“And what’s your plan if our mother is still gone tomorrow?” asked Rachel.
“Let’s hope she returns before then. Should that not be the case, we will interview park vendors and restaurant staff.”
“Are you going to send out a search and rescue team?” Becca asked. “Mom could have twisted her ankle or had an allergic reaction to poison ivy.”
“To be honest, anything could have happened. We’ve got lakes, wooded trails, all kinds of plants, insects.”
“OMG.” Becca’s voice shook. “She could have fallen in the lake.”
Rachel rolled her eyes. “Reeling in a shark?”
“Sharks swim in oceans, not in man-made lakes.”
“Exactly!”
“Besides, Mom doesn’t swim or fish, does she?” Becca asked.
Rachel raised her eyebrows.
“Hey, I’ve lived away from home for nine years. Maybe she’s taken up a couple new hobbies you guys forgot to mention.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Knock it off, girls,” said Dad. “Right now, we’ve got more important fish to fry.”
Rachel laughed so hard, tears streamed down her cheeks. “Get it? ‘Fish to fry.’”
Detective Hernandez discreetly shuffled her notes.
“If our mother is being held captive, how are you going to find the perpetrator?” Rachel’s question was the elephant in the room.
Becca’s sister knew detective terminology upside down and right side up. She’d watched every detective show imaginable, from Law & Order SVU to Blacklist.
“We have special park police, as well as the NYPD,” said the detective. “We’ll put out a missing person’s alert on cell phone and cable television.”
“We can post Mom’s picture on Facebook,” Becca said.
“Good idea. I suggest you all go back to your hotel in case she returns.”
Rachel massaged her belly. “In case? You mean ‘when.’”
Detective Hernandez dialed her office phone. “We’re hoping for the best outcome.”
Rachel got up to use the bathroom. Clear liquid streamed down her legs and onto the floor.
“OMG!” said Becca. “I’ve Googled pregnancy; that stream is not pee.”
Rachel gazed at the wet floor. Her face paled. “My water broke!”
“But you’re only twenty-six weeks!” Becca blurted.
Minutes later, paramedics lifted her sister onto a gurney and wheeled her out of the building and into an ambulance. Zander climbed inside while Dad and Becca slipped into his car to follow them to New York Presbyterian Hospital.
Dad keyed the ignition and pulled their rental car away from the curb. A yellow ticket peeked from behind the windshield wipers. Becca could tell he was upset because instead of stopping the car to retrieve the police ticket, Dad pressed the wiper button and the ticket flew away. “Your sister will be fine,” he said, his tone robotic.
“It’s too soon for the baby to be born. She’s only the size of a zucchini!”
“Your sister and the baby are in God’s hands. They’ll be fine.”
For all of their sakes, Becca hoped he was right.
Chapter 7
Rachel
Rachel’s obstetrician removed the stethoscope from around her neck and stood over the hospital bed. “The good news is there is no infection.”
“And the bad news?” asked Rachel.
“You’ll need to stay on bedrest here at the hospital until you deliver.”
“But she’s over three months early,” Zan protested.
“Which is why your baby’s lungs need to further develop.”
“I need my mom.”
Doctor Nayman looked concerned. “Have you contacted her?”
“Her mother is missing,” Zan interrupted.
The doctor blanched. “I’m so sorry.”
“Which is why my wife’s water broke, right?”
The doctor gave them an empathetic smile. “It is true that catastrophic stress can cause the placenta to produce a hormone called CRH, which can trigger the release of prostaglandins and uterine contractions. However, your wife was not experiencing close contractions when she arrived at the hospital. We are administering anti-contraction medicine so she does not go into premature labor.”
“So I’m just supposed to lie here until my baby is born?” Rachel sniffled, swiping her nose with a tissue. Being confined to bedrest because of her mother’s actions—for she still believed it to be so, despite her doctor’s non-confirmation—was yet one more example of her disregard for anybody but herself. How many times had their family attended her soccer matches without mom because she was hot on the trail of tracking down a witness in a criminal case? How many times had Rachel teased her about studying to become a private investigator; she’d be away from the family for the same number of hours but make more money. I’m too busy to be with you guys, let alone go back to school at my age, she’d say.
The doctor smiled. “In a few days, you will be moved to an antepartum room, which has a refrigerator and a sitting area. You will have your blood drawn every three days, so the blood bank has blood on hand for you in the event you need a transfusion. We will be on the lookout for infection. You will have your vitals taken every eight hours, and fetal monitoring at least twice a day.”
“Great,” muttered Rachel.
“What are the visiting hours? Her father and sister will want to visit.”
“We are very liberal here, as long as it is not past ten p.m.”
Rachel began to sob. “The only visitor I need to walk through that door is my mother!”
Zan took her hands in his. “The detective is working on that, Honey.”
“Then why isn’t Mom here?” Rachel lamented.
The doctor’s eyes shone with empathy. “We will speak again. Know that both you and your baby are in good hands.”
Rachel reached out to touch her arm. “Sorry I was being a brat. We appreciate you.”
The doctor nodded and left.
“What if my words hurt Mom so bad, she never comes back? What if she’s been killed?”
Zan tenderly swept strands of tear-stained hair from her face. “Right now, our baby’s life depends on you staying calm.”
“Ouch!” Rachel rubbed her tummy.
Zan reached for the nurse buzzer, but she stopped him. “I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
Rachel nodded.
“How about trying that deep breathing stuff you do?”
“Fine, but pray for me and the baby.”
Zan grimaced. “You know God and I don’t mesh.”
Rachel smiled as she closed her eyes. “Do it for me.”
DAY 1
POST-KIDNAPPING
Chapter 8
Shana
Shana regained consciousness to discover her arms shackled to a lead-speckled radiator against the wall opposite a kitchen sink. Sunlight dripped through a filthy window above the sink.
Rat-a-tat steps bounded into the kitchen. Before her stood the nice young man who’d shared his umbrella. “How’d you sleep?’
“Where am I?” Shana asked, bewildered.
‘You passed out in Central Park and I brought you back to my grandparents’ house so I could attend to you,” he said, smiling.
“Why didn’t you bring me to the nearest hospital? And why are my arms shackled?”
“You had no money, health insurance card, or identification on you. I was afraid the hospital would consider you indigent and turn you away. The shackles were just meant to keep you safe. You tried to hurt yourself.”
Twenty-six years as a newspaper reporter enabled Shana’s bullshit detector to flush out many a loser. This guy was no exception. “Thanks for your help, but my arms are numb. Please unlo
ck these shackles.”
The young man knelt by Shana’s side and gazed into her brown-green eyes. “You were acting crazy last night, scratching at your wrists, shrieking for no apparent reason. I prefer to release your shackles once a family member comes to fetch you. Then I’ll know you’re safe.”
“If that’s your plan, I first need to use the bathroom. Then I need to let my kids know I’m all right and text them your address. To do that, I need you to unlock this contraption.”
Shana watched the young man produce a flip phone from his pocket. What an odd phone choice for a millennial. It had been at least twenty years since she, herself, had carried one of those antiquated cell phones, preceded by pocket pagers. Pocket pagers had proved a boom for the newspaper industry. When she and her fellow reporters would receive a beep—she’d set hers to 1 beep for office (a lead), 2 beeps for personal calls (a need)—they’d rush to the nearest phone booth to return the call. Freaking frustrating was when those mad dashes to a telephone booth resulted in a telephone solicitation.
“Do you want me to repeat it?”
Her eyebrows scrunched. “Repeat what?”
“I was just saying I understand your predicament. Please allow me to punch in the numbers for you.”
His was a disposable phone. She’d bet her favorite hair dye on it. Thank goodness for Amazon. Flipping through the online shades of purple, she’d ultimately settled on grape over peacock blue; paying that price tag would have been indulgent, now that she was retired.
“Hello?”
No way could she expose her family to this psycho by giving him their phone number.
“That’s okay. Just release these shackles, and I’ll phone the kids myself.”
“No worries. I can manage.”
Even if she did, he’d use the prefix *67 so his call couldn’t be traced. “Let me think about it.”
The young man’s posture stiffened. “I saved your life, but you don’t trust me to phone your kids?”
Shana reconsidered giving him their number. Her family would hear his voice, perhaps even record it if they were sharp enough. “I apologize. If you meant me harm, you would have already acted upon it.”
The young man yanked her shackles down to the base of the radiator. “Bitch!”
His abrupt tone was a bad omen. Shana’s stomach roiled as she struggled to come up with an anger-diffuser. Perhaps agreeing with him was the key.
“My kids would second your label of me.”
The young man spat in her face.
Anger welled up inside her. “Wipe my face immediately!”
He hit her leg with his fist. “Lady, you have no clue who you’re dealing with, what I’m capable of doing. You want to get out of here, give me your family’s phone number. Now!”
“Why am I here? If it’s ransom you want, my husband’s got plenty of money to pay for my release.” Her third white lie in less than twenty-four hours.
Her captor’s laugh sounded like something from a Halloween 5 remake. “I never mentioned ransom, and you are not in charge!” he said, punching her in the arm. “Give me the number!”
Shana stiffened. “No way.”
He assumed a Downward Dog pose. She giggled hysterically. Another yoga enthusiast!
His face reddened. “Do as I say, Whore!”
Shana willed herself to stay calm. She’d been made scared shitless by the best of them, from Mafia kingpins to corrupt CEOs. This loser was no contender. “That all you got?” she taunted.
He came at her, fists raised.
Time to do the unexpected. Shana slid down from her knees to her haunches. Then she scrunched her eyelids. “Go ahead. Kill me. I’ve embarrassed my family numerous times. They won’t search for me.”
In one quick move, he dug a pen knife from his pocket and slashed her right cheek.
Shana’s eyes flew open. At the sight of her own blood creeping from her cheek down her right arm, she let loose a pool of pee.
Her captor jumped to his feet. “Ugh!” He shoved a roll of paper towels toward her. “Clean it up!” Each word a rifle bullet.
Shana leaned her cheek toward her shackled arms and sniffed. “Ugh! My blood smells worse than my piss!”
He pulled her hair up so her eyes met his. “Do you really want Rachel and Becca to discover their mother’s been hacked into soup chunks?”
Shana’s eyes widened in horror.
He knew her daughters’ names.
Not random.
The room seemed to spin.
The last thing she saw before slipping into darkness was the slight smile on the young man’s face.
Chapter 9
Alan
January 9, 1983
Funeral
After Justin and his stillborn brothers were buried—each in his own tiny casket—Alan and Deborah headed back to their one-story house to prepare for mourners who would soon pile through their front door. Sitting Shiva was not required if a baby lived less than thirty days, but his wife had insisted on observing the ritual.
“Two days ago, we were looking forward to bringing three babies home. Today we return home empty-handed. God owes us this much.”
As soon as Alan unlocked the door to their house, Deborah swept past him. Gut wrenching sounds echoed from the master bathroom. A random thought struck him; he could wait until after shiva to clean the toilet, since the mourners would use the hall bathroom.
The mourners began to arrive. A plastic smile on his lips, Alan accepted perfunctory hugs, as well as multiple dishes of fruit, kosher sweets, and dairy platters. When Deborah returned to the living room, a touch of lipstick emphasizing her paleness, Rabbi Shapiro began to lead the mourners in prayer. Although it wasn’t the traditional Kaddish prayer, due to the brief amount of time the babies had lived, the chanting of the Hebrew words soothed him.
When Rabbi Shapiro finished, Alan went into the kitchen to prepare a plate of food for his wife; all she’d consumed today was a cup of chicken broth and a couple of bites of challah.
Rabbi Shapiro joined him at the kitchen island. “How are you holding up?”
“Deborah’s the one you should be asking.”
“You must recognize your own loss,” Rabbi Shapiro counseled. “Your pain is no less real than your wife’s.”
“A man is supposed to protect his family. I let my children slip like marbles through my fingers. I deserve nothing.”
Rabbi Shapiro placed his arm around Alan’s stooped figure. “Their deaths had nothing to do with you. God works in mysterious ways.”
Alan’s jaw dropped. “Really? That’s all you’ve got?”
“How many miscarriages did you and Deborah undergo before becoming pregnant with the triplets? How many fertility treatments?”
Alan stared at Rabbi Shapiro. “What’s your point?”
“When all hope seemed lost, what happened? God enabled her to become pregnant.”
“One more mistake,” Alan muttered.
“God does not make mistakes.”
Alan opened his lips to disagree, but Rabbi Shapiro shushed him. “God allowed Deborah to nurture those three babies in her womb for six-and-a-half months.”
“Then he ripped them from her womb.”
“Listen, Alan, you are free to rage against God over the loss of your children. But deep within you, there will come a time when you will discover the silver lining.”
Alan covered his ears. “Stop! Just stop!”
Rabbi Shapiro kissed Alan’s forehead and then rose. I’m sorry to have upset you. “Please allow the Community the mitzvah of cooking and cleaning for you during the coming days. Feel free to reach out to me or the Rebbetzin, day or night.”
Alan didn’t trust himself to speak as he placed his wife’s fruit plate and cup of chamomile tea on a tray. He prepared to exit the kitche
n.
Rabbi Shapiro cleared his throat. “One more thing, if you don’t mind.”
Alan turned back to the rabbi. Now what, he wondered irritably.
“If you need me to speak with your family members regarding Justin’s death, I can smooth the path.”
“Thanks. We’ll be fine.”
Rabbi Shapiro rose to his feet. “Know my offer has no expiration date. For what it’s worth, I believe you did the right thing.”
The rabbi embraced him, then left the kitchen. Alan watched him go. Would the rabbi’s compassion turn to ashes once he confessed the whiff of relief he’d experienced upon unhooking his baby’s breathing tube?
Over the next seven days, family, friends, and business colleagues came to pay their respects. Alan’s wife sat on the sofa, too drugged to fully acknowledge the mourners’ presence. The hours he and Deb spent alone together were filled with recriminations. “I could have had Justin if you hadn’t taken him off life support,” she’d moan.
“We agreed not to let him suffer in his last hours.”
“The doctor said he could maybe have survived another week,” she protested.
“’Maybe’ is a word without dimensions.”
She frowned. “All you care about is absolutes.”
“Because absolutes are the only reality!”
“But we could have been there for him, like we couldn’t be for our other babies.”
Alan let out an anguished cry. Deb pulled him to her. “Let’s don’t fight,” she whispered into his straggly hair.
He nuzzled her neck. “I love you.”
“I know you do,” she murmured.
Chapter 10
Shana
Shana’s captor snickered as he waved a neon green plastic gun in her face. “You really should see a therapist. It can’t be normal for a tough reporter to faint at every little thing.”
Shana pulled at her shackles. “Like you’re normal, nabbing me from the park to cut me up at grandma’s house!”
Up Close And Gone Page 3
