pass in the dim
room, lit only by her desk lamp. Her exhaustion covers her like a blanket and
her thoughts disconnect from the world.
In the darkness a
spider web materializes from nothing. Beth has the lucid impression of a web
fusing to the moistened skin of her cheeks, eyelids and forehead, causing a
warm tingling sensation. She is unable to detach from the uncertain horror. Her
heart quickens with her increasing fear and anxiety. Her mind wants to escape
to consciousness, but she presses to suffer the dream because of something
greater and deeper within herself. I must see this. Her mind’s eye
focuses upward toward the ceiling filled with an enormous spider web and in the
midst, a black widow. Working hard at its web, it knows that Beth is staring
into its eight hideous eyes. Not concerned, it continues its tedious
masterpiece …
Beth’s headset
reports the incoming call as her mind rushes to the surface, leaving the vision
buried in her subconscious. She presses the answer button before the second
ring. “Hello?”
“Beth, it’s Sarah.
I know where your missing girl is,” Sarah says with exuberance. “They weren’t
taken. They’re hiding.”
“I knew it!” Beth
straightens with anticipation. “Where are they? Is there any way I can talk to
them?”
“I’m not allowed
to say, but I’ll find out if she is willing to speak with you.”
“Great. In the
meantime, I’m going to do a little research.”
“And, Beth.”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful; I
have a strong feeling you’ve stumbled into a web of deceit.”
How does she do
that? Without me telling her anything about my dream, she seemed to know more
about it than I do. An involuntary shiver races through Beth as she
remembers her dream. Creepy, just, creepy .
Beth pulls the
keyboard close and wakes the computer from hibernation. She pulls up a browser
window with links to high-end information services. Her firm subscribes to
eleven sites that provide cross references between addresses, social security
numbers, and name fragments. For the few hundred dollars a month in fees, the
resources are priceless. Beth starts her search on Mrs. Freedman. What did
she say her first name was? I can’t remember. The phone rings. While
pressing the button on her earpiece. “Hello.”
“Hey, hon, I just
pulled in. Come get the door. My hands are full,” Elliot says.
Opening the door,
Beth is stolen away by the aroma of a fresh-baked pizza. “Mmm, the usual?”
“Of course—extra
cheese, jalapeño, and pepperoni. Knowing you, I figured you’ve been too busy.”
Elliot slides through the door holding the pizza in one hand like a delivery
person.
“Yes,” Beth says,
“breakfast, lunch, and dinner.” Beth locks the main office door behind Elliot.
“I hate days like this. Hey, do you remember any of Mrs. Freedman’s personal
information?”
“Did she even give
any?”
“Yes. Whether it’s
true or not is another story.” Beth opens the filing cabinet and pulls out the
case file.
Elliot has other
thoughts. He places the pizza on the desk. “Come eat. You need a break.”
Beth takes her
time returning to her desk with her nose buried in Mrs. Freedman’s file.
Lacking couth,
Elliot asks, “What did you find out about the stuff you lifted from Vicky’s
house?” He takes a large bite of steaming hot, thin-crust pizza and pulls a
chair to the desk.
Beth notices the
grease dripping onto her genuine cherry-wood desktop. She throws the case file
on Elliot’s lap and retrieves a stack of napkins from the lower left desk
drawer, a common recurrence on pizza nights.
“Elliot!” Beth
snaps at him as she places the several napkins under the pizza box.
“Ya know, hon, and
don’t take this wrong way,” Elliot grabs another piece of pizza, “you need to
learn to relax, or you’re gonna end up being just like Mrs. Freedman someday.”
He crams half the piece into his mouth.
Shocked and
enraged, Beth glares at Elliot, not having to say a
room, lit only by her desk lamp. Her exhaustion covers her like a blanket and
her thoughts disconnect from the world.
In the darkness a
spider web materializes from nothing. Beth has the lucid impression of a web
fusing to the moistened skin of her cheeks, eyelids and forehead, causing a
warm tingling sensation. She is unable to detach from the uncertain horror. Her
heart quickens with her increasing fear and anxiety. Her mind wants to escape
to consciousness, but she presses to suffer the dream because of something
greater and deeper within herself. I must see this. Her mind’s eye
focuses upward toward the ceiling filled with an enormous spider web and in the
midst, a black widow. Working hard at its web, it knows that Beth is staring
into its eight hideous eyes. Not concerned, it continues its tedious
masterpiece …
Beth’s headset
reports the incoming call as her mind rushes to the surface, leaving the vision
buried in her subconscious. She presses the answer button before the second
ring. “Hello?”
“Beth, it’s Sarah.
I know where your missing girl is,” Sarah says with exuberance. “They weren’t
taken. They’re hiding.”
“I knew it!” Beth
straightens with anticipation. “Where are they? Is there any way I can talk to
them?”
“I’m not allowed
to say, but I’ll find out if she is willing to speak with you.”
“Great. In the
meantime, I’m going to do a little research.”
“And, Beth.”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful; I
have a strong feeling you’ve stumbled into a web of deceit.”
How does she do
that? Without me telling her anything about my dream, she seemed to know more
about it than I do. An involuntary shiver races through Beth as she
remembers her dream. Creepy, just, creepy .
Beth pulls the
keyboard close and wakes the computer from hibernation. She pulls up a browser
window with links to high-end information services. Her firm subscribes to
eleven sites that provide cross references between addresses, social security
numbers, and name fragments. For the few hundred dollars a month in fees, the
resources are priceless. Beth starts her search on Mrs. Freedman. What did
she say her first name was? I can’t remember. The phone rings. While
pressing the button on her earpiece. “Hello.”
“Hey, hon, I just
pulled in. Come get the door. My hands are full,” Elliot says.
Opening the door,
Beth is stolen away by the aroma of a fresh-baked pizza. “Mmm, the usual?”
“Of course—extra
cheese, jalapeño, and pepperoni. Knowing you, I figured you’ve been too busy.”
Elliot slides through the door holding the pizza in one hand like a delivery
person.
“Yes,” Beth says,
“breakfast, lunch, and dinner.” Beth locks the main office door behind Elliot.
“I hate days like this. Hey, do you remember any of Mrs. Freedman’s personal
information?”
“Did she even give
any?”
“Yes. Whether it’s
true or not is another story.” Beth opens the filing cabinet and pulls out the
case file.
Elliot has other
thoughts. He places the pizza on the desk. “Come eat. You need a break.”
Beth takes her
time returning to her desk with her nose buried in Mrs. Freedman’s file.
Lacking couth,
Elliot asks, “What did you find out about the stuff you lifted from Vicky’s
house?” He takes a large bite of steaming hot, thin-crust pizza and pulls a
chair to the desk.
Beth notices the
grease dripping onto her genuine cherry-wood desktop. She throws the case file
on Elliot’s lap and retrieves a stack of napkins from the lower left desk
drawer, a common recurrence on pizza nights.
“Elliot!” Beth
snaps at him as she places the several napkins under the pizza box.
“Ya know, hon, and
don’t take this wrong way,” Elliot grabs another piece of pizza, “you need to
learn to relax, or you’re gonna end up being just like Mrs. Freedman someday.”
He crams half the piece into his mouth.
Shocked and
enraged, Beth glares at Elliot, not having to say a
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