W. Griffin: Deadly Assets

But now the park-which legend held was where in 1752 Ben Franklin had flown the kite dangling a key in a storm and captured electricity from lightning (others said he flew it from the spire of Christ Church a few blocks away)-had again become a family-friendly spot. It featured the city’s only miniature golf course, the carousel, and playgrounds, and, now for the holidays, a child-pleasing Christmas light show that flowed out from the ten-foot-tall kite “flying” above the water fountain and the big white North Pole tent for visits and photographs with Santa Claus.

Abigail was now anxiously pulling her mother toward the tent. They passed the path that led to the miniature golf course; it was roped off, and a sign read CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE. A loudspeaker on top of a pole on the corner filled the air with the Philly Pops orchestra performing “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” Standing under the speaker, a green-costumed elf-Melanie noticed he was a young teenager with a bad case of acne-handed out candy canes.

The teenaged boy handed one to Abigail, who said, “Thank you!” then looked up at her mother, grinning as she waved it like a trophy.

“Almost to Santa!” Abigail said, and tugged again on her mother’s hand.

“Almost,” Melanie said, then heard her phone going off. It was the ring tone of Sinatra singing “Fly Me to the Moon” that she recently had linked to her husband’s cell phone number.

“Let’s go faster, Mommy!”

“Hang on, Abby, it’s Daddy calling,” Melanie said, steering the stroller off the crowded brick walkway.

They stopped short of where a great big man with light brown skin sat hunched over on one of the park’s wooden benches. He wore jeans and a black hooded sweatshirt, and was sweating and clearly trying to catch his breath.

As Melanie quickly reached with her free hand into her purse to dig out the phone, the sudden motion made the stroller tip backward. It gained momentum, then slammed to the ground, causing the purse to spill most of its contents, including the phone, which had stopped ringing. The stroller handle also knocked the candy cane from Abigail’s hand, crushing it.

“Damn it!” Melanie blurted, then let go of Abigail’s hand and bent over to pick up everything. The phone began ringing again and she grabbed it first, and answered it: “Hey, meet us at the North Pole tent.”

She listened as she refilled her purse, then said, “I’ll ask her, but she really wants to see Santa,” then turned around to Abigail.

“Ab-”

A deep chill shot through Melanie.

Abigail wasn’t standing there.

“Abby!” she called out, standing up and frantically looking around.

Melanie then looked over at the white tent, and walked quickly toward it, scanning the crowd as she went.

Nothing.

She stopped.

“Abby!”

Where could she have gone?

Sick to her stomach, Melanie suddenly felt on the edge of throwing up.

Stay calm!

She inhaled deeply, then slowly let it out as she looked back to where the stroller lay on the ground. Then she looked farther back-and in the crowd caught a glimpse of a white-and-green cap.

Oh, thank God!

Abigail was walking toward the teenager in the elf costume.

“Abby!” Melanie yelled, running after her.

Abigail kept walking. Melanie thought that the Christmas music blaring from the loudspeaker caused her not to be heard.

Melanie then noticed that the big man who’d been on the wooden bench was also walking toward the teenager in the elf costume, who now was bent over his candy bag.

Then Melanie couldn’t believe her eyes-the big man suddenly reached down and took Abigail by the hand, pulling her around the pole that roped off the path to the miniature golf course.

“No!” Melanie yelled from deep down.

And then in the next instant, Abigail disappeared around the corner.

Melanie screamed, “Help! He grabbed my daughter!”

As people in the crowd began to comprehend what Melanie was saying, a path opened for her, some horrified parents pulling their children into their arms and holding them tight.

The teenager in the elf costume saw Melanie running and yelling. Then he realized that she was looking at him, and pointing past him.

Melanie again screamed, “He grabbed my daughter!”

The teenager looked around the corner, then bolted down the path after them.

A minute later Melanie rounded the corner where the teenager had been standing. The huge loudspeaker began playing “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”

–

Melanie’s lungs burned. She had been running down the empty path for what she thought felt like forever. Her mind raced- What will happen to Abby? What if I never see her again? — and then she told herself to think positive thoughts.

I’ll find her. I have to find her.

She came to a sharp curve-and wondered if she was hallucinating.

“Oh my God!” she said, and felt herself running faster than she thought possible.

Abigail, alone, had suddenly appeared around the curve and was walking toward her.

“Come to me, Abby!” Melanie cried, her arms outstretched.

It wasn’t until Melanie held Abigail tightly that she noticed there was blood-it had smeared off the back of Abigail’s winter coat. Melanie frantically pulled off the coat and checked her daughter for wounds. She found none.

Melanie then heard the heavy footfalls of someone running up behind her.

She quickly turned to look.

Two Philadelphia policemen were coming down the path.

3001 Powelton Avenue, Philadelphia

Saturday, December 15, 10:22 A.M.

“Tim, I asked that there not be any more talk about any death threats,” Emily O’Brien said, crouching and pouring water from a plastic pitcher into the Christmas tree stand.

She looked over her shoulder. Her husband leaned against the door frame to the kitchen. He wore a faded navy cotton bathrobe, under which a white T-shirt was visible, and he had his bare feet stuffed into fleece-lined slippers.

“Okay, Tim? Please? Nothing came of the others, and I don’t want that awful feeling of being afraid again. Especially during the holidays.”

Emily, an attractive redhead with pale, freckled skin, stood and crossed the room to him. Getting up on tiptoes, she tenderly kissed her husband of twenty months.

At six-foot-three and two hundred thirty pounds, Tim O’Brien was beefy but soft, a teddy bear of a guy whose idea of a workout was pounding down a couple-or more-pints of Penn Pale Ale after an intense day of researching and writing investigative news stories. Now, having just awoken after a late night out, the reporter’s big hands were wrapped around a steaming mug of black coffee that he cradled to his chest.

“This should be a happy time,” Emily went on, smiling as she met his dark eyes.

Tim nodded.

“Em, I’m simply repeating what I was told at the office. Just be careful. You should always-not just now because of the threat-be conscious of your surroundings when you’re out. Don’t be distracted by your phone, texting, talking, whatever. The security guys at work call it-”

“Situational awareness,” she interrupted. “I know. I remember from the last two threats after your stories ran.”

He grunted, then leaned down and, dropping a hand to her lower back and pulling her in against him, kissed her deeply. After he let her loose, she smiled and squeezed past him, heading into the kitchen with the empty plastic pitcher. He admired her beautiful figure-wondering when it would start showing signs of her pregnancy-then quickly took two steps after her and swatted her swaying buttocks.