by Mike Omer
They had missed Exit 56, the exit to Scotland Road.
But they hadn’t missed the entrance where Scotland Road merged onto Highway 128.
As it neared, he checked the rearview mirror. Two oncoming cars. Too close? Maybe. But they only had one shot at this. Ignoring Hannah’s yelling, he took a deep breath, then hit the brakes, turning the wheel.
The car skidded out of control, spinning, the world spinning with it, the trees filling their view as they turned and turned.
His foot pressed the gas pedal, and Sharon, God bless her, hummed in response and jolted forward, driving down the entrance to 128, going the wrong way. Jurgen prayed to all the gods he knew that no cars would be driving up the entrance to the highway.
Fortunately, he knew a lot of gods. The road was empty. They reached Scotland Road, and Jurgen moved into the correct lane. He realized he wasn’t breathing, and exhaled loudly. Megan’s taillights were dim in the distance… but visible.
“What was it that you said about my driving?” he asked.
Hannah said nothing. She was clearly shocked by his awesomeness. Also, she looked as if she was about to faint. He decided to let her recuperate as he accelerated.
Abigail finally managed to locate a… thing. Feeling it with her fingers, it appeared to be a small handle.
It would open the trunk; she was sure of it.
She curbed her desire to pull the thing immediately. Once she opened the trunk, the woman would know she was free. She would stop the car, get out and kill her. Abigail had seen the look in the woman’s eyes, knew she wouldn’t hesitate. It was worth considering.
What were her other options?
She could do nothing. Wait. Stab the woman when she opened the trunk.
But who knew when that would happen? Who knew where they were driving to? What if the woman was joining a gang of kidnappers? Abigail would not be able to fight them off. No, that wasn’t a good option.
She touched the other side of the trunk. It was soft, leathery. The back seat. She could cut the seat, crawl through there. Put her knife to the woman’s throat. Make her stop the car. Except… It would take time to cut the seat. It would be clumsy to crawl through. And she was weak from her day without food or sleep, from having her limbs tied up. That, too, would end badly.
Option three. Pull the handle. The trunk would pop open. The car was going fast; she could feel it. She would jump out and roll onto the road. Even in the unlikely event that the road was empty and no car hit her, she’d most certainly die. Bad option. Very bad option.
And those were her only three options. She was about to die. She nearly burst into tears again.
But at least if she jumped out of the car, there was a chance someone would find her body. Her mom would know what had happened to her. And the woman who had kidnapped her would lose.
She pulled the handle.
Nothing happened.
She nearly burst out laughing. Well. That option was gone. So what was it? Cut though the seat, or wait and see what happens.
She pulled the handle again, with all her strength,
And the trunk lid popped open, the rain drenching her body.
“Mitchell!” Hannah shouted into her phone. “Where are you?”
“We’re driving up 128!” Mitchell shouted. “The FBI barricaded the road just before the bridge! She’ll be trapped, Hannah. She’ll have to stop!”
“We’re not on 128 anymore!” Hannah yelled back. “The bitch got off on Scotland Road!”
There was a moment of silence. “Damn it!” Mitchell finally said.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, listen…” Another pause. “Okay, I’ve got the map here. You’re driving toward Newburyport, right?”
“Right!”
“Okay, We’ll get off at the next exit, and get to the Newburyport bridge before she does. We’ll create our own damn blockade. She has nowhere to go, Hannah, I swear. We’ll stop her on the bridge.”
“What if she has Abigail?”
“We have to stop her, Hannah. We’ll see where that gets us!”
“Okay,” Hannah hung up. “Mitchell says there’s a bridge up ahead,” she told Jurgen. “They’ll block it. She’ll have nowhere to go.”
“Unless she drives into Newburyport,” Jurgen said.
“Yeah, well… that’s all we’ve got.”
“Where are all the damn FBI agents?” Jurgen exploded. “Why aren’t they here?”
Hannah shook her head. “They’re not as good as we are,” she said, grinning at him.
“Yeah, yeah, tell that to—Oh, shit!”
Hannah looked ahead to see what had startled him, and her mouth gaped. The trunk of Megan’s car had opened. It was hard to see, but a small head seemed to be peering out of it.
“That’s her!” Hannah screamed, half in panic, half in joy. “She’s alive!”
“Not for long, if she jumps,” Jurgen said, his jaw clenched. “We’re going over seventy. The fall will crush every bone in her body.”
“We’re out of time,” Hannah muttered, her mind whirling with possibilities. “Get us closer!”
“What are you going to do?”
She ignored him and hunched down in her seat. Then, before he could say anything, she kicked upward.
The windshield cracked.
“What the hell are you—”
She kicked again, and some pieces broke free. Rain drops started hitting her in her face.
“Hannah, stop that!”
She kicked a third time. A huge part of the windshield broke away, tumbling off the car. The rain drenched them both.
“Damn it, Hannah!” Jurgen screamed at her.
“Get us closer!” Hannah shouted at him. “If she jumps on our car, she’ll be fine! We’re both driving at the same speed!”
“You’re insane!”
She took out her gun and started smashing what was left of the windshield. Pieces scattered everywhere.
They were out of options. They were out of time.
The rain poured on Abigail as she looked around her. She was on an empty road, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees. The car was driving terribly fast, even faster than she had thought. And another car was following it, getting closer.
If she jumped, she would die for sure.
The car she was in suddenly swerved left and then right. The woman had noticed the trunk was open. Was she trying to knock Abigail out? Abigail hunched down, her heart hammering. She screamed for help, though she knew no one could possibly hear her.
And then there were lights around her. Street lights! They were driving through a town! She could see houses. The streets were empty, except for an occasional car driving by. The vehicle she was riding in was still hurtling way too fast.
The car behind them was now very close. To her shock, she could see their front windshield was missing. The driver, an Asian man, was steering with his eyes half shut against the violent rain that hit his face. By his side sat a small, pale woman, her wet hair whipping in the wind. She shouted something at Abigail, but the words were impossible to hear. What did the woman want? What had happened to their window?
“Help me!” Abigail screamed.
The woman motioned with her arms—motioned at herself, as if saying come here.
It was insane. The woman was crazy. Did she think Abigail could fly?
The car grew closer; it was now only six feet away. Five feet. Four feet.
They went under a bridge, then another one. Abigail could hear the whoosh sound as they did, and the air vibrated around her. She was petrified with fear.
Three feet.
The woman yelled something again. Over and over.
Abigail.
She was calling Abigail’s name. And motioning for her to come, to fly over to their car. Abigail shook her head, feeling her heart plummet in her chest. Surely the woman didn’t want her to…
She could feel the road tilting. They were going up. Up a bridge. Above a river. Sh
e could see the water below, as the wind hit them, creating torrential waves, small boats rising and falling.
“Abigail!” the woman screamed. “Jump!”
Abigail stood up, hesitating, the car’s tremors vibrating through her feet.
Megan was out of options. The road was blocked ahead; they had managed to outmaneuver her. In the rearview mirror, she saw the open trunk and knew that, beyond it, her pursuers were close.
She could only think of Lance Koche. How he had told her coldly that she had to get an abortion, that he would pay for it. How he had terminated their affair, but still occasionally copped a feel, as if to emphasize that he could. How excited he had been by the prospect of a daughter from another woman, a daughter he had never known.
The bastard. She hadn’t managed to ruin him and his business, but she could still destroy the prospect of fatherhood he’d thought he had.
It was time to end it. It was time to end it all.
Abigail tensed, steadying herself, and the car veered right, hitting the edge of the bridge, the metal screeching. She fell back into the trunk. The car behind crashed into them, the trunk’s metal frame bending and tearing noisily. She was sure she was about to die.
And then the noise stopped and their vehicle was on the road again, away from the edge.
The kidnapper had tried to drive them off the bridge. She wanted to kill them both.
She would try again. There was no more time.
She stood up, thought on the count of three. One…
And then she jumped.
Hannah could see the blockade that Mitchell and Clint had created at the end of the bridge. Their car blocked two lanes. Another car, probably commandeered for this purpose, blocked the other lanes.
Megan could see the blockade, too.
When she suddenly hit the bridge’s edge, Hannah died inside. She saw Abigail lose her footing, knew there was no way she could stop this from happening, that the car was about to fly off the bridge.
The bridge’s safety wall somehow held. Megan’s car veered to the left, moving away from the edge. Hannah screamed—she didn’t even know what, or why. Megan was trying to kill herself, and take Abigail with her in the process. A final attempt at revenge against a man who had hurt her.
And then Abigail stood again and Hannah yelled at her to jump. Jump!
And Abigail jumped.
Their car was driving slightly faster than Megan’s as Abigail landed on their hood, rolling toward the broken windshield. Hannah heard the thump as Abigail’s head hit the edge of the windshield, and the rest of her body fell into the car. And then Abigail was in her arms, her head lolling, and Hannah was crying her name, crying for Jurgen to stop, crying for something to happen.
She never saw Megan’s car clearing the edge of the bridge. She just heard it, the sound of metal crushing and tearing, of Jurgen cursing. All Hannah could look at was Abigail’s lifeless face in her hands. Her eyes were closed, her skin cold.
The car stopped.
“Abigail? Abigail!” Hannah shouted.
The rain drenched her as she put her hand on the girl’s chest.
And when she felt it heave, and Abigail’s eyelids fluttered, Hannah felt grateful for the rain that drenched her, and masked her tears.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The bartender put the tequila shot in front of Hannah, then gave her a small plate with a slice of lemon and some salt. Hannah ignored the lemon and the salt, and downed the tequila in one quick gulp. She grimaced, unused to the taste. She usually stuck to beer, but tonight she needed more.
“One more,” she said to the bartender.
He looked at her, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, you seemed to really enjoy the last one,” he said, placing another shot glass on the bar. Hannah looked at the liquid as he poured.
“Maybe it’s an acquired taste,” she said.
He nodded. “It is, but not this stuff. You want to acquire a taste, going for the cheapest bottle is not the right way to do it.”
She tilted her head, drinking the sharp-tasting liquid. “Okay, then,” she said. “Give me whatever you think is the right sort of tequila.”
The bartender glanced at Bernard, who sat by her side. “It’s fine,” Bernard said. “I’m driving her home.”
The bartender muttered to himself, turning around.
“So,” Bernard said. “I couldn’t help but notice that you switched partners three times in the last month.”
“How’s that?” Hannah asked, playing with the empty shot glass.
“First there was Agent Ward,” Bernard said, raising one finger. “A fed. I get it. The feds get invited to all the cool parties.”
“He wasn’t really my partner,” Hannah mumbled, feeling the strands of regret that were still linked to Clint in her mind.
“Then, Mitchell Lonnie,” Bernard said, raising a second finger. “I guess the mopey eyes got to you? Because I know that, aside from that, I’m way more handsome.” He grinned at her.
Hannah smiled back, hoping her slight blush couldn’t be seen in the dim lighting of the bar.
“And then, none other than my previous partner, Jurgen Adler,” Bernard said, raising a third finger. “That one hurt. A stab in the back.”
“He wasn’t my partner, for God’s sake,” Hannah said angrily. “He just had some important info. He was a witness in the case.”
“And now you’re back with me,” Bernard said, ignoring her. “You know what that tells me?”
“What?”
Bernard quirked an eyebrow. “That they all pale in comparison to my superior detective skills, and my exceptional hair.”
Hannah burst out laughing. “You’re full of shit.”
“She can laugh!” Bernard said in mock surprise. “I thought you’d forgotten how.”
The grim mood that had enveloped Hannah for the past week returned. She frowned.
“Hannah, I’ll lay it out simple. You saved the girl, got her back to her grateful parents, and the kidnappers will never hurt anyone again. Case closed, lets party.”
“Uh-huh. A girl and her family traumatized, three dead people. I really did well there.”
“Give yourself a break.”
“She nearly died at least twice, Bernard,” Hannah said. “I could have figured it out faster, if I wasn’t so wrapped up in my…” she hesitated. “Stuff.”
Bernard shook his head. “You can’t just abandon your life whenever a case pops up.”
“Did you see the headlines about the case?”
Bernard nodded. “Apparently you single-handedly saved Abigail Lisman.” He grinned. “That’s amazing!”
“Yeah, and that’s not the only drivel they had out there. Did you see how they portrayed Megan Shaffer? They said she had been used by Darrel Simmons, who was the criminal mastermind behind it all. Made her sound like a poor, weak woman, who killed herself in the end in regret and fear.”
“Yeah, well…” Bernard shrugged. “Why do you care?”
Hannah didn’t answer. She didn’t know why it bugged her so much, but it did. She drank the third tequila shot the bartender handed her. If it tasted better, she didn’t have the palate to discern it.
“I also saw a small quote from Lance Koche,” Bernard said. “He was shocked or something.”
“That bastard,” Hannah said. “It all started because of the affair he had with his assistant. You know what’s crazy? Megan Shaffer kidnapped Abigail to hurt him, make him go bankrupt by paying the ransom… but he never did! He would have let the kid die. I mean… even though Megan hated him, she still believed he was a better man than he really was.”
“Crazy,” Bernard said, nodding in agreement. “You know what else is crazy? The way you obsess about a case after it’s done. To quote the Glenmore Park Gazette, you cracked the case. It’s done, Hannah. You did good. Learn to enjoy life’s little victories. You know what I’ll do? I’ll buy you a cake. With whipped cream. We’ll throw a little Hannah-cracked-the-case party
. I’ll invite the entire squad.”
“I’ll kill you if you do that,” Hannah said evenly. She wasn’t entirely sure if Bernard was kidding or serious.
“I’m not worried. We’ve already established you can’t really partner with anyone else but me,” Bernard said.
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Hannah thought about Abigail, Naamit, and Ron. About their future.
“Anything else?” the bartender asked.
“Just the tab, please,” Hannah told him. She looked at Bernard. “I’ll try, okay?”
He smiled at her. “That’s all I can really ask,” he said.
As Abigail walked into her room for the first time since the kidnapping, she was struck by immense relief, all of her muscles becoming rubbery at once. She managed to stumble to her own bed, and lay down gingerly. Her head still hurt, even though a week had passed since the night of the storm, when she hit it. She had spent the whole week in the hospital.
She was relieved to be with her parents again, but staying at the hospital had stretched her nerves beyond the breaking point, and she’d found herself crying uncontrollably more than once. Everyone thought they understood. She’d been through so much. And she had a concussion. Crying was understandable.
They understood nothing. She’d tried to explain it only once, to her mother, but she could immediately see the confusion in her mother’s eyes.
After a whole week alone in a dimly lit basement, everything was just too much. Too many doctors and nurses and psychologists. Too many detectives and FBI agents asking her questions. Too many friends and relatives visiting constantly, bringing her gifts. Too much light.
She couldn’t even begin to handle her so-called “fame.” Gracie told her that everyone in the world knew who she was. Though she thought it was an exaggeration, she had seen herself on too many news channels to remain ignorant. Her mom tried to shield her from it, but it was impossible. Seven different hospital patients and two nurses asked to take a selfie with her. Reporters tried to talk to her several times.
Once she was given a new phone, she logged into her Instagram account, saw the famous ransom pictures and the thousands of comments, and logged out. They had to give her a mild sedative to help her fall asleep that night.
