by Mike Omer
Megan glanced at her boss and nodded. Hannah, following the woman’s body language, guessed that Koche occasionally had sex with his secretary.
“You’re very cooperative,” Clint said.
“I want my daught… Abigail Lisman to come home safely. I’m not a monster. I’ll do anything I can do to help.”
“Except for paying the ransom,” Hannah said dryly.
“Anything within reason,” Koche amended. “Like I said, she isn’t my daughter. I don’t see you going to any other rich people around here, asking them for the ransom money.”
Clint nodded and stood up. “Thank you for your time.”
“If you have any more questions,” Koche said, “please call.”
In the outer office, Clint gave Megan his e-mail address, so she could send him the pictures and the wire transfer paperwork. Then he and Hannah got back in the elevator.
“Well, Jurgen is clearly off the hook,” Hannah said.
“Not necessarily,” Clint said. “He’s hired to follow Mr. Koche’s daughter, and six weeks later she’s kidnapped? Quite a coincidence. What if he figured out he could easily kidnap the girl and ask Koche for ransom? Perhaps he saw something in her that made him think this would be easy money.”
“You’re reaching,” Hannah said.
“And you’re blind,” Clint snapped. “You’re just desperate to get him off the hook, no matter what, because your partner told you he’s innocent.”
Hannah said nothing, though the words jabbed at her. He was right, of course, and it infuriated her.
Abigail took a large bite from the cheeseburger and chewed it slowly. It was sublime. This time she was smarter—took small bites, ate it slow. After she had eaten the pizza, she’d nearly thrown up the entire thing, feeling sick from eating too fast and too much.
She took one of the French fries and put it on her tongue, letting the salty taste sink in.
“You like McDonald’s,” the man said. He sounded satisfied, though his mouth was still hidden behind the mask.
“I love hamburgers,” she said. “It’s my favorite food. And I really like cheeseburgers! I don’t eat them at…” she hesitated for a second. “At home.”
“Why not?”
“Because they aren’t kosher,” she said simply.
“Oh!” he said in surprise. “Do you want me to get you a hamburger without cheese?”
“No, it’s fine, I don’t care,” she said hurriedly, tightening her grip on the cheeseburger. “I eat cheeseburgers when I’m at my friends’ houses. And bacon. My parents eat kosher, but I don’t mind at all.”
“Okay. And the fries are good?” he asked.
“Uh-huh.” She nodded. She liked to dip them in ketchup, but he hadn’t brought any. She considered mentioning it, then changed her mind. “They’re really good. You want one?”
He laughed. It was strange, hearing his laughter without seeing his mouth. His laughter was low, and sounded heartfelt. “No need. I’ll eat later.”
“It’s weird, eating alone,” Abigail said. “At school I eat with my friends, and at home I eat with my family.”
He was silent for a second, then said, “Yeah, sure, why not. I’ll take one.”
She held the French fries container up and he took one. He rolled up the bottom part of his mask, exposing his mouth, and ate the fry. Abigail tried not to stare. For some reason, she’d imagined he had a beard, or that he was unshaven, but the bottom half of his face was completely smooth. His lips were a bit full, his teeth very white.
After finishing the fry, he smiled, and the small gesture made her feel much better. “That really is good,” he said. “I should eat McDonald’s more often.”
Abigail moved aside a bit, sitting on one side of the cot. “You can have more, if you want to,” she said.
He sat next to her. “Just one more,” he said, and grinned. She suddenly got the impression that this man smiled a lot.
He took another one and ate it. Abigail finished the cheeseburger and took a long sip from the large plastic cup. Her mom never let her drink Coke, not since she’d read that if you put a tooth in a cup of Coke, it disintegrated after two days.
“Thanks,” she said. “For the meal.”
“No problem.”
“What day is it?” she asked.
“It’s Friday,” he said. His mask was still rolled up above his mouth. He didn’t seem to notice.
Abigail nodded and tried to figure out how long ago she’d been kidnapped. Only four days? It felt like an eternity. She tried to remember what classes she took on Friday. English, for sure. And science. She hated science class, but sitting in class right now—next to the window, the sun shining outside, other kids around her—suddenly sounded like paradise. An involuntary sob emerged from her mouth.
“What? What happened?” The man asked.
“I want to go home!” she cried. “I miss my parents. And my…” a sobbing fit caught hold of her throat, preventing her from talking.
“You’ll be home soon,” the man said, his voice softening. “Not much longer.”
“What if… what if something happens?” Abigail asked between whimpers.
“Like what?”
“I don’t want to die!”
“Hey!” he said. “You’re not going to die! Why would you die?”
“You said… you said if I don’t behave…”
“But you’re behaving very well,” he said. “You have nothing to worry about.”
“She doesn’t think so. She slapped me. I think she hates me. What if she hurts me? I’m scared.” She was losing control, talking while crying, her words becoming unintelligible.
“No one hates you. Listen, Abigail, you’ll be home soon. Nothing will happen to you, I promise.”
It was the first time he had said her name, and it calmed her down. “Okay,” she said.
He clumsily put a hand on her shoulder. “Just a few more days, okay?” he said. “And then you’ll be home.”
She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Okay,” she said.
Chapter Thirteen
Hannah stared dumbfounded at what used to be the situation room. The large screen on the wall was gone, as was the strange FBI switchboard, the map, and the three interchangeable agents that had sat around the table. Only some wires remained behind, snaking across the floor and ending abruptly at nothing.
Had they moved to another room? Why hadn’t anyone notified her? She took out her phone, already searching for Clint’s number, then hesitated.
She put the phone back in her pocket and walked across the hall to the squad room. It was empty as well—not surprising since it was Saturday, and still early in the morning. She’d woken up just after five a.m. She’d tried to go back to sleep, but her mind had already kicked into high gear, cataloguing the leads she needed to follow, prioritizing them. Finally, she’d gotten up and driven to work.
The door to the captain’s office was open, and through it she could see the light switched on and signs of movement. She crossed the squad room and entered his office.
“Captain?” she asked, barely able to see him beyond the mounds of paper on his desk.
“Good morning, Detective,” the captain said. He sounded tired. “Please, sit down.”
Hannah craned her neck to see the captain’s face above the paperwork. There were piles and towers of forms, reports and Post-its in various shades and sizes, all over the desk. They collapsed into each other, creating shapes that resembled mountains more than stacks. Small cups of coffee sat in various strategic spots around the desk, long forgotten, some growing mold.
Carl, the man who cleaned their office, had countless arguments with Captain Bailey about this desk, which he claimed was a fire and biological hazard combined. Hannah sat down in one of the chairs and rolled it to the side, so she could see the captain without the desk and its burdens interrupting her line of sight.
“How are Mr. and Mrs. Lisman?” he asked, folding his hands and leanin
g backward.
“As well as could be expected,” Hannah said. “The Instagram posts are a blessing and a curse. It gives them fresh hope when they see one, but the captions are becoming more and more threatening, and they’re getting very scared.”
“Those posts are also making this case very famous,” Bailey said. “It was on Fox News and CNN yesterday.”
“I heard,” Hannah said.
“My father used to say that a story that grows wings might become either an eagle or a duck,” Bailey said.
Hannah blinked and said nothing. Captain Bailey’s father had some confusing idioms.
“Agent Mancuso called. The case is no longer under her direct control. It’s too public.”
Hannah shrugged. FBI politics didn’t concern her.
“The FBI moved the situation room to the FBI main office, in Boston.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Hannah said sharply. “Do they expect us to drive to Boston and back every day? The case is here. The family is here.”
The captain looked at her, his expression unreadable. “I wasn’t under the impression that they wanted us to drive over,” he said.
“What?”
“We aren’t invited to the party anymore, Detective. We’ll keep helping as much as we can, of course, but the main task force won’t be here. You will no longer work with Agent Ward on the case. Your main responsibility in this case now is to support the family.”
“What?” Hannah said, the word spat from her mouth like dirt.
“Orders from above. Agent Mancuso has a lot of respect for you.”
“Does she?” Hannah said, and thought about her argument with Clint. “Are you sure this isn’t because of something Clint… Agent Ward told her?”
Captain Bailey raised his eyebrows. “She hasn’t mentioned anything like that.”
“Captain, I need to be involved in the case. Naamit expects me to—”
“Mrs. Lisman expects you to do what’s best for her daughter. Currently, what this means is letting the FBI do their job, and helping whenever they ask.”
“But they’re screwing up! They’re stuck on the notion that Jurgen Adler is somehow connected. They can’t get the kidnappers to answer their messages. I can’t let them—”
“Detective Shor,” Bailey said, his voice hardening. “Get it together.”
Hannah took a deep breath and clenched her lips.
“It looks like the kidnappers are preparing to send the ransom drop details,” Bailey said. “Our leads have run cold. Abigail Lisman has been missing for almost four days.”
“There are two people we have to investigate. Melanie Pool and—”
“Hal Moore,” Bailey said. “Jacob and Agent Fuller interviewed them yesterday. They both have alibis. Hal Moore was actually in Canada at the time of the kidnapping. I can forward you Jacob’s report.”
Hannah tightened her fingers on the arms of her chair, gritting her teeth.
“It’s mostly a waiting game now, Hannah,” Bailey said softly. “There’s nothing much we can do anymore.”
“Do you think Jurgen Adler might be involved?” she asked.
Bailey sighed. “I was Jurgen’s captain for over a year,” he said. “And I failed to see what was in front of my eyes. The man can be charming as hell, and he was a good detective. But he’s morally bankrupt. Quite frankly, I thought the entire internal investigation was a mistake until I saw the proof mounting. I was blind once with this man, and I don’t intend to make the same blunder twice. If the FBI thinks that he has something to do with the kidnapping, it might very well be true.”
“I’m scared we won’t get her back,” Hannah said, half whispering.
Bailey nodded, his eyes softening. “So am I. But there’s nothing else you can do about it.”
Glen Haney raised the binoculars to his eyes again. He sat in his mom’s car, two hundred feet from the kidnapper’s house. He had chosen the location beforehand, using Google Maps. It was far enough so they wouldn’t spot him, but with a clear view of the house. It was also just past a curve in the road, and behind a large tree, so he was mostly hidden from passersby.
In any case, if anyone asked him what he was doing there with a pair of binoculars, he had an answer prepared: he was bird-watching. He had a bird guide at hand. He would tell anyone who bothered asking that he was looking for white-winged crossbills, which had been spotted around Glenmore Park.
He wasn’t really bird-watching. He was kidnapper-watching. The rare breed of “twelve-year-old girl kidnapper” had been spotted in Glenmore Park, and Glen was the first to figure out where he was.
He scanned the front of the house through the binoculars, already well-acquainted with the layout. A driveway, leading to a closed garage door. The entrance to the house just next to the garage—a brown door, simple lock. One window, shuttered and dirty. A front yard with a failed attempt at a lawn, several lonely clumps of grass in the midst of barren ground, weeds sprouting everywhere.
He wondered again if Abigail was in the garage. He was almost certain she was inside the house. He had seen the kidnapper arriving a few hours ago, carrying a small-sized pizza box and a carton of grape juice. Glen doubted the man drank grape juice, and he didn’t have kids. Not according to Glen’s extensive research.
Just like most of the people online, Glen had found out about Abigail three days ago. He was one of the first Redditors to join the frantic subreddit analyzing the images taken that day in Glenmore Park, and speculating about the chain of events. He’d seen the famous picture of Abigail and Grace walking down the street together. He’d seen the images in the Instagram feed.
And then he’d picked up a strange detail no one else had noticed.
At first he’d rushed to the subreddit, heart thumping, about to share the discovery with his fellow Redditors, preparing for his five minutes of fame and thousands of upvotes… but then he hesitated.
Five minutes of fame was all very nice… but he could have more. Maybe, just maybe, he could find out who the kidnapper really was. He began an intense online search, involving a hacker acquaintance in his research. Six hours later, he stared at the image of the presumed kidnapper. Four hours after that, he had the kidnapper’s address.
It was enough. Perhaps that was the moment he should have contacted the cops, or the FBI. But he was concerned with the illegal hacking—and besides, would they even believe him?
Wouldn’t it be much better if he simply saved the girl? Delivered her to the police?
And frankly, wasn’t this what he had always wanted? A chance to be a hero? To save an innocent child from the clutches of a malicious kidnapper. To be a vigilante?
He made plans, prepared well—Glen was a great believer in preparations—and took off in his mom’s car early in the morning. He left her a haphazard note on the kitchen table, apologizing and promising to call by evening.
And now he waited. The kidnapper had arrived home three hours ago. Glen hoped he would leave the house soon, but he was prepared to spend the night in the car if needed. The man would surely leave in the morning.
Except… there he was! Glen lifted the binoculars to his eyes. The garage door opened; the man’s car emerged and turned left, away from where Glen waited. The car got further away, and the garage door slowly closed. That meant Abigail probably wasn’t in the garage.
Time to act. Glen got out of the car, his backpack slung on one shoulder, and casually walked to the house. This was the crucial moment. Would he be able to get in?
As he reached the front door he opened his backpack, finding the kit. He had been practicing for years. This was one of the things he most loved doing away from his computer: picking locks. He’d amassed his lock-picking kit over three years, had taken an online course, practiced almost every day. He had over a dozen locks and lock cutaways at home, and he knew how to pick them by heart. It was time to use his skills to save a life.
Glen wasn’t concerned about the lock; he was more worried about someone
noticing him and calling the cops. But now, as he worked the lock, he realized that his anxiety was affecting his fingers. He trembled slightly, the tension wrench shaking in his hand. He wedged it in the lock but couldn’t seem to get the pressure right. His palms started sweating, and the tool felt slippery between his fingers. Finally, he straightened, taking a deep breath. A small voice in his mind yelled at him to turn around, go to the police, show them what he had found.
He shut the voice away. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, forcing himself to relax. He tried to think of something else. There was a girl in his Spanish class, Breanna. He’d been fantasizing for more than three months about asking her out. He’d been fantasizing about other things related to her as well. Wouldn’t she be impressed when he became the guy who saved Abigail Lisman? He imagined her eyes, full of admiration, her hand as it held his, her lips parting…
It was best if he stopped there. He still needed his wits.
Smiling, Glen wiped his palms on his shirt. Then he bent to his task again. This time his hands were steady, his mind clear. The lock was simple. The pins were standard. He wedged the tension wrench in and applied slight pressure. Then he inserted the Bogota Rake into the lock and began moving it forward and back patiently. It only took a couple of minutes before he felt the pins set and the tension wrench budge. He twisted the wrench to unlock the door, and he was in.
He entered the house, closing the door behind him silently. If the man came back, he’d hear the garage door opening, and he’d dash outside. If that happened, Glen would call the cops. He wouldn’t try a second time.
He looked around, moving from room to room. The apartment was a mess—dusty living room, dirty kitchen, a sink full of dishes, a half-eaten sandwich on the table, no plate.
A single closed door. He tried the handle.
Locked.
She was behind this door; he was certain. Why else lock a door inside your own house? He inspected the lock. An easy job. He got to work on it, his ears alert to the sound of the garage door. At one point a car drove by outside, and his heart froze, but the garage door remained closed and the car passed the house by.
