by Mike Omer
“He doesn’t have any accomplices! You’re barking up the wrong tree, Agent.”
Mancuso pursed her lips and looked at him, saying nothing.
“What do you want from me, anyway?”
“You were his partner,” she said. “You know him better than anyone. We need to know—if we arrest him, will he give up his accomplices? How loyal is he? What makes him tick? We can’t afford to blow this lead. We need to know as much as we can about him.”
How loyal was Jurgen? That was a good question. Bernard had never fully worked out the answer. When they’d been partners, Bernard had been sure he could trust the man with his life. Then, when the evidence accumulated, Bernard had stood by his partner’s side. He did so until the day Jurgen left the force, admitting privately to Bernard that most of the evidence against him was at least partially true.
“Look,” Bernard said. “Jurgen’s not an easy man to crack. And it’s very hard to figure him out. He knows all the interrogation tricks there are. He’s one of the cleverest people I’ve ever known. The investigation against him took months, and they still couldn’t make anything stick. He admitted to nothing, even though he was probably guilty.”
“If we do arrest him,” Mancuso said, “we’ll need your help in the interrogation.”
“My help? Why?”
“We think your presence might unsettle him.”
Bernard hesitated. “I’ll do whatever the captain tells me to,” he finally said. “But I doubt you’d want me there, Jurgen would be able to read me like a book. He’ll know I don’t believe that he did it. Sure, I know him, but it goes both ways. Quite frankly, I’m pretty sure he knows me much better than I know him.”
“Well,” Mancuso said, collecting the images, sliding them into her folder, “I hoped you’d be more helpful. After all, the man put you in a very awkward position. I understand you were investigated yourself?”
Bernard clenched his jaw, containing his temper. “I’ll do whatever I can to get that girl back,” he said, “and I’ll be happy to sit with you and detail my entire history with my ex-partner. But I’m telling you, he’s no kidnapper.”
“We’ll see about that,” Mancuso said, standing up.
Chapter Seven
Hannah’s mouth tasted bitter, and she felt as if her entire body was covered in a layer of slime. Some days, no matter how much she showered, she couldn’t feel clean. She sat in Clint’s Chevy as he drove her back to her car. The lighthearted atmosphere that had surrounded them as they left Red’s Pizza was gone. It was evening, and they had visited and interrogated two rapists, a child molester, and a pedophile who was once caught with over seven hundred underage porn clips on his laptop. Hannah hadn’t managed to stay calm and distant for long. These twisted examples of humanity at its worst got under her skin, into her bloodstream, piercing her heart.
Clint was quiet as well, his face somber. He moved his lips once or twice, as if muttering to himself, though he said nothing aloud. She wondered if he did this kind of job often, if he’d found that afternoon to be as unpalatable as she did. She was aware that these people existed, but talking to them, seeing the way they reacted when they heard about a young girl gone missing, made it much worse.
And, of course, it was all pointless. Two of them had supplied iron-clad alibis on the spot. The other two hadn’t, but they didn’t seem likely suspects, and they denied any knowledge. When a kid went missing, it was protocol to pay a visit to the local perverts, and it made sense. But in this case it just felt like slogging through shit for no good reason.
Clint parked the car on the dark street, across from the Lisman’s house. They sat in silence for a few seconds, the faint hum of distant traffic the only sound aside from their breathing.
“How are you feeling?” Clint asked.
She shrugged. “Fine. You?”
He turned to face her. “I’ve been better,” he said, his voice low.
She looked at him, found his big brown eyes pointed at her. She quickly glanced away. “Yeah,” she said.
“It can get under your skin after a while,” Clint said. “I know how that feels.”
“Feels shitty,” Hannah said, looking out the window. She could see his faint reflection in the pane, still watching her.
“Yeah, it does,” Clint said. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She bit her lip. She didn’t, but found herself talking anyway. “When I was young, I thought people were inherently good. It’s something my mom always told me. That everyone started out with good intentions. And I believed her.”
“It’s a nice thing to believe.”
“It’s not. Because when you find out it isn’t true, that there are people who can take a ten-year-old child, and push his head against a pillow, and… and… use him, like he’s a bit of meat. When you find out this is a thing that actually happens—not far away, but nearby, maybe next door—then you can’t believe anything anymore, you have to start building everything from scratch because your entire world view was twisted and wrong, and—”
He touched her arm, and the touch tingled on her skin. She shivered and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m rambling. It’s been a long day.”
“It has,” Clint agreed. “It’s all right. I don’t think you’re rambling.”
She turned toward him and smiled slightly. “Thanks,” she said. “I don’t usually have emotional outbursts like that. You got me at my worst.”
“I doubt it.”
She looked at him, not knowing what to say.
“For what it’s worth, your mother was at least partly right. Some people are inherently good. You are.”
“You don’t know me,” she whispered.
“I know you enough.”
She stared at her palms, embarrassed.
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “Thanks for everything, Hannah. Your help was… invaluable.”
She nodded. “I wish it wasn’t such a waste of time,” she said.
“There’s no way we could have known for sure,” he said.
“Yeah.”
The silence between them stretched.
“Do you usually get the kidnapped kids back?” Hannah asked.
“Yes, but…” he hesitated.
“But what?”
“Most kidnappings are resolved fast. Within hours.”
“Hours,” Hannah repeated heavily. Abigail had been kidnapped more than twenty-four hours ago.
“So… what now?” Hannah asked.
Clint looked at his watch. “It’s after midnight,” he said. “And I’ve been awake since six in the morning. I need to get a few hours of sleep. And then we’ll see what Mancuso says.”
“Right,” Hannah said.
“You’ve been looking for the girl since last night, right? You must be exhausted.”
“Yeah.”
“Will you be okay to drive home?” he asked.
“Yeah, sure,” Hannah said. “It isn’t far.”
He smiled at her. His smile was sad, tired, and somehow beautiful.
Hannah was struck by a sudden urge to lean over and kiss him. Instead she nodded and offered him her hand. “I hope I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Probably,” he said, shaking it. “Good night.”
“Good night,” she said, and opened the car door. She hesitated for a moment, then got out of the car, closing the door behind her.
The green Chevy drove away, leaving her alone on the dark street. She wondered if Naamit Lisman was awake. She felt like a terrible person for not going over to check up on them. Instead, she got into her car, and started it. She briefly considered doing as she’d said she would and go home.
But she already knew she wouldn’t. So she drove back to the police station.
There was no way Abigail could tell the time. There were no windows, her phone had been taken away from her, she had no watch. It could be the middle of the night, or noon, or perhaps early morning.
B
ut her kidnappers made sure to give her food and drink every couple of hours. A sandwich, wrapped in plastic, with the unmistakable taste of shelf time. Bottled water.
The sandwiches and water bottles had been purchased somewhere.
The man brought them. He’d walk in, hand her the sandwich, and walk out—not saying a word, ignoring her requests, her tears, her angry screams. The second time he came, he brought her a pair of dark leggings, to replace the pair she had wet.
She hatched endless plans for escape. At first, she hid all the plastic wrappings of the sandwiches under her mattress, thinking she could somehow make a plastic rope out of them, and strangle her kidnappers. But she wasn’t sure how she’d be able to do that, and after tying a few together she found out the plastic tore when stretched. She thought about using her dirty pants for the same purpose, but couldn’t think of any reasonable way to do it.
There was a bucket she had used twice to pee in. She considered throwing it in one of the kidnappers’ faces before bolting out of the room.
She could crawl under the bed. She would hide under it, and when they came looking for her, she’d… she’d…
But that was the thing. These were fantasies. They made her feel better, in control. She was not stuck in the basement; she was biding her time. But when she actually crawled under the bed once, waiting for one of them to show up, her heart pounded. The fear hunched in her throat, like a big fat spider. They’d know she was under the bed; it was the only place in the room she could hide. And then what? Would the woman drag her out, kicking and screaming? Would the man toss the bed aside, lifting her to her feet?
Again she recalled the scene from that movie, where the detective found the boy’s body. Had the boy tried to escape? Was that why they killed him? The man said that if she behaved, they’d take her back home.
Hiding under the bed was not behaving. Emptying a bucket of urine on her kidnappers was not behaving. She was smaller than them, and trapped, and afraid. Even if she managed to get out of the room, she didn’t know where she was. Was she in Glenmore Park? Could she run to one of the houses nearby, screaming for help? Maybe they’d taken her out of town, somewhere remote, like that summer house that Gracie sometimes went to. Would it really do any good to try to escape if there was nowhere to go?
She wavered constantly, planning her escape one moment, crying for her mom the next. She couldn’t calm down, couldn’t relax.
The door opened. High-heeled shoes clacked on the stairs. It was the woman this time. She descended the staircase, the dark ski mask hiding her face. She held a plastic-wrapped sandwich, just like the ones the man had brought Abigail before.
“Please,” Abigail said, her voice breaking. “Please let me go. I want to go home. I won’t tell anyone, I swear. Just let me go.”
The woman walked across the room until she stood above Abigail. She held out the sandwich.
“Please,” Abigail said again, sobbing. “I’m afraid. I miss my mom and dad. I just—”
The woman’s hand moved abruptly, slapping Abigail, knocking her to the mattress. For a moment Abigail lay on the cot in shock, her cheek tingling, numb. Then the pain spread; her cheek felt like it was on fire. She burst into tears, curling on the cot, hugging herself, shutting her eyes, hoping the woman wouldn’t hit her again. After a few seconds she heard the woman walk away, climb the stairs, leave the basement.
She touched her cheek, then sobbed as the pain bloomed again. She’d never guessed a slap could hurt so much. Her mom had slapped her once, when she was four years old, and she still remembered that day. But it wasn’t even close to what she felt right now.
After a while she calmed down. Her stomach growled. She was hungry. She opened her eyes, and looked around for the sandwich.
It wasn’t there. The woman had taken it with her when she left.
Time moved. Or it didn’t. Abigail had no way of knowing. The burn in her cheek subsided. Then she heard the key in the lock. For a moment she tensed. Once the door opened, she’d run past whoever stood there. She could run really fast—she was one of the best runners in her class. She had the element of surprise.
The high-heeled shoes descended the steps again.
Her entire body stiffened. She couldn’t move. Even as her brain screamed at her that the woman was wearing high-heeled shoes, that Abigail could easily get past her, her limbs felt paralyzed, her heart drumming in her chest, her lungs refusing to take in air, her cheek tingling with the memory of pain.
The woman walked over, wearing the mask. Abigail tried to tell herself that was a good sign. They wore the masks because they didn’t want her to see their faces. Because they intended to let her go.
If she behaved.
“Look at me,” the woman said, her voice cold and emotionless. Abigail raised her eyes. The woman held her phone, aiming it at Abigail.
Her eyes were brown. Abigail had always thought brown was a warm color, but the woman’s eyes were frosty and detached.
The flash blinded her for a second, and then the room was cast back into its dim light. Spots danced in Abigail’s vision. The woman put the phone in her pocket, then tossed the sandwich at Abigail’s feet.
Long after the woman left, Abigail couldn’t move. The sandwich lay on the floor.
Agent Mancuso was in the situation room, talking on her phone, when Hannah walked in. Her eyes flickered briefly toward Hannah, and then resumed scanning the large screen that now hung on the wall. It had a map of Glenmore Park on it, and a picture of Abigail in the corner. Three agents sat at the table, staring at screens of their own. One was speaking on the phone as well. They were different agents than the ones who’d been there that morning. The FBI crew worked in shifts.
Mancuso put down her phone and turned to face Hannah.
“Agent Ward reported that you finished interrogating the sex offenders,” she said.
“Yeah. Nothing there,” Hannah said.
“Good,” Mancuso said.
“Any luck here?”
“There is no Noel. It was a fake identity,” Mancuso said. “All his comments were posted using the same phone, sent from various spots around Glenmore Park. This phone disappeared completely from the network yesterday morning, and it’s safe to assume the kidnappers got rid of it after setting the date with Abigail.”
“When did Abigail start talking with Noel?”
“The first connection was three weeks ago,” Mancuso said. “He commented on one of her images on Instagram. They began chatting daily two days later, with varying frequency. I’ve sent all the chat logs to a forensic psychologist—you remember Zoe, right?”
Hannah nodded. Zoe had helped with the Deadly Messenger case.
“Anyway, she’s going over the chat logs. Hopefully she’ll be able to glean something from them. Noel’s phone was first used the same day the first comment was posted.”
“So it was bought for that purpose alone,” Hannah said.
“Yes. This was planned for a long time.”
“Can we find out where the phone was purchased?”
“Not likely, but we’re trying,” Mancuso said. “We didn’t manage to find any CCTV footage of the van. The kidnappers chose their route carefully, avoiding streets with cameras. Thirteen vans were spotted leaving Glenmore Park the night of the kidnapping, and we’re now tracking their owners, trying to establish if any of them was used.
“They might have switched cars,” Hannah said.
“Yes. If they did, the van is parked somewhere in the city. Your patrol cops are looking for it. Also, a man was seen dragging a young girl forcibly today, on Clayton Road. The girl was screaming and crying.”
“What?” Hannah sputtered. “What man? Where—”
“He was arrested and interrogated. The girl was his daughter, and was five years old. Apparently he refused to buy her a new princess doll, and she reacted accordingly.”
“Oh,” Hannah’s shoulders sagged.
“Still,” Mancuso said. “I think bot
h the father and the daughter learned a valuable lesson.”
Hannah wasn’t sure what the lesson was. “What about the Amber Alert?”
“We’re getting some calls, and investigating them. Nothing so far.” Mancuso shrugged. “I think you and Agent Ward should talk to Gracie tomorrow morning. She was released from the hospital this afternoon, and might be a bit more informative after a night’s rest.”
“Sure,” Hannah said.
“You should get a night’s rest, too, Detective,” Mancuso said.
“I could say the same about you,” Hannah answered.
Mancuso raised her eyebrows, her mouth quirking slightly. “Okay,” she said. “If you insist on working till you drop, we have plenty of things to do.”
“Can I have a look at the chat logs?” Hannah asked.
Mancuso motioned to a stack of papers on the desk, next to one of the other agents. “Knock yourself out,” she said.
Chapter Eight
Abigail’s Instagram profile had one hundred sixty-nine followers—mostly kids from school, some family members, a few kids she’d met online. These followers were all aghast at the ransom letter that appeared on her account. The image of Abigail in captivity was a brutal contrast to the images that were usually found on Instagram. There were no filters. There were no pouting lips, no smiling face, no funny-looking pet.
There was just a twelve-year-old girl held in an unknown location, her face haggard, her eyes red. And the ransom caption: threatening, sharp, with that terrible hashtag. #WeGotAbigail. As if the whole thing was some sort of social media joke.
Several of her younger followers cried for hours, scared to leave home. Two had panic attacks. Some parents barred their kids from Instagram, or forced them to unfollow Abigail.
One hundred sixty-nine pairs of eyes, sharing the same horror. On the 18th of March, Wednesday afternoon, another pair of eyes joined them.
When sixteen-year-old Petra Solis came home from school, she found her sister, Joy, sobbing hysterically. Her mother tried to calm Joy down, using the time-tested and proven method of shouting at her to stop crying already.
