Web of Fear

by Mike Omer

  “What’s your point?”

  Hannah narrowed her eyes. “What about getting rid of the van in a junkyard?” she said.

  Chapter Ten

  It was Howard Carson’s fortieth birthday, and he was excited for the surprise the guys would set up. Well, hardly a surprise by this point; they’d been ordering a stripper for any of them who turned forty, ever since Tony’s memorable birthday. Still, there were shades of surprise. She could be dressed as a cheerleader, or a cowboy, jump out of a cake, or a big box, kinky or vanilla… there really was a large variety to choose from. Of course, his wife would not approve of his friends’ gift, which was why he mentioned to them several times that he’d be working late on his birthday. In his office. Alone.

  He was dealing with some paperwork, although frankly his progress was slow—almost nonexistent, due to the excitement clouding his mind. He hadn’t been close to another woman’s naked breasts in years, aside from his wife’s. He knew there would be a lap dance if he wanted one, and the prospect made him dizzy.

  He opened a bottle of beer, his third in the past hour, and took a long swig. When someone knocked on the door, he nearly knocked over the bottle on his desk in his hurry to get up. He walked to the door.

  “Who is it?” he asked, his voice slightly high, grinning foolishly as he peeked through the peephole.

  At first he was disappointed. There was a large black man in a buttoned-up gray shirt and black pants behind the door—definitely not what he expected. But then he noticed the woman by his side. She was a sweet thing, petite, with dark brown hair and the cutest mouth. She was not every man’s taste, but Howard loved small women, and his friends knew that well.

  The large man flipped open a badge. “FBI,” he said. “Please open the door.”

  Howard’s grin widened. So this was the surprise. An “FBI agent.” The black man was probably her sound guy and security, there to make sure the customer didn’t touch the goods. Carson could respect that. It was a crazy world. Being a stripper was a hazardous occupation.

  He opened the door and motioned them inside. Then he walked over to his desk, and got his chair, dragging it to the middle of the room, where there would be plenty of space for a lap dance. He sat down, smiling at the stripper expectantly.

  “Mr. Carson?” she asked.

  “That’s right,” he said in a jocular tone. “But you can call me Howey.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Mr. Carson, I’m Detective Shor from the Glenmore Park PD, and this here is Agent Ward, from the FBI.”

  “Good, good.” He slapped his palms against his thighs. Great roleplaying on that woman. He was glad he’d prepared a large cash tip in advance.

  “We wanted to ask you a few questions,” she said. “Regarding… are you all right?”

  “Couldn’t be better!”

  “You seem a bit flushed.” She narrowed her eyes. “And you’re shaking. Are you nervous about something, Mr. Carson?”

  “Oh, no, I assure you,” he grinned. “Howey Carson is quite thrilled about this.”

  “Uh… Okay,” she said. “Mr. Carson, we’re looking for a vehicle that was left in your yard. A dark van.”

  “And what will you do if you find it?” Howey waggled his eyebrows. He hoped the guy would hit the Play button soon. The anticipation and role-playing were exciting, but he could already imagine the naked thighs of the woman riding him, her breasts thrusting in his face.

  “Sir, this specific van would have been delivered on Tuesday night or Wednesday morning,” she said.

  For a moment he kept grinning, still imagining her creamy, naked skin. Then some details registered. First, this wasn’t a very good disguise. She wasn’t wearing anything sexy, not even makeup. Second, there really had been a dark van on Tuesday night, and quite a memorable one at that.

  This was not a stripper.

  He wasn’t aware of his erection until the moment it wilted to nothing in his pants.

  “Mr. Carson?”

  “Y-yes. Yes, of course.” He got up, feeling shaky, and fumbled with the papers on his desk until he found the right form. “There,” he said. “I have it here. Chevrolet Express. Registered to a Mr. John Smith.”

  Agent Ward and Detective Shor exchanged glances as he held out the form. Shor took the single sheet from his hand and read it quickly.

  “It says scrapped,” she said.

  “That’s right,” Howard said. He felt sad.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means it was scrapped for metal and sold.”

  “Do you usually scrap usable cars?”

  “No, but that’s what the man asked for,” Howard said, “and he paid well.”

  “What did you do with the scrapped metal?” Detective Shor asked.

  “I sold it to a warehouse I work with.”

  “What about the rest of the car?”

  “I sold the engine to a different client. The rest was disposed of.”

  “Can you describe—” Shor was interrupted by a knock on the door.

  Howard sighed as he walked to the door and pulled it open. There was another cop in the doorway.

  “Come in,” he said despondently. “Your friends are already inside.”

  She walked inside, her high heels tapping on the floor. She was tall, thin, and blonde, wearing a very short skirt and fishnet stockings. In her hand she carried a portable stereo.

  It took Howard only a moment to understand what was going on. “Hang on—” he began.

  “Mr. Carson?” the girl asked in a soft silky tone. “You have been a very bad boy.” She looked at the agent and the detective and winked.

  “Please listen, I need to—”

  “I’m afraid I have to put you under arrest,” she said, “for being sexy.”

  She hit Play, and soft, rhythmic music filled the room. She put the stereo on the floor, pouting at Howard the entire time. He froze, mortified, unable to stop the scene unfolding around him. Both the detective and the agent were staring, bemused expressions on their faces. They didn’t look as if they were about to intervene.

  The stripper wiggled in a way Howard might have found alluring fifteen minutes before, her fingers crawling to the top button of her shirt. Before this atrocity could go any further, he crouched down and hysterically pressed all the buttons on the portable stereo until it stopped playing.

  “Please,” he said, breathing hard. “I’m in the middle of something here.”

  “Oh,” the stripper said. “The dude who called told me six-thirty, so…”

  “Agent Ward,” Shor said to her companion, “being sexy is not illegal in Massachusetts, so this isn’t really in my jurisdiction. Is it perhaps a federal offense?”

  “Not that I know of,” Agent Ward said.

  “You’re in luck.” Shor smiled at Howard sweetly. “I don’t think you’re under arrest after all. But we do need to ask you some further questions Mr. Carson.”

  Howard nodded glumly. Worst birthday ever.

  “Okay,” Shor said. “So this man calling himself John Smith comes here on Tuesday evening, wants to scrap his van—insists, in fact, that his van be scrapped and not sold for parts—and pays extra for that. Can you describe the man who identified himself as John Smith?”

  “Sure,” Howard said. “He was a bit taller than me and wore dark clothes. And a ski mask.”

  “A ski mask,” the agent said, his voice dry.

  “Yeah.”

  “He never took it off?”

  Howard shrugged. “It was a cold night.”

  The stripper cop spoke up. “That sounds very suspicious.”

  Shor grinned. “Just like Officer… what’s your name?”

  “Candy,” the stripper said.

  “Like Officer Candy said, that sounds suspicious. Didn’t it strike you as odd?”

  Howard sighed. “Look, people have strange requests, okay? I don’t pry into their personal business. If the car is registered to them, I do what they ask me to.”r />
  “You said it was a cold night,” Agent Ward said. “What time did he come here?”

  “About nine, possibly a bit later,” Howard said.

  “That’s very late,” the detective said.

  “He called a few hours in advance,” Howard said. “He said he’d come late. I waited for him.”

  “Sounds like the dude was trying to get rid of a hot car,” Candy said. “And John Smith? That’s a fake name.”

  “Officer Candy, you’re sharp. You’ll get far,” Shor said. “Was there anyone else with him? Anyone waiting outside?”

  “There was no one with him,” Howard said. “I don’t know if there was anyone outside.”

  “There must have been,” Candy said. “Otherwise, how’d he get home? Did you see who picked him up?”

  “Uh…” Howard hesitated, unsure if he should really answer questions from the stripper. But Shor and the agent were looking at him, unfazed. “I didn’t see who picked him up. Maybe he took a cab.”

  “Did you see—” Candy said.

  “Thank you, Officer Candy,” Shor said. “I think I can take it from here.” She turned back to Howard. “I need the name of the warehouse you sold the scrap metal to, the details of the client you sold the engine to, and the form this guy filled out. And if you have security footage from that night—”

  “I don’t,” Howard said, feeling very sorry for himself. He could never go to a strip club again, without this dismal occasion popping into the front of his mind. They’d ruined strippers forever.

  “Well, we need everything you have from that night. I’ll have no problem getting a search warrant.” Detective Shor grinned widely. “We can have Officer Candy deliver it.”

  “No need.” Howard said.

  He got up, and gave them copies of all the paperwork he had on that car while Candy watched with wide eyes.

  As the detective and the agent turned to leave, Candy asked, “Do you want your birthday dance now?”

  Shor turned back. “It’s your birthday?”

  “Yeah,” he answered, staring at the floor.

  “Well, happy birthday!” she said cheerfully and walked out the door with the agent following her.

  It was dark as they drove back, the night sky cloudy enough to swallow the moon. No one lingered in the streets; everyone had been driven inside by the biting cold. The chilly air managed to slither its way into the car’s interior, but Hannah felt warm. The thrill of the chase pulsed in her blood as she reviewed what they’d learned. They had a plausible chain of events, and the details of the van used for the kidnapping. Would that lead them somewhere? Perhaps, if the kidnapper hadn’t been careful when he’d bought it.

  Tension tightened her body, and her fists clenched as she sorted through the evidence in her head, trying to look for unasked questions, for missing puzzle pieces, for leads and threads.

  “Are you okay?” Clint asked.

  Her jaw was clenched. “Yeah.” She tried to relax. She smiled at him. “I get very intense when I’m on a case. It can drive my partner insane.”

  “Your partner?”

  “Detective Gladwin. Have you met him?”

  “No.”

  “You’d like him. He’s a lot more easygoing than I am.”

  Clint smiled back. “Who said I like people who are easygoing?”

  “Well, people generally do,” Hannah said.

  “I enjoy your intensity,” Clint said, his voice low.

  Hannah flushed, trying to ignore the tiny shivers on the back of her neck. “Thanks.” In the small space of the car, Clint’s scent enveloped her. He wore a subtle cologne that reminded Hannah of cedar trees and rainfall. Once again she imagined him holding her, but this time the images were much more vivid. She could almost feel his fingers brushing against her cheek, his lips touching her skin.

  “Want to talk about the case, hash out the details? We can do it over dinner. It could help you relax a bit. If you’re feeling too… intense.”

  She glanced at him—his handsome face, his wide shoulders—and could feel her body reacting, changing its rhythm. Her brain quieted as her heart took the lead, thrumming excitedly.

  “What did you have in mind?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.” He let his eyes linger over her. All of her, not just her face. “Is there anywhere good around here?”

  “Sure,” Hannah said. “Turn right here.”

  He did. “Are you cold?” he asked. “We can turn up the heat.”

  “No need.” She shivered slightly, but not from the cold. “Turn left at the next intersection,”

  “So… where are we going? Not that pizza place again, right?” Clint asked.

  Hannah didn’t answer, staring at herself in the passenger window. She raised her hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then hesitated and let her hand drop to her lap. Her mind bubbled with images and feelings. Her nerves were sensitive, almost raw.

  She was nearly certain Clint wanted her, too. Was she imagining it? Did he casually flirt with everyone? She tried to think of the conversation with Zoe, earlier. Had he acted the same as he did when he spoke with her? Had he half-smiled at Zoe like he did to her? She thought he hadn’t, but wasn’t completely sure.

  The car turned slowly onto Laguna Street, a small residential area close to the police station. There was a small grocery store there, which Hannah occasionally visited to buy some bagels or hot rolls. It was closed now, which was totally fine.

  “Park the car in there,” Hannah said, pointing at the small alley where trucks parked when delivering their supplies to the grocery. It was bathed in shadows, mostly hidden from the street.

  To her relief, Clint didn’t argue, or ask why. He simply followed her instructions, pulling into the small alley. He stopped the car. The engine humming silently.

  Hannah turned to smile at him. “This is it,” she said.

  He looked around him, then at her, saying nothing. She leaned closer to him and switched off the car’s engine. Their faces were only inches apart. Clint looked at her, his lips slightly parted, his dark eyes intense. Hannah tilted her head just a bit, leaning in to brush his lips with hers. As their lips met, she felt a rush of excitement and heat washing her body. Her tongue dipped forward slightly, finding his. She still wondered, in the back of her brain, if he might suddenly push her away. She backed away just a bit to study his face, and he grabbed the back of her head, pulling her closer, returning her kiss just as intensely. He grabbed her waist, his fingers strong and insistent as he pulled her body toward him.

  She hooked a leg over him, straddling him, both hands stroking his body in hunger, her fingers exploring his skin. She let out a low breath as his hand crept under her bra, brushing over her nipple. She quickly took off her shirt, banging her arm against the steering wheel, not caring about the discomfort, or the cramped space, ignoring the cold and giving herself away to pleasure.

  Still in his lap, she grinned at him. Both of them were naked, though Clint’s pants were bunched at his ankles.

  “Check out the windows,” he said.

  She glanced at them and laughed. All the car windows were completely fogged up; it was impossible to see anything through them. The driver’s window had a small imprint in the condensation, in the shape of her palm. She vaguely remembered leaning against it as waves of pleasure shook her body. How very Kate Winslet of her.

  “I think you can take me to my car now,” she said in a sleepy voice.

  “Okay.”

  They were silent for a few moments.

  “I kinda need my legs to do that,” Clint finally said. “And it’ll be hard to see the road with your body blocking the view.”

  “Do you have a problem with my body?”

  “Only when I’m trying to drive.”

  “Fine,” Hannah sighed. She returned to her own seat and started looking for her discarded clothing. Her underpants were on the dashboard, her shirt and pants on the floor. She couldn’t find her bra.r />
  “We’ll look for it in the parking lot, where there’s light,” Clint said. He wore his pants and his shirt, though he still hadn’t buttoned it up. She took another glance at his chest. Those FBI agents sure kept themselves in shape.

  “Sure,” she said. “We’ll just try fishing for my bra by the police station. If my boss shows up, we’ll tell him we’re looking for evidence.”

  Clint started the car, and turned up the heat, waiting for the windows to clear up. “So you’re going home now?” he asked.

  “Well, it’s getting late,” she pointed out.

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re welcome to follow me there,” she said. “I can make us some spaghetti.”

  He smiled at her. “That sounds delicious.”

  Abigail woke up to the sound of the door creaking. She lay on the bed, her eyes still shut, her mind and body numb, submerged in despair and fear. She couldn’t face her captors anymore, couldn’t face the sight of the basement. As long as her eyes remained closed, she could imagine she was in her own room, lying on the bed, waiting for her mother to call her for dinner. Except her room didn’t have the smell of dust, mold and urine the basement had. And her bed wasn’t as hard or uncomfortable.

  She heard the footsteps. It was the man again. The man was less awful than the woman. She hated them both, but she hated the woman much more. She heard him come closer, then stop.

  “You didn’t eat,” the man said. She opened her eyes, turned toward him. He looked at the floor, where the last two sandwiches lay, untouched. She had no appetite anymore, couldn’t bring herself to swallow the dry, tasteless sandwiches. She also barely drank. Drinking led to using the bucket in the corner, which she hated. She could feel her body weakening, her head pounding as it always did when she skipped a meal. But she didn’t care.

  The man held a third sandwich in his hand. He looked at it, then at her, his masked face unreadable.

  “You need to eat,” he said.

  Abigail made a small motion. It was meant to be a shrug, but lying on the bed was not the ideal position to shrug.