Web of Fear

by Mike Omer

  “No. She’s always texting, or talking on it, or something. That thing never stops vibrating.”

  “And you said Gracie and her parents’ phones were on, they simply weren’t answering, right?”

  “Yes. But I don’t think she’s with them. She wouldn't have gone somewhere at night without telling me about it first.”

  Yes, she would, but Hannah saw no reason to argue. “Okay, can you give me an updated picture of Abigail?”

  “Of course.” Naamit hurried off. Hannah sat down at the edge of one of the sofas and thought back to her years as a teenager. She hadn’t exactly been a rebel, but even she’d had her share of misdeeds. Stealing her mom’s cigarettes and smoking them with her friend Tina. Getting drunk for the first time at age fifteen, returning home wasted enough to crash into a chair as soon as she walked through the front door. Sneaking out in the middle of the night to meet Gary Jones, the first boy she had ever kissed. She smiled at the memory of that kiss: clumsy and confused, his mouth open, her lips clenched tight, neither of them sure what they were doing.

  Where was Abigail right now?

  Naamit returned and handed Hannah a small framed photograph. “It’s from her last birthday,” she said.

  Hannah looked at the shy, smiling girl. Abigail was at that awkward age when different parts of the body grew without discussing it with each other. Her feet were big and her arms were long, but her face still had a childlike appearance, with traces of baby fat clinging to her cheeks. Her auburn hair reached her lower back. Naamit and Ron stood by her side, grinning proudly at the camera.

  Hannah dialed Dispatch on her phone. The call was answered almost immediately.

  “Glenmore Police Department, this is Candace.”

  “Candace? Hi, this is Hannah.”

  “Hi, Hannah!” Candace said cheerfully. She was everybody’s favorite dispatcher. Sharp, fast and sweet.

  “Listen, I have a missing child case. Twelve-year-old Abigail Lisman left her home sometime between seven and nine in the evening, and hasn’t returned yet.”

  “Okay, description and address?”

  “23 Lavetta Way. She’s about five feet tall, Caucasian, long auburn hair. She might be with another girl, about the same age, named Gracie…” she glanced at Naamit.

  “Durham,” Naamit said.

  “Durham.”

  “Okay, no problem Hannah, I’ll inform patrol.”

  “Thanks.” Hannah ended the call. Hopefully patrol would locate Abigail and get her home, scaring the living shit out of her. She wouldn’t be sneaking out again anytime soon.

  Kids did this stuff. Hannah was concerned, but not particularly worried.

  “I’ll drive around,” she told Naamit. “See if I can find her.”

  “Okay, thank you so much—” A ringtone interrupted Naamit. She went to her handbag, rummaged inside and took out her phone.

  “Hello? Yes?” Naamit listened to the caller for a moment, her eyes growing wider. “No. She isn’t here either. We called the police; the policewoman is here now. We couldn’t get you on the phone, and Ron went by and—” she paused, nodding, her eyes catching Hannah’s. “No, of course. I’ll let her know. Yes, please.”

  Naamit put her phone down.

  “That was Karen—Gracie’s mom,” she said, her voice shaking. “They were out for Saint Patrick’s Day. Gracie is missing as well, and she still isn’t answering her phone. Her parents are on their way over here.”

  Hannah nodded. “I’ll call my partner,” she said.

  Now she was worried.

  Chapter Two

  Bernard Gladwin loved his kids dearly. There was nothing he cared for more in the entire world. Nevertheless, they did not make his life easy. And there were a lot of them.

  When it was two kids, he’d handled it quite well. He could do a lot with two kids. For example, he could tell one a story while his wife Carmen played with the second. One parent versus one child, which was fair.

  In fact, it had seemed so doable that he and Carmen had thought a third child was a good idea.

  The thing was, he couldn’t have known that three was one too many until they had the third—and by that point, he couldn’t really return the baby to the store, could he? Now, with three, he could tell one a story, while Carmen played with the second, and the third tore down the house, stuck forks into electrical outlets, tried to set herself on fire, and threw her brother’s toys into the toilet. It was a juggling act he hadn’t gotten the hang of yet. He suspected he never would.

  He and Carmen were handling another tricky situation: sex. It would be nice to have a bit. His kids thought differently, especially Rory, the baby. Rory was supposedly teething, though no evidence had been provided to support this. He didn’t know how to say “I’m teething, please help”—or anything else for that matter. He simply woke up every hour or two, crying hysterically, refusing to calm down. Carmen said he was probably teething. But occasionally Bernard wondered if the baby wasn’t just plain evil. At times he spotted a malignant glint in Rory’s eyes, one he’d only ever seen in the eyes of psychopaths.

  Sex was difficult to approach, knowing it could be interrupted at any moment by a screaming baby. Perhaps it was an evolutionary reflex—reducing the competition. No sex meant no tiny brothers and sisters. Bernard considered telling Rory that he didn’t have to worry. There would never be another brother or sister. Not if Bernard could help it.

  This evening, however, was promising. Rory had been sleeping for three hours straight, and Gina and Tom did not seem as if they intended to act up. Bernard felt hopeful.

  He and Carmen were sitting on the sofa, watching TV. He wasn’t even sure what they were watching. His wife was lying by his side, casually, her long legs stretched over him. She had tight black yoga pants on, and the curves of her thighs and ass were between him and the screen, rendering whatever went on there meaningless. He glanced at her face; she stared at the television in fascination, her brown eyes wide open, her lips slightly parted. She wore one of his T-shirts, the wide collar exposing her golden brown skin, the curve of one of her breasts beckoning at him. Yes, it was definitely time. But first, he had to get her in the mood.

  “Hey,” he whispered. “Wanna have sex?”

  She glanced at him. “Good idea,” she said, grinning.

  Truly he was the master of seduction.

  Well, he wasn’t the only one who hadn’t had sex for almost two weeks.

  He leaned over, one hand sneaking under her shirt, the other caressing her cheek. He kissed her gently, his fingers finding something to tickle and squeeze…

  His phone rang. He glanced at it.

  “Don’t you dare,” Carmen hissed.

  He paused for a second, then grinned. “Of course not,” he said, one finger running down the nook between her shoulder and neck. “Do you think I’m crazy?” Whoever it was, they could wait. This was important.

  They let the phone ring. Bernard licked Carmen’s throat, she breathed excitedly, her back arched, their bodies rubbed against each other…

  And then came the sound Bernard dreaded: Rory, crying. The phone had woken him up, and he’d remembered that he was obligated to ruin his father’s life.

  “Damn it,” Carmen muttered.

  “Yeah.”

  “To be continued?” she said, sliding from beneath him.

  “Sure,” he said, his voice deflated.

  She padded off to Rory’s room.

  Bernard glanced at his phone with hatred. The thing was still ringing. He glanced at the screen. Hannah. He picked it up, answering. “Hey.”

  “Hey, Bernard, am I interrupting anything?”

  “And if you are? Will you hang up the phone and leave me in peace?”

  There was a pause. “No,” she finally said. “Sorry.”

  “Didn’t think so. What is it, Hannah?”

  “I have two missing girls. Twelve-year-olds.”

  He glanced at his watch. It was a bit past eleven. “What ti
me did they go missing?”

  “Sometime between seven and nine. There are reasons for concern, Bernard. I don’t think they just went to a party.”

  “Yeah,” he said, already walking to the bedroom to get dressed. “It’s late anyway. They would have probably come home by now.”

  “Right… And I know the mother.”

  Shit. “Where are you?”

  “At her house. The mother’s.”

  “Okay,” he said, sending an apologetic look toward his wife as she glanced at him, holding Rory in her arms. “I’m on my way.”

  Hannah sat in the living room, Ron and Naamit in front of her. Ron hugged his wife with his right arm; his left hand picked nervously at the hem of his shirt. He was dressed in white pants and a white shirt, with black spots taped to his clothing—his Purim costume. He must have been dressed as a spotted dog or cow; it was hard to tell. Hannah doubted he even remembered he was dressed in a costume.

  Naamit had stopped crying, which was a relief, but her eyes were wide and empty, and Hannah could see the fear in them. She couldn’t imagine the terror the woman was feeling. She herself was very concerned. She was aware of some possible anticlimactic outcomes—an older boyfriend, or the two girls going for a walk on the festive streets and getting lost—and she prayed they’d find out this was the case, but she was familiar with other cases.

  Pedophiles and perverts, snatching kids and dragging them into dark alleys. Drunk drivers that ran over random passersby and fled the scene, letting their victims bleed to death. Kids that disappeared, never to be seen again, remembered only as a face on an Amber Alert.

  And it was Saint Patrick’s Day. Beer and stronger drinks flowed freely, and alcohol increased the danger for violence and recklessness.

  “Perhaps you should both get dressed,” Hannah said delicately. She wished Bernard would get there. He was good with people, could radiate an aura of calm reassurance.

  Naamit and her husband looked at each other, seeming to realize that they were still partly in costume.

  “I… of course,” Ron said. He was a thin tall man with light brown hair and round eyeglasses. His face was a bit elongated, like a character on a screen that did not match the movie’s aspect ratio. He got up and then hesitated, turned to his wife. “Do you want to go… or should I…?”

  Naamit probably needed her husband to take control, but it was obvious that he didn’t want to. He was clumsily trying to find out what she preferred, instead of being the strong spouse who knew what should happen next. Hannah could tell that his intentions were good, but he was trying to let his wife be the strong and commanding one, when clearly all she wanted was to fall apart, and lose control completely.

  “You can go,” she said, her voice flat. “I’ll go next.”

  He walked into their bedroom, closing the door behind him.

  “Maybe I should be searching…” Naamit said, staring at the wall. “I mean… if she’s lost somewhere, and she sees my car…”

  “It’s best you wait here,” Hannah said. “She might just come home. Or call your home phone.”

  “She never does that,” Naamit said. “She always calls the mobile.”

  “Can you show me—” Hannah began, but a knock on the door interrupted her.

  They got up together. Naamit walked to the door quickly and flung it open as if she expected to see Abigail standing on the doorstep. But, of course, Abigail wouldn’t have knocked.

  A couple with a small boy waited outside. Naamit smiled weakly as she saw them.

  “Tony. Karen. Come in, please.” She stepped back, motioning for them to come inside. The three of them entered hesitantly. Tony was a large man. He was bald, and had a tattoo of a fish on his neck. His face was soft and worried, breaking the tough-guy facade. Karen was slim blonde with full lips. Her eyes were puffy and wet, and she kept sniffling and wiping them with the back of her hand.

  “This is Detective Hannah Shor,” Naamit introduced her. “She’s here to help.”

  “Do you know anything?” Tony asked. His voice was low and hard, and he had an accent Hannah couldn’t quite place. “Did you hear from either of them?”

  “Not yet,” Hannah said. “But we have police patrols canvasing the streets.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “In case they’re lost,” Hannah said. “Or—”

  “If they’re lost, why didn’t they call? Why isn’t Gracie answering her phone?”

  “They might have misplaced their phones,” Hannah said, and then added, “or someone stole them. Mr. and Mrs. Durham, do you have any idea where Gracie went?”

  “No,” Karen said, her voice brittle. “She said nothing. She was supposed to look after Donny.”

  The little boy lifted his face when his mother spoke, and Hannah looked at him carefully. He was pale and quiet. His eyes were narrow—almost Asian, similar to his father’s—and they looked only at Hannah.

  She knelt in front of him. “Donny,” she said. “Did Gracie tell you where she was going?”

  Hesitantly, he nodded.

  “What? Why didn’t you say anything?” Tony’s voice was steely. “Where did she go? Tell us now!”

  Donny shrank backward against his mother. “Tony!” Karen snapped. “You’re scaring him!”

  Hannah took one of Donny’s palms in her hand. His skin was cold as ice. “Where did she say she was going, Donny?”

  “She said she was going to meet a friend of Abby’s,” he said, his voice tiny. “She promised she wouldn’t be long. And she told me to call if there was anything wrong.” He teared up. “And I called her. Again and again. I was scared! I wanted her to come back home! But she didn’t answer the phone! She promised she would answer the phone!”

  Hannah stood up, feeling sick. If Gracie had said she would answer the phone, the fact that she hadn’t was all the more worrying. She thought for a moment, then said, “Excuse me, I need to make a call.”

  She walked out the front door. It was freezing outside, and she hugged herself to stay warm. She dialed Captain Bailey, really hoping this would be short.

  It only took a few seconds for him to answer. “Hello, Hannah.”

  “Captain, I have a missing child case here. Two twelve-year-old girls disappeared—”

  “No one notified me about a missing child. How did you get the call?”

  “I’m notifying you now, sir. One of the girls’ mothers is a friend of my mom. Their names are Abigail Lisman and Gracie Durham. One of them isn’t answering her phone, the other is going straight to voicemail. There are some indications this is serious.”

  “What indications?”

  “Abigail Lisman turned off her phone, and her mother says she never does that. And Gracie won’t answer her phone, although Gracie’s brother says she told him to call if anything was wrong.”

  “Those aren’t very strong reasons,” Bailey said. “Anything else?”

  Hannah hesitated. No, not really, but she had a nasty feeling. “Mostly my instincts,” she finally admitted.

  “Okay,” the captain said, sounding serious. “I’ll call Mancuso; she should be notified. The FBI might be able to track the phones much faster than us.”

  “Do you want me to call her, Captain? It’ll save some back and forth.”

  There was a short pause. “Yes, that would be better. Hang on, I’ll give you her number.”

  “I have it,” Hannah said.

  “Okay. Keep me in the loop, Detective.” He sounded tense. A missing child made everyone high-strung.

  Hannah searched for Mancuso’s number. It took her several moments, her cold fingers clumsy and sluggish as she tapped on her phone screen. She was shivering a bit by the time Mancuso answered.

  “Hello?” The agent’s voice was husky, as if she had just woken up.

  “Agent Mancuso? This is Detective Hannah Shor from the Glenmore Park PD. We met when we were investigating—”

  “I remember you. What’s up, Detective Shor?”

&nb
sp; Hannah repeated the details she had just given the captain.

  “I see,” Agent Mancuso said. To Hannah’s relief, she didn’t sound skeptical.

  “I think we need the FBI’s help,” Hannah said. “This isn’t just a case of two girls who snuck out for a party.”

  “Okay,” Agent Mancuso said. “First thing’s first. You say one of them isn’t answering her phone. The phone is definitely on?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “I’ll get the phone company to give us an approximate location.”

  Hannah blinked. “Just like that?”

  “Yes. Let’s hope the girl still has it on her, and that the location will be reasonably accurate. Sometimes the error range can be miles. What’s the number for the girl whose phone is on?”

  “Hang on.” Hannah went inside. “What’s Gracie’s number?” she asked Karen. Karen gave her the number and Hannah dictated it to Agent Mancuso.

  “Okay,” Mancuso said. “I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”

  The call ended. Hannah turned toward the parents. They were sitting on the living room sofas. There were six steaming mugs on the table. Naamit had changed out of her costume, Hannah realized, and was now wearing black pants and a light blue blouse.

  “Who were you talking to?” Tony asked.

  “My captain and the FBI,” Hannah said after a moment. She wasn’t sure if the knowledge that the FBI was involved would reassure the parents or worry them.

  Apparently the answer was both. Tony and Ron relaxed, while Naamit and Karen clearly tensed up.

  “They’re helping us locate Gracie’s phone,” she said, trying to be reassuring.

  Tony nodded. “Good.”

  “I made us all some tea,” Ron said, gesturing at the mugs.

  Hannah nodded distractedly. She wasn’t a tea person. She needed coffee. Tea just made her need to go to the bathroom.

  There was another knock on the door. This time, Hannah got to the door before Naamit. Bernard came in, taking in the two couples and the little boy, who all stared at his tall frame.

  “This is Detective Bernard Gladwin,” Hannah said. “My partner.”

  Before they could all introduce themselves, Hannah’s phone rang again.