Web of Fear

by Mike Omer

  In the movie, a police officer was investigating the kidnapping of a seven-year-old, and halfway through the movie, he found the boy’s body. She switched it off at that point; she couldn’t finish. And she couldn’t sleep for three nights afterward without waking up screaming. She didn’t know how it had ended, but even if they caught the bad guys… the boy was dead.

  And now she had been kidnapped. What would they do to her? Would they kill her? Shivers crawled up her spine as she imagined the men in masks coming in with knives, or guns, or… or…

  She was crying again, her face against the mattress, trying to say “mommy” into the rag, the word muffled beyond comprehension, and she kept saying it over and over and over, as if her mother might hear her and come, like she did back home when Abigail cried for her, and she would hug her and run her hand through Abigail’s hair, and tell her it would be all right—

  There was light. The door was open, and someone stood in the doorway.

  He wore the same black ski mask he’d worn before. Abigail whimpered, shuffling to the corner of the bed as he came closer. Would he kill her now, like they killed that boy in the movie? He had something in his hands—a black lump. She tried to say “Please,” but the rag kept swallowing her words, and she coughed and shook her head.

  “I’m going to remove the gag from your mouth,” the man said. “And if you make a sound, I’ll put it back in. Got that?”

  Abigail nodded, her eyes wide.

  With soft, calm movements, he slid a pair of scissors from his pocket. As the blades of the scissors came closer, Abigail breathed fast through her nose, her eyes following the metal.

  He cut the rag with a single snip, and her mouth was free again. She opened and closed it several times, whimpering with relief.

  “You’re shivering,” the man said. “I brought you a blanket.” He lifted the lump in his hand. That was what it was: a rolled-up blanket.

  “Can you please let me go?” Abigail asked in a meek voice. “Please? I just want to go home.”

  “If you behave yourself,” the man said, “you’ll be home in no time. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. Do you need to go to the bathroom, or—” He looked at the wet stain on her leggings. “Oh.”

  Abigail closed her eyes. Would he be angry? Would he think she wasn’t behaving herself? She had been scared! It was an accident! But she didn’t know what he would think.

  “I’ll get you a clean pair of pants later,” he said. “Here… Stand up.”

  He helped her stand on her feet. There was a wet spot on the mattress where her urine-soaked pants had touched it. The man flipped the mattress, so that the wet part now faced the cot. Then he turned her around and she heard the scissors snip again, felt her hands loosen.

  “There,” he said. “You’ll behave, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay.” He took out his phone and looked at her. “Stay right where you are,” he said.

  He backed up a few steps, and for one crazy moment she thought about bolting. The door wasn’t locked behind him, he was too far to catch her, and… and…

  She forced herself to stay still. He’d grab her in no time. He was tall, his legs long, his body muscular. She was just a girl. If she tried running, he’d tie her up again. He would put the gag back in. He’d leave her in the dark.

  The phone’s tiny light flashed as the man took a photo, then another. Spots danced around Abigail’s eyes, and she blinked several times, the room seeming darker. He turned around and began walking out of the room.

  “Can you leave the light on, please?” she said.

  He hesitated for a moment.

  “Please?” she whispered, a tear trickling down her cheek. If the room plunged into darkness again, she would die.

  He nodded curtly and left, closing the door behind him. She heard the lock click.

  Abigail took off her wet leggings and lay down on the mattress, wrapping the blanket around her. She was still alive. She had light. And she was untied.

  She cried again and couldn’t stop until, exhausted, she slept.

  There was a jackhammer in Naamit’s chest. As the hospital elevator climbed upward slowly, stopping at every floor, Naamit wanted to scream, to push everyone out, to dash outside and find the stairway.

  No one would tell her anything.

  Hannah wasn’t answering her phone. The cop who’d showed up at Naamit’s home had said Gracie had been found (but not Abigail, just Gracie), and was on her way to the hospital. She claimed she didn’t know what had happened yet.

  Someone knew where Abigail was, and what had happened to her. But no one was talking to Ron or Naamit. Ron had stayed home, waiting for Abigail to return, while Naamit drove to the hospital.

  Finally the elevator doors opened on the third floor and Naamit barged out, her eyes frantically looking for anyone who knew what room Gracie was in. Gracie would tell her what had happened. Gracie would—

  Her eyes fell upon Hannah, leaving the emergency ward. She was accompanied by the FBI agent. Naamit hurried toward her.

  “Hannah,” she said, her voice pleading, half-choking. “What happened? Where is Abigail? Is she all right?”

  The detective looked at her, jaw clenched, face pale. She didn’t smile, didn’t put a hand on Naamit’s shoulder, did none of the things people do when they try to calm someone down, to tell her there’s nothing to worry about.

  “Please.” Naamit’s voice caught in her throat. “Where is Abigail?”

  Hannah took Naamit’s hand, led her to a bench that sat against the wall. They both sat down.

  “Abigail has been kidnapped,” Hannah said softly.

  Four words. That was all it took to shatter Naamit’s world to pieces, to send a new, terrible torrent of fear through her body. Kidnapped. Her little girl. In the hands of… of…

  “Who… what…?” she stuttered, trying to frame a question that would give her some reassurance, trying to hang on to something.

  “It seems like it was a professional kidnapping, planned in advance,” Hannah said, her voice low, her eyes looking straight into Naamit’s. “That means it wasn’t some”—she seemed to hesitate, then plunged on—“some random pedophile, prowling the streets, grabbing a child he happened to see.”

  Naamit’s mind shut out the images this last sentence conjured, knowing well they’d return with a vengeance once she was left alone. “Who, then?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Hannah said. “We’re doing everything we can. The FBI are organizing a team to help us investigate. We’re preparing to issue an Amber Alert.”

  Hannah’s words stopped making sense as Naamit’s hazy mind tried to comprehend what was happening. Amber Alert. How many times had she seen a child’s face on TV or online, and thought how terrified his parents were? Losing their own child to a hostile stranger, whose intentions were unknown. Not knowing if they’d ever see the child’s smile again. She was that parent.

  Much worse, Abigail was that child.

  Abigail, who sometimes showed up in her bedroom in the middle of the night because she’d had a bad dream, asking if she could sleep in their bed. Who once, when Naamit had been ten minutes late to pick her up from kindergarten, cried so hard she threw up, because she had been terrified that mommy was gone. She’d been taken by someone who was holding her prisoner, trapped, not knowing what was happening. She was probably crying right now, desperate to return home. Naamit could almost hear her daughter sobbing, her heart torn into a million pieces.

  “…the FBI are very good at resolving these cases,” Hannah was saying. “You’re in superb hands. I know Agent Mancuso personally and—”

  “No!” Naamit grabbed Hannah’s arm, her fingers tightening. “Please. Hannah. You have to stay and help. They don’t know Abigail. They don’t know me. Please stay on this…” case. Abigail was now a case. “On this case. You’re an incredible detective; your mother always says so. You can get my girl back.”

 
; Hannah stared at Naamit. She nodded dumbly. “Of course,” she said. “We’ll all be looking. We’ll do everything possible to get Abigail back, okay?”

  Get Abigail back. That was what Naamit wanted to hear. Needed to hear. That someone was determined to get her daughter back to her. “Thanks,” she whispered.

  She stood up, wobbling, and stared at the door to the Emergency Ward. Gracie was there, with Karen. Karen had her daughter back. Naamit loved Gracie—she was the sweetest child—but a wave of anger and bitterness hit her. Why couldn’t it have been Gracie that was taken? Why couldn’t Karen be the one who was out here, begging for help?

  Naamit always took better care of Abigail, always made sure she knew where Abigail was, told her over and over not to trust strangers. Karen and Tony had once told Naamit that kids needed to learn how to take care of themselves. They let Gracie ride on public transportation alone, let her walk home by herself sometimes. Why couldn’t it have been Gracie?

  She couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. She wanted her child back.

  Chapter Four

  Naamit opened her eyes to sunlight shining through her bedroom window. Ron was by her side, still sleeping. They had fallen asleep hugging each other, with Naamit sobbing and Ron caressing her hair. Ron never really talked much, and he’d known there was nothing to say that would lessen the fear and pain they both felt.

  She looked at her husband’s face, so pale and worn, his jaw clenched as he slept. She untangled herself from his embrace and got up, heart sinking when she checked her phone and found no message, no missed call. She had hoped to see a message from Hannah, telling her there was a lead, that the FBI had cracked the case, they had found the kidnapper. Even a message informing her they were working around the clock would have reassured her.

  It was just before seven a.m. She had slept no more than an hour and a half, but further sleep was impossible. She plodded to the kitchen and made herself a cup of coffee. She considered making something to eat, but knew it would stick in her throat.

  Had they given Abigail something to eat? Her daughter was always so particular about what she deemed edible that she often drove Naamit to fits of anger. As far as Abigail was concerned, only hamburger and tater tots were “good” food. Would the kidnappers bother to bring her what she asked? Would they feed her at all? She felt the tears coming back, but couldn’t face crying anymore. She banished the thoughts, forcing herself to think of nothing but the technical details of making coffee. Pouring the dark brew. A flat spoon of sugar. Just a bit of half and half, not too much.

  She was sitting in the living room, sipping from her mug, when her phone rang. She pounced on it, looking at the display, already feeling the crushing disappointment. It was just Valerie, a mother of one of Abigail’s friends. Naamit had called her last night to ask if Abigail was at their place. She was probably just following up.

  “Hello?” she answered. Her voice was weak, trembling.

  “Naamit, I’m so sorry! I can’t imagine what you’re going through! When I saw Abigail’s picture I couldn’t believe it! The poor girl…”

  Naamit tried to understand what Valerie was talking about. How did she know? What picture? And then she realized what had happened.

  The Amber Alert. Of course. Abigail’s picture was everywhere by now.

  She dumbly listened as Valerie kept on talking, telling her how sorry she was, saying how she couldn’t believe this had happened, asking if Naamit and Ron needed any help at all.

  “Thank you for your call,” Naamit finally said. “I appreciate it.”

  “Please let us know if there are any developments.”

  “Sure,” Naamit said, and hung up. She wondered if Valerie really thought she’d call her to update her about any developments. She shook her head. Valerie was just searching for the right thing to say.

  Naamit wondered what she would have said to a parent whose girl was kidnapped? There was no protocol for it. It wasn’t supposed to happen to people you knew.

  She stared at the phone display. The digits read 7:13. After a few seconds they read 7:14. She kept staring. After an infinity they changed to 7:15. This was what she’d do—just stare at the time moving until her daughter got back.

  The phone rang in her hand. She didn’t know the number, and she answered immediately, her heart beating.

  “H… hello?”

  “Mrs. Lisman? This is Agent Mancuso. Did I wake you up?”

  “N… no. I was awake.”

  “Good. I wanted to update you that the Amber Alert is being released.”

  “Yes, I know. A friend called me.”

  There was a moment of silence. “A friend?” Mancuso said.

  “Yes, the parent of… Anyway, she said she saw the alert.”

  “Really? That surprises me. I assumed they were only starting now. I guess they got it going faster than I thought.”

  “Yes.” Naamit hesitated. “Is there any other news?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Okay. Thank you for your update.”

  “Don’t mention it… Are you sure she said she saw the alert?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Okay. Thank you, Mrs. Lisman. We’ll be in touch.”

  Naamit put down the phone. She considered calling Valerie to ask where she had seen the alert, but couldn’t face the woman’s hysterical monologue.

  Her phone rang again. Debra. Another mother. She let it ring until it stopped.

  Then it rang again. Lyla, this time; her daughter Tammi was in Abigail’s class. Naamit wanted to bash the phone, but this was what happened. They just wanted to help.

  “Hello?”

  “Naamit, I’m so sorry! Tammi was devastated when she saw Abigail’s picture. I can’t believe they’d do that!”

  “Yes,” Naamit said emptily. “It’s terrible.”

  “Did you call the cops?”

  “I… of course. That’s why the Amber Alert was released.”

  “Oh, an Amber Alert was released? That’s great. I’ve heard those things work really well, they’d find Abigail in no—”

  “Wait,” Naamit interrupted Lyla, her hand gripping the phone hard. “Didn’t you just say Tammi saw the Amber Alert?”

  “No,” Lyla said. “She saw the photo.”

  “The photo…” Naamit tried to make sense of it all. “The photo in the alert?”

  “No! The photo on Abigail’s Instagram page.”

  Naamit hung up. Hands shaking, she opened the Instagram app on her phone. She didn’t follow many people; in fact, she opened the app only once or twice a week.

  She didn’t need to scroll at all, it was the top post on her feed.

  It was an image of Abigail’s face, in a dark room. Her daughter’s eyes were puffy, her lips twisted as if she was about to cry, her face blotched pink and white. It had been posted using Abigail’s account.

  The caption beneath said If you ever want to see Abigail alive, better start preparing the ransom. 3 Million dollars. We’ll be in touch. #WeGotAbigail

  Naamit’s scream woke Ron up.

  Hannah had worked more than eight years in the Glenmore Park Police Department. She could easily sense a change in the department’s atmosphere. The brisk speed with which people moved from place to place, the tense faces, the unsmiling countenance of Officer McLure behind the front desk.

  “Detective,” he said when she walked into the department’s lobby. “There’s an active situation room in meeting room two. Captain Bailey asked that you join them there once you arrive.”

  Hannah nodded and quickly headed for the second floor. Meeting room two, which was opposite the squad room, hummed with activity. Agent Mancuso and Captain Bailey were there, talking over the large-scale map of Glenmore Park spread in front of them. Several people she didn’t recognize sat by the table, a laptop in front of each of them. A tech guy was laying wires, trying to connect a complex digital contraption consisting of black boxes, keypads, and a huge screen. Hannah guessed it
was the FBI equivalent of a whiteboard and a phone.

  “Detective Shor.” Captain Bailey motioned to Hannah and she walked over. Mancuso handed her a phone. Confused, Hannah glanced at the screen, and felt a chill as she realized she was looking at an image of Abigail Lisman.

  “This was posted on Abigail Lisman’s Instagram account last night,” Mancuso said. “It wasn’t posted from her phone, so we assume the kidnappers got the password from her and posted it using a burner phone. We can’t currently locate this phone, meaning it’s already offline, but we’re working on finding out approximately where the kidnappers were when they posted this.”

  “Three million dollars?” Hannah asked. “I don’t think the Lismans have that sort of money.”

  “They don’t,” Mancuso said shortly. “We don’t know yet if this is a mistake, or something aimed to throw us off the scent. The image was posted at three-fifteen a.m. We’re working under the assumption that Abigail is still alive, and that the picture was taken not long before.”

  Hannah nodded.

  “We’ve begun to acquire all CCTV footage in the area of the park, and we have men analyzing it, trying to figure out in which direction the van drove away, and what’s the license plate. We’ve done door-to-door questioning within a five-hundred-foot radius of the kidnapping site, and so far we have no witnesses. We’re also getting a warrant for a phone dump for the area.”

  “The Amber Alert?” Hannah asked.

  “Dispatched. All airports and border checkpoints have been notified as well,” Mancuso said.

  “Will you be able to trace any future posts on the Instagram page?”

  “Yes,” Mancuso nodded.

  Hannah looked at the large map on the table. “You’re focusing on Glenmore Park?” she asked. “The kidnappers could be in Boston by now.”

  “They could be in Texas by now,” Mancuso said. “We’re working all possible angles. Our best bet is to collect as much as we can in Glenmore Park. It looks like the kidnappers were familiar with the girl. We’re assuming they live here or work here. If we manage to find evidence that points somewhere else, we’ll go where it leads us. Glenmore Park has two main roads through which people are likely to leave. Both have traffic cameras. We’re analyzing the feed, collecting license plate numbers, trying to figure out if they left town after the kidnapping.”