by Mike Omer
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
About The Author
Acknowledgements
Web of Fear
Mike Omer
Web of Fear Copyright © 2016 by Mike Omer
All rights reserved.
Cover art Copyright © 2016 by Deranged Doctor Design
All rights reserved.
For Shira
Chapter One
The merry-go-round turned slowly in the chilly wind, emitting a high-pitched squeak in the dark playground. Gracie Durham stared at it, shivering in the cold, wishing she was home in her warm bed. Instead, she sat on the double-sided swing, Abby in front of her. The swingset was a bit rusty, its yellow paint peeling to reveal a blackened metallic tinge underneath. Gracie exhaled, her breath clouding in the crisp night air.
“I don’t think he’s coming, Abby,” she said.
“He’ll come,” Abby said, biting her lip.
“Did he text you?”
Abby checked her phone. “No. But he’ll come. I mean… it’s only five past eight.”
It was Saint Patrick’s Day. The streets were rife with drunken grownups laughing and hollering. Gracie saw one man throwing up on the corner of a building. A few minutes later, a hugging couple zigzagged their way past her, the guy’s hand in the girl’s pants. Gracie hoped she’d never grow up to be so disgusting. She was relieved to leave the festivities behind them, as they turned toward the playground on Babel Lane, where Abby and Noel had agreed to meet.
Gracie wished they’d met during the afternoon, instead of the evening. Neither Gracie nor Abby were allowed to go out this late on a school night, and if Gracie’s parents found out she wasn’t home, they’d kill her. But she’d promised Abby, and… well, Abby had always been there for her. Abby had stood up to Tara and her friends when they bullied Gracie about her clothes. Last year, in fifth grade, she’d taken the blame when Mrs. Moreno caught them cheating, even though it was Gracie’s fault. She was always supportive about Gracie’s music.
Abby was an amazing friend. The least Gracie could do was come with her to meet Noel.
She looked around her, hugging herself; the swing rocked them both. Abby and Gracie had spent many afternoons in this playground. Abby claimed they’d met for the first time on the merry-go-round, though Gracie was pretty sure they’d actually met in school, during lunch. Regardless, they’d played here for hours when they were smaller, swinging on the swings, sliding down and climbing up the slide, even though you were supposed to use the ladder. When they grew up, they’d still hang out there, talking about school, music, boys, books, whatever. Just talking and talking. Sometimes sharing Skittles, or Reese’s, or (once Abby’s mother forbade her to eat candy every day) apples.
Seeing the playground at night was a whole different story. There were only two street lights, and the playground equipment cast eerie, long shadows. The only sound was the occasional squeak from the merry-go-round. During the day, the squeaking was kinda funny, and kids turned the thing faster and faster to get the pitch even higher. But now it was unpleasant, making Gracie’s skin prickle. Patches of snow dotted the ground, white-blue in the shadowy darkness.
The swingset’s metal frame was cold beyond belief, and it froze Gracie’s ass through the thick pants she wore. She fidgeted, trying to sit on her coat as much as she could.
“Anything?” she finally asked.
Abby checked the screen again, her face momentarily lit by it. “No,” she said, her voice subdued.
“We need to go, Abby. He probably couldn’t make it.”
Abby was shivering slightly as well. “Yeah,” she said, the disappointment in her voice palpable. “Let’s go.”
Gracie had a feeling Abby was about to cry. She’d talked about this evening for the past three days, so excited to finally meet Noel. Gracie would console her friend later, but now they had to walk home before they froze. She leaped down from the swing and held out a hand for Abby, facing the adjacent park as she did so. The dark trees hid the city lights beyond them.
When a tall figure appeared, walking toward them on the path from the park, Gracie was startled. He moved strangely, his pacing careful, and she tensed, a foreign thought blinking in her consciousness: He doesn’t want us to hear him. It took her another second to realize she couldn’t see his face—not because of the darkness, but because he wore a ski mask.
By that point he was already moving much faster.
“Abby… Run!” Gracie shrieked.
Abby hesitated in confusion. Gracie, still holding her hand, pulled her and ran toward the street. When she glanced backward, the man was much closer than before, his feet a blur. Her mind registered an assortment of little details. A small object in his hand, a glimpse of white. His eyes, narrowing as he chased them, flickering in the darkness. Their long shadows, cast on the path, holding hands. A larger shadow looming over them, getting closer and closer.
Abby’s speed picked up. She’d always been the athletic one, quicker and stronger than Gracie. Now she was the one pulling Gracie, not the other way around.
They neared the exit to the street. From there, it was just a short dash to the open gas station across the road, and they’d be safe.
A dark van came hurtling down the road in front of them, its engine roaring. Its front wheels thumped as it hit the sidewalk; its brakes screeched and it came to a halt, blocking the exit. The door swung open, and another figure got out. A ski mask hid his face as well.
Gracie screamed in fear as the man in front of them rushed forward. Behind them, she could hear the thudding steps of their pursuer, intermingling with the thudding of her own heart. Abby almost didn’t hesitate, veering right, getting off the path, running through the icy frozen ground of the park. She didn’t let go of Gracie, yanking her along behind. They were both stumbling, panting. Gracie tried to talk, couldn’t, her lungs burning, fear clenching her throat. There was nothing to do but run.
The ground became muddy, slippery, uneven. Gracie’s foot twisted; she faltered, losing her grip on Abby’s hand, and then they were running apart. Gracie, lagging behind, found her voice. “Help!” she screamed. “Somebody help us!”
A crazy idea materialized in her brain. Perhaps she could climb a tree before they caught her. She was a good climber.
There was a large tree not far from her and she pivoted right, ran toward it. She could see that both pursuers were still going after Abby, but one of them glanced in her direction, predatory eyes following her movement. Gracie’s eyes frantically looked for a low branch to grab, but it was too dark to see anything, let alone climb a tree.
Despair overtook her.
The ground was sleek, a mix of mud and sludgy ice. She slipped, stumbled, fell, trying to protect her head, but she was slow, her hands failing to move in time, and she crashed head first into the tree, the blinding pain con
suming her.
Detective Hannah Shor had swiped right earlier that evening, and now found herself in the midst of a date with an unemployed twenty-five-year old man in a leprechaun hat. She wasn’t sure what was more upsetting: that Bob Mills thought it would be cute to show up to the date with the hat, or that she hadn’t terminated the date as soon as she saw it. It was fraud, pure and simple. He hadn’t had a leprechaun hat in his photo, nor had he mentioned it anywhere in his bio or tagline. He’d just said he was friendly and fun, and liked dogs.
To be fair, below the hat he was the perfect eye candy. He was six years younger than her, with carelessly shaggy blond hair and wide shoulders. When he went to the bathroom, she verified that he had a cute ass as well. She was willing to forgive and forget the whole leprechaun hat thing. He had removed it immediately after sitting down, after all.
He smiled at her with perfect teeth, and she smiled back, brushing aside a strand of her frazzled brown hair. She hoped she looked as if she was just casual and easygoing, and not as if she hadn’t had time to shower, put on makeup, or even take a good look in the mirror—which was the case.
Then he began to speak.
Bob Mills was suffering from what Hannah called Owl syndrome. Named after the owl in Winnie the Pooh, Owl syndrome inflicted people with the feeling they knew everything, and that their knowledge had to be shared with everyone. It was a dreary disease, but almost never lethal, except for extreme cases.
Bob was getting less and less attractive by the minute.
He knew things about Saint Patrick’s Day, which he shared. He asked her why she hadn’t dressed for the holiday. She avoided the obvious answer—she thought St. Patrick’s Day was dumb—and said instead that she was Jewish. It turned out that Bob knew things about Judaism. And about Israel. There was a whole monologue about the Middle East situation, during which her mind detached as she sailed down memory lane, comparing this date with other terrible dates. It ranked a seven-point-five on the David Ferguson Meter, a scale based on her worst date ever, which had included bad sex, a ruined shirt, and a lot of sobbing … on his part.
She looked around her in despair. The people in the bar were clearly enjoying themselves, almost as if they didn’t care she was on a bad date. A group of pretty twenty-year-old girls cheered as one of their friends drank a whole mug of beer, spilling half on her top. At another table, a couple had the nerve to be holding hands, as if to spite her. The waitresses were walking around smiling, wearing green wigs to celebrate the Irish holiday, serving beer to their happy customers. Saint Patrick’s Day was probably a fantastic day for tips. And here she was, stuck with Mr. “Let me tell you about the real issue with imported vegetables,” seriously considering getting up and leaving.
The problem was, Hannah was bored and lonely, and wanted to find someone to banish a face she’d been seeing a lot in her dreams lately. Mitchell Lonnie, one of the detectives in her squad, had begun seeping into her mind at random moments, and her face would heat up when she thought about him. This would not do. She had to start dating.
Bob Mills, when he shut up, looked like someone she could have some fun with. Perhaps it would be best if she suggested they go to her place before he lost the few shreds of sexual attraction he still had going for him.
But then he started to talk about the Glenmore Park Police Department, and the date was officially doomed. Its score was now eight-point-five David Ferguson.
The police force in Glenmore Park, Bob explained as Hannah nodded in interest, was useless. Glenmore Park had one of the highest crime rates in Massachusetts, and Bob knew firsthand that this was due to police corruption and ineptitude.
“That’s terrible,” Hannah said.
“They have all this budget… did you know that the Glenmore Park cops are the highest-paid cops in the entire state?”
“Outrageous,” Hannah said. “You’d think they’d try to keep us safe, at least.”
“Right? I was fined last month for speeding. I swear, I was driving just under the speed limit. I could have fought it in court, but you know how it is. Choose your battles, right?”
“Absolutely. You don’t want to go up against a corrupt police force in court.” Hannah shook her head in sadness at the deplorable state of the law. “I mean… they probably have all the judges in their pockets.”
“Probably? I’d say definitely.”
Hannah wondered why she didn’t have an extraction plan. Every woman had a friend who called an hour into the date, a phone call that could potentially be turned into an emergency if the occasion mandated. But not Hannah Shor. No… Hannah Shor went into every date as if it was the real thing, the guy she was about to marry.
Well, she and Bob would not get married, would not even have sex, wide shoulders and cute ass notwithstanding. She’d just have to claim she had a headache. He’d probably have a speech about headaches. He probably knew how to take care of headaches.
“Listen,” she said, massaging her temple as if the hurricane of migraines simmered there. “I don’t—”
Her phone rang. A Saint Patrick’s Day miracle. She took it out of her purse. It was an unrecognized number, but that was fine. By this point, she was willing to talk to anyone, just to get out of this date.
“Hello?” she said.
“Hannah?” A familiar voice she couldn’t quite place.
“That’s right. Who’s this?”
“Hannah, it’s Naamit.”
Right, she realized. Naamit, her mother’s friend. She wasn’t certain where her mother had befriended the woman. Was it at the synagogue? Or at some sort of Pilates class? The details were hazy, but Naamit and Hannah’s mother had been good friends for several years now.
“Hey, Naamit, how are you doing?” she said.
“Not good,” The woman said, and Hannah realized she was sobbing. “Hannah, can you come over? We could really use your help.”
“Sure,” Hannah said, frowning. “What’s the problem?”
“It’s Abigail,” Naamit said. “She’s gone.”
“What’s the address?” Hannah asked.
“23 Lavetta Way.”
“I’m on my way,” Hannah said, and hung up. “I have to go.”
“What is it?” Bob asked.
“A friend needs my help. It’s a police matter.”
The cogs turned for a few seconds. “You’re a cop?” Bob asked.
“Yeah. A detective.” Hannah dropped two bills on the table.
“Oh,” Bob said.
Hannah stood up. “This was delightful,” she said, in a tone that broadcasted that it was as delightful as taxes.
“We should do this again sometime,” Bob said.
“Definitely,” Hannah said.
Never. Not even if he and David Ferguson were the last men on earth.
Hannah was caught off guard when Naamit opened the door. She was dressed in a crimson skirt and black leggings. Her shirt, dotted with little sequins, glittered in the yellow light of the front door lamp. Her lips were dark red, and there were traces of pale makeup on her face, but her eyes and nose were puffy and pink. She had clearly been crying for some time.
“Hannah,” she said, sniffling. “Thanks for coming.”
“Of course,” Hannah said. “What happened?”
“We came back home an hour ago, and Abigail wasn’t here! At first we thought she went to a friend’s house. But her phone is turned off, and most of her friends don’t know where she is.”
“Most of her friends?” Hannah asked as Naamit led her inside, into the living room. It was a small space, the furniture simple and worn. Two sofas stood on a faded white carpet, with a round wooden coffee table between them.
“Yes… her best friend, Gracie, isn’t answering her phone, and neither are her parents. Ron drove by their house, but it’s dark and no one is answering the door.”
“I see. Maybe they took Abigail with her friend to see a movie, or something like that?”
“Without telling u
s?” Naamit said. “I don’t believe it.”
Hannah had the feeling that was exactly what had happened. Nevertheless, she didn’t intend to blow it off. This was a missing child.
“How old is Abigail?” she asked.
“She’s twelve,” Naamit said, voice wavering.
“Okay, and where were you when she left home?”
“We were at a party,” Naamit said. “I shouldn’t have left her alone! I wanted to call my mother, ask her to come over, but Abigail kept insisting she wasn’t a little girl, that she didn’t need a babysitter.”
“Uh-huh. A party? A Saint Patrick’s Day party?” Hannah raised her eyebrow.
“Well, not really,” Naamit said. “It was an office party. And they know we’re Jewish, so they made it a Saint Patrick’s Purim party.”
“Oh, right.” Purim was right around the corner. Well, that explained Naamit’s costume. “When did the party start?”
“It started at six, but we were a bit late. We only left here at about seven.”
“Right. And did you tell Abigail when you were coming back?”
“We said we’d be out until about midnight, but the party ended a bit early. We’re a small company. All my coworkers were there, but even with their spouses, there were no more than a dozen people. And we decided to cut it short.”
Hannah sighed. So the daughter thought her parents would be out until late at night, she insisted no one should stay with her, and her parents returned home much earlier than they had said they would. Her best friend was missing as well, along with the rest of her family. Hannah was willing to bet that Abigail would walk in any minute, and it would turn out she had gone to a concert her mom hadn’t allowed her to go to, or something similar.
“Where’s Ron?” Hannah asked.
“He’s driving around the neighborhood, looking for her,” Naamit said.
“Listen,” Hannah said and then paused. “Did you say her phone was turned off?”
“That’s right.”
If there was one detail that struck Hannah as worrisome, that was it. “Does she turn off her phone sometimes?” she asked.
