The Hook

by Tim O'Mara

  ‘It actually says that in the contract?’

  ‘You want me to wait while you get it?’

  ‘You think I know where my fucking contract is, Ron?’

  The silence that followed could not be cut by a knife. You would probably have needed a chain saw. Maybe a laser.

  ‘Due to the current state of your mind, Ray,’ Ron said, ‘which goes to prove my point, by the way, I’m going to ignore that. But I will repeat: I am officially directing you to remain away from the school until further notice. Due to the unusual nature of the situation, I will not dock you any days from your sick bank, but you are not to come to work. Is that clear?’

  ‘How many reporters called you this morning, Ron?’

  ‘Is that clear?’ he repeated. ‘Mister Donne.’

  ‘Yes, Mister Thomas,’ I said. ‘It’s clear.’ I hung up. Two deep breaths later the phone rang again. I didn’t recognize the number. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Ray?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Josh King, Ray. I used to work with Allison at the paper. We met a few years back at a Christmas thing.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘How are you feeling, Ray?’ he asked. Before I could answer, he asked, ‘Have you heard from the kidnappers?’

  ‘Fuck you, Josh King.’ I hung up.

  So that’s the kind of day this was going to be. Not knowing which calls to answer and which ones to let go to voicemail. I went in to the living room and sat on the futon. Judging from the view out the window, the way the rising sun was reflecting off the skyline, it was going to be another beautiful day in the greatest city in the world.

  I turned on my laptop and went right to Allison’s website to see what Robbie had posted during the past few hours.

  Holy shit. Allison had posted something since last night!

  ALLISON ROGERS: SPECIAL REPORT FROM THE FIELD

  For the first time in recent memory, I woke up this morning not knowing where I was. Most mornings, I wake up next to my boyfriend in the one-bedroom apartment we share in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Other mornings, maybe it’s a hotel room if I’m away for work, or my parents’ home in Missouri if it’s the holidays.

  This morning, I have no idea where I am.

  I do know, though, I am not here because I want to be.

  I am here because someone else wants me to be. I am, for the first time in recent memory – maybe ever – a means to someone else’s ends. That much I do know.

  With my eyes still closed, I take in a deep breath and a pleasant thought manages to sneak in. It reminds me of being at sleep-away camp with my cousin when we were teenagers. I only went for two summers, but I’ll never forget the smell of early August mornings coming through the screened windows; the smell of last night’s rain; the smell of the trees waking up.

  I swore back then if I had tried hard enough, I could have smelled the sunrise, felt it in my lungs.

  This is not that smell. This smells of fear. Fear and anger. I know enough to realize the fear is not only mine; I need to wake up a little more to remember whose anger it is. Maybe I need to breathe a little deeper.

  Then I remember. The men who took me last night, who took me from the perceived and apparent safety of where I live, were filled with anger. Anger, they told me last night, at the government mostly. Anger at the people who were taking their country – their way of life – away from them and anger at the people who were letting them do it. With all that anger inside you, one of the men told me, there’s not much room for much else. That much is true.

  I sit up and look around the large room where I spent the night. As soon as I’m no longer horizontal, my head starts to swim and my eyes go in and out of focus. I’m not sure of the last time I ate, and I’m very thirsty. Unable to rely on my sight, I switch to auditory mode. Outside the room I am in, the wind is slipping through the trees, some crows are laughing at a private joke, a plane is on its way to some far-off destination. And a man coughs.

  In the distance I can hear an engine running. Not a vehicle’s engine, no. Another machine of some sort, perhaps a buzz saw, a lawn mower, maybe a wood chipper.

  An accidental smile surprises my mouth when I realize, ‘Allison, we’re not in Brooklyn anymore.’

  I stand up and head for the door. Unlike the bunks I stayed in at summer camp, it’s the only door in the place. It was unlikely this bunk would pass a safety inspection. What if there was a fire? I find myself thinking. With only one exit, who knows what’ll happen then.

  Then I realize a fire is probably the least of my worries.

  Through the screen that serves as a window to the door, I see a lone watchman outside. He’s holding his weapon – some sort of rifle – like my dad holds his hunting shotgun: one hand on the barrel, the other cradling the butt, the barrel pointed at the ground. My father would remind me how to hold the gun every time we went out hunting. Someone trained the man watching me well. Maybe his father, or his grandfather. More likely, I think for some reason, his Uncle Sam.

  ‘Safety first, Allison,’ my dad would say. ‘First, second, and always.’

  All of a sudden, I am missing my father, the first man to ever promise to keep me safe forever and ever. Where is he now? I wonder. Probably in the barn sharpening tools, maybe mending a fence he’s been putting off fixing, or dealing with a cow that’s decided she’s taking the day off. Maybe putting that World War II Jeep together with parts he finds on the Internet.

  I am writing this now only because the men who took me last night are allowing me to do so. They want me to know that. They want you to know that. I am able to post it on our website, again, only because they have given me permission to do so.

  The men who took me last night want you to know they are angry; they are scared. And they think you should be, too.

  And, for the foreseeable future, these angry and fearful men – they refer to themselves as White Nationalists – who have felt for years their voices have been silenced by politicians and the media, have decided to allow me to make their voices heard.

  Allison Rogers for New York Here and Now

  My first thought was how grateful I was she was still alive. My second was these guys didn’t waste any time getting to work. I wondered if they saw the paradox in what they were doing. The countries they railed against, the ones where ‘the others’ come from, those were the countries with terrorists that kidnapped journalists. Not us; not the good old USA, where we stood on the Constitution, which included freedom of the press. How come these people always skipped the First Amendment on their way to the Second? Was bearing arms so much more crucial than bearing the truth?

  This was not the kind of kidnapping where the captors were going to call demanding money or something else of value. They already had what they wanted: Allison Rogers.

  From the dark corner of my brain came a rather sick thought: Allison was always thinking about ways to increase circulation, strategies to boost the number of website subscribers. I think she found one. Or, rather, one had found her.

  The phone rang again. Detective Royce.

  ‘She’s still alive,’ I said. ‘Did you see the post this morning?’

  ‘Not yet. I’m in the car now heading into work,’ he said. I could hear the traffic in the background. ‘But the media are gonna be all over this. That can go either way, but I’m hoping it plays in our favor.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘I’ve been instructed to stay away from work starting tomorrow until I hear from my boss. What can I do to help and keep myself sane?’

  He thought about that for a bit. I heard some car horns and a large vehicle passing him or him passing it. ‘More phone calls,’ he said. ‘Anybody you can think of. I don’t expect you to find any new info, but we do need to rule stuff out. Even the improbable. If you do it, I can put a uniform on something else.’ He paused again. ‘And don’t talk to any reporters. We’ll handle all media inquiries on our end. We got folks for that.’

  ‘I wasn’t planning on it, Detect
ive.’

  ‘Good. Listen, it’s not SOP, but I’m going to check in with you every hour or so, just in case. You don’t hear from me, call.’

  What was standard operating procedure when your girlfriend has been kidnapped?

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Later.’

  As much as Royce has busted my balls over the years and threatened me when he felt I was crossing the line, I always sensed the begrudging respect he had for me. And it had nothing to do with the fact that my uncle was basically his big boss. When you put two people in the same space who want to do the same thing – the right thing – they can smell it on each other. That’s the way it was with us. I felt that now more than at any other time since I’ve known him. I was glad he was the one coordinating the search for Allison.

  Allison’s phone rang again, and again I did not recognize the number. I picked up anyway. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Ray,’ the voice said. ‘Ellen Henry from The Post. We met about—’

  I hung up. New Rule: If I didn’t recognize the number, I wouldn’t pick up. Let them leave a voicemail.

  Since I was out of bed with no chance of going back, I decided to do at least two things I could control: make coffee and take a shower. I left my phone on the bed. When I came back twenty minutes later, wrapped in a towel and coffee in hand, there were seventeen messages waiting for me. I recognized four of the numbers: my mom, my sister, Uncle Ray, and Edgar. I played back the other thirteen and after a few seconds each – every one a reporter – I erased them. I called my mom first.

  ‘How are you, Raymond?’

  ‘I’m good, Mom. She’s seems to be OK for now. She posted on her site this morning.’

  ‘Oh, thank God, Raymond. I prayed all last night for her.’ She took a breath. ‘And how are you?’

  ‘Still scared and worried, but I’m as good as I can be. Better now that I saw the post. Uncle Ray’s got a lot of cops on this and the detective-in-charge is working it hard.’

  ‘When do you want me to come in?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘When do you want me to come in?’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘To be there for you.’

  ‘Be there for me on Long Island, Mom. I don’t need you here.’

  ‘You don’t want me there?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I said I don’t need you here. I’m going to be running around, making phone calls, helping out where I can. I can’t do all that with you here.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because then I’ll worry about you.’

  ‘I can take care of myself, Raymond.’

  ‘I know you can, Mom. Just do it from home. I’ll call you if I hear anything.’

  ‘You sure? I can be there in two hours.’

  ‘I’m sure. And I love you for asking.’

  ‘OK, but promise you’ll call.’

  ‘I already did.’

  ‘OK, Raymond. I’ll talk to you later.’

  ‘Yes, you will. Bye, Mom.’

  ‘Bye, now.’

  My mother always had to be the last to say goodbye. It was usually ‘Bye, now.’

  Next. ‘I saw Allie’s post,’ Rachel said. ‘Mom’s taking credit because she prayed.’

  ‘I know. She wanted to come in and stay with me.’

  ‘What’d you say to that?’

  ‘I told her she could best help from a distance.’

  ‘Ha!’ She took a sip of something. ‘Listen, Murcer’s already spoken to his boss. He’s taking the day and wants to help.’

  ‘I don’t know, Rache. He’s gonna need to call Royce. I’m not sure—’

  ‘He already did, and Royce jumped on it. His captain’s only giving him so many officers to work the case. Can’t seem to be playing favorites. White, female reporter goes missing and the cops throw everything they got at it is not going to play well in the press no matter who the vic— the missing person is, know what I mean?’

  ‘I do,’ I said. ‘Thank Murcer for me when you get the chance.’

  ‘Will do,’ she said. ‘And call when you need to.’

  ‘Thanks, Rache.’

  ‘Love you, Ray.’

  Uncle Ray was next. He already knew about Allison’s post and the good news that implied. ‘We got twenty-one vans on CCTV that vaguely match the description we got from the stoner last night, all heading out of Brooklyn in every possible direction around that time. Highway cops pulled over a few, state cops did the same and both came up with nothing. I don’t have to tell you how this goes, Ray.’

  ‘She’s been gone for more than ten hours,’ I said. ‘She can be halfway to Florida, in Maine or Canada, as far away as Michigan. And that’s if she’s still in the van.’

  ‘We’re going with the assumption they’re still with the van or whatever vehicle they took her in,’ he said. ‘Train, bus, or airports would be too risky. My guess, they got her out of the city and into that bunk situation she wrote about in less than two hours. The quicker they get her off the streets, the easier it is to hide her.’

  ‘That doesn’t make me feel better, Uncle Ray.’

  ‘No offense, Nephew, but I didn’t call to make you feel better. I called to give you an update and a dose of reality. I’m your uncle and a cop. Not a fucking priest.’

  And what a loss for the church that was, I thought.

  ‘What does the rest of your day look like?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah. I was kinda hoping I could ride around with you,’ I said, completely ignoring what Royce had told me not too long ago.

  ‘It’s nice to have hopes. Back in the day, I woulda told you to stay at home in case the kidnappers called, but today, with cell phones, that doesn’t make a difference. Why don’t you go hang out at The LineUp?’

  ‘It’s not even nine o’clock yet.’

  He paused. ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘I’m gonna call Edgar. Maybe I can tag along with him if he’s working.’

  ‘Good idea. Keep moving. I’ll call ya before noon.’

  ‘Thanks, Uncle Ray.’

  ‘Stay strong, Nephew.’

  Before I could say goodbye, call-waiting kicked in. Edgar. ‘That’s him now,’ I said. ‘Talk to you later.’ I ended that call and pressed the button for Edgar. ‘Hey.’

  ‘Ray. How’s it going?’

  I brought him up to speed on the morning’s phone calls. He had already read, seen and heard all the press reports, including Allison’s posting on her website.

  ‘I’m still kicking myself in the butt,’ he said. ‘If I had insisted on putting a more sophisticated tracking device on her laptop, we might have been able to determine the general location of where she posted from. I have that equipment, you know.’

  ‘Edgar,’ I said, ‘you can’t blame yourself. You are not an insistent person and Allison’s about as stubborn as they come. Besides, I’m sure she’s not using her computer to post the pieces.’

  ‘I guess you’re right. But still …’

  ‘Anyway, look. What are you doing today?’

  ‘I gotta go over and finish up on that job in Greenpoint, but I gotta be sneaky about it because, like I said, the boss doesn’t want the employees to know he put in the second security system and he can’t close during the day or they’ll know something’s up. Why you asking?’

  ‘You want company?’

  ‘Really?’ he said.

  ‘I need to get out of here, Edgar. I’m going to go crazy not being able to help with looking for Allison.’

  ‘I’ll be right there. And I’ll bring bagels.’ He hung up without saying goodbye.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Twenty minutes later the phone rang again.

  ‘There’s like a dozen reporters outside your apartment, Ray,’ Edgar said.

  ‘Shit,’ I said. ‘Pick me up on the side street. I’m gonna go out the back, hop the fence, and go through the neighbor’s yard. You know the one?’

  ‘The same one?’

  ‘That’s it.’


  ‘See ya in less than ten, Ray.’

  Years ago when I was looking for Frankie Rivas and was sure my apartment was being watched by other people who were looking for Frankie Rivas, Edgar and I had used this exit strategy so I could leave my building unseen. It worked then and it worked now.

  We were in the Greenpoint convenience store in less than fifteen minutes. Edgar had given me a company shirt to slip into and introduced me to the owner as an associate of his. We went into the back where the ‘Owner’s Office’ was, and Edgar put the finishing touches on the surveillance equipment. He then showed the owner how to work everything, and the owner seemed quite satisfied with the work Edgar had done. The owner paid the bill and none of the employees were any the wiser.

  ‘And you’re the only one who has a key to this office?’ Edgar asked.

  ‘Just me, my wife, and my son and daughter,’ the owner said.

  ‘I’ll check back in a week. Call me if you have any questions.’

  We all shook on it and Edgar and I left the premises.

  Back in the car, I said, ‘Nicely done, Boss.’

  Edgar blushed, started the car, and said, ‘Yeah. Wanna go for another ride?’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Cab company in the Bronx. Some of their cameras need adjusting. With any luck, I can convince them to upgrade.’

  ‘Lead on,’ I said. ‘It’s cool to watch you work, Edgar.’

  ‘Cut it out, Ray,’ he said, but I could tell he was flattered.

  By the time we got to the Bronx, Royce, Murcer, and Uncle Ray had all checked in with the same news: there wasn’t any. They all promised to call me back soon, no matter what. Edgar and I ended up a few blocks from Yankee Stadium. With today’s weather again in the seventies and the Yanks home this afternoon, it would have been a great day to catch a game. Under almost any other circumstances.

  We parked in the lot of the cab company, and again, I stayed quiet and watched as Edgar did what he did best. He ended up fixing three cameras as I ‘assisted’ by handing him tools like a surgical technician, and Edgar then sold the owner three new cameras he had in the trunk of his car. He was very good at this.