Web of Fear

by Mike Omer

  But she didn’t dare ignore it. The people organizing the ransom donations contacted her as well to update her. They began to discuss the practical matter of transferring the money. They already had enough to pay the ransom, and now the banks and the lawyers were hard at work. She was hazy on the details. Ron was taking care of it, but she still made sure they updated her regarding any problem or issue that might arise.

  She picked up the phone and glanced at it. A new e-mail. She clicked it, and for a moment, thought it was another mail sent by the sick individuals who were campaigning against her. Then her heart paused.

  “Ron!” she screamed, her head dizzy.

  He came running into the living room, his eyes red and unfocused. He’d been sleeping very little, almost as badly as she was. “What?” he asked in alarm. “What happened?”

  “It’s the kidnappers,” she whispered. “They sent me an e-mail.” She held out her phone. He snatched it from her fingers and stared at the screen. She moved to stand beside him, and read it for the fourth time

  From: wegotabigail@guerrillamail.com

  To: Naamit Lisman

  Subject: Ransom

  You have the ransom money. Tomorrow, you’ll deliver it to us, and get your daughter back. Bring a duffel bag with three million dollars in 100$ bills to the payphone at the corner of Babel Lane and Kimball Way. Be there tomorrow, the 29th of March, 10:00 AM. Do not contact the FBI or the police. If you do, you’ll never see your daughter again.

  An image was attached to the e-mail. It was Abigail, holding the Boston Globe in her hand. It was difficult to see the details. Was that today’s Boston Globe? Naamit had no idea. She hadn’t watched the news for the past week, didn’t know if the headlines were up to date. She assumed it was, curbing the impulse to check and make sure her daughter was still alive. There were urgent matters to take care of first.

  “We need the ransom money,” Naamit told Ron. “We need it now. Tell those guys no more lawyers, we need it by tomorrow.”

  “I’ll talk to them,” Ron nodded, and she was relieved to see he didn’t hesitate, didn’t raise objections. He seemed sure he could get it. This was the man she needed right now, someone she could lean on.

  “Do you think I should go alone?” she asked. “They contacted me, and—”

  “No,” Ron said. “I won’t let you face them alone. I’ll come with you. And we need to talk to Agent Mancuso, see what she thinks we should—”

  “No!” she shouted. “We are not calling the FBI or the police! You saw the e-mail. I am not risking Abigail’s life.”

  “But we can’t trust those kidnappers blindly,” Ron said, raising his voice as well. “They might be lying. They might try to extort more money once they have the ransom. They might… not release Abigail after… I mean… We don’t know what we’re facing here. We need to talk to Agent—”

  “We’ll talk to Hannah Shor,” Naamit said. “She’s the only one I trust. You saw the news. This case is very public. Who knows what the FBI’s motives are? I trust Hannah’s motives; she doesn’t care about the publicity.”

  Ron nodded hesitantly. “Okay,” he said. “But if Hannah says we need to tell the FBI—”

  “No, Ron,” Naamit said. “We’re involving only Hannah in this. No one else.” She dialed Hannah’s number.

  Hannah answered almost immediately. “Hi, Naamit.”

  “Hannah? Can you come over? We need to talk to you,” Naamit said, wondering if the FBI was listening in on this phone call. “Please.”

  “I’m on my way,” Hannah said immediately, and hung up.

  Chapter Nineteen

  She walked into the kitchen where Darrel sat, smoking a cigarette, a coffee mug on the table. She could never understand why he smoked inside the house. Didn’t he mind the cloying smell of the smoke seeping into everything? His whole home stank like a giant ashtray. Well, all of it but the basement. The basement currently smelled like a public bathroom stall.

  He glanced at her, his eyes moving quickly, as they always did when he was nervous. And he had good reason to be. If anything went wrong today, he’d be in jail by nightfall. She was nervous as well.

  Not for the first time, she regretted it all: convincing Darrel to do it, kidnapping the girl, posting the updates on Instagram. Each and every one of her decisions was questionable. Then again, soon she would be in Mexico, with enough money to start a new, comfortable life. Wouldn’t that be worth a week of stress?

  “Here,” she said, giving him the prepaid phone. “Use this if you need to call them, and once you do, remove the battery and—”

  “I know the drill,” he said sharply. Lately he had been getting more and more irritable at her instructions. “I probably won’t need it, anyway. They’ll be waiting for me where we told them.”

  She nodded. Naamit had replied twice to their e-mail, trying to get details, asking where Abigail would be, how and when they would deliver her. They’d ignored both e-mails. Finally she’d written a third reply, stating that she’d be at the location with the ransom money.

  “Once I have the money, I’ll drive to the replacement car, making sure I’m not followed. I’ll transfer the money to my own bag, and call you to say it’s done. Then I’ll double back here, and you’ll join me as soon as you can.”

  “Good.” She nodded again and smiled. He smiled back. He always perked up when she smiled at him. It was sweet, really; he just wanted her approval and appreciation. And probably her body as well. But that would not happen.

  She glanced at her own phone to check the time. “We should probably get going,” she said. It was a bit early, but she wanted to be out of the house already.

  “Yeah.” He stood up and walked toward the basement door.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she asked sharply.

  “I’m just going to talk to Abi… to the kid. Tell her if she behaves, she’ll get to see her—”

  “I’ll take care of that,” she said, her voice steely.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not dumb, I’ll put on a mask,” he said, glancing at the masks hanging on a nail beside the door. “I just want—”

  “Darrel, you have your job, I have mine,” she said, tensing. She didn’t like this, not at all. He was way too close to the girl, and they couldn’t afford any amateurish mistakes. Not today.

  He clenched his jaw angrily. “I don’t see what the damn problem is. She’ll just be calmer when you take her and—”

  “The kid doesn’t need any more reassurances,” she said. She could see his hand tightening into a fist. She had underestimated how attached he’d become to the child. Time to fix it. She took three steps forward, put her hand on his arm. It was probably the first time she’d ever touched him, other than accidentally bumping into each other.

  “You don’t want to be fresh in her memory today,” she said softly. “As soon as they get her back, the FBI will question her. What did you look like? What did you sound like? What did you smell like? Can she describe any of your features? Your eyes?”

  He breathed heavily as she stood close to him, closer than ever before.

  “She’s just a little kid. She probably won’t be able to describe you accurately from memory, but if she sees you just hours before returning home?”

  “You’re right,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  “Just a few more hours, and we’ll be done. With more money than either of us ever imagined.”

  He nodded, blinking. He turned away from the door.

  “I’ll see you in a few hours,” he said.

  “Right.” She smiled again.

  And he smiled back.

  Hannah sat in Naamit’s living room, waiting impatiently for Google Maps to load on Ron’s laptop. Their internet connection was abysmally slow. Ron paced back and forth, as he had been doing for the past twenty minutes. Naamit sat in front of Hannah, staring at her own lap. She’d burst into tears twice since Hannah had arrived. The stress was clearly too much for her to handle. Hannah hop
ed she wouldn’t do anything stupid during the ransom drop.

  “Naamit,” she said, “please let me call Agent Ward.”

  Naamit raised her eyes. “You said you weren’t sure if they’d try to ambush the kidnappers or not.”

  “Yeah… but I’m also not sure if the kidnappers will deliver her. We need to have experienced people involved.”

  “You’re experienced,” Naamit said.

  “Not with a case like this.”

  “Is anyone experienced with a case like this?”

  Hannah bit her lip, unsure. The publicity surrounding this case was unheard of, as far as she knew. And when she thought of the Redditors, the donated ransom, the strange ransom note… Could anyone really say he had dealt with this kind of case before?

  The map finally appeared. “Here we go,” she said. Ron and Naamit came over and sat on either side of her. She could hear them both breathing heavily. The tension in the room was wearing her down.

  “This is the corner of Babel Lane and Kimball Way, where you should go. It’s where Abigail was originally kidnapped. I’ve gone through that area half a dozen times in the past week, so I know it quite well. They want you waiting by the payphone… here.” She pointed at the screen. “That might mean they intend to call that phone with further instructions. It’s the only payphone in Glenmore Park, so it’s probably not a coincidence that they chose this location. They might tell you to go somewhere else, where there’s no surveillance. North of the corner, toward Clayton Road, there’s a gas station and a post office. Both have CCTV—”

  “What’s that?” Naamit interrupted.

  “Sorry. It’s closed-circuit television. Video cameras pointing outside at the street. When Abigail was kidnapped, the kidnappers made sure not to go through there, to avoid getting caught on film, so I doubt you’ll be asked to go that way. It’s more likely they’ll tell you to go south, toward Joan Avenue. It’s all residential that way, and the streets are much quieter. Or they could ask you to—” She stopped, frowning, staring at the map.

  “What?” Ron asked.

  “Nothing,” Hannah said. Something niggled at her, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. “They might ask you to cross the playground. Anything is possible. They’ve been acting very professionally so far; I’d be surprised if they slip up now.”

  “Do you think we’ll need to go far?” Naamit asked.

  “I have no idea what you’ll be asked to do, but I doubt it,” Hannah said. “Especially carrying that.” She nodded her head at the big duffel bag on the floor. It was damned heavy. Three million dollars in bills was not easy to carry.

  “And then what?” Naamit asked. “When do you think they’ll let Abigail go?”

  Hannah wondered if Naamit was aware of how many times she had already asked that question. Maybe the real problem was the answer she kept hearing.

  “I don’t know,” Hannah said. “I hope it’ll be soon after.”

  Abigail had been in a state of terror ever since that man who came to rescue her had been stabbed to death. Before that happened, she’d wanted to believe chances were in her favor. After all, if the kidnappers didn’t intend on returning her, what was the point of wearing those masks? Or taking her picture? Or feeding her?

  But when the woman stabbed him with her face unmasked, her eyes cold and distant, Abigail realized two things. The woman had no problem with killing. And now that Abigail knew what the woman looked like, the woman wasn’t likely to let her go home.

  The kidnappers had tried to clean the large bloodstain off the floor, and they’d managed to remove most of it. But when she looked hard, Abigail could still see the contour of the stain, the slight discoloration in the floor. Some splatters of blood had been left unnoticed on the stairs and on the wall, and Abigail spent hours staring at them, recalling that moment, the man’s empty eyes, his mouth opening and closing, making no sound, a small trickle of blood on his cheek. And then that terrible memory of his face going slack, all movement ceasing, when she knew he had died. The woman had gone up the stairs and left the basement, closing and locking the door behind her. Abigail was left, curled in the corner of the room, her eyes shut, refusing to look at the dead body.

  The man and woman had finally returned, wearing plastic gloves and rain coats, and took the body with them. Later, they cleaned the floor with cleaning supplies that left a sharp, unpleasant smell lingering in the room—though any smell was preferable to that coppery smell of blood.

  Now, when the woman came in to give her food, her eyes burrowed into Abigail. Did the woman believe Abigail didn’t remember what she looked like? Abigail prayed that was the case, though she would never forget that cold, emotionless face.

  And now the door opened, and the woman stepped in. She was wearing the mask again.

  “Get up,” the woman said. “We’re leaving.”

  Abigail stood up, shaking. She wanted to ask where, or why, but her lips trembled, her throat clenched in fright. She took a hesitant step toward the woman.

  “Come here,” the woman said quietly, her voice even and calm. Fearful, Abigail walked closer. The woman, grunting impatiently, strode up to Abigail, grabbing her chin between two vice-like fingers, lifting her face up. Their eyes met, and the woman looked at her for what felt like hours. Finally, she nodded, as if she was satisfied with what she had seen in Abigail’s eyes.

  Abigail found her voice. “Where—” she started to say, but then the woman clasped the back of her head and pressed a rag to her mouth and nose. Abigail struggled, panicking, her hands clutching at the woman’s arms, trying to pull them away, but the woman’s fingers just squeezed harder, shoving the rag against her face forcefully, hurting her. Abigail tried to scream, but there was no air, just rancid fumes that made her dizzy and weak, as her muffled screams turned to whimpers and then died out.

  Ron hefted the bag to his other shoulder. The thing was heavy, more than fifty pounds of hundred-dollar bills. Enough for the kidnappers to start a new life far away, where no one could find them.

  He glanced at his wife. Her eyes were sharper than they had been for the past week. She looked around her, constantly glancing over at the payphone as if willing it to ring. She couldn’t care less what happened to the kidnappers. She just wanted their daughter back.

  For Ron, it was different. He believed someone should pay for the past days that had plunged their family into this constant nightmare. He was also worried that he’d never feel safe, knowing the kidnappers got away. He would constantly feel as if they were still stalking his family, planning a second kidnapping. Knowing it was highly improbable didn’t make him feel any different. Hadn’t Detective Shor said the kidnapper was someone they knew?

  The street was gloomy and gray, with thick dark clouds obscuring the sun. Would it rain soon? They hadn’t brought an umbrella. He wondered about the duffel bag. Was it waterproof? There was a lot of money inside it. They had purchased the bag at the nearby Walmart. The previous afternoon had been hectic, talking to the banks and the people who were organizing the donations for the money. They’d drafted some sort of contract, which he had signed after skimming it quickly, hoping he wasn’t selling his eternal soul.

  He glanced at the time. 10:07. The kidnappers were running late. He wanted to lift the phone from its cradle, check for a tone, but he was worried that they would call at that exact moment.

  He looked over at the empty playground. The weather wasn’t pleasant enough for parents and nannies to take their kids to the park. The empty swing stood motionless, sad. Abigail and Gracie often sat on this swing, talking. Had they sat there the night of the kidnapping, waiting for an imaginary boy to show up?

  Would he see his daughter today? Hold her in his arms? He pushed the thought away, knowing there wasn’t a way to know. He’d been foolish enough to Google kidnapping stories, and had seen enough stories about kidnappers who had killed children instead of returning them. He didn’t mention those stories to Naamit.

  A lone
car drove by. It made him realize how quiet the street was. The kidnappers had chosen well. The only reason to drive by was if you lived here. Babel Lane ran between Clayton Road and Isabelle Avenue, but anyone who wanted to get from one to the other could do so much faster using nearby Treat Boulevard.

  “Maybe the phone isn’t working,” Naamit said with gritted teeth. She was clearly cold, though she didn’t say anything. Ron kicked himself for not making her wear a thicker coat. He hadn’t taken good enough care of her in the past week. She was falling apart.

  “It’ll be okay,” he said, an empty reassurance that made neither of them feel any better.

  Another car drove down the street, nearly passing them by, then suddenly swerved, nearly hitting the sidewalk. The driver’s door was flung open, revealing a man wearing a dark ski mask sitting behind the driver’s wheel.

  “Give me the money, now!” he barked.

  Ron didn’t move. He wasn’t prepared for this sudden appearance, and as always when surprised, he froze. He was a deer, staring at the incoming headlights, unable to budge.

  “If you want Abigail, give me the money!” the man said, holding out his hand.

  “Ron! Give him the bag!” Naamit screamed at him.

  Years of doing what his wife said took hold. As if in a dream, Ron removed the strap of the heavy duffel bag from his shoulder. The bag dropped to the ground with a loud thump, and he dragged it over to the man, who grabbed the strap and swung the bag into the passenger seat.

  “Go back home,” the man said. “We’ll contact you in an hour. If I’m followed in any way, we’ll kill her. If not, you’ll see your daughter soon.” He sounded almost apologetic. He slammed the door. Then, slowly and calmly, the car pulled away, turned around, and drove off. Ron stared after it, dizzy and shocked.

  Darrel couldn’t believe how flawlessly it had gone. He was sweating profusely when he stopped near the Lismans, and he’d had to overcome the tremor in his voice by talking in a loud, angry tone. He half expected to see a dozen FBI agents leap from the playground, surrounding him. There were numerous places to hide in that area.