by Mike Omer
Petra hugged Joy until her sobs slowly petered out, then asked what was wrong. Joy told her she was following Abigail Lisman’s Instagram account, and she’d just seen… something. She couldn’t explain what. Instead, she gave Petra her phone.
Petra stared unbelievingly at the image of Abigail, then logged into her own account to share the image.
Petra had three hundred and forty followers. Three of them shared the shocking image of the captive young girl. Between them, those three had a total of one thousand four hundred and twelve followers.
One of those followers was a video blogger, or like they called themselves, vlogger. He was very successful, mostly due to his playthroughs of Minecraft. When he decided to share the image and mention it on his channel, it was viewed by over a million people.
All of this took a bit less than four hours.
By Wednesday evening, over twenty million people in the United States alone were aware of the images, as well as tens of thousands of people all over the world.
Naamit lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Ron snored gently by her side. She wondered if he was plagued by dreams as well. If he was, he didn’t talk about it. Despite his anxiety and distress, he was sleeping.
For Naamit, the few hours she slept the night before had been the worst so far.
During the past day, she’d talked to friends and family who tried to help. She’d drowned herself in mindless tasks: cleaning, doing the laundry, cooking. Hannah came and gave her an update, trying to reassure her that her daughter was probably still alive. Things weren’t so bad during the day.
But night came. She spent hours trying to fall asleep, her mind conjuring images of Abigail crying, or hurt, or dead. And as the minutes slowly ticked by, her imagination became a sadistic entity, tormenting her with horrific thoughts about perverts and psychopaths, and the terrible things that could be happening at that very moment, while she was in her bed doing nothing. When she finally fell asleep, the dreams came. She dreamed she was frantically searching for Abigail at school, hearing her calling for help, but the cries faltered and dwindled away. She dreamed she could hear Abigail beyond a massive door, but couldn’t open it. She thumped her fists against it, crying in frustration. She dreamed the FBI came to tell her that her daughter was dead.
Even worse was the last dream. She dreamed that Abigail returned home, safe and sound. Naamit held her daughter in her arms, both of them laughing in joy. When she woke up from that dream, she felt the terrible loss and fear all over again, as if she’d just heard about the kidnapping for the first time.
Abigail had been missing for thirty-six hours. It felt like eternity. Naamit wasn’t sure how much longer she could take.
At five in the morning, her phone blipped with a single notification: a new image on Abigail’s Instagram profile. Naamit opened the page, her heart hammering, and stared at her daughter.
It was a picture of Abigail stand in front of a featureless gray wall. She looked thinner, and paler. Her legs were unnaturally rigid, as if she was forcing herself to stand. Had those beasts given her anything to eat? To drink? Abigail drank a lot, sometimes a dozen glasses of water a day. Ron said she was a human camel, which always secretly annoyed Naamit. The whole point of a camel was that it could go a long time without drinking.
Were they giving her enough water?
The caption on the image said simply: 3 Million. Soon. #WeGotAbigail.
Soon. What did they mean by soon? Two days? Three? A week? Either way it was too long; Naamit wouldn’t be able to bear it much longer. Either way it was not enough; they would never get that kind of money in such a short time.
They would never get that kind of money in twenty years.
She got up quietly, her movements slow and careful, trying not to wake Ron up. She didn’t want to explain where she was going, or why. Not now. Later, she might need to, but not right now. She grabbed some random clothes, and crept out of the bedroom. She dressed in the living room, not bothering with her hair or makeup. Unlocking the front door, she left the house, finding herself the only person outside at four in the morning.
The chill penetrated everything, freezing her to the bone, making her teeth chatter almost immediately. She quickly got into the car and started the engine.
She’d never driven anywhere so early in the morning, as far as she could remember. She found the empty streets strangely soothing. At this hour, just before dawn, the entire city was asleep. She could even believe that her daughter was sleeping, wherever she was.
She parked in front of a large office building on Clayton Road. During the day, finding a parking spot on this street was virtually impossible. But right now the parking spaces were mostly vacant. She stopped the car, leaving the engine running. She needed the heat, despite the waste of fuel. She turned off her phone and leaned back in her seat, waiting.
She sat in the car, frozen like a statue for hours, as the city came to life. Cars began driving past her. Shop owners arrived to prepare their establishments for another busy day. Just across from her, a woman came out of The Warm Bagel. She held a small doughnut in her hand, and chewed slowly, a smile of pleasure on her face.
Naamit realized that tears were clouding her sight. How she wanted to be that woman. She wiped the tears from her eyes and stared straight ahead.
He arrived just before nine. He walked through the main entrance of the building, his face serious and businesslike, his manner brisk. Even now, in her crumbling mental state, she could see how attractive his entire demeanor was. He was a man who had the world around him under his complete control. A man who would take nonsense from no one. A man who, when faced with a crisis, would never flinch.
He was also cold and calculated, prone to anger. He was someone she had been happy to stay away from.
She sat in the car for another forty-five minutes, gathering her courage. She regretted not accosting him on the street, outside his comfort zone. In his office, he would be harder to face.
Finally, she got out of the car and entered the building. She took the elevator to the top floor, and walked into the offices of Koche Industries. The door to his office was closed. His secretary sat behind the front desk, just across from the office door. She turned toward Naamit and looked at her with distant eyes.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Lance Koche,” Naamit said.
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Koche is—”
Naamit strode forward, swinging the door to Lance’s office open. The secretary said nothing.
Lance Koche raised his head. He was middle-aged, his hair still mostly black, flecked with gray strands that only made him more imposing. His eyebrows were thick, and pointed in a constant frown above large dark eyes that watched her, betraying no surprise.
“Naamit,” he said evenly. “I’ve asked before, please call before you come here. It’s a simple request.”
“Abigail has been kidnapped,” Naamit blurted, not bothering with any preface.
Lance’s eyes widened. There was an emotion she had never seen before on his face. Surprise? Concern? For a moment he seemed almost soft.
“Kidnapped?” he repeated, his voice unusually high. “By whom? When?”
“The FBI don’t know who did it,” she said. “It happened two days ago, on Tuesday evening.” She took her phone out of her pocket, and strode to his desk, turning on the screen. The Instagram app was already open. She showed him the image. “They posted this on her account.”
He took the phone gently from her hand and stared at it. “Three million?” he asked, frowning.
“There’s another one,” Naamit said. “Scroll down.”
He did, his frown deepening.
“I can’t raise three million dollars,” Naamit said.
“Obviously,” Lance said shortly.
“I hoped that you could—”
“No.”
Naamit caught the sob that threatened to emerge. Lance Koche did not react well to crying. “She’s you
r daughter.”
“My biological daughter, whom I didn’t know about until two months ago.” Lance’s voice was cold and steely.
“They’ll kill her!”
“I doubt it.”
“Are you willing to bet your daughter’s life on it?” Naamit asked, the grief and fear morphing into rage. “What sort of monster—”
“Let’s make one thing clear,” Lance said, raising his voice. “That girl is just a girl to me, nothing more. I don’t even know her.”
“Don’t you want to know her?” Naamit asked. “You will. If she gets back safely, I swear you will.”
There was a moment of silence. “I don’t have three million dollars,” he said, his voice low.
“But you can raise—”
“I can’t. It wasn’t a good year. Even if I wanted to, I can’t pay this ransom.”
“Then you can pay some of it! They might negotiate if they know you can pay half or—”
“Your best bet is to let the FBI handle this. They’re professionals,” Lance said. “I’m sorry, but—”
“I’ll tell the FBI that you’re her real father,” Naamit said, her voice seething with hatred. “I’ll tell the press. You’ll be the father who let his daughter die because of his greed. You think this was a bad business year? It’s going to get much worse.”
Lance’s face froze, and she knew she’d blown it.
“By all means,” he said. “Tell them. Now, do you want me to call security to escort you out, or will you do it yourself? I don’t really care either way.”
Naamit turned and ran out of the room, her heart drowning in tears.
Gracie’s family lived only five minutes away from the Lismans, but their neighborhood was clearly populated by wealthier families. Their house, like most on the street, had a small, well-groomed yard, and the sidewalk had recently been swept. The path to the front door was lined with pink and white roses. Clint and Hannah surveyed the surroundings before approaching the door and knocking. It was Thursday, late morning, a time for most parents to be at work, for kids to be in school. But the Durham family wasn’t like most families this Thursday. They were recuperating from a terrible ordeal. For them, that Thursday morning was a time for healing.
Unfortunately for Gracie, it would also be a time to relive one of the worst nights of her life. Hannah wished she didn’t have to question the kid again, but they needed a clear picture of that night. Of the four people who were there, she was the only one available to answer questions.
“Who is it?” a voice asked from behind the door. Karen.
Clint flipped his badge in front of the peephole. “FBI,” he said.
There was a moment of silence, and then they heard a lock click, and a latch being removed. The door opened. Karen stood in the doorway, wearing a baggy shirt and worn leggings, her hair a mess. She looked almost worse than she had in the hospital the day before.
“Good morning Mrs. Durham,” Clint said. “I’m Agent Ward, and I believe you’ve met Detective Hannah Shor from the Glenmore Park PD. May we come in?”
She hesitated. “Why?” she finally asked.
“We need to ask Gracie some questions,” Clint said.
“Gracie is asleep,” she said.
“Mrs. Durham—”
“She woke up three times during the night, screaming,” Karen said, her eyes tearing up. “I let her sleep in my lap, like a baby. She needs rest. Please come tomorrow.”
“Karen,” Hannah said, her tone as soft as she could make it. “Abigail has been kidnapped. The faster we figure out who took her, the better the chance we can get her back.”
“But Gracie already told you everything she knew!”
“Yes, but she was medicated, and traumatized,” Hannah said. “Please. Think of Naamit. Think of what she’s going through.”
Guilt was a potent weapon. Hannah had learned how to use it from her mother.
Karen nodded, saying nothing and moved aside to let them in.
Gracie sat on a brown sofa in the living room, clearly awake, gazing at the television. It was muted, and she didn’t seem to be paying attention to what was happening on the screen.
“Gracie,” her mother said. “These people want to ask you more questions about Abigail.”
Gracie looked at them, her eyes watery. “Are you from the police?” she asked.
“And the FBI,” Clint said.
“Did you see the image on Instagram?” she asked.
Hannah nodded. “We did.”
“Do you think they’ll let her go?”
“I hope Abigail will be home soon,” Hannah said carefully. Karen went away, then returned carrying a chair. Hannah sat on the chair, and Clint sat down next to Gracie on the sofa.
“What do you want to know?” Gracie asked.
“We want to go over the events of that night again,” Hannah said.
“Okay.”
“You were at the playground,” Clint said. “Do you remember what time you got there?”
“I don’t know. A bit before eight. She was supposed to meet Noel at eight.”
“And when did the man with the ski mask show up?”
“A few minutes later, I think.”
“Can you describe anything about the man?” Hannah asked. “Anything that comes to mind. Did he seem tall? Did he speak? Was he holding something? Did he—”
“He was holding something,” Gracie said. “Something white.”
“Where did he come from?” Clint asked.
“From the park.”
“And where were you?”
“We were sitting on the swing,” Gracie said. “Waiting for Noel. I… I convinced Abigail he wasn’t going to show up. We were just about to leave. That means he showed up after eight. A few minutes after eight.” She looked at them with wide eyes. “That’s helpful, right?”
“It really is,” Hannah said. “So he was holding something white?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t know what?”
“No.”
“And then what happened?”
“We ran away.” Tears began to flow, leaving faint translucent lines on Gracie’s pale cheeks. “We were scared!”
“You’re doing very well, Gracie,” Clint said. “This is a huge help. When you ran, what did the man do?”
“He chased us.”
“Did he say anything?”
“I… I’m not sure.”
“And then what?”
“A second man showed up. He charged at us, blocking the way.”
“Blocking the way to where?” Hannah asked “Where were you running to?” She created a small diagram of the events in her mind.
“Blocking the way back to the street.”
“So the second man came from the street?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see where he came from?”
“I… I think he came from a van, but I’m not sure.”
“Okay,” Hannah said, trying to disguise the tension in her voice. “Can you recall the van? Tell us anything about it?”
“N… No.”
“Think about the street. Was it well lit?”
“No.”
“Okay, but you saw the van. How?”
“I think the van’s lights were on.”
“Did you see it coming, or was it parked?”
“I don’t… Oh…” Gracie’s eyes went distant for a moment. “I think it was both. I mean… It was parked, and then it got out of the parking and drove to the park’s entrance.”
“And when looking at it, even for just a tiny moment, did it seem dark, or—”
“It was dark. Like… black or dark green, I think.”
Hannah let out a small breath. The seemingly small detail could be useful in numerous ways.
“And then what happened?”
“We changed directions. We tried to run down a different path. But it was dark, and we couldn’t see, and… and…”
“Yes?”
“I think we split. And they chased Abigail.”
“Both of them?” Hannah asked, exchanging looks with Clint.
“Yeah. Both of them. One of them looked at me, but he was definitely chasing Abigail. And… I don’t remember what happened after that.”
Chapter Nine
Hannah got out of Clint’s car. The sleep deprivation was catching up to her. Slumbering for three hours on her desk at the station was not enough.
She shivered slightly. Although it was nearly noon, it was one of those days in which the wind got into every nook and cranny, whistling into ear and nose cavities, snaking down the collar of a loose shirt, breezing through gloveless palms, and generally making everyone miserable. The weather and her exhaustion made her feel tense and short-tempered. She needed a hot shower.
They were back at the scene of the crime, hoping to glean a firm idea of the sequence of events that had led to the kidnapping. She looked at the post office and the gas station down the road. The post office had been closed that night, but the gas station had been open for business. No one there had seen or heard anything.
“We’re back at the playground,” Clint said. Hannah glanced at him. He held his phone to his ear, frowning. The serious face made him seem authoritative, strong. She suddenly wondered how it would feel to be held by him. He was much taller than her; she could nestle in the hollow of his throat. She flushed, the heat in her face contrasting sharply with the biting wind on her skin.
“I’ll give you a full update about the interview with Gracie Durham later,” he said, then listened again.
He was talking to Mancuso, Hannah guessed. She banished the thoughts about Clint from her head. She had to be focused right now.
“They’re definitely careful,” he said after a few moments. “Okay. I’ll talk to you later.” He hung up. To Hannah, he said, “Mancuso said they traced the phones used to post the Instagram images. Different phones. One image was posted from Boston, the other from twenty miles north of here, somewhere along route 128.”
“Both phones turned off once the image was posted?” Hannah asked.
“You guessed it.”
They walked briskly into the playground. A single nanny stood above a toddler sitting on the merry-go-round. She pushed it around half-heartedly. They both seemed as if they would rather be someplace else. The toddler looked as if he thought merry-go-rounds were no longer trending in his kindergarten. It was all about slides and sandboxes these days. That was where the cool toddlers were. The nanny simply seemed cold.
