ... daywear rather than morning wear. Donovan waited until they were seated before he began.
"We know who has your mother, Mrs. Valentine," he stated pointedly staring at her to see her reaction.
She startled for just a second, her eyes moving quickly to her husband and then back to Donovan. "Oh thank goodness," she said. "My list, it's a name from my list isn't it?"
Donovan continued to stare without answering right away. He watched as both Valentines moved a fraction of an inch closer to each other on the couch. James Valentine's eyes leapt quickly to the photograph of his son and daughter before settling somewhere just underneath Donovan's chin.
Finally Donovan said, "No, Mrs. Valentine. It wasn't someone on your list." Leaving the fireplace he walked behind the divan that Foster was sitting on. He stopped and stared at the Valentines. "No, Mrs. Valentine. There are four kidnappers ... two female and two male. They're amateurs and they probably planned this rather hastily and didn't think everything through before taking Mrs. Hardesty. At least that's what we're hoping."
James Valentine shook off his wife's hand on his arm and stood. His face took on the look of innocence that one sees on a child's face who has just been caught using all of Mom's perfume and make-up in a chemistry experiment. "What do you mean, Mr. Donovan?"
Donovan raised eyes filled with ice to meet James Valentines. "It's simple really, Mr. Valentine. A hasty plan to kidnap someone will always have problems. Most kidnappers believe that they'll be paid, but they will kill if necessary to hide their tracks. An amateur will probably have difficulty killing ... especially for someone of breeding, someone who has never had to get their hands dirty doing menial work. It isn't the easiest thing to have to do."
"Breeding?" whispered Mrs. Valentine.
Transferring his eyes to Mrs. Valentine, he tilted his head to the left and raised one eyebrow. "Yes, Mrs. Valentine. Breeding. The four people who kidnapped your mother are listed in the social registry. They spend their days spending money, their weekends entertaining. They join health clubs not to exercise, but to show off their attire or their tans. They train their maids to curtsey, their valets to bow. They ..."
"You mean it's one of our friends?" exclaimed Mrs. Valentine.
"You didn't let me finish, Mrs. Valentine. I was always told that was something that was considered rude even by my plebian standards."
Donovan left his position behind the divan and walked to stand directly in front of Mrs. Valentine who was still seated. Mr. Valentine had walked to the fireplace. He stared at the top of her head when she wouldn't give him her eyes.
"As I was saying ... they think they don't sweat, they perspire. But you're sweating now, aren't you Mrs. Valentine? Just like your husband."
"I told you it wouldn't work," James Valentine muttered under his breath. "I told her it wouldn't work, but she wouldn't listen to me."
The ice cold voice of Rebecca Hardesty-Valentine cut through the room. "Shut up, James."
***
Ice covered everything. It hung like knives from tree branches strong enough to withstand the weight. It coated the ground making it impossible to walk no matter how sure footed a person was. It blazed light just before going dark when the sun set. It matched the mood of Frank Donovan.
Hell had to have frozen over, it was so cold out here thought Donovan as he made his way carefully towards the Valentine country home. Foster was at his side cursing under his breath as he slipped and would have fallen if Donovan hadn't grabbed his arm.
"Tell me again why we're walking up here," said Foster.
"I want to surprise them," answered Donovan. "They won't be expecting visitors, so when we knock on the door they'll be spooked and probably won't have time to do anything except answer it."
"Anything like kill their grandmother, you mean."
"Yes."
"That's assuming that she's still alive."
Foster slipped again and again, Donovan caught him before he fell to the ground. "Dammit, how come you never slip, Frank?"
A voice belonging to one of the HRT team they had brought with them muttered, "Having something in common with the stuff helps."
Foster glanced quickly at Donovan who acted like he hadn't heard. "Yeah, I can see that."
***
Light shone from a downstairs room, illuminating the icicles hanging from the eaves. Movement could be seen within as Victoria crossed in front of the window.
Donovan knocked on the door while Foster stamped his feet and blew misty breath into his hands to try to warm them. Two other agents stood with them while the rest had stayed in the tree line. They heard through their ear pieces, "The boy just looked out the window, then closed the curtains."
Donovan was getting ready to knock again when the door was opened by Victoria Valentine. The girl looked nonplussed by the intrusion. "Yes," she said.
Donovan looked her over ... this one was cool, exactly like the Mother. "Miss Valentine. My name is Frank Donovan and this is Special Agent Peter Foster. We're with the FBI." He showed her his identification. "Where is your brother?"
"My brother? What do you want with him?" she asked guilelessly.
"Miss Valentine, it's cold out here and I'm sure you're cold standing there in the doorway. Why don't we go inside where it's warm," suggested Foster.
"Mr. Foster ... that was you name, right?" she asked.
Foster nodded.
"Well I'm sorry but I have no idea why you need to speak with my brother, but you are right. It is cold so unless you have a warrant of some kind I'm shutting the door ... with you on the outside."
She was stopped from closing the door all the way by Donovan who shoved it back open and shouldered his way into the house. He waved a piece of paper he had taken from his coat pocket in her face as he passed her. "We do have a warrant, Miss Valentine. Now where is your brother?"
"I'm right here."
The voice came from the top of the stairs and Donovan looked up to see the young man he had seen in the photo on the Valentine mantlepiece.
"I was just on my way to get a jacket," he added as he walked down the stairs.
"Good," said Foster. "Now that we're all here why don't you save us the trouble of having to search this place. Where is your grandmother?"
"Our grandmother," both said in unison. "Why would our grandmother be here?" continued Victoria.
The entryway that had just started to warm up again, suddenly turned cold as Donovan's eyes turned to ice to stare directly into the eyes of Victoria Valentine. She shuddered as she looked into their cold, dark depths.
"Miss Valentine we're not in the mood for any games. We know you, along with your parents, kidnapped your grandmother to keep her from changing her will. We know you have her here. Your parents are sitting in a jail cell right now wishing they'd been satisfied with receiving an allowance for the rest of their lives instead of being greedy and wanting it all ... now. You will tell me where your grandmother is or I'll throw you outside without any clothes on until that pampered body of yours is a solid block of ice and then I'll do the same thing to your brother. Am I making myself clear Miss Valentine?" He turned and aimed his glare at the boy. "Mr. Valentine?"
For a moment the girl shrank into herself, but then she squared her shoulders and tried to match the intensity of Donovan's stare. "We have no idea what you're talking about. If our parents kidnapped our grandmother, they did it on their own without us. Knowing them, I wouldn't put it past them. Grandmama isn't here."
"Tear this place apart," ordered Foster. "And get these two out of here before I decide to let Frank do what he threatened."
***
Foster watched as agents scoured the house from top to bottom. Not one thing in the house was untouched by at least two different agents. Donovan was pacing from the living room through the entryway to the kitchen and then back again. Finally Foster stopped him as he made his 15th trip. "I know that look, Frank. What are you thinking?"
Donovan closed his eyes and sighed. "Peter, those two ... they wouldn't hold out like that if they thought we had a chance in hell of finding Mrs. Hardesty. Their willing to turn on their parents and hope that a jury will believe them if her body isn't found here."
"So you think that she's somewhere else?" asked Foster.
Donovan shook his head. "No, I think she's here. I just think we're looking in the wrong place. She's outside somewhere."
"Frank, we've checked all the out buildings. She's not there. And if they just tied her up and left her out in the woods somewhere, she's dead and we're not going to find her until the spring thaw."
Donovan shook his head again. "No, Peter. She's outside, but they didn't just leave her outside where someone could find her. She's somewhere no one will ever find her by tripping over her. She's buried."
"That's impossible. How the hell are you going to bury someone out here ... the ground's as hard as a rock and it's covered with four inches of ice," argued Foster.
"Not outside. Inside."
"Inside? Inside where? Here? The cellar?"
Donovan grabbed his coat then grabbed Foster's and threw it at him. "C'mon," he ordered, leading the way outside and towards the rear of the house.
"Frank!"
"The house is new. Valentine had it rebuilt after a fire in '89, but the rest of these buildings out here are over a 100 years old," explained Donovan moving at as fast a trot as he could over the ice covered ground. "My mother's brother had a farm. I stayed there one summer when I was a kid. They had a root cellar in the house, but they also had a larger one in the barn where they'd store their meat during the winter. I remember those meat hooks hanging from the ceiling. They'd hold whole cows."
"Damn," said Foster, trying to keep up with Donovan without falling and breaking something. Keying his communication device, he said, "I want all agents in the barn ASAP."
***
"Frank if there's anything here, it's well hidden."
Donovan had a shovel and was making his way across the floor of the barn pounding it on the ground and listening for any sound that might indicate a hollow underneath. "We'll find it. We have to find it," he said. He suddenly stopped and looked up at Foster, then pounded on the ground again. "HERE!" he shouted. "It's hollow ... start looking for a way in."
Foster found the trap door hidden underneath an couple of inches of frozen dirt. Four agents hammered away it until the door was free to open. Donovan was the first to enter. As his foot left the last rung of the ladder, Donovan turned on his flashlight and started swinging it in an arc around the underground chamber.
At first he spotted nothing that would indicate that Mrs. Hardesty was being kept here, but then he spotted a small bundle of what looked like rags tossed under a bench set in one of the corners of the cellar. He closed his eyes, fearful that they were too late, that she had succumbed to the freezing cold air that permeated this place.
Opening them again, he stepped forward ... slowly at first but then moving rapidly to the corner where he tossed the bench into the center of the room. He saw a white face in the beam of his flashlight ... a face almost completely covered by a blanket. He held his breath as he knelt and gently moved enough of the blanket aside so that he could check for a pulse on Mrs. Hardesty's neck.
"Frank?" queried Foster quietly.
"She's got a pulse." Donovan picked Mrs. Hardesty up in his arms carrying her to the ladder that led to the barn and freedom for this woman who had been so mistreated by her only family. "Get an ambulance in here. NOW!" he barked into his comm. "I want a fire in the fireplace in the living room of that house and I want every blanket you can find. Fill every plastic bag you can with warm water." He paused for a second before climbing the ladder with Mrs. Hardesty unceremoniously draped over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. "Peter ... this woman is not going to die. Not today ... not from this."
***
Several weeks later the ice that had crippled the DC area was almost gone. It left in its place downed power lines and trees, and gutters ripped from homes because they couldn't take the weight.
Donovan was sitting in the small living room in Mrs. Hardesty apartment having been left there by the maid/companion. He looked around. The first thing he noticed were obvious bare spots where photographs once stood ... photographs of what were once family, but were now criminals. He closed his eyes and hung his head when a sudden wave of sadness overcame him as he imagined what this woman must have endured at the hands of the people who should have loved her, should have cared for her and kept her safe. He suddenly felt the loss that she must have felt ... must be feeling now ... the betrayal of family ... how does one survive that?
He heard the sound of feet entering the room and he shook off the feeling, opened his eyes, and stood to face the doorway and meet the woman who was once trapped inside a world covered in ice but was now free to live above ground once again.
As he watched her walk across the room towards him, he thought that the Valentines had been wrong when they believed she would quickly die from exposure due to her age and outward look of frailty. She had surprised everyone at the hospital, including himself, when she had demanded to be allowed to go home after spending only one night there.
While she argued with the doctors, her attorney, Mr. Walker, had arrived and taken matters in hand. He insisted that she would recover more quickly at home with the best individualized care that Hardesty money could buy. Still not entirely convinced, but realizing that there wasn't anything they could do, they watched as Walker took Mrs. Hardesty out of the hospital in a wheelchair.
"Mrs. Hardesty," said Donovan, taking her hand in his own, "you and Mr. Walker were right."
"Please, sit down Mr. Donovan," responded Mrs. Hardesty. When they both had sat down she asked, "Right about what?"
Donovan smiled gently. "You're recovery."
"Oh that," she said, making a dismissive wave with her hand. "I can't stand hospitals. People are always fawning over you, fluffing pillows that don't need to be fluffed, asking all sorts of inane questions about how you're feeling, waking you from a sound sleep to make sure your resting comfortably. Besides, when you're treated as an invalid sooner or later, you become one. I'm not, I wasn't, and I never will be an invalid."
Donovan smiled broadly now. "I believe that." Donovan's expression turned serious. "Mrs. Hardesty, I am sorry that things turned out the way they did."
"You mean it being my loving family that plotted my death instead of a complete stranger," she said.
He nodded.
"Mr. Donovan, do you believe in fate?" she asked.
"In what way?" he asked, wondering where this was leading.
"Believe it or not, Mr. Donovan, this was all meant to be," she explained. "My daughter plotting my death in order to have the Hardesty money all to themselves and your being called in to be the negotiator."
Donovan shook his head in disagreement. "Mrs. Hardesty, I'm one of many hostage negotiators the FBI has. It was ..."
"Fate," she interrupted. "Mr. Donovan, how many of those other negotiators would have made the intuitive leap you did to figure out that it was my family that had kidnapped me?"
"Honestly, Mrs. Hardesty," began Donovan, "I don't know. However, I think they would have figured it out sooner or later. Your family were sending out signals. I just managed to interpret them quickly."
This time Mrs. Hardesty shook her head in disagreement. "No, Mr. Donovan. I don't believe that anyone else would have done what you did, as fast as you did." She paused for a moment staring into Donovan's eyes as though searching for something. Apparently finding it, she continued, "I understand that you've been given a nickname now."
Donovan nodded, more confused than he was before at the turns their conversation had taken.
"They're calling you 'Ice', aren't they?" she asked.
"Yes," he answered, a small show of distaste at being given a nickname tinged his voice.
"Do you know why?"
Shrugging, he answered, "I suppose it's because all this happened during an ice storm."
Mrs. Hardesty shook her head. "No, Mr. Donovan. Although that might be one of the reasons, it isn't the real one. The other agent that was with you, Mr. Foster, came to visit me yesterday. Did you know that?"
Another turn. A hint of pity at what he was beginning to believe was the feeble-mindedness brought on by age entered his mind as he shook his head, "No, Mrs. Hardesty. I didn't know that."
She smiled at him and as her eyes met his, all his previous doubts about her mental state vanished. He suddenly knew that she was leading up to something, but in a round-about way.
"Mr. Foster explained everything to me. He told me why you were called in to do the negotiating. You have the best record of anyone at the FBI and because this was considered a high profile case, they wanted their best working the job. He also outlined everything you did from start to finish, but he has absolutely no idea how you came to the conclusions you did. He doesn't have the instincts you have. Instincts, Mr. Donovan, that are left free to develop because of the reason some of your fellow agents have nicknamed you 'Ice'."
"I still don't see, Mrs. Hardesty," said Donovan, his face mirroring the confusion in his mind.
"Mr. Donovan, you wear a veneer of ice that keeps you from becoming too involved with the victims and their families. Mr. Foster just thinks you're cold. That you have no feelings. However, he's wrong. You do have feelings ... deep feelings, but you can't let them take control because if you do, you'll become blinded by them. You wouldn't look towards the unthinkable ... that a family would do what my family did," she explained. "Ice, Mr. Donovan, is what made you the best hostage negotiator for the FBI. It's what allowed you to find me during one of the worst ice storms in DC history. That ice, Mr. Donovan, is what gives you your edge and because of that, it was fate you would be assigned to the one case where you were needed the most."
***
As Donovan walked to his car, he contemplated what Mrs. Hardesty had told him. He shook his head and allowed a small smile to cross his handsome features. "Maybe being called 'Ice' isn't such a bad thing after all," he said to himself.
***
The End
***
The two FBI agents watched as Donovan, Cody, and Monica walked up the stairs and entered the home of the AG.
"What did you say they call him?" asked the youngest of the two who had only been working in the field for six months.
"Ice," answered the second, older agent.
"I can see that. The Ice Man," said the first, remembering Donovan's face as he glanced around the estate just before disappearing throught he front door.
"No, not Ice Man, just Ice," the other said, shaking his head. "You're supposed to draw your own conclusions as to what it's referring to."
"Why's that?"
"Because of the way he got it," answered the older agent enigmatically.
***
The Blizzard of '94 hit with a ferocity that would be talked about for years coating most of the East Coast in snow, but in Washington, DC. and the surrounding area it was ice. Lots of it. It fell continuously, draping itself on every surface, turning everything into some surrealistic frozen landscape. Everything within the capitol city came to a standstill while trucks tried to dump sand and salt onto the roadways, snow plows slid over the roads trying to keep up with the onslaught and failing miserably. Emergency calls went out for owners of 4-wheel drive vehicles to come to hospitals, police and fire stations. They were then sent on their way to pick up stranded nurses, doctors, and emergency personnel, along with police officers and fire personnel to take them to their assigned jobs. Trees shattered and fell to the ground as the ice built up on branches; power lines, heavy with icicles, broke leaving many without power; everyone was advised to stay at home.
Frank Donovan was one of those people who would have loved to have stayed at home, but that morning he had gotten a page. Somebody had chosen this day to kidnap someone. Driving as carefully as he could, he arrived at the home just in time to see a police car slide into another one that was parked in the driveway of the monolithic house. After parking his car, he gingerly walked over to the two police cars to make sure that the driver was all right. He was surprised to find an old friend fighting his way out of the driver's side past an inflated air bag.
"Phil, are you all right?" he asked grinning broadly because he knew that the only thing hurting his friend right now was his pride.
"Frank, if I'm around when we catch this guy, you're going to have to hold me back," answered Philip Longstreet, Lieutenant in the DC Metro Violent Crimes Unit. "Who the hell would pick today to kidnap someone?"
Putting an arm around Philip's shoulder and walking towards the front door of the house Donovan said, "Well I think the guy actually did the deed sometime yesterday and we're just getting the notification today. The family didn't want to contact us at first."
"What changed their mind?"
"I don't know, but I imagine we'll find out soon," answered Donovan, knocking on the front door.
***
"My mother is 67 years old, Mr. Donovan."
Donovan was seated on an antique French Provincial divan next to the daughter of the kidnapped victim. His first thought when he had been asked to sit was that he hoped he wouldn't break it.
Mrs. Valentine had both of Donovan's hands in hers as she tried to tell him of her mother's heart condition.
"Mrs. Valentine," said Donovan softly trying to get the woman's eyes to meet his, "could I please get a glass of water?"
"Oh!" Her hands flew to her face as she realized that she had neglected her hostess duties, something that was as ingrained in the rich and famous as their blue blood. "I'm sorry. Of course." She stood up and went to the doorway and gently pulled on the bell pull hanging next to it. Then she moved over to her husband's side on a matching couch directly opposite from the one she had just left and that Donovan still sat upon.
Turning his attention to Mr. Valentine, he asked, "Sir, how many people know that your mother-in-law lives alone?"
Valentine shook his head. "Not many, really. She only has the one servant and she doesn't entertain. Just us on occasion." He looked over at his wife as she took his hand and began stroking it. "She is a private person ... always was, even when she lived here with her husband. He wanted to have parties, but she was never comfortable in crowds."
"Yes," nodded Mrs. Valentine. "I remember as a child they would argue about it. Finally Father gave in as long as Mother would at least put in an appearance at the beginning of the party. If she did that, she had his permission to leave and go upstairs to her room. That seemed to make her happy. When I got old enough, I played hostess," she said with pride.
"Most of Mother's friends have passed on," added Mr. Valentine. "In fact, I don't think she's ever had anyone over to her penthouse except us since she moved in there."
Donovan's eyes left the Valentine's and scanned the room they were in. It was a room meant for the family to gather in for before dinner drinks or after dinner, to discuss the days events that didn't get mentioned while at dinner. As his eyes lit on several photographs lined up on the marble fireplace, he stood and walked over to them. His hand went to one that included both Valentines and two children. The girl appeared to be in her early twenties and was just what you would expect of the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. James Valentine, Esq., beautiful but with a look of superiority in the set of the chin, the gleam in the blue eyes, the set of a perfectly shaped and lipsticked mouth. The son, Donovan guessed, was in his late teens and was just as handsome as the daughter was beautiful, but where the daughter showed elegance and supremacy, the photographer had caught a young man who was timid, almost feeble-minded. Donovan wondered why Mr. and Mrs. Valentine displayed this photograph. It was at it's heart not very flattering to their children.
Lost in thought it was a few moments before Donovan realized that someone was standing at his side. Looking down, he saw a glass of ice water sitting on a silver serving dish being held by a demure young girl dressed in the inevitable maid's costume.
"Thank you," he said to her as he took the preferred glass of water. He smiled when he won the mental bet he made with himself when the young girl curtsied before turning to leave the room.
"Your son and daughter ... do they know what's happened?" he asked, turning back towards where the Valentines sat perched on the divan.
"Oh no," she said. "We couldn't tell them. It would break their hearts to know that something like this had happened to their Grandmama."
Nodding in acceptance, he walked back to them and sat down again.
"Mr. Valentine, are you prepared to pay the ransom?"
Donovan was sure that Valentine wanted ... would say no it it were not for his wife.
"Yes," Valentine mumbled. "I'll pay anything to get my mother-in-law back safely."
"Good. It might come to that," said Donovan, watching the other man's face closely.
"But you will try to find her first ... get her back from them before we have to resort to that?" asked Valentine.
"Them?"
"Well you know, whoever has her? It could be more than one, couldn't it?"
"Of course," said Donovan. His mind's eye narrowed as he watched Valentine's face and unbeknownst to him, a small flame of suspicion ignited.
Another agent walked into the room and stood in the doorway. "Frank, we're set up."
Donovan looked up and nodded. "Thank you. I'll be there in a moment." Looking back at the Valentines he added, "We have all of our equipment set up in the kitchen. When the kidnapper calls back, we'll be able to trace the it. I think Mr. Valentine, you should be the one to talk to the him. Mrs. Valentine will you do me a favor? Will you make up a list of people who might have a grudge against you or your family ... an old servant whom you had to dismiss, something along those lines."
Both Valentines nodded with Mrs. Valentine immediately rising from the divan. "I'll go into the den and get some paper and a pen. I don't know how many people I can come up with, Mr. Donovan. We don't make enemies."
Donovan rose as well. "It doesn't necessarily have to be someone you consider an enemy, Mrs. Valentine. A simple slight by you or anyone in your family is sometimes enough to cause this type of behavior."
"I see. Well if you say so. This is all so barbaric. These things aren't supposed to happen in a civilized household."
"Unfortunately Mrs. Valentine, these things happen quite frequently in civilized households," said Donovan.
***
Donovan was seated at a table in the kitchen where the HRT had set up their equipment. He sat staring at the cold cup of coffee that was on the table. Something about all of this was bothering him. Something was not quite right and he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Something that was said by one of the two adult Valentines, or something in their attitude or maybe it was just the whole atmosphere of the house. His mind went back to the maid who had brought him the glass of water.
Ice. This house was ice-cold. Not in terms of temperature, but emotionally. Mrs. Valentine showed little emotion concerning her mother. Mr. Valentine showed no emotion at all except concern that they might have to pay the ransom. Above all, he wanted to know where the two kids were and what they were up to. It was time to do a little research.
***
What was now Valentine money was old money. Its origins went back to the halcyon days of gold mining in California during the 1800s.
Jasper Hardesty was one of the first to arrive in California when word spread that gold had been found at Sutter's Mill in 1848. Setting up a small claim on the banks of the Sacramento, he pulled in enough gold to make himself a very wealthy man. Taking that wealth to Washington, D.C., he used it to broker land deals, making himself even wealthier as time went on. Subsequent generations of Hardesty men wisely invested and no Hardesty ever wanted for anything.
Today, however, there were no Hardesty men left. The last generation belonged to a woman ... Mrs. Rose Hardesty, who had married the last Hardesty man, William Hardesty ... and now she had been kidnapped. Her fate lay not only in the hands of whoever had kidnapped her, but in Donovan, her daughter, and her daughter's husband.
James Valentine had little money of his own when he met and married Rebecca Hardesty. What he did have were exceptional good looks and a family name and heritage of the kind found only in the Who's Who of America's Rich and Famous. He was a perfect match for the young ingenue ... not too many working brain cells to get himself into trouble, but manners that Emily Post would have been proud of.
Donovan read through the file on the Hardestys/Valentines with interest. His mind was creating scenarios that he wasn't real fond of, but which he had seen happen before and probably would again. It was the nature of some to be greedy and not willing to wait for nature to take its course. In this case, all the money was still under Rebecca Hardesty's control. The Valentines had little money of their own. Bank records indicated that all four Valentines received an allowance every month for personal items. The upkeep of the house, taxes, etc. were paid by the Rebecca Hardesty's attorneys. Donovan decided that while waiting for the next phone call from the kidnappers and for agents to locate the whereabouts of the Valentine children, it was time to talk to Rebecca Hardesty's lawyer.
***
The outer office of Manheim, Webster, and Walker was just what Donovan expected of a law firm that had been handling billions of inherited wealth for over a century. Dark, oak paneling lined the walls of a room sparsely furnished with brass-studded leather chairs. The one large, oak desk would have dominated the room except for the person seated behind it.
Mrs. Pullman had been the receptionist for Manheim, Webster, and Walker for close to 35 years. She was a large woman with iron gray hair and eyes to match. She had always been able to intimidate even the most pugnacious of men who had stepped through the door to be confronted by her. However, in Frank Donovan, she met her match.
"Mrs. Pullman. I do not have time to stand here and argue with you," he said placing the knuckles of both hands on the edge of her desk and leaning down to stare into her eyes. "If you do not get me in to see whichever one of these gentlemen that handle the Hardesty affairs, I'll either have you arrested for interfering with an FBI investigation or I'll just shoot you ... whichever one would get the fastest results. You chose," said Donovan reaching for the pistol he kept in a break-a-way holster under his jacket.
Apparently deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, Mrs. Pullman pushed a button on her phone and picked up the receiver. "Mr. Walker, there is a Frank Donovan from the FBI here to see you concerning the Hardestys ... No sir, I don't know what he wants exactly, he won't tell me ... Yes sir, I'll send him right in."
As Donovan walked down the hallway in the direction that Mrs. Pullman had indicated, he grinned. He lost it, though, as soon as he heard "Come in," as soon as he knocked on Walker's door.
He immediately sized up the man seated behind the captain's desk that took up one corner of the giant office and knew that threats would not work on him. The man who now stood with one hand outstretched toward Donovan was extremely tall and slender. Donovan guessed his age at about 65, but a very healthy 65 who dieted and exercised if the grip of the handshake was any indication.
"Mr. Donovan," said Walker pointing to a chair in front of his desk before sitting himself. "I understand that you want to discuss Mrs. Hardesty and her family."
"Yes, sir. Before we begin, would you like to see my ID?" asked Donovan.
"If you think it's necessary," answered Walker.
Donovan extracted his ID case from an inside jacket pocket and passed it across the desk to Walker. "I believe it will expedite our discussion," he said. He waited for Walker to look at it and then pass it back. Donovan put it away. "Mr. Walker the news I'm about to give isn't the type of news I like to deliver or that most people wish to hear." Donovan paused, waiting for a response from Walker. He was not surprised to see that the man remained nonplussed. "Mrs. Hardesty was kidnapped yesterday afternoon. I was called into negotiate her release this morning."
Walker leaned back in his chair, placing his elbows on the arms while letting his fingertips touch. "Why the delay in bringing you in?"
Donovan wondered if anything could shock this man. It seemed to be the norm from the minute he had first met with the Valentines. Ice. Everyone's reactions were ice cold.
"The kidnapper gave the Valentines the usual about not contacting the authorities and that was what they had planned on doing. When the kidnappers didn't call back this morning as they had said they would, Mrs. Valentine insisted we be called in."
"I see. And now that you have been called in?"
Donovan leaned forward in his chair. "I have a bad feeling about this and I need your help to figure it out."
Walker lifted one hand away from the other, palm up, "Go on."
"First off, what can you tell me about Mrs. Hardesty?"
"Rose Hardesty is one of the finest women I've ever had the pleasure of meeting. If you look around this office, Mr. Donovan, you'll see old school ... lots of oak and leather, coffee and tea served in fine porcelain with finger-trap handles, oil paintings of people no one knows or cares to know. You'll see old men who are particularly snobbish when it comes to the clients they'll take on. Mr. Donovan, this firm has not had a new client in over twenty years because Manheim, Webster, and Walker only handle old money," explained Walker.
"I joined the firm as a law clerk in 1958. The only reason I was allowed in was because my father was friends with Eisenhower and so were the Manheims. No one actually believed that I would ever make partner. I don't have the blood, you see," he said, leaning back in his chair making the leather creak. "My father was a schoolteacher who went to high school with Eisenhower. Anyway, to make an incredibly long story shorter, after I passed the bar I was assigned to assist with the Hardesty account. When I did make partner, Mrs. Hardesty demanded that I be placed in charge of her affairs, much to the chagrin of the other two partners."
Walker got up and walked over to a window to look out of it, turning his back on Donovan. "You see, Mr. Donovan, Mrs. Hardesty didn't care that my background wasn"t equal to hers. She said she just liked my straightforwardness. She liked how I didn't let the blue bloods around here push me around." Walker turned back to face Donovan. "If it wasn't for Mrs. Hardesty, I would be a partner, but I would be a partner with no power."
Walker stared Donovan straight in the eye. "So, Mr. Donovan, which one of her family do you think did this?"
***
"Any word yet from the kidnappers?" Donovan asked the Special Agent in Charge from his cell phone while driving back to the Valentine home.
"No. Not a peep," answered Foster. "Where are you?"
"I'm in my car. I just finished a very interesting interview with Mrs. Hardesty's attorney."
"What?"
"Foster, I don't think we have a run-of-the-mill kidnapping here. I just hope we're not too late if my suspicions are correct."
"What suspicions?" asked Foster.
"I'll let you know when I get there which should be in about fifteen minutes," answered Donovan. "Have you found the two kids yet?"
"Yeah. They're both out at the house they keep in the country. Winter break from school."
"They're being watched, aren't they?"
"Watched? Why?"
"Trust me on this. If they aren't being watched, put someone on it right now," instructed Donovan.
"Donovan ..."
"Foster, do it. Now."
Donovan disconnected, knowing he'd possibly made an enemy, but also knowing that if he was right, it could mean the difference between life and death for Mrs. Hardesty. He put on speed as negotiated the streets back to the Valentine house. He thought of it as a house, not a home. In his mind, it was as far away from a home as snow is from the desert.
He drew a mental picture of Mrs. Hardesty from Walker's description of her. However, not a physical picture, he had seen one photograph of her on the Valentine mantlepiece. This was a picture of her soul.
She was a shy woman, had never made many friends, but those she had made would defend her to the end. She never allowed herself to be put on a pedestal because of her wealth or status. She often told Walker that she felt she'd been born in the wrong family because money and status didn't mean a thing to her. Her maid was more of a friend, a companion rather than a servant. Donovan found himself liking this woman and he prayed he wasn't too late.
***
"Mrs. Hardesty controls every bit of money in this household," explained Donovan to Foster. "Valentine doesn't work, unless you call spending time in the stores updating his wardrobe and then lounging around his club work. Same with Mrs. Valentine. She entertains every weekend, which means a new dress and accessories to go with it, including jewelry. The two children, Victoria and James Jr., are supposed to be attending university. It's actually a condition in Mrs. Hardesty's will that they be either attending school or have graduated from a university during the time they inherit anything. Both only seem to make token appearances at any of their classes."
Donovan had insisted that they talk outside. He wasn't ready to confront the Valentines until he had explained everything to Foster and they had both come to a meeting of the minds.
"But they still have to graduate in order to inherit, right?" asked Foster, shoving his hands in his armpits which even heavy, leather gloves weren't protecting entirely from the cold.
"No. The wording in the will isn't that specific. Originally Mrs. Hardesty hoped that they would see the merits of a higher education. However they seem to have inherited their parents' lack of ambition. Two days ago Mrs. Hardesty asked Mr. Walker to rewrite the will, making it a condition that the children obtain at least a bachelor's degree before they could inherit. She also asked that instead of outright giving the adult Valentines control of the Hardesty assets, that they be put in trust instead to be doled out in increments by Walker," explained Donovan.
"So Walker would be in charge of the money?"
Donovan shook his head. "I know what you're thinking. Walker has the highest regard for Mrs. Hardesty. Besides, if she dies before Walker can make the changes and she signs the new will, Walker loses control."
"This is why you wanted the kids watched. You think they have her?"
Nodding he said, "Yes, I do. Think about it, Foster. I know you've worked kidnappings before. Have you ever met a family who was so ice cold about the victim and the crime? Where the only emotion that is shown is when money is mentioned or when kidnapping is thought of as barbaric only because it shouldn't be happening to people like them? I think the whole damn family is in on it. They don't want her to sign that new will."
"But the ransom?"
"Foster, even if it's paid, who is going to get it? Them. They won't be out a dime."
Foster shook his head. "I don't know Frank. It tracks, but what if you're wrong? What if it isn't them?"
"I'm not wrong."
Sighing deeply, Foster said, "All right, Frank. It's your call. But it's going to be your head if you're wrong. What do you want me to do?"
***
Thirty minutes later Donovan and Foster were back in the room where Donovan had met the Valentines when he first arrived. Donovan was standing at the fireplace waiting for Mr. and Mrs. Valentine to make an appearance. Foster was sitting on one of the divans. The Valentines had been asked to join the two men fifteen minutes ago. On the outside Donovan appeared cool and calm, as if it didn't matter that he was being kept waiting. However on the inside, a fire was starting to burn ... one of conviction that he was right. Why else would the Valentines take their time in joining them? However what drove him the most was fear for Mrs. Hardesty as the minutes ticked by. Once again he prayed that she was all right.
Foster stood signaling to Donovan when the Valentines entered the room. Both had changed their clothing from what they were wearing that morning ... daywear rather than morning wear. Donovan waited until they were seated before he began.
"We know who has your mother, Mrs. Valentine," he stated pointedly staring at her to see her reaction.
She startled for just a second, her eyes moving quickly to her husband and then back to Donovan. "Oh thank goodness," she said. "My list, it's a name from my list isn't it?"
Donovan continued to stare without answering right away. He watched as both Valentines moved a fraction of an inch closer to each other on the couch. James Valentine's eyes leapt quickly to the photograph of his son and daughter before settling somewhere just underneath Donovan's chin.
Finally Donovan said, "No, Mrs. Valentine. It wasn't someone on your list." Leaving the fireplace he walked behind the divan that Foster was sitting on. He stopped and stared at the Valentines. "No, Mrs. Valentine. There are four kidnappers ... two female and two male. They're amateurs and they probably planned this rather hastily and didn't think everything through before taking Mrs. Hardesty. At least that's what we're hoping."
James Valentine shook off his wife's hand on his arm and stood. His face took on the look of innocence that one sees on a child's face who has just been caught using all of Mom's perfume and make-up in a chemistry experiment. "What do you mean, Mr. Donovan?"
Donovan raised eyes filled with ice to meet James Valentines. "It's simple really, Mr. Valentine. A hasty plan to kidnap someone will always have problems. Most kidnappers believe that they'll be paid, but they will kill if necessary to hide their tracks. An amateur will probably have difficulty killing ... especially for someone of breeding, someone who has never had to get their hands dirty doing menial work. It isn't the easiest thing to have to do."
"Breeding?" whispered Mrs. Valentine.
Transferring his eyes to Mrs. Valentine, he tilted his head to the left and raised one eyebrow. "Yes, Mrs. Valentine. Breeding. The four people who kidnapped your mother are listed in the social registry. They spend their days spending money, their weekends entertaining. They join health clubs not to exercise, but to show off their attire or their tans. They train their maids to curtsey, their valets to bow. They ..."
"You mean it's one of our friends?" exclaimed Mrs. Valentine.
"You didn't let me finish, Mrs. Valentine. I was always told that was something that was considered rude even by my plebian standards."
Donovan left his position behind the divan and walked to stand directly in front of Mrs. Valentine who was still seated. Mr. Valentine had walked to the fireplace. He stared at the top of her head when she wouldn't give him her eyes.
"As I was saying ... they think they don't sweat, they perspire. But you're sweating now, aren't you Mrs. Valentine? Just like your husband."
"I told you it wouldn't work," James Valentine muttered under his breath. "I told her it wouldn't work, but she wouldn't listen to me."
The ice cold voice of Rebecca Hardesty-Valentine cut through the room. "Shut up, James."
***
Ice covered everything. It hung like knives from tree branches strong enough to withstand the weight. It coated the ground making it impossible to walk no matter how sure footed a person was. It blazed light just before going dark when the sun set. It matched the mood of Frank Donovan.
Hell had to have frozen over, it was so cold out here thought Donovan as he made his way carefully towards the Valentine country home. Foster was at his side cursing under his breath as he slipped and would have fallen if Donovan hadn't grabbed his arm.
"Tell me again why we're walking up here," said Foster.
"I want to surprise them," answered Donovan. "They won't be expecting visitors, so when we knock on the door they'll be spooked and probably won't have time to do anything except answer it."
"Anything like kill their grandmother, you mean."
"Yes."
"That's assuming that she's still alive."
Foster slipped again and again, Donovan caught him before he fell to the ground. "Dammit, how come you never slip, Frank?"
A voice belonging to one of the HRT team they had brought with them muttered, "Having something in common with the stuff helps."
Foster glanced quickly at Donovan who acted like he hadn't heard. "Yeah, I can see that."
***
Light shone from a downstairs room, illuminating the icicles hanging from the eaves. Movement could be seen within as Victoria crossed in front of the window.
Donovan knocked on the door while Foster stamped his feet and blew misty breath into his hands to try to warm them. Two other agents stood with them while the rest had stayed in the tree line. They heard through their ear pieces, "The boy just looked out the window, then closed the curtains."
Donovan was getting ready to knock again when the door was opened by Victoria Valentine. The girl looked nonplussed by the intrusion. "Yes," she said.
Donovan looked her over ... this one was cool, exactly like the Mother. "Miss Valentine. My name is Frank Donovan and this is Special Agent Peter Foster. We're with the FBI." He showed her his identification. "Where is your brother?"
"My brother? What do you want with him?" she asked guilelessly.
"Miss Valentine, it's cold out here and I'm sure you're cold standing there in the doorway. Why don't we go inside where it's warm," suggested Foster.
"Mr. Foster ... that was you name, right?" she asked.
Foster nodded.
"Well I'm sorry but I have no idea why you need to speak with my brother, but you are right. It is cold so unless you have a warrant of some kind I'm shutting the door ... with you on the outside."
She was stopped from closing the door all the way by Donovan who shoved it back open and shouldered his way into the house. He waved a piece of paper he had taken from his coat pocket in her face as he passed her. "We do have a warrant, Miss Valentine. Now where is your brother?"
"I'm right here."
The voice came from the top of the stairs and Donovan looked up to see the young man he had seen in the photo on the Valentine mantlepiece.
"I was just on my way to get a jacket," he added as he walked down the stairs.
"Good," said Foster. "Now that we're all here why don't you save us the trouble of having to search this place. Where is your grandmother?"
"Our grandmother," both said in unison. "Why would our grandmother be here?" continued Victoria.
The entryway that had just started to warm up again, suddenly turned cold as Donovan's eyes turned to ice to stare directly into the eyes of Victoria Valentine. She shuddered as she looked into their cold, dark depths.
"Miss Valentine we're not in the mood for any games. We know you, along with your parents, kidnapped your grandmother to keep her from changing her will. We know you have her here. Your parents are sitting in a jail cell right now wishing they'd been satisfied with receiving an allowance for the rest of their lives instead of being greedy and wanting it all ... now. You will tell me where your grandmother is or I'll throw you outside without any clothes on until that pampered body of yours is a solid block of ice and then I'll do the same thing to your brother. Am I making myself clear Miss Valentine?" He turned and aimed his glare at the boy. "Mr. Valentine?"
For a moment the girl shrank into herself, but then she squared her shoulders and tried to match the intensity of Donovan's stare. "We have no idea what you're talking about. If our parents kidnapped our grandmother, they did it on their own without us. Knowing them, I wouldn't put it past them. Grandmama isn't here."
"Tear this place apart," ordered Foster. "And get these two out of here before I decide to let Frank do what he threatened."
***
Foster watched as agents scoured the house from top to bottom. Not one thing in the house was untouched by at least two different agents. Donovan was pacing from the living room through the entryway to the kitchen and then back again. Finally Foster stopped him as he made his 15th trip. "I know that look, Frank. What are you thinking?"
Donovan closed his eyes and sighed. "Peter, those two ... they wouldn't hold out like that if they thought we had a chance in hell of finding Mrs. Hardesty. Their willing to turn on their parents and hope that a jury will believe them if her body isn't found here."
"So you think that she's somewhere else?" asked Foster.
Donovan shook his head. "No, I think she's here. I just think we're looking in the wrong place. She's outside somewhere."
"Frank, we've checked all the out buildings. She's not there. And if they just tied her up and left her out in the woods somewhere, she's dead and we're not going to find her until the spring thaw."
Donovan shook his head again. "No, Peter. She's outside, but they didn't just leave her outside where someone could find her. She's somewhere no one will ever find her by tripping over her. She's buried."
"That's impossible. How the hell are you going to bury someone out here ... the ground's as hard as a rock and it's covered with four inches of ice," argued Foster.
"Not outside. Inside."
"Inside? Inside where? Here? The cellar?"
Donovan grabbed his coat then grabbed Foster's and threw it at him. "C'mon," he ordered, leading the way outside and towards the rear of the house.
"Frank!"
"The house is new. Valentine had it rebuilt after a fire in '89, but the rest of these buildings out here are over a 100 years old," explained Donovan moving at as fast a trot as he could over the ice covered ground. "My mother's brother had a farm. I stayed there one summer when I was a kid. They had a root cellar in the house, but they also had a larger one in the barn where they'd store their meat during the winter. I remember those meat hooks hanging from the ceiling. They'd hold whole cows."
"Damn," said Foster, trying to keep up with Donovan without falling and breaking something. Keying his communication device, he said, "I want all agents in the barn ASAP."
***
"Frank if there's anything here, it's well hidden."
Donovan had a shovel and was making his way across the floor of the barn pounding it on the ground and listening for any sound that might indicate a hollow underneath. "We'll find it. We have to find it," he said. He suddenly stopped and looked up at Foster, then pounded on the ground again. "HERE!" he shouted. "It's hollow ... start looking for a way in."
Foster found the trap door hidden underneath an couple of inches of frozen dirt. Four agents hammered away it until the door was free to open. Donovan was the first to enter. As his foot left the last rung of the ladder, Donovan turned on his flashlight and started swinging it in an arc around the underground chamber.
At first he spotted nothing that would indicate that Mrs. Hardesty was being kept here, but then he spotted a small bundle of what looked like rags tossed under a bench set in one of the corners of the cellar. He closed his eyes, fearful that they were too late, that she had succumbed to the freezing cold air that permeated this place.
Opening them again, he stepped forward ... slowly at first but then moving rapidly to the corner where he tossed the bench into the center of the room. He saw a white face in the beam of his flashlight ... a face almost completely covered by a blanket. He held his breath as he knelt and gently moved enough of the blanket aside so that he could check for a pulse on Mrs. Hardesty's neck.
"Frank?" queried Foster quietly.
"She's got a pulse." Donovan picked Mrs. Hardesty up in his arms carrying her to the ladder that led to the barn and freedom for this woman who had been so mistreated by her only family. "Get an ambulance in here. NOW!" he barked into his comm. "I want a fire in the fireplace in the living room of that house and I want every blanket you can find. Fill every plastic bag you can with warm water." He paused for a second before climbing the ladder with Mrs. Hardesty unceremoniously draped over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. "Peter ... this woman is not going to die. Not today ... not from this."
***
Several weeks later the ice that had crippled the DC area was almost gone. It left in its place downed power lines and trees, and gutters ripped from homes because they couldn't take the weight.
Donovan was sitting in the small living room in Mrs. Hardesty apartment having been left there by the maid/companion. He looked around. The first thing he noticed were obvious bare spots where photographs once stood ... photographs of what were once family, but were now criminals. He closed his eyes and hung his head when a sudden wave of sadness overcame him as he imagined what this woman must have endured at the hands of the people who should have loved her, should have cared for her and kept her safe. He suddenly felt the loss that she must have felt ... must be feeling now ... the betrayal of family ... how does one survive that?
He heard the sound of feet entering the room and he shook off the feeling, opened his eyes, and stood to face the doorway and meet the woman who was once trapped inside a world covered in ice but was now free to live above ground once again.
As he watched her walk across the room towards him, he thought that the Valentines had been wrong when they believed she would quickly die from exposure due to her age and outward look of frailty. She had surprised everyone at the hospital, including himself, when she had demanded to be allowed to go home after spending only one night there.
While she argued with the doctors, her attorney, Mr. Walker, had arrived and taken matters in hand. He insisted that she would recover more quickly at home with the best individualized care that Hardesty money could buy. Still not entirely convinced, but realizing that there wasn't anything they could do, they watched as Walker took Mrs. Hardesty out of the hospital in a wheelchair.
"Mrs. Hardesty," said Donovan, taking her hand in his own, "you and Mr. Walker were right."
"Please, sit down Mr. Donovan," responded Mrs. Hardesty. When they both had sat down she asked, "Right about what?"
Donovan smiled gently. "You're recovery."
"Oh that," she said, making a dismissive wave with her hand. "I can't stand hospitals. People are always fawning over you, fluffing pillows that don't need to be fluffed, asking all sorts of inane questions about how you're feeling, waking you from a sound sleep to make sure your resting comfortably. Besides, when you're treated as an invalid sooner or later, you become one. I'm not, I wasn't, and I never will be an invalid."
Donovan smiled broadly now. "I believe that." Donovan's expression turned serious. "Mrs. Hardesty, I am sorry that things turned out the way they did."
"You mean it being my loving family that plotted my death instead of a complete stranger," she said.
He nodded.
"Mr. Donovan, do you believe in fate?" she asked.
"In what way?" he asked, wondering where this was leading.
"Believe it or not, Mr. Donovan, this was all meant to be," she explained. "My daughter plotting my death in order to have the Hardesty money all to themselves and your being called in to be the negotiator."
Donovan shook his head in disagreement. "Mrs. Hardesty, I'm one of many hostage negotiators the FBI has. It was ..."
"Fate," she interrupted. "Mr. Donovan, how many of those other negotiators would have made the intuitive leap you did to figure out that it was my family that had kidnapped me?"
"Honestly, Mrs. Hardesty," began Donovan, "I don't know. However, I think they would have figured it out sooner or later. Your family were sending out signals. I just managed to interpret them quickly."
This time Mrs. Hardesty shook her head in disagreement. "No, Mr. Donovan. I don't believe that anyone else would have done what you did, as fast as you did." She paused for a moment staring into Donovan's eyes as though searching for something. Apparently finding it, she continued, "I understand that you've been given a nickname now."
Donovan nodded, more confused than he was before at the turns their conversation had taken.
"They're calling you 'Ice', aren't they?" she asked.
"Yes," he answered, a small show of distaste at being given a nickname tinged his voice.
"Do you know why?"
Shrugging, he answered, "I suppose it's because all this happened during an ice storm."
Mrs. Hardesty shook her head. "No, Mr. Donovan. Although that might be one of the reasons, it isn't the real one. The other agent that was with you, Mr. Foster, came to visit me yesterday. Did you know that?"
Another turn. A hint of pity at what he was beginning to believe was the feeble-mindedness brought on by age entered his mind as he shook his head, "No, Mrs. Hardesty. I didn't know that."
She smiled at him and as her eyes met his, all his previous doubts about her mental state vanished. He suddenly knew that she was leading up to something, but in a round-about way.
"Mr. Foster explained everything to me. He told me why you were called in to do the negotiating. You have the best record of anyone at the FBI and because this was considered a high profile case, they wanted their best working the job. He also outlined everything you did from start to finish, but he has absolutely no idea how you came to the conclusions you did. He doesn't have the instincts you have. Instincts, Mr. Donovan, that are left free to develop because of the reason some of your fellow agents have nicknamed you 'Ice'."
"I still don't see, Mrs. Hardesty," said Donovan, his face mirroring the confusion in his mind.
"Mr. Donovan, you wear a veneer of ice that keeps you from becoming too involved with the victims and their families. Mr. Foster just thinks you're cold. That you have no feelings. However, he's wrong. You do have feelings ... deep feelings, but you can't let them take control because if you do, you'll become blinded by them. You wouldn't look towards the unthinkable ... that a family would do what my family did," she explained. "Ice, Mr. Donovan, is what made you the best hostage negotiator for the FBI. It's what allowed you to find me during one of the worst ice storms in DC history. That ice, Mr. Donovan, is what gives you your edge and because of that, it was fate you would be assigned to the one case where you were needed the most."
***
As Donovan walked to his car, he contemplated what Mrs. Hardesty had told him. He shook his head and allowed a small smile to cross his handsome features. "Maybe being called 'Ice' isn't such a bad thing after all," he said to himself.
***
The End