Trapped
Chris Jordan
“Mom, I need your help. Please call–” That’s it. The call cuts off in mid-sentence. No static. Just an overwhelming silence. Single mother Jane Hartley is frantic when her 16-year-old daughter Kelly disappears from her bedroom one night. To Jane’s frustration, the police believe that Kelly ran off willingly with her boyfriend. Unaware that her daughter even had a boyfriend, Jane soon discovers that her little girl has been hiding dangerous secrets… just like her mother.Adamant that Kelly is not a runaway, Jane hires ex-FBI agent Randall Shane to follow the trail of her missing child. But every step brings them closer to a cold-blooded predator lurking in the shadows…waiting to strike. A thrilling suspense novel, Lost is every mother’s nightmare and one monster’s dream come true.
Also byChris Jordan TAKEN
Lost
Chris Jordan
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
With love to my wife Lynn Harnett,
who gave me the story,
and to my cousin FBI Special Agent James McCarty,
who could be Randall Shane
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to Sandra Aitken and Peggy Ruggieri, two
of the best gown-makers in the known universe,
for helping Jane Garner establish her business.
PROLOGUE
Kids Like Balloons
Ricky Lang dreams of his three children. Sometimes they are dressed in white cotton nightshirts emblazoned with cartoons from the Magic Kingdom. Goofy and Mickey and various ducks. Sometimes the children appear to be wearing garments made of light, glowing with an intensity that makes his eyes hurt. Sometimes the two girls float above the ground, grinning like mischievous angels while his son, four-year-old Tyler, tugs at his sisters as if they are wayward balloons. Making a game of pulling them down.
Sleeping or waking, it does not matter, he dreams of the children. For instance at this very moment he’s wide-awake, lounging in the hot, hushed shade of his tiki hut, staring at the glistening blue water in his brand-new swimming pool. Sipping on a tall iced tea and wondering why the water looks like Ty-D-bowl, the same bright color, and all the while his three children stand in a row on the far side of the pool. Dressed in their bathing suits, of course. All three of them waiting for his signal. His permission to enter the water. Waiting so patiently.
The children can’t be there, he knows that.
“Myla!” he bellows. “Get out here!”
Myla hurries out of the house. Slim brown legs, wears little white shorts low on her slender hips and a Victoria’s Secret cami top he purchased online. She’s barefoot, balancing a tray laden with sandwiches and salsa chips.
They’ve been together for two months, more or less, and she wants to please him. Nothing pleases Ricky, but she keeps trying.
“Hurry up, woman!”
Myla is barely twenty, has little experience with powerful men. Her big eyes always register a little fear at the sound of his voice, which is just the way he likes it.
“Never mind the food,” he says. “Hit the pool.”
“Pool?”
“Swim,” Ricky says. “In the water.”
“We’re going to swim?” asks Myla, confused. A few minutes ago he was demanding lunch at ten in the morning, not exactly lunchtime.
“Not me. You. Go change.”
Myla carefully sets down the tray. Smiles at Ricky and then licks a tiny daub of mayonnaise from the side of her hand, delicately, like a cat tonguing its pretty paw. “What should I wear?”
“Whatever,” Ricky says. “Use the cabana. Hurry.”
Without a word, Myla hurries away, heading for the striped cabana. She looks pleased and hopeful, as if of the true belief that obeying his command, this particular command, will make him happy.
Ricky stares at the plate of sandwiches. Normally he’s a man of vast appetites, but not this morning. The faintly salty odor of albacore tuna and finely chopped celery makes him feel slightly queasy.
“Myla!”
“Coming, Ricky!”
A few minutes later she emerges from the cabana wearing the latest itsy-bitsy-teeny bikini. Juicy, that’s what it says on her butt, in big white letters. Ricky likes the idea that he gets to read her ass—that’s why he selected this particular item—but at the moment sex is the furthest thing from his mind. Normally he can’t be around Myla for ten minutes without getting the urge, but today he has other things rattling around inside his head.
Myla executes a lithe pirouette, showing off her new swimsuit.
“You like?”
“Yeah, baby. Get in the pool. Swim.”
Myla lowers herself to the edge of the swimming pool, gingerly, because the tiles are hot. She’s not much of a swimmer, and this is how she enters the pool, by slipping cautiously into the chemical-blue water, no splashing. Ricky likes to dive, belly flop, get things wet. Not Myla.
Very careful girl. Ricky isn’t sure if he really likes careful, not for the long term, but for the moment she’ll do.
“Go on,” he urges. “Swim.”
She smiles, bright and nervous, and then begins to dog-paddle. Carefully, so as not to wet her hair. Ricky waits until she’s halfway through the first lap before checking to see if the children have gone.
He sighs. The muscles in his shoulders and his gut unclench.
“Like this, Ricky?” Myla calls from the pool.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Good.”
It worked. Myla pushed his children back into the dream. Wherever dreams are supposed to go when you’re awake, that’s where the children went. Which is good, because seeing them there all in a row, ready to jump in the pool at his command, it made him want to scream.
He picks up a triangle of sandwich, eats. Delicious. The sense of relief pervades every fiber of his body. He begins to think clearly, and among the thoughts is the nugget of a plan. A plan of action. Something that must be done. Something long overdue.
After a while Myla calls out from the pool. “Ricky? Can I stop now, Ricky?”
“Nah,” he says, not looking. “Keep swimming.”
Part I
Island Girls
1. The Girl On The Crotch Rocket
It all starts to go wrong one perfect, early summer evening on the Hempstead Turnpike. That’s when something pulls on the secret thread that holds my life together, and starts the great unraveling.
I don’t know it at the time, of course. I think all is well, that I’m holding things together, as always. Okay, Kelly and I have been fighting a lot lately, but that’s what happens with teenagers, right? All I have to do is stick to my guns, keep on being an involved parent, paying attention to my willful daughter, and everything will come out fine. Right?
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Normally I try to avoid the turnpike at peak traffic hours, but this time there’d been no choice. Mrs. Haley Tanner wanted a third fitting for the wedding party, and when Haley calls, you drop whatever and respond. She and her new husband are hosting her stepdaughter’s very lavish wedding—nine tents, two bands, three caterers—at their Oyster Bay estate, and she’s worried the bridesmaids may have put on a pound or two. Despite her obnoxious habit of summoning people at the very last possible moment, Haley is actually sort of likable, in a nervous, insecure, please-help-me way. So worried she’s going to do the wrong thing, make a mistake, and demonstrate to Stanley J. Tanner that he chose the wrong trophy wife. Turns out she’s his second trophy wife. Stanley, CEO of Tanner Holdings, ditched the original trophy wife not long after Haley served him broiled cashew halibut at Scalicious, a trendy little fish café in Montauk. At the time Haley was “staying with friends” while she waited tables, which meant she was paying two hundred a week to sleep on the floor. So nabbing Stanley Tanner was a very big deal. Haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Tanner in person myself—he seems to live in his Lear—but just looking at Haley, you know he’s a breast man. Which is fine. A man has to focus on something, right? Why not something that reminds him, however unconsciously, of his mother? As my friend Fern always says, what’s the harm?
Anyhow, poor Haley was melting down about the gowns not fitting and had summoned all five bridesmaids. Turns out two of them had actually lost weight and the very slight alterations were, to everyone’s relief, no problem. An hour later I’m thinking, as traffic inches along, that for all that money I wouldn’t trade places with Haley Tanner. I’d rather work my butt off as a single mom with a mortgage. Don’t get me wrong, it’s gorgeous, the newest Tanner mansion, tastefully furnished—one of five homes they own, by the way—but Haley never seems to have an unnervous moment or a peaceful thought. And no children, not yet. Maybe never, unless Stanley gets DNA approval.
Second trophy wives aren’t about kids, they’re about decorating.
Nope, I’ll stay plain Jane Garner, Kelly’s mom, the wedding lady. The go-to woman for custom gowns. The one driving the very nicely detailed, seven-year-old Mercedes station wagon. Classy but reasonably priced, if you let the first owner take the depreciation. Anyhow, I’m cool with being a working mom who balances her own checkbook, who is socking college money away for her daughter, and who thinks she has, at this precise moment, no regrets, no regrets at all.
Lying to myself, of course. Lying big-time. I’ve been lying for sixteen years, not that I’m counting.
Thing about living a lie, if you do it really well, you sort of forget you’re lying.
I forgot.
That’s when the crotch rocket went by, scudding dirt and pebbles in the brake-down lane. Actually beyond the brake-down lane, right up on the grass. I know it’s the type of sleek Japanese motorcycle called a “crotch rocket” because Kelly told me. Pointed one out as it shot by us in, where was it, somewhere around Greenwich? Greenwich or Westport, one of those towns. See how they bend low over the fuel tank, Mom? That’s to reduce air resistance. And how did my darling daughter know this, exactly? Everybody knows, Mom. That’s her answer lately. Everybody always knows but you, Mom.
It’s not like I’m ancient. I’m thirty-four. Kelly thinks I’m thirty-four going on fifty or sixty. Which drives me nuts, but there it is.
What catches my eye isn’t the motorcycle—motorcycles cut and weave through traffic all the time—it’s the girl on the back, barely hanging on. One hand clutching the waist of the slim-hipped driver, the other hand waving like she’s riding a bucking bronco in the rodeo, showing off her balance. The girl on the back has no helmet, which is against the law in the state of New York, and also very stupid and dangerous, but that seems to be the whole point of motorcycles, right?
Something about the girl reminds me of Kelly. Similar stylish mop of short dark hair, frizzed by the wind. Similar petite, gymnast-type figure in tight, hip-hugging jeans. Kelly has jeans like that, but not the tattoo just above the cleft of her buttocks. What Kelly calls a “coin slot.” Not the tattoo, but the cleft, you know? Anyhow, Kelly doesn’t have a tattoo of angel wings spanning the small of her back, because her totally square mom has forbidden tattoos until the age of eighteen at least.
And then the girl on the crotch rocket, the wild and crazy girl on the crotch rocket, the girl who is undoubtedly destined to die in some horrible wreck, or from tattoo-induced blood poisoning, that girl turns her pretty head and looks directly at me as the bike careens back onto the highway.
Looking a bit startled actually, the girl on the bike. A bit surprised as she makes unintentional eye contact.
I scream. Can’t help it, I open my astonished mouth and scream like a girl.
It’s Kelly. My daughter Kelly. No doubt about it.
2. Sleep With The Poodles
My friend Fern, who knows most of my secrets—not all, but most—she says the only way to win an argument with a teenage girl is to shoot her in the head. That’s just how Fern talks, like she’s related to the Sopranos, very tough in the mouth but soft in the heart. Even looks a little bit like that crazy sister on the show, the one who shot her boyfriend. Not that Fern’s ever shot anybody, certainly not her own daughter, Jessica, who finally went off to college upstate and is doing great. A sweet kid, basically, even though she and Fern can’t discuss the weather without arguing. Jess had her moments—I’m thinking specifically of an all-night prom party in Garden City—and at times managed to put Fern over the edge, into psycho-mom territory. You know, threatening to chain her daughter to the radiator, things like that. My favorite was her plan to put a special collar on Jess, the kind for invisible fences. She wants to go Goth, wear those stupid spikes around her neck? Fine! She can sleep with the poodles!
Sleep with the poodles. That’s my Fern. Always funny, even when she’s anxious or angry. Even so, she thinks I’m too hard on Kelly, that I am, in her words, projecting. Fern watches a lot of Dr. Phil. You’re projecting your own teen time on Kelly, Fern says, your bad old days. You gotta wrap your brain around the idea she’s not the same as you. She’s her own person and this isn’t the 1980s, this is a whole new century out there.
Yadda, yadda. I know. Really, I know. But still I worry. Every day kids get in really bad trouble in this world. They do stupid things with their stupid boyfriends and ruin their lives. They take drugs, wreck cars, have unprotected sex, fall from speeding motorcycles. They think they’ll live forever and throw away the miracle that gave them life.
Kelly got her miracle at age nine—actually on her ninth birthday—when all her tests finally came back clear. No more chemo, no more radiation, no more needles in her spine. After four years of pure hell, she was cancer-free. Unlike some of the less fortunate kids in her clinic, kids who never came back for the remission parties. Empty pillows, Kelly called them, or fivers, because one out of five didn’t make it.
Is this why she survived and others didn’t, so she can risk her life showing off on Hempstead Turnpike? Riding without a helmet? One-handed?
As you might guess, we’ve argued about risk taking a few times. More than a few. Last time she actually had the nerve to tell me I was being ironic. Ironic. What did that have to do with snowboarding at night, or hitchhiking? What did ironic have to do with deliberately disobeying my orders? Was ironic what made her roll her eyes, treat me with such withering contempt?
No, Mom, ironic isn’t what you are, it’s what you’re afraid of. Sixteen-year-old cancer survivor killed crossing the street. That’s ironic.
Stopped me cold, that one. Of course she’s right.
But I do feel that she’s been given a gift and should treat it reverently. But Kelly doesn’t do reverence. Not for herself, not for me, not even for the dead grandmother—my own semi-sainted mom—she used to worship as a kid. Reverence would be so uncool, and for a sixteen-year-old being uncool is way worse than death.
Despite being trapped in traffic for another twenty unbearable minutes, I still manage to get home long before she does, and I’m in the kitchen, waiting. Boy, am I waiting. Arms crossed, feet tapping, blood pressure spiking. I’m so anxious and angry at her out-of-control behavior that I don’t even dare leave a message on her cell. Can’t trust myself not to wig out and say something that can’t be taken back, something that will drive her further away.
I’m working over all of this stuff, rehearsing, ready to let loose with major mom artillery. As soon as she gets her skinny, tattooed butt inside the door, there will be massive inflictions of guilt. There will be bomb craters of guilt.
It isn’t just the boy or the motorcycle or the tattoo. That, unfortunately, has become typical Kelly behavior in the past year or so. What really whacks me is that my daughter is morphing into someone I don’t know. Someone who has no respect for me, who all too often doesn’t even seem to like me very much.
It’s scary when that happens. Scary enough to make me want to cry, mourning my beautiful little girl. The one who was so strong for me when she was ill. The one who looked up from her hospital bed—she was so sick that night, so sick!—and said, Don’t worry, Mommy, I’m not going to die. I checked with God and he said not to worry, I’ll be fine.
And she was. From that day on Kelly got better. Little by little, day by day, every test showed she was going into remission. Eventually, on that marvelous ninth birthday, that wonderful wonderful birthday, all the blood work, all the scans showed her cancer-free. I thanked God, I thanked the doctors and the nurses, but mostly I thanked Kelly, because she’s the one who never gave up, who never let the disease take over.
Anyhow, so that’s my state of mind. We live in the house in Valley Stream I inherited from my mom, the one she bought after she and my dad divorced. A divorce I always figured was partly my fault. All the stress I caused for them when I was Kelly’s age. Guilt, guilt, guilt. The mortgage happened when Mom needed money for a hospice. I told her—promised her—I wouldn’t put a mortgage on the house, that was her gift to me and Kelly, but what can you do?
My dad, a New York state trooper, he used to have a saying when he was about to deal with something important: I’m loaded for bear. Well, I thought I was loaded for bear, or at least loaded for Kelly. But when she finally did come home what did her mother do?
Mom burst into tears.
Because Kelly is smiling that impish smile, the one she first learned moments after being born. That smile I hadn’t seen for a while, not directed at me. A smile that breaks my heart because I miss it so.
“Mom? Why are you crying? Did something happen?”
I’m shaking my head. Can’t get the words out so I point to my lips, and then to her.
“You want to talk,” Kelly says. “Sure, yeah. You saw me on the bike. It was really dumb, me not wearing a helmet. I know that and I’m sorry. Seth was wearing his helmet, did you notice? He gave me a hard time, said it was so retarded, not wearing protection for your brainpan. Isn’t it weird he’d say ‘brainpan’? But that’s Seth. And the tattoo, Mom?”
Kelly swings around, lifts her little midi-blouse.
“It’s a fake. Body art. Got it at this place in Long Beach, on the boardwalk.”
I wipe my eyes, blow my nose, very nearly speechless. “Oh, Kelly.”
My daughter plunks herself on the stool next to me. With her amazing eyes and her amazing smile, she looks five going on twenty. “You’ve got to get over this worry thing, Mom. I’m okay. Really. The helmet? Won’t happen again.”
“People get killed on motorcycles,” I respond, my voice husky.
“Yeah, they do. They get killed by lightning, too. And by worrying themselves to death.”
“Who’s Seth?”
Kelly looks at her fingernails. “You’re going to ground me, right?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then I better go to my room,” she says, and flounces away, as if it’s fun to be grounded. As if being grounded was her idea.
She stops on the stairway, looking back at me in the kitchen.
“Don’t worry, okay?” she says. “There’s just totally no reason to worry about me.”
But there is. Big-time. And, as it turns out, for a much bigger reason than I ever imagined.
3. Man Of Steel
The thing about a turkey buzzard is that it looks really ugly perched on a branch or hopping around next to roadkill. Looks less like a bird, more like feathered hyena with hunched shoulders and a hooked nose. But let the ungainly critter soar and it becomes unspeakably beautiful, rising on big and glorious wings. What an amazing transformation, from a hideous bag of cackling bones to an elegant dark angel, circling in the noonday sun.
Ricky Lang envies the buzzard. He’s sprawled on the trunk lid of his BMW 760i, the twelve-cylinder sedan, staring up into the blinding blue sky. What he wants, what he really and truly wants at this very moment is to be that buzzard. Riding the updraft without effort, just the slightest wind-ripple of white feathers marking the edge of his great black wings. White feathers like daubs of ceremonial paint. Not as valuable or potent as eagle feathers, he’ll grant you that, but Ricky prefers the buzzard to the eagle because buzzards love to fly for the sake of flying.
Oh, baby, how they love to soar on the blurry heat rising from the vast casino parking lot. They soar over the malls and highways, anywhere there’s an updraft. Of course buzzards keep their eyes peeled for food, for something newly dead, that’s what they do, how they survive. But it isn’t just hunger that motivates the birds. Ricky has seen scores of turkey buzzards far out into the Florida Bay, circling miles from shore. Soaring like that, over water, a buzzard takes its chances. If it has to rest in the water it will be unable to launch itself back into the air. Feathers soaked, it will drown. Yet still it soars in dangerous places.
There’s only one explanation for such behavior. The big ugly bird soars in dangerous places because doing so makes it beautiful.
When the heat on the trunk lid finally becomes unbearable, Ricky Lang heaves himself upright. Five feet ten inches of hard muscle, small, fierce brown eyes flecked with gold, and the rolling, pigeon-toed gait of a sailor. Not that he’s ever been to sea, not really. Airboats don’t count—an airboat is more like skidding a slick car around a soft, watery track. Got the slightly bowed legs from his dad. That and hands like ten-pound hammers. First time Ricky ever saw the movie Superman he had to talk back to the screen because white-bread Clark Kent wasn’t the Man of Steel, no way. Tito Lang was the Man of Steel, everybody knew that! Fists like steel, head like steel, nobody messed with Tito, back in the day.
Ricky, five years old, assumed Superman was stealing from his father. Thirty years later, the Tito of today—that doesn’t bear thinking about, it makes his head hurt. More like the Man of Mush than the Man of Steel. Brain gone soft, pickled with swamp whiskey, and his trembling hands formed into weak arthritic claws that can’t manage his own zipper.
Thinking about his dad, Ricky clenches his fists so hard that his ragged fingernails draw blood. Feels good, the pain, keeps him focused. Unlike his father, Ricky doesn’t drink swamp whiskey, or any form of alcohol. He gets drunk on other things, on liquors that form in his own brain.
Fear of the dead, rage at the living. That’s what keeps his heart beating. Lately he’s learned to sip at the rage, make it last. For instance today he’s been enjoying a prolonged confrontation with casino security. Started at, what, eight in the morning, and it’s nearly one o’clock in the afternoon, so he’s had it going for five hours, on and off. A marvel of sustain. He loves the push and pull of it, the way he makes the security guards all jumpy and sweaty. Their eyes bugging when they see him approaching the main entrance. Hurried yaps into their handheld radios, looking for guidance, calling in the reinforcements. They’re afraid of him and that makes it sweet, because he can savor their fear and use it to organize his own thoughts.
Being in charge of his own thoughts is very important to Ricky. That when he says jump, his thoughts say how high? Because his thoughts have been all over the place lately, bouncing around in his skull like speeding pinballs. Each bounce inside his head resonates all the way to the balls of his feet, and makes him feel like he can leap buildings in a single bound.
As Ricky approaches the entrance, shrugging his big shoulders like a linebacker, a size-large dude in a lime-green blazer hurries out to intercept him.
“Am I a bird or a plane?” he asks before the guard can speak. “You decide.”
The guard glances nervously at a charter bus unloading senior citizens. All those soft, Q-tip heads bobbing slightly as they head for the bingo halls and the slot machines.
“Sir, I told you, sir. You are not permitted access.”
“Bird or a plane?”
“Sir, you are not permitted access to the casino or the casino grounds. You must exit the parking lot.”
Ricky grins, passes his hand through the thick bangs of his Moe Howard hair. “Dude? I own this parking lot.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” The guard is blocking his way, but not yet willing to lay hands on him.
“I own the casino,” Ricky reminds him. “You get that?”
“I don’t know who actually owns the casino, sir. I only know that you are not permitted to enter the premises.”
“That was my rule,” Ricky says, pretending to be reasonable. “I made the rule, I can break it.”
The guard grimaces, eyes swiveling for the reinforcements that haven’t yet arrived. Nobody likes dealing with Ricky Lang, they’re slow-footing it.
“Tribal council makes the rules, sir,” the guard responds rather plaintively. “Members of the tribe are not permitted in the casino.”
Ricky doing a two-step dance with the man, trying to get an angle on the entrance. “I am the tribe,” Ricky says. “I’m the sachem, the chief, the boss. This casino exists because of me.”
The guard reaches out, places a tentative hand on the center of Ricky’s chest.
“Sir, please.”
Ricky looks down at the hand, amazed, and becomes very still.
“I know who you are, Mr. Lang,” says the guard, as if desperate for him to understand. “Tribal council says you can’t come in, you can’t come in.”
Ricky selects one of the guard’s fingers, breaks it with a twitch of his fist. Before the man can fully react to the convulsion of pain, Ricky rolls him across the pavement, where he flops, moaning, at the feet of the seniors entering the casino.
“Help!” a Q-tip screams, an elderly woman, or maybe it’s an old man, hard to tell when they get that age. “Indians!”
Ricky laughs all the way back to his BMW. Indians, what a riot. The old lady probably thought she was about to be scalped. As sachem of the Nakosha, an elected office that made him both chief and high priest, he could have explained that traditional warriors did not take scalps. Never had. Scalps were taken by white soldiers, as souvenirs and to collect bounties. Nakosha warriors took noses—the nose was the seat of dignity—and threaded them into battle necklaces. Some warriors used knives to harvest the noses, others used their teeth. If it ever comes to that, Ricky decides he’ll go with the knife.
4. The Sacred Rights Of Momhood
Okay, putting your ear to your daughter’s door doesn’t look good, I’ll admit it. But Kelly is in her room for about ten minutes—door locked, of course—when her latest ringtone starts blasting away. Something from Snow Patrol, who are actually sort of cute. Anyway, I hear the cell go off, my mom-antenna reminds me of the Seth problem. As in who-is-Seth-and-how-did-he-get-in-Kelly’s-life without-me-ever-hearing-his-name, let alone any sort of description or explanation?
Very clever way my daughter has of not answering a simple question: she volunteers for punishment and then disappears into her room, locking the door.
The mysterious Seth, the young man with the motorcycle, that’s probably him on the phone right now. And since Kelly has refused to give me any details, it’s within my rights, the sacred rights of motherhood, to determine who this kid is—all that stuff about how the boy really wanted her to wear a helmet sounds bogus to me. Besides, he was the one driving like a lunatic, right?
Try as I might, I can’t hear a thing. They must be whispering to each other. What I want to know—is he in her class, is he older, what? All I caught was a glimpse, but come to think of it, the minimum age to legally carry a passenger in New York is seventeen. So he’s at least a year ahead of Kelly, maybe more.
Finally I work up the courage and knock.
“Kel?” I ask through the closed door. “We have to talk. Who is this boy? Does he go to your school? Do I know his parents?”
After a slight delay she calls out, “It’s late, Mom.”
I picture her hand cupped over the phone, her eyes rolling.
“It’s nine o’clock,” I remind her. “Since when is that late?”
“I’m really tired, Mom. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay? I’ll tell you all about it, honest.”
She’s so polite that it isn’t in me to argue. And once again she’s right—by morning I’ll be thinking much more clearly. Not only less freaked about the whole scene, but also less likely to be manipulated into, say, letting her self-select her punishment.
Maybe grounded isn’t the right call. Maybe what Kelly needs is a few months volunteering at an E.R. Let her see what happens to kids who risk their lives on a dare, or for the fun of it. Get her pushing wheelchairs, changing drool cups, all that good stuff. I picture a light going off over her head, an epiphany, how fragile life is. Kelly giving me a big hug, saying, Mom, you were right! I have to be careful!
The fantasies of parenthood. As Kelly herself would say, there’s minus no chance of that. Minus no chance—in teen-talk, that’s less than zero, with a sneer.
Most of the women I know watch Letterman or Leno or Conan before they drop off. Tuning in to the mainstream can be reassuring, I guess. It helps us relax, reminds us that we all have our troubles, we’re all capable of Stupid Human Tricks.
I’m not averse to a little tube before bed, but the only way I can get my head ready for sleep is to make a list. Putting the next day in order helps me feel less anxious about what’s expected of me.
1. check fabrics, ECWW
2. place Tanner order
3. check on second fittings, Norbert & Spinelli weddings
4. call Tracy
5. call Fred
6. lunch McQ
7. dry cleaners
8. grocery
ECWW is East Coast Wedding Wholesalers, where I purchase ninety percent of the fabrics for my clients. The satin, silk and lace people. The company is normally very reliable, but they’ve got a new guy running the shipping department and he’s been messing up my orders. I have to do something about that. Last year my little one-woman company purchased over two hundred thousand dollars’ worth of fabrics from East Coast—far from their biggest account but not insignificant. Number two, Haley Tanner, I’ve mentioned already. Norbert and Spinelli are upcoming weddings, nine bridesmaids and two bridal gowns between them, both slightly behind schedule because everything is slightly behind—see the problems at East Coast. Number four on the list, Tracy Gilardi, came on to assist with fittings three years ago, but she turned out to be so competent I tend to let her do her own thing—where I get excitable she always remains calm, which can be very helpful in nervous-making situations like weddings. Fred is Fred Grossman, my accountant. I want to check on quarterly tax payments. Alex McQuarrie is one of the top wedding planners in the area; he throws me a bone now and then, sets me up with a high-budget client. Or not. Sometimes all he wants is a companion for lunch, a sympathetic ear. We’ll see. Dry cleaners and grocery, self-explanatory.
Business and personal, all in order, every item checked off. Lights out, time for bed.
Worrying always exhausts me. So I’m out cold moments after my head sinks into the pillow. The only dream that sticks is something about being at the beach. It’s night and I’m a kid, my daughter’s age, looking for something along the shore. Is it my keys? How will I get home if I can’t find my keys? I search and search, sinking deeper and deeper into the sand. And then my alarm sounds and it’s a new day.
Seven o’clock, lots of things to do, not least of which is a very frank discussion with Kelly over breakfast. Or maybe I’ll wait until we’re in the car. She’s got a job at Macy’s for the summer—the cosmetics counter—and that will give us twenty minutes or so to discuss the new boyfriend, see if I can figure out how serious it is.
Kitchen or car, one way or the other we’ll sort it out.
In my bathrobe, hair still damp, I knock on Kelly’s door. Part of my job, playing rooster.
The unlocked door swings open.
“Kel? Rise and shine.”
At first I can’t comprehend what I’m seeing. Her bed is already made, throw pillows in place. Not possible, not at this hour.
“Kelly?”
That’s when I see the note. A note prominently displayed on her desk, held down by her South Park pencil holder. A note written in her usual florid felt tip, abbreviated as if it were e-mail.
Don’t worry, Mom, it’s not what u think. Something came up. Will call u 2morrow at high noon. Luv u tigers and tons(really!),
K.
She’s gone. Run away.
5. Somebody Special
The way Roy Whittle figures, there’s white man crazy and there’s Indian crazy. Both are bad, but Indian crazy is worse ‘cause in his opinion Indians are all crazy to begin with. Your average swamp injun is a few shy of a load for starters. Add liquor and syphilis and crazy ain’t far behind.
“You figure Ricky’s lost it?” Roy asks his brother.
Dug is driving, bumping their brand-new Dodge Ram over the rutted road that leads to the old airfield. He shoots a puzzled look at his brother. “Huh?” Dug not being one to jump into conversation without prodding.
“Acting weird,” Roy says. “The big chief. Ricky Lang.”
Dug shrugs. “Can’t say.”
They’re fraternal twins, but it’s always seemed to Roy that he got all the words, the conversational ability and most of the brains. You can’t say Dug is simple, exactly, not if you don’t want him pounding you, but he’s not a man given to speaking much, or expressing opinions. Or other normal stuff like reading a little and planning ahead—Roy does that for the both of them.
“Ricky pays us,” Dug points out, nodding to himself in satisfaction, having solved the question.
“Yep, he does.” Roy sighs. Might as well be talking to himself. But he can’t let go of the idea that Ricky has been acting peculiar. For instance his recent Superman talk. Staring at Roy with his hard little eyes and saying he can see into his head, he’s got X-ray vision. Like he can read Roy’s mind. A scary thought indeed.
When the big man first approached them, Roy thought it was strange, a Nakosha sachem wanting to hire a couple of local white boys. But when he’d explained the situation with his tribe, and what he intended to do about it, it sort of made sense that he needed outside help. Any reservations Roy had got erased by the offer of a new truck with a legal title, insurance paid for, the whole bit. Plus cash money in the very near future. But the last few days he had occasion to wonder if maybe Ricky wasn’t, when you got right down to it, bat-shit crazy. At the very least he was totally unpredictable, and that made him dangerous.
Roy vows to be extra damn careful with Ricky Lang, truck or no truck, money or no money.
They come around the last snaky turn in the old logging road. Ahead is the airfield, wide and clear. Not paved, because paving would draw too much attention, but scraped and leveled and hard-rolled, and suitable for everything but the very largest aircraft. Five thousand feet from end to end, straight as a string. A much improved version of the old, rutted clearing where, once upon a time, smugglers limped in, flying wheezy old DC-3 Dakotas loaded with bales of whatever, no runway lights to guide them other than a few pools of smoky kerosene set afire. Wild times that more or less ended before Roy and Dug were old enough to participate.
Unlike their poor pappy, who died in Raiford Correctional, basting in his own bitter juices.
Don’t trust nobody, boys, least of all yur so-called frens.
That was Pappy’s only song, for years before he died. How he was ratted by friends and associates and blood relatives. A long story, partly true, mostly bull. The sad fact was, the old man was the last in a long line of willing rats, with nobody left to rat out. Boys who started out jacking gators ended up rich, wrecking fifty-thousand-dollar Jaguars on backcountry roads for the sheer stupid fun of it, until they were spent out, broke, back in the cracker swamplands where they started.
Roy, twenty-four years old and barely out of the same neck of the Everglades, has no intention of going back, not without a wad of cash in his pocket. Enough for him and Dug to live decent. And near as he can figure, Ricky Lang is the man to back, moneywise. That is, if he don’t go totally squirrel.
“What we do?” Dug wants to know, gazing at the empty airfield.
“Ricky wants us to wait,” Roy explains, patient as always. He’d started out life five minutes ahead, is still waiting for his brother to catch up.
“Huh? Wait for what?”
“Somebody’s coming,” Roy says. He opens the glove compartment, takes out his brand-new ten mil Auto Glock 20 with the fifteen-round magazine. “Somebody special.”
6. Worse Than Sex
Fern has been my best friend since the first day of first grade. She sealed the deal by finding my shoes. Brand-new shoes strapped onto my pudgy little feet by my mother barely an hour before a group of marauding third-graders—big as invading Huns to me—knocked me down on the playground, pulled up my dress and threw my brand-new shoes into the woods behind the school.
There must have been adults overseeing us, but I have no recollection of that. All I remember is being devastated. Destroyed. These were the shoes I’d insisted on when shopping for my new school outfits. Expensive, from the way my mom pursed her lips and looked worried, but I’d made a fuss and she’d given in. Now the precious shoes were gone. I couldn’t go into the school barefoot—mortal shame—and I couldn’t go home. I was lost. The new world of first grade had ended before it even began.
I cried so hard I couldn’t see. And then this big girl came out of the fog of tears, a lovely girl three years older than me, with bright, beautiful, almond-shaped green eyes and wonderfully curly hair. She put her arm around my shoulders and helped me smooth down my dress and promised to find my shoes. She did find them, and helped me strap them on, and twenty-five years later whenever I get irritated with Fern, or find her wearisome, I think of the shoes, and that seals the deal all over again.
So it’s Fern who gets the first distress call.
“Kelly ran away,” I say, my voice breaking. “With a boy.”
“Oh, Jane! No way! I have to sit down.”
Fern has the wireless, carries it to her favorite chair, the soft leather recliner that belonged to her ex-husband. Poor Edgar. A sweet guy but no match for Fern, not in marriage, not in divorce, not in life. I know she’s using Edgar’s old chair because I recognize the sound of the squeaking springs as she settles in, pushes back, lifting her size-ten feet. “There,” she says. “Tell me everything.”
I try, but naturally, Fern being Fern, she interrupts long before everything gets told. “So you’re telling me Kelly stayed out all night and skipped out on her summer job? Welcome to the club, Jane.”
“But she’s never—”
“That you know of. Please. She’s sixteen. Everything but their name is a lie. Sometimes the name, too. I got these calls for Cheyenne? Frat boys looking for Cheyenne. Is that like a stripper name? Jessica was calling herself Cheyenne at some club, gave out her home number. Unbelievable. Jess has a tested IQ of one thirty-five, but at clubs it apparently drops to about sixty-five.”
“So you’re telling me not to worry.”
“No, no, no. Be very worried. Just don’t think you’re alone.”
“But what if she’s having sex?” I ask plaintively.
That gets a laugh out of Fern. Laughter so hearty it seems to warm the receiver on my phone. “If, Jane? Did you say if? Of course she’s having sex! Why else would she stay out all night with Smike?”
“Seth. His name is Seth.”
“He told Kelly his name is Seth and she told you. He could be Smike for all you know. Or Squeers. Or Snagsby. Probably something with an S. Like Sex.”
Fern is riffing now, trying to make me laugh. I know what she’s doing, but I can’t help responding, and my heart unclenches. A big, tension-relieving sigh and anxiety begins to recede like the tide.
It’s so much easier on the phone. If Fern was here I’d be worried she’d see the tears in my eyes and go all soft, and then we’d both be blubbering.
“I hate it that they grow up,” I tell her, taking a deep breath.
“No you don’t,” she responds. “Not so many years ago you were praying she’d get the chance to grow up. Your prayers were answered.”
“True.”
“The miracle kid. She’s a character. They broke the mold. What a personality she has! If the average person has a hundred watts, Kelly has five hundred, all of it beaming. One day she’ll make you proud, but right now all she wants to do is blow your mind. And maybe Smike’s little thingy.”
“Fern! Please!”
“His little mind, too.”
Nobody enjoys her jokes better than Fern herself and that gets her laughing until she can barely breathe. After a while, after we’ve both enjoyed a few moments of silent communion, she goes, “So, you got a battle plan?”
“Grounding doesn’t seem to mean much.”
“Means nothing. Not unless you can lock ‘em up and throw away the key. What you gotta do, you gotta scare some sense into her.”
“And how do I do that?”
“With Jess I used to grab my chest, make my face go all white. Make her think my heart was about to stop.”
“You can do that, make your face go white?”
“Years of practice scaring my own mother.”
“I can’t fake a heart attack, Fern.”
“A seizure then. That’s easier. All you gotta do is drool.”
I’m crying now, but tears of laughter.
“It’ll be okay,” Fern says, shifting to serious. “You’ll see. Kelly’s a good soul. She’ll know what to do, even if you don’t.”
“You really think so?”
“I really do. But just in case, can you fake a nosebleed?”
I’m still smiling ten minutes later when I enter Kelly’s room. My intention is to rummage around, see if she left a contact number for Seth. No doubt it’s right there on her computer somewhere, but her computer is forbidden to me. The personal computer, Kelly has explained, is like a diary. Therefore no peeking, on pain of death. To which I agreed. Not the death part, of course, but the general idea. So in my mind her computer is off-limits until one second past noon. Until then I’ll stick to her address book, the handy little purse-size one I gave, assuming she hasn’t taken it with her.
Can’t find the address book. What I do find, nestled way back in the drawer, very nearly gives me that seizure Fern was suggesting. A photo album I’ve never seen before. Quite new, very slick.
Pictures of my daughter doing something really awful. Something worse than sex. Far, far worse.
7. When Sleepy Voices Make It Snow
Once when Roy Whittle was a boy—just the one time—Pap took the whole family to a carnival in Belle Glade. Some kind of harvest jubilee thing, where they blessed the dirt and prayed for the sugarcane, or anyhow that’s how Pappy explained it, in the brief interval when he was sober and smiling.
The thing about it was, the memory Roy savors, he and Dug got to pretty much run wild because Pappy was off doing whatever he did, and their momma went to the bingo, and the Whittle boys were left to their own devices. They didn’t have money for rides or cotton candy, so they took to sneaking into the sideshow tents. Crawling under the heavy canvas, flat on their bellies, the smell of wet grass in their faces. Saw Howard Huge, the blubbery fat man, big as a whale and sitting on a scale that proved he weighed a thousand pounds. Saw a boy using a hammer to drive big spikes up his nose, which Dug thought was funny—it was a rare thing, hearing his brother laugh out loud—and a skinny old woman with really disgusting scaly skin calling herself the Real Fiji Mermaid.
What Roy remembers best though, is getting hypnotized. This man in a shiny black suit and western string tie, the Amazing Mizmar, had the ability to control minds not his own. Picking folks out of the little audience for his famous experiment in mass hypnosis, he’d pointed out Dug to his pretty assistant, but Dug wouldn’t have none of it. He wasn’t one for talking to strangers, or drawing attention. So Roy took his place up on the stage with the other victims, all of them looking pretty sheepish, and then the Amazing Mizmar produced this truly amazing device, a glittery little ball on the end of a wand. He clicked the wand and the glittery ball shot pulses of light. Alluring, rhythmic pulses that blended in with the Amazing Mizmar’s sleepy voice, urging Roy to stare at the wand and feel the light and then to close his eyes and still see the light through his eyelids, and in less than a minute Roy was really and truly hypnotized. It was like being awake but sleeping somehow, frozen in a half-dream, in-between state, and it felt good. Felt right somehow. When the voice suggested it was snowing, Roy looked around, delighted—he’d never seen snow—and then set about dusting the big wet flakes from his shoulders. The laughter of the crowd was like the sound of flowing water or the crying of distant gulls, and when the voice told him to wake up at the sound—a sharp hand clap—he tried resisting. Wanted to stay in the between world, where sleepy voices made it snow.
Roy still has his “between” moments and this is one of them. Sitting in the air-conditioned cab of their new Dodge Ram, Dug nods off as they wait, and Roy studies the shimmering waves of heat that rise from the white runway. Makes the air look like pulsing, transparent jelly. With that and the regular sound of Dug breathing heavy through his nose, Roy can almost hear the drone of the Amazing Mizmar’s voice, he can almost see through the heat-shimmered air into some other place.
Almost but not quite, because Ricky Lang pulls him back into the big bad world. Yanks open the door and pokes Roy with an index finger that feels like a warm steel rod in the ribs.
“Wake up,” says Ricky.
“I wasn’t sleeping,” says Roy. “I’m keeping watch.”
Ricky, studying him from behind his mirrored sunglasses. Nodding to himself. “Uh-huh. Whatever. What you watching for, Roy?”
“Like you said. A plane.”
Ricky’s face untightens, and he smiles with just his lips. “Good. The specific aircraft we’re expecting, that would be a Beechcraft King Air 350. Twin turboprops. Color, green and silver. Tail number ends in seven, my lucky number.”
“Yes, sir,” says Roy. He’s tried nudging Dug, but Dug is deeply asleep, and he’s worried about how it looks, his brother snoozing while the boss is giving instructions.
“Leave him be,” Ricky suggests. “Don’t matter if he sleeps through the end of the world. This is on you, not your retarded brother.”
“Dug ain’t retarded.”
“Whatever’s wrong with him, that’s not my concern. You got the Glock?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you know how to fire it? How to get the safety off, rack a bullet into the chamber, all that?”
Roy nods. He’s pretty sure he knows all that.
“Good,” says Ricky. “Then you know how to leave the safety on, how not to fire it.”
“What’re you saying?” Roy asks.
“I’m saying the gun is for show. Don’t shoot nobody is what I’m saying.”
“Okay,” says Roy. “I won’t.”
“Good. Little while, the aircraft will circle the field. It will land from the east, over there,” Ricky says, indicating where the long runway blends into the low scrub pine. “It will taxi to us. First thing you do, when the engines shut down, you come around from behind and put the chocks under the wheels. Think you can do that?”
“I guess.”
“Make sure you come at it from the back of the plane, behind the wing, so you don’t get your fool head cut off by the props.”
“Okay.” Roy files it away, the propellers are dangerous, watch out for the props.
“You just follow my lead,” Ricky says. “Wheels chocked, okay? Next, we get the passengers out of the aircraft. There’s a little door unfolds in the tail, that’s where they’ll exit. Don’t show the gun till their feet’re on the ground.”
“How many passengers?” Roy asks, just to show that he’s always thinking.
“One or two,” Ricky says, indifferent to the question. “Whatever, you just hold the Glock on ‘em. Don’t say nothing, just look like you mean it. Don’t let ‘em go back in the plane but don’t shoot ‘em. I’m doing all the shooting.”
Roy follows Ricky to his BMW, parked nearby. Dirt adheres to the lower panels, fouling the hubs, probably messing up the brakes, too. Waste of a good car, Roy thinks, not meant for the backcountry. And then Ricky Lang, his scary new boss, Ricky the crazy damn injun who is going to change Roy’s life, he pops open the BMW trunk, produces an oversize, odd-looking rifle. Almost a crossbow look to it, fitted out with some sort of dartlike powerhead.
“What’s that?” Roy wants to know.
“Animal tranquilizers,” Ricky explains. Showing his white teeth in a killer grin. “Works on people, too.”
8. Jumping Into The Bare Blue Sky
There are some things your eyes refuse to see. Sights unimaginable, or so out of context your brain can’t make sense of them. That’s how it is with Kelly’s secret photo album. I’m looking right at the pictures and still it doesn’t make any sense. What would my daughter be doing on a runway, near a small airplane? Why is she grinning so mischievously? What is she holding up to the camera, some sort of backpack?
I know what it is but find it hard to even think the word, let alone speak it aloud.
Parachute.
Must be a joke. She’s kidding around. Like those old trick photos on Coney Island, where you stick your head through a hole in the canvas and pretend to be a cowboy on a painted horse. Like that.
More photos. Kelly climbing into the little airplane, wearing a baggy jumpsuit and what looks like a crash helmet. Kelly crouching inside the plane, giving a thumbs-up. Kelly buddied-up with a handsome pilot, a young man with dark, soulful eyes, gorgeous hair and white, white teeth. I didn’t really get a good look at the guy on the motorcycle, but something about the way this young man holds himself erect, good posture even sitting down, something makes me think this might be Seth.
If so, he’s way too old for a girl of sixteen. Old enough to be a pilot—how old is that? Has to be at least twenty-one, right? Or is it younger? Hard to say—they both look so pleased with themselves, and happiness makes you look younger. Whatever his age, no way is he in high school with my daughter. He’s not a school kid. No droopy drawers and skateboards for him. He’s into airplanes, motorcycles, high-speed machines.
Have him arrested, that’s my first dark impulse. Send this handsome, grinning man to jail. How dare he take my daughter up in a small plane without my permission? How could he let her jump into the bare blue sky. What was he thinking?
Because I know what comes next, even before I flip the page. A shot of Kelly waving bye-bye from the open door. Pale sky all around her. A wobbly, slightly blurred shot of an open parachute, a slim figure dangling beneath it. Then the reunion on the ground, with Kelly looking triumphant as she folds up her colorful parachute. A parachute that looks about as substantial as the silk scarves displayed next to her counter at Macy’s.
It feels like I’ve been kicked by a mule. At the same time, in some weird way, everything has gone numb. How could I have been so stupid, not to have had an inkling of what was going on with this boy? Never knew he existed until yesterday, and yet he and my daughter have, obviously, been executing a series of death-defying stunts. No doubt there’s more going on than motorcycles and parachute jumps.
Suddenly, whether or not Kelly has decided to have sex is a lot less important than the fact that she’s risking her life to impress an older, thrill-seeking boyfriend. Save that hogwash about skydiving being as safe as going to the supermarket. If my purse doesn’t open, I don’t end up embedded in the concrete, okay? When I make a mistake parallel parking, do I drift into the high-tension wires? No. Skydiving is about certain death being averted at the last possible moment, that’s what makes it exciting. I may be a stick-in-the-mud, the type who always fastens her seat belt, but I know that much.
When Kelly calls with whatever lame excuse she’s cooked up, what should I do? What can I say that won’t make it worse? Fern’s idea of chaining her to the radiator is starting to sound reasonable. I’m at a complete loss here, but whatever I decide to do, it means clearing my calendar for today. No way can I meet with clients, or deal with Alex over lunch.
First call is to Alex. Unfortunately, I get him, not the machine. “Janey doll,” he says, chipper as ever. “I have you down for Cholo’s at one.”
“I’ve got to cancel,” I tell him. “My daughter.”
“The divine Miss Kelly? Is she okay?”
Just like that I spill the beans. Everything, more or less. Alex makes all the usual sympathetic noises, but he sounds slightly impatient. “So your daughter has a boyfriend, Jane. It’s not the end of the world.”
“She ran away! She’s jumping out of airplanes!”
“She left a note,” he reminds me. “She’ll call. And by the way, more people get struck by lightning than die while skydiving.”
“She’s a child!”
“No,” Alex says firmly. “Kelly is no longer a child.”
I could strangle him. How dare he?
“She’s a totally amazing woman,” Alex concludes. “Very much like you.”
It’s a great relief when my accountant doesn’t pick up and I’m able to leave a message about the quarterlies. Ditto for my contact person at East Coast Wedding Wholesalers, imploring them to put a trace on the Norbert and Spinelli orders. Both calls seem to take a tremendous effort on my part, as if merely thinking about work is exhausting. Luckily Tracy has her schedule and can take care of herself, workwise, because I can’t bear the thought of another phone call. What’s wrong with me? Why do I feel so hollow and shaky?
Food. Haven’t eaten since I got up and discovered Kelly gone. And I’m one of those people who simply must have something in her stomach in the morning—must be a blood-sugar thing.
That’s probably why my hands are shaking when my cell phone rings. I’m thinking it can’t be Kelly—it’s not quite noon and she never calls early—but that’s her name glowing on the little screen.
“Kelly honey? Where are you?”
There’s a delay, a pause, long enough so I’m almost convinced the connection has been broken. Then her voice comes through. Not her bright, confident chatty voice. Her whispering voice, as if she doesn’t want to be overheard. As if she might be afraid.
“Mom, I need your help. Please call—”
That’s it. The call cuts off in mid-sentence. No static, no nothing. Just a final, overwhelming silence.
9. Watching The Detectives
Kelly and I watch a lot of movies. Started out with kiddy stuff, of course. When she was hospitalized or enduring chemo, movies were an escape, a way to avoid the harsh reality of our situation. Early on I stopped worrying about how a violent or racy scene might affect her. When an eight-year-old stares death in the face every day, can you tell her she can’t watch a car chase, or cartoonish villains firing automatic weapons at infallible heroes, or someone saying a bad word?
Some parents did. Not me. Kelly wouldn’t let me. If a movie had a kid with cancer in it—not many did, actually—she always insisted on seeing it. Even if the child died. As she told me, her face screwed up with righteous indignation, she knew plenty of real children who had really died. Okay, four or five at least, which is way more than the average kid. So a character dying in a movie was no big thing to her. It was pretend. Sometimes she’d cry, but that was because it was a sad story, not because she thought the actor really died.
Movies were movies and life was life, and they were connected, but not in a scary way. Not for my Kel. And we’ve continued our habit of watching films together. Lately I’ve had to keep my comments to myself, so as not to endure her “please, Mom, give it a rest” reactions, but we still screen two or three movies a week, more if she’s in the mood.
One of her favorites is The Usual Suspects. That comes to mind because I’m waiting in a Nassau County Police Department office, at the Fifth Precinct, in the Village of Valley Stream. My very first visit, although I’ve often driven past the building. From the outside it’s a blocky, innocuous kind of place, plain as a potato. Inside it’s all cop, purposeful and a bit macho—a banner declares “The Fighting Fifth”—though it’s a lot less frantic than what you see on TV.
Detective Jay Berg has a cork bulletin board behind his desk and that’s what reminds me of The Usual Suspects. Kevin Spacey staring at the stuff on the bulletin board, using it to make up a story. Not that Detective Berg thinks I’m making up a story about a girl, a boy and a motorcycle.
“We treat every missing minor report seriously,” he intones, tenting his fingers together as if in prayer. He’s a pleasant-looking guy, very earnest, with a thinning widow’s peak and jowls that make him look just a tiny bit like Kevin Spacey, which is probably what got me started, come to think of it. “Even when the minor may have left of her own accord, we take it seriously,” he says. “Runaways are still missing, however it started.”
Not for the first time I remind him, “She didn’t run away. Something’s wrong.”
“It’s always wrong when a minor leaves parental custody.”
“She called. Said she needed my help. But when I called back her phone was off and I got her voice mail. That’s not like Kelly. She never shuts her cell off.”
He nods sympathetically. Giving the impression that he’s counseled many an upset parent out here in the not-so-peaceful suburbs. “Very troubling,” he says. “Naturally you’re upset. I would be, too. As I said, that’s why we’re issuing a Be On The Lookout. Your daughter’s photograph and description will be circulated throughout the tri-state area. Local police, county police, state police, within the hour they’ll know to be on the lookout for Kelly Garner.”
“What about TV news?”
He leans back in his chair, touching his prayerful fingers to his plump and dimpled chin. “We can’t compel the media to run the story, but they will get the BOLO, and then it’s up to them. Absent any indication that she’s been abducted, they may or may not use it.”
“What about an AMBER Alert?”
Berg sighs. He’s been waiting for that question, and he’s ready with an answer. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Garner, the AMBER system has been effective precisely because it’s reserved for child abduction cases. Your daughter left home on her own accord. There’s no indication of abduction. I really do expect she’ll call you as soon as the excitement wears off.”
“She did call!” I say, exasperated. “She’s in trouble, I could hear it in her voice. I’m sorry I don’t know the boyfriend’s last name—I feel really stupid about that, okay?—but that doesn’t mean this isn’t an emergency.”
More sympathetic nods from the detective. “Of course it doesn’t. The fact is, we are treating this as an emergency. Believe me, all police officers take this kind of thing seriously. Many have daughters of their own. They know what you’re going through, Mrs. Garner. You can be sure they’ll study the BOLO and they will in fact be very much on the lookout. As I said before, if you had a probable destination, or a point of origin, or a make and model of a motor vehicle or motorcycle, we could start from there.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I feel so stupid.” No matter how hard I try, another spasm of weeping comes along every few minutes. Detective Berg has thoughtfully provided a box of tissues and my lap is full of wadded-up Kleenex.
“You’re not stupid, Mrs. Garner,” he assures me. “Believe me, the parent is often the last to know. And if this guy your daughter is seeing is over eighteen, as you suspect, he might even face charges.”
“I don’t care about that. I just want her back, safe and sound.” “Of course. But there are legal ramifications. Let me read you the statute,” he says, picking up a card from the desk. “If the victim is under fifteen and the perpetrator is at least eighteen, this constitutes a second degree sexual offense. However, if the defendant is less than four years older than the victim, this may constitute an affirmative defense.’”
“What’s an ‘affirmative defense’?”
Berg reads from the back of the card. “‘Affirmative defenses are those in which the defendant introduces evidence which negates criminal liability.’”
“Meaning he gets away with it? Taking advantage?”
The detective shrugs. “The legal age of consent in the state of New York is seventeen. Your daughter is sixteen, so it depends on how much older he is. If he’s thirty, he can and probably will be prosecuted. If he’s twenty or under, probably not, unless your daughter testifies that he forced himself on her.”
“Oh God.” The whole thing feels like it’s spinning out of control. All this talk about criminal liability and prosecutable offenses, all I want is for Kelly to be okay. And I want every cop in the known universe out looking for my daughter. I want them a lot more proactive than Be On The Lookout.
“I told you the boy is a pilot. Can’t he be traced that way? Can’t I look at pictures, pick him out?”
“You already have a photo of the guy,” he reminds me. “We’ll post it with the BOLO.”
“A picture but no name. Can’t you like run it through a computer or something?”
Berg chuckles. “Like on TV? Face-recognition software isn’t that precise, not in the real world. Plus, you’d have to get access to the right database. But there might be someone who can help.” He rummages around in a desk drawer, hands me a card. “Never met this guy, but he comes highly recommended.”
I check out the business card. Just a name, title and phone number. Nothing fancy. “Says here he’s retired,” I say, feeling stunned.
The friendly, sympathetic detective is passing me off to some geezer.
“He’s not a real cop,” I point out.
“Don’t let him hear that, these retired guys get very offended.” Berg stands up. The interview is over. He’s palming me off, passing me along. “Get me a name, Mrs. Garner. A last name for this bad boy who ran off with your daughter. Give us a place to start and we’ll do the rest.”
He shows me the door.
10. Girl Talk
First thing I do when I get home is call Kelly’s best friend, Sierra Wavell. I’m thinking I should have called her first, before reporting Kelly missing. Call the girlfriend, that should have been obvious. If I’d been thinking straight. Which, admittedly, I’m not.
I’m instantly bumped to her voice mail, which means her cell is already engaged, no surprise.
“Sierra? This is Jane Garner, Kelly’s mom. Please call me when you get this. It’s an emergency, Sierra. Please?”
I leave my number, enunciating slowly.
Next task is Kelly’s computer. Seth will be on there somewhere. Name or number. Something to work with. Something to give the cops.
My computer skills are, by the standards of your average ten-year-old, modest. I know how to work my spreadsheet software, how to send and receive e-mails, even, with Kelly’s coaching, how to download digital photographs from my little Nikon, which comes in handy for taking pictures of first fittings. I know how to search for stuff on Google, all of it business related—fabrics, suppliers, manufacturers and so on. I have a pretty good understanding of how computerized cutting and sewing machines operate, how the information is fed in one end and the complete item comes out the other.
That’s pretty much it. A recreational computer person I am not. I don’t game or chat or role-play. If I have an hour to myself I’d rather read a book, or, if my brain is really stressed, veg out watching one of my shows.
So I don’t know how to write code or mess with the hardware or hack into encrypted programs. Which means I’m able to open Kelly’s e-mail program, but I can’t get into the files where she actually keeps her saved mail. Files marked with enticing names like Girltalk, Junk-o-la, Facers, S-man.
Girltalk. Very clever, my daughter. This will be where she keeps all the gossipy stuff. And every time I click on the file it comes up File locked, enter code. Which I would gladly do if I knew the code.
I try Kelly’s birthday.
Log-in did not complete for the following reason(s):
Log-in Information Is Missing Or Invalid
I try her never-to-be-mentioned middle name. (Edith, my mother’s name—there I said it. Kelly Edith Garner. Live with it.)
Log-in did not complete for the following reason(s):
Log-in Information Is Missing Or Invalid
I try the date when she got the all-clear from her cancer. Hit return, fingers mentally crossed.
Log-in did not complete for the following reason(s):
Log In Information Is Missing Or Invalid
I try, what the hell, SETH. Banging hard on the keys, S-E-T-H, take that!
Log-in has timed out. Please exit program.
Three strikes, I’m out, and it’s all I can do not to push the insolent little computer off her desk, thinking there ought to be an emergency button for mothers.
Maybe it’s not being able to make the computer give up its secrets; maybe it’s having been more or less dismissed by the Nassau County cop. Whatever the reason, suddenly I’m having my first major meltdown.
Heart racing, lungs gulping far too much air.
Panic attack.
It’s been years. Okay, weeks. Part of me able to make the diagnosis, the rest of me huffing like a fish pulled out of water.
Paper bag. I’m supposed to get a paper bag, breathe into it so I don’t pass out. But the bags are in the kitchen, a million miles away. Can’t possibly make it down the stairs. Finally I put my head between my knees, and that helps. Constricting the diaphragm.
Whoa, that’s better. Big sigh.
I’m in the kitchen, uncapping a spring water, when my cell goes off.
I flip it open, hoping it’s Kelly. No such luck.
“Hi, Sierra. Thanks for calling back.” My heart instantly tripping again, hands so slick it’s hard to hold the phone.
“You said it was an emergency,” Sierra says, adopting a tone of whiny accusation.
“It is an emergency. Kelly is missing and I think she’s in trouble. I need to call Seth, do you know how I can do that?”
After a pause she says, “Seth? Seth who?”
“Her boyfriend, Sierra. She must have mentioned him.”
“Uh-uh. Nope. There’s a Seth in my math class but he’s like fourteen. A freshman. Him?”
The very idea of a freshman boy offends her.
“This Seth is older,” I tell her. “He might be nineteen or twenty. Maybe even older.”
“No way!”
“Way,” I insist. “I can’t believe she wouldn’t mention a new boyfriend. You’re still best friends, right?”
Another long pause, I can sense her fidgeting, imagine the face she’s making. “Not exactly?”
“Not exactly? What does that mean?”
“We’re, like, still friends and everything.”
“You’re not sharing?”
“Not exactly.”
Not exactly. The adolescent equivalent of “that’s for me to know and you never to find out.”
“Please, Sierra, I need your help. Kelly took off in the middle of the night. I assume with Seth. I’ve reported her missing but the police need somewhere to start. Like with the boyfriend.”
Big gasp. “You’re going to have her arrested? Your own daughter?”
“No, of course not. I’m trying to find her. She called me and said she needed help, but her cell phone got cut off before she could tell me where she is.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. I wouldn’t bother you otherwise.”
“Mmm, okay, sure,” Sierra hems and haws for a while. “It’s like, Mrs. Garner, it’s like you’re not bothering me exactly. I just don’t know anything. Sorry.”
I tell her about the photo album, the images of Kelly skydiving. “You don’t know anything about that, Sierra? She never mentioned skydiving?”
“No way!” she squeals, excited again. “She really jumped out of a plane?”
“I think her friend Seth was flying the plane.”
“Oh. My. God.” And then, to whomever she’s with, a shout to the side. “It’s Kelly Garner! She jumped out of a plane! That’s so cool!”
And so it goes. There’s probably no way to know for sure, not without hooking Sierra up to a lie detector—and maybe not even then—but I’m starting to believe she really doesn’t know anything. Not that she’d tell me if she did. At least not directly.
We chat for another few minutes. According to Sierra, Kelly has been like out of the group, you know? An older guy makes like so much sense, because she never wants to hang with them anymore even though she’s been like superficial friendly and everything and one time Sierra went to Kelly, she went, what’s up with you lately? and Kelly gave her this like Mona Lisa smile thing that, I’m sorry, Mrs. Garner, but it really pissed me off.
I know that silent smile, how infuriating it can be.
“Sierra, can you do me a big favor? Can you ask around?”
“I guess.” Sounding like she’d rather extract one of her own wisdom teeth with a pair of rusty pliers.
“It’s very important. Please?”
“Yeah, okay, whatever.”
Then she breaks the connection. Not goodbyes, just a hang-up. Not that she means to be rude, or even knows what rude is. And I’m left with basically nothing, not a clue, or even a sense of where to go next. Kelly, Kelly, Kelly. Where are you, baby?
11. When The Scream Stays Inside Your Mind
Kelly Garner wakes up dead. Dead and floating.
That’s the feeling. Her body isn’t there; she’s left it behind. All that remains are a few dim thoughts flickering in the dark nothing. The sensation of flying, of falling through the air. His face, his voice holds her attention briefly, earnestly, then fades. Can’t think of his name. Name on the tip of her tongue, if only she had a tongue. Then gone, leaving nothing behind.
It’s just herself alone now, the part of her that lives inside her mind, the dark, knotted core of her innermost self.
Warm.
There, she actually feels something, a physical sensation. Where is it coming from? Is death warm? No, no, she’s feeling the warm on her skin, on her forehead and scalp. That’s where the warm message is coming from.
Beads of perspiration on her scalp. Sweat in her eyes. She blinks instinctively, feels her eyelids respond.
How very strange. Her eyes are open but she sees nothing. And although she’s starting to detect the numbing tingle of a body beyond her face, it’s very distant, as if her limbs have been hidden over the next horizon. Not that she can see the horizon in the dark.
Dark.
That’s why she can’t see! It’s dark. The absence of light.
With that realization—she’s alive, in the dark, and something is terribly wrong with her body—comes a wave of sheer terror. A flood of icy adrenaline that freezes her brain like an arctic blast.
Why can’t she feel her hands, her feet, what’s wrong with her? Was there an accident?
The memory floats up like a bubble through honey: she didn’t have an accident. There was an attack. Just as she and Seth are disembarking the aircraft. She has the cell to her ear, telling her mother something important. Something about trouble, about calling the cops. Before she can finish asking her mom for help, a man on the runway is pointing something at them—a gun, a weapon?—and there’s a sharp, needlelike pain in her abdomen, then darkness.
Not a bullet, something else. A powerful drug. Was that the needle slamming into her abdomen? Is that what happened? Does that explain the vast numb tingling? The thickness of her thoughts? The sensation that her mind has been wrapped in a fluffy blanket?
Kelly’s experience with drugs is somewhat limited. Beer and chronic at parties, and that one time she and Sierra dropped Ecstasy at a warehouse rave in Long Beach. The X was fun—she danced for hours and hours—but at the same time a little scary because part of her kept chanting, “Three! Four! MDMA, methylenedioxymethamphetamine!” She’d made the mistake of looking up the drug’s chemical name on the web, read what it did to the brain, the neurotransmitters, and couldn’t quite shake the uneasy feeling that little bits of her mind were frying like that stupid ad from the last century, your brain on drugs, sizzling like an egg in a pan.
Whatever is causing this—it feels like her thoughts are slurring—it isn’t like ecstasy or marijuana or alcohol. It’s something much more powerful. So powerful it’s amazing that her body continues to breathe—she can feel the air in her nose and throat, the gluey dryness of her mouth—and her heart, yes, she can pick up on the slow thump of her pulse. Much too slow to keep up with her jittery thoughts, the panic that’s rising like a tide, or the burning sensation she’s just now detected in her abdomen.
Seth, what about Seth? It was his plane, his flight plan, his delivery. What went wrong?
What happened? Where is she? Is Seth okay or did they kill him?—three lines of a chorus that slowly rises into a scream of fear and confusion. She can’t make her mouth work, so for now the scream stays inside her mind. Silently screaming a heat-seeking name, over and over, endless loop.
MOMMY HELP ME PLEASE HELP ME MOMMY PLEASE HELP HELP HELP MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY HELP HELP HELP
Hot tears leak from her paralyzed eyes. She’s five again, terrified beyond endurance, and she wants her mommy.
12. The Man Called Shane
It’s Fern who suggests trying the name on the card. Having called for an update and gotten an earful—anxiety makes me vent—Fern has agreed that the computer files are vitally important.
“It’ll all be there,” she assures me. “These kids, they keep everything in their e-mail and blogs, or on MySpace.”
“Kelly’s not on MySpace” is my instant retort.
“Really? How do you know?”
“She promised. We agreed it was too dangerous. All that stuff in the news about perverts.”
Fern sighs, thinks I’m being ridiculous. Teens lie about everything, get over it. “Okay, fine, she’s the only girl in Valley Stream without a page on MySpace, whatever. What about her e-mail? Her address book files? Whatever whippy snippy thing the girls have going this week. You need to get in there.”
“I need help, Fern. And it has to be fast. Today.”
“Agreed. So call the consultant, see if he can recommend an expert.”
“Consultant?”
“You said the cop gave you a card. So call. What can it hurt? Takes you three minutes. Worst case, he can’t help. Best case, he looks like Johnny Depp.”
“Fern!”
“Admit it, when Johnny D’s on the screen you are stuck to the seat like a sticky bun.”
Swear on a Bible, if I was lying in the wreckage of a major vehicular accident, gasoline leaking, wires sparking, Fern could still make me laugh. After decades, all the way from that first day in first grade, she knows where the laugh button is, and when to push it. Plus she’s right, I have to stop letting anxiety and panic get the best of me. I have to get my little house in order for my daughter’s sake. Get on the horn, Jane, start making some noise, get things rolling. The world is full of computer geeks, I just have to find one who can get started right now, no excuse, no delay. And if the old retired fogy from the FBI can’t help with that, then he gets crossed off the list of helpers, on to the next.
Randall Shane Former Special Agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation Consultant, Special Cases
Special cases, what does that mean, exactly? Only one way to find out. Punching in the number, I rehearse my opening gambit. Try to sound cool, calm and collected. All of which vanishes the instant a thick male voice comes on the line.
“Shane.”
“Um, I need, ah, to speak to, ah, Randall, um, Shane?”
“This is he.” Sounding more than a little gruff. Like, get on with it lady, what’s your problem?
“It’s about my daughter,” I blurt out. “She’s gone. Missing.”
His tone is no longer impatient. “Go ahead, I’m listening.”
“They gave me your card,” I tell him in a rush, clutching the phone with both hands so it doesn’t slip out of my fingers. “I don’t know the boy, isn’t that stupid? I mean I do know his first name, it’s Seth. But not his last name, or where he lives. Nothing! I never heard of him until yesterday and by then it was too late. They can’t, the police, they need somewhere to start, I understand that, really I do, but I don’t know anything and now she’s gone and she was supposed to call and she did and she said she needed help and then the phone got cut off and something really bad has happened I can feel it in my bones a mother knows you know?”
“Okay,” says the voice. “Take a deep breath. Hold it for a count of ten and then let it out slowly. Okay?”
“‘Kay,” I manage.
“I’ll count. One. Two. Three …”
As he counts I can feel my heart slowing, and I’m thinking he may be an old fogy, he might be a scam artist, but he’s got a great voice and would be calming and reassuring even if he was reading from the phone book. Or counting, for that matter.
“Okay,” he says. “Good. Now, if you could tell me your name.”
I tell him.
“Jane Garner, fine. Here’s how it works, Mrs. Garner. I’m going to ask you a few questions and then we’ll decide if I can be of assistance, okay? We’ll start with the note your daughter left. What exactly did it say?”
My brow furrows. “I mentioned the note?”
“Not exactly. You mentioned a promise to call. I assumed that promise was in the form of a note, but I suppose it could have been a voice mail.”
“It was a note,” I tell him. “I’ve got it right here.”
As I read him Kelly’s note, part of me concludes that we’ve been in conversation for, at best, a few minutes, and already he’s established that he’s paying attention. Listening. Which is not what I carried away from my conversation with Jay Berg, the Nassau County detective, who let me run on more out of professional politeness than actual interest. As far as Berg had been concerned, my daughter took off with a guy, end of story. Whereas Mr. Shane seems to be taking me seriously. Or at least taking the situation seriously.
“Okay,” he says. “Got it.”
I can hear him taking notes, the mouse squeak of a felt-tip pen. He reads it back, and I agree he’s got it, word for word.
“Now the call,” he says, “As best you can remember.”
“‘Mom, I need your help, please call.’”
“That’s it?”
“Last word was cut off.”
“And what was her tone? Excited, worried?”
“She was whispering. Like she’d didn’t want anyone to hear. Whispering and worried and maybe a little afraid.”
“Please call as in ‘please call back,’ or ‘please call for help.’”
I think about it, Kelly’s voice replaying in my head. “Not please call back. It was like she had a lot to say and had to tell me in as few words as possible. So it was more like ‘please call for help.’”
“Or please call someone specific?”
“Maybe.” I rack my brains, reliving the call, but that’s all I get, a maybe.
“You mentioned computer files.”
I must have, but have no recollection. Unless, of course, he’s a mind reader. “That’s why I called. To see if you know anyone who can get into protected files.”
“How protected?” he wants to know.
“I don’t know her password.”
“So not necessarily encrypted? Just password protected?”
“I’m not really sure. All I know is I can’t into the files. So, do you know anyone who can?”
The man called Shane chuckles, warming my ear.
He says, “Matter of fact, I do.”
13. Bingo He Says
Two hours later, Randall Shane arrives in a gleaming black Lincoln Town Car with tinted windows. Is it a cop car thing, or a retired FBI thing, or does he moonlight as a chauffeur? Or does he just prefer a car the size of a boat? As it pulls into my driveway, the big Lincoln looks like it could eat my little Mercedes wagon and spit out the chrome.
Standing in the open door—I’ve been chewing my nails and watching the street for at least an hour—I give a wave of greeting as Mr. Shane unfolds himself from the driver’s seat. He nods in my direction—right place, obviously—and pops the trunk lid with his key. Retrieves a bulky briefcase and a laptop, secures the trunk, and strides up the walkway, all business.
There’s a lot of him. Very tall, six feet four or five. Wide shoulders, long muscular arms, and a purposeful, no-nonsense way of walking. Not a walk exactly, certainly not a strut—more of a march. Fern’s joke comes to mind—can’t think of anyone who looks less like Johnny Depp. He could put Johnny Depp in his pocket and still have room for lint. No, there’s nothing wistful or soft or feminine about Randall Shane. More the Liam Neeson type, if you have to pick an actor. He’s all angles, with a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper goatee that gives him a long, slightly gaunt face. Deep-set, utterly serious sky-blue eyes that are already studying me. Age, somewhere in his forties. Surely not old enough to be retired, and obviously not the elderly gent I’d been expecting, even if he does drive a car associated with seniors.
His attire is less formal than I expected. Crisply pressed khaki trousers, a lime-green Polo shirt with a soft rolled collar, brown leather Top-Siders. On someone else it might be a preppy look. Not on Shane. On him it looks like something an NFL linebacker would wear on his day off.
“Mrs. Garner?” he asks, with a slight, wary smile. Nice, even teeth.
“Jane, please. Come in, come in. This is very kind of you.”
“We’ll see,” he says, ducking slightly as he eases into the foyer. “No promises.”
“Understood. I’ll pay for your time, whatever happens.”
He shrugs, as if indifferent to the notion of payment. Towering over me in the little foyer, smelling faintly of Ivory soap and something like cedar. Manly cedar, though, not the perfumed version.
“Show me to her room,” he says.
“This way. Up the stairs and to the left.”
“No calls?”
I shake my head. No calls, no contact. My frantic calls are still going directly to voice mail, and my daughter is still in the wind.
The summer days are long, so there’s plenty of light in the sky, but early evening has arrived, and as we traipse up the stairs, the host in me automatically offers this stranger something to eat.
“Not right now,” he says, pushing open the door to Kelly’s bedroom. A step inside and he stops, checking out the walls, furnishings. The place is girly-girl, teenage girly-girl, but very clean and organized because Kelly is a neat freak.
“Did you tidy up?” he wants to know.
“She keeps it this way.”
He nods to himself, as if registering a fact to be filed away. Sets his briefcase on the floor, his laptop on her desk, and then turns to look at me. More of a quick study than a look.
“You didn’t have supper,” he says. A statement of fact.
“Not hungry.”
“Okay.” He nods to himself, registering another fact. “Do you drink tea?”
What’s this about? I’m thinking, but admit that sometimes I do, in fact, drink tea.
“Good. Then I suggest you make yourself a mug of strong, hot tea. Put sugar in it, for energy. Eat two pieces of toast, you’ll be able to hold that much down.”
“What?” I say, thinking he’s been here less than a minute, already he’s telling me when and what to eat.
“You look like you’re about to faint, Mrs. Garner. Time and efficiency are very important at this juncture, and I need you to be conscious and thinking coherently. In a crisis like this, many parents tend to fall apart. We don’t have that luxury. Tea, toast. Stay downstairs. I’ll let you know if I need help, or have questions.”
I’m halfway down the stairs before I realize he just ordered me out of my own daughter’s bedroom.
He may be brusque and bossy, but Randall Shane is right about my needing to eat. The toast settles my stomach and the hot, sweet tea gives me energy. Hadn’t realized how depleted I’d been, how close to passing out. Maybe even fainting, as he’d suggested. But “at this juncture”? Is the man a robot? Nobody says “at this juncture.”
Cops do, I realize. They lapse into cop talk. And FBI agents are federal cops. They dress better but they have cop hearts. Not that I’ve ever met an FBI agent, retired or otherwise. All my thoughts on the subject of FBI agents come from TV shows, and muttered asides from my late father, so maybe I’m way off, reading too much into Shane’s formal manner of speech.
Whatever, I’m not about to remain confined to the kitchen. With an extra mug of tea as my excuse, I slip upstairs, into Kelly’s room, and find him at her computer. Making her prim little swivel chair look small indeed.
“You said tea, so I thought maybe you drank it, too.”
Without looking up from the screen he says, “Thanks. Leave it on the desk.”
“Any progress?”
“I’ll know in twenty-six minutes,” he says, grunting softly to himself as he hits a key. “Make it twenty-five.”
There’s a clock on screen, counting down.
Shane swivels in the chair, picks up the mug, takes a cautious sip. He studies me with a good internist’s eyes. “You look better,” he says, rendering judgment.
“I am, thank you.”
“Proprietary software,” he explains, nodding at the screen. “If Kelly left her password anywhere on the hard drive, we’ll find it, and if need be the software will crack it. Preliminary search indicates numerous references to both Seth and S-Man, so once I get the files open, we should know a lot more.”
“You found his last name?” I say. “That’s great. I’ll call the county cops. I mean police.”
“Cops will do,” he says with a slight grin. “No, not his last name. Not yet. Just a search engine tracer showing there are references buried within the files. E-mail folders, HTML folders, chat room folders.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to. It’s just the way computers organize themselves. Each folder has a name and a location. I was able to list the folders by title, but can’t open them without the password. If this particular software doesn’t get us there, I have other ways.” Making it sound almost ominous. Like no mere microchip would dare defy him.
“So you’re, um, a computer expert?”
“In a limited way, yes. As you say, I’m something of a geek.” He smiles, letting me know that geekness doesn’t offend him. “Actually, for the last several years before I left the bureau, that was my primary role, overseeing the development of software applications.”
“You don’t look old enough to be retired,” I point out.
“I resigned under special circumstances,” he responds, in a way that shuts down that particular line of inquiry.
Retired or fired, gunslinger or geek, it doesn’t matter. If the big man manages to get a line on the mysterious Seth, and Kelly’s location, I don’t care what his specialty is or was, or why he left the FBI.
“Have a seat,” he suggests. “I need to get some background.”
There’s only one chair in Kelly’s room, so I perch on her bed. Amazingly enough, this stranger is offering me a seat in my own house. Not that he’s trying to be offensive—far from it. He’s focused on a task, on helping me, and for that I’m grateful. Still, I can’t think of the last time a single man has been in my home, let alone one of the bedrooms.
No ring. I noticed. Not that I’m even slightly interested—every fiber of my being is focused on getting what I need to find Kelly.
Shane glances at the clock on the screen, seems satisfied with the progress, then takes a small notebook from his briefcase. “First things first,” he begins. “Where is Kelly’s father in all this?”
“Nowhere,” I respond, a little too fast.
“I take it you’re no longer married?”
“I’m a single mom.”
He nods. Not a judgmental nod, just noting another fact. “Has the father been informed that she’s missing?”
“There is no father,” I tell him, a flush rising into my cheeks. “Can we leave it at that?”
“For now,” he says, conceding nothing. “So. How do you make your living?”
“Weddings,” I tell him. “I design and make wedding gowns, bridal gowns, bridesmaids gowns. Or anyhow, that’s how I got into the business. I still do custom gowns when requested, but mostly we work with a couple of different gown manufacturers. Small specialized factories. We do the fittings, they do the sewing.”
He makes a note. “So you’re in sales.”
I shrug. “Bridal design, we like to say.”
“Dissatisfied customers?”
“It happens. But no one has been upset enough to take it out on my daughter.”
Duly noted.
“You’re sure about that?” he asks without looking up from his notebook.
“Last time it happened I refunded their deposit, simple. That was more than a year ago.”
Mrs. Hampton-Barlow of the Sag Harbor Hampton-Barlows. The bridal gown arrived on time, but the bridesmaid gowns were lost in transit, and no time to make them again. We arranged for perfectly good store-bought versions. No fault of mine, but I couldn’t really blame her for being upset. We parted with a formal apology on my part, and a promise to return her deposit, which I did. The Hampton-Barlows had their wedding and moved on. Me, too.
“Okay,” he says, ticking that off. “Ever been involved in a lawsuit?”
“Small-claims court, does that count?”
“Depends on the circumstance.”
“Collecting an unpaid bill. The marriage was annulled and the couple walked away from their debt.”
“You never collected?”
“There was nothing left to collect. That’s what they told me.”
“And this was when?”
“Three or four years ago. Cost of doing business. Happens every now and then. You try to cover your outlay with the initial deposit. In that case, I got stuck on the wrong side of the estimate. My own fault, you might say. They upgraded an order, I failed to upgrade the deposit. Live and learn.”
“Uh-huh.” Scribble, scribble. “Personal animosities?”
“Excuse me?”
“Does anybody hate you, Mrs. Garner? Hate you enough to hurt your daughter?”
What a question. And yet it has occurred to me, of course. Is there someone out there in the world who is angry enough at me to lure Kelly away? After a moment, I say, “No one I can think of.”
“No personal vendettas? How about angry boyfriends? Stalkers?”
That’s easy. “No boyfriends, period. No stalkers that I know of.”
Shane’s eyebrows lift. Men always seem to think that any reasonably attractive single woman under the age of forty is being hounded by suitors. Guys with flowers constantly ringing the doorbell, begging to sweep you off your feet. If only.
“Has Kelly complained of unwanted attention?” he wants to know. “Mentioned someone following her or watching her, or exhibiting menace?”
“No,” I say with a quick head shake. “But to be honest, over the last few hours I’ve been thinking about that a lot. And I’m not sure she’d tell me. Yesterday I’d have sworn on a Bible that Kel would share the important stuff, but today I’m not so sure.”
At that moment her computer chimes.
Shane’s eyes snap to the screen. Beneath his trim, neatly cropped beard his lips turn up in a slight smile.
“Bingo,” he says.
14. Flygirl
My mother put up with a lot. It wasn’t that I was a surly adolescent, not like Kelly, because my pathological shyness extended to the family. We had learned, Mom and I, never to raise our voices in the presence of my father. How to hide in plain sight. But I had my silent, secretive ways, and that probably bothered Mom more than surliness or back talk. What are you thinking? she would ask me, as if she really wanted to know, and I would never say, or mutter something and go hide in my room, or have long phone conversations with Fern where we said nothing much at great length.
Poor Mom. All she wanted were a few clues, a guidepost or two, and I couldn’t or wouldn’t oblige. Now I know my punishment for letting her down, all those years ago. It’s right there on the computer screen: Kelly has a secret life. Or, more accurately, a life she has kept from me, and apparently from her friends as well.
Her user name is flygirl91. The number is, of course, the year of her birth and the “flygirl,” well, to this mother’s ears it sounds slutty somehow. Wild and crazy, at the very least.
“But she swore she didn’t have a page on MySpace!” I wail, staring in horror at all the messages and responses in the files she calls “Facers” and “S-man.”
“She doesn’t,” Shane explains, manipulating the mouse as we scroll through the files. “You don’t have to post a Web page on MySpace to have access to the site. It appears Kelly logged in as a member but never set up an accessible Web site. She seems to have been deeply involved in searching categories for particular types of individuals.”
“Oh my God,” I say, hand to my mouth. “She was trolling.”
Shane chuckles and shakes his head. “I believe it’s called ‘browsing,’ Mrs. Garner. Simply a way to search through the millions of entries for someone you might find interesting. The folks on MySpace often affiliate themselves with groups or common interests. Just like people tend to do in real life.”
The Facers file contains dozens of images of young men, mostly posing with their computers or leaning against their cars. One has his shirt off, showing tattoos on his arms and chest. Another, his new nipple ring. There are several motorcycles and a hang glider proudly displayed by boys who look ready to die at a moment’s notice. All of it heart attack material for the mother of a teenage girl.
“This is interesting,” Shane says, clicking on the photo of the kid with the nipple ring.
“It must have hurt,” I say, wincing at the very thought.
“No, I mean what’s missing. Your daughter saved this image, but there’s no indication she ever messaged this particular individual.”
“Thank God for that.”
“It’s true for most of these images,” Shane says, making eye contact. “She was culling pictures but not necessarily making herself known to the subjects.”
“But what does it mean?” I ask.
Shane shrugs. “Hard to say. Might just means she liked the pictures. Maybe because they fit her definition of a Facer, whatever that is. Kind of a wise guy, out-there type, maybe? Any thoughts? Have you heard her use the word?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe. The cool words change from day to day, you know?”
“We can Google it later, if it seems to be pertinent. Right now I’ll concentrate on the file contents.”
Shane scrolls through my daughter’s secret life, or her fantasy life, all of it reduced to thumb-size snapshots. I’m standing over his broad shoulders, close enough to smell his deodorant—kind of a pine scent—aware that under normal circumstances this level of intimacy with a stranger would be, for me, uncomfortable. But these are not normal circumstances. Far from it.
“You think that’s how she met this Seth person?” I ask “Because she saw his picture—his Facer—on the Web site?”
“Yet to be determined,” says Shane, manipulating the keyboard with all ten fingers, a level of typing skill never mastered by yours truly.
“Ah,” he says, as another folder opens. “Here we go. This is linked to a message Kelly mass-mailed to forty-six recipients.”
He deftly places the e-mail in the center of the screen, enlarges the font so we can both read.
Young, aspiring pilot looking for flight instruction. Willing to help with cleaning, maintenance of aircraft. Ready to learn.
I’m too stunned to speak.
“You notice she doesn’t mention her age or gender, other than to say ‘young.’”
“I never knew. Never had any idea.”
“That she wants to learn how to fly?”
“Any of it. Willing to help with cleaning? I can’t even get her to vacuum the hallway! She takes care of her own room, that’s it.”
Ready to learn. The question is, and it breaks my heart to think it, was she ready to learn more than flying? Was this her very clever way to make herself interesting to grown men?
“Four,” Shane announces.
“Four?”
“Responses to that particular e-mail.”
The first response comes up with a snapshot of a guy who has to be in his thirties. Deep in his thirties, with crinkled eyes and a jaunty handlebar mustache. Wearing a distressed-leather flight jacket as he poses in the open cockpit of an old-fashioned airplane. Two wings, like Snoopy used to fly.
“That’s a Waco,” says Shane. “Famous stunt biplane. Big bucks.”
“Stunt plane? You mean like loop-de-loops?”
“Yup,” says Shane. “If you like flying upside down, Waco will provide.”
I almost say, I’ll kill her, then bite my tongue. The guy may have a leather jacket and a big mustache, but he’s not the young man from her photo collection.
As it happens, the second response is from our mystery boy. There’s no photo, and not much of a message, just a succinct more details, please, but it does include a name, Seth Manning, and his e-mail address, s-man@flightlink.net.
“This is dated six weeks ago,” Shane notes.
“S-Man,” I say. “The folder. Can you open it?”
“Already there.”
The S-Man folder contains over a hundred e-mails, messages from S-Man and responses from flygirl91.
“She didn’t have to mention gender,” I point out. “Flygirl kind of gives it away.”
“Good point. If you don’t mind, I’d like to print these out,” Shane suggests. “It’ll be faster and easier than opening each e-mail.”
Maybe he’s not that comfortable having me hover over his shoulder. Fine. Whatever, Kelly’s printer starts spitting out pages at a rate of twenty per minute. I sit on the edge of her bed, devouring her correspondence with Mr. Seth Manning, flight instructor and seducer of teen girls. Or maybe not. From the tone, right from the beginning, my darling daughter seems to be the aggressor.
What have u got 2 lose? Flygirl will make it worth yr while.
Hw old r u? Don’t lie.
Will b 18, all legal and tender, on 4th of July.
Two lies, actually. Her sixteenth birthday was in May, a few weeks before flygirl started trolling for flyboys. By the time Shane hands me the next batch of pages, I’m feeling physically ill. Partly its residual guilt, for violating her privacy, but mostly what’s making me ill is righteous, motherly anger. How dare she take such outrageous risks with her life and well-being! There’s scarcely a broadcast of the local evening news that doesn’t include mention of Internet predators. It’s not like Kelly didn’t know the danger. She just didn’t care. Or worse—and this might be what’s really making me sick—danger is precisely what she’s looking for.
All legal and tender.
Cool, oily sweat suddenly pours from my scalp into my eyes, and I barely make it to the bathroom before heaving. On my knees, gagging, emptying my stomach.
Shane makes me sit on the closed toilet as he applies a cold cloth to my forehead. “Guess I was wrong about the toast, huh?”
“Dummy.”
“Well, it’s not the first time I’ve been dumb,” he says kindly, wringing the cloth out.
“No, me. I’m the dummy. Should have known. Should have been checking her e-mail.”
“Here, hold this,” he says, pressing the cold cloth to my forehead. Gets a dry towel, pats the moisture from my neck. “You couldn’t check her e-mail, remember? And if you could, she’d have found another way. Your daughter is obviously a very willful young woman.”
“Obviously.”
He folds the towel, slips it back on the rack. Most of the men I know, they’d drop it on the floor, because that’s where used towels go. Not Randall Shane. He’s different. Been in my house for an hour or so and I know that much.
“You feeling better?” he asks, standing tall, very tall. “Good. I just got a hit on Seth Manning.”
“A hit?”
“His address. I know where he lives.”
15. Seven Finds A Wall
Time is squishy. Sometimes the seconds tick by in a reasonable, almost ordinary way, and Kelly counts her heartbeats, the pulse in her neck. One, two three, and so on. The highest she gets is seventy-six and then the overwhelming darkness seems to bend around her, a kind of dim gravity, and the clock in her head stops ticking and gets all squishy.
No other way to describe it. Squishy.
Because she can’t measure the passage of time, Kelly has no idea how long it takes for the paralysis to dissipate. All she knows is that at some point she can wiggle her toes, raise her languid arms and let them droop across her chest like melted bones. Could be hours, days, eternity.
Thoughts slowly surface out of the inky black, like a die rising inside a Magic 8-Ball. The usual 8-Ball answers, too: Outlook not so good. Ask again later.
She manages to place her tingling palms on the floor, detects the familiar roughness of concrete. Not bare ground, concrete.
Is it night outside, is that why the darkness is so absolute?
Wait, how does she know she’s inside rather than outside?
Sluggish thoughts, and then she knows the answer. Because it feels inside. The closed silence, the still air, a kind of muffled feeling. Definitely in, not out. Enclosed.
On impulse she flails, looking for a wall. Wanting to find an edge, a shape to the world.
Nothing.
You’re a baby, she thinks. Lying on the floor like a baby, flailing around. Get up. Do something. Learn something. Find a way back to the world.
It takes forever, and she has to endure a violent swirl of dizziness, but Kelly eventually turns over, manages to get on her hands and knees. Huffing the thick air because the effort makes her feel faint.
Hot, stuffy. Wherever she is, that place can’t be very large. The darkness is close, pressing. Slowly, very slowly, she crawls, struggling to keep her balance. Not wanting to fall over like some cheesy mechanical baby toy. Boink, I fall down, Mommy!
Counting as she crawls. One two three, four five six.
Seven finds a wall. A very solid wall. Slippery smooth surface. Steel, like the cafeteria counters in school.
Now we’re getting somewhere, she thinks, and the thought becomes a giggle. Now we’re getting somewhere? As if! Hilarious. Ironic. Whatever.
Keep going. Orient yourself. You wanted to learn to fly, flygirl? Seth’s first flight lesson pours into her brain, and it helps, hearing his gentle confident voice.
First rule, know where you are. Find the horizon. Very good, keep your wings level. Trust your balance, but trust theinstruments even more. It’s all about perception, judgment, making choices. The choices you make keep you alive.
I choose to crawl, she thinks. Another giggle. But her body keeps trying, keeps moving. She nudges along the wall, counting as she crawls.
One two three four five.
Six smacks her head. Not hard enough to see stars. She’d love to see stars, love to find the sky, locate a constellation, but all she’s located is a corner. Ninety degrees. Steel walls intersecting. Still, it means something. The world has a corner. The shape of it begins to form in her mind. A small shed? A big steel box? Where is she and why is she here? What about Seth? What about her mom? What about the beautiful airplane, and the fantastic flight that somehow turned out wrong? What happened? Why?
Thoughts starting to click along as the drug wears off.
Suddenly the air moves. And then she sees the light. Shocking, blinding light. Light that stops her heart. Almost in the same instant, the sound of a door closing. A vault door, heavy and solid and forever.
The light scares her. The light makes her want to pee her pants. She has to pee anyhow and this makes it worse, much worse. She starts to cry because she hates, she really really hates being afraid. Long ago she decided that being afraid is what makes you start to die. She’s been there, done that, doesn’t want to go back.
With all the courage she can muster, Kelly forces her eyes open. Sees her hands on the concrete floor—she got that part right. Turns her head, willing herself to look directly at the light.
Lamp.
Someone has shoved a small, portable lamp inside the door. The kind of battery-operated lamp you might use while camping. The light it throws is actually pretty feeble, but it reveals a steel-walled room, maybe eight feet by ten feet, and a solid steel door so closely fitted that the seams are barely visible. A room with no way out, she thinks. Steel box. Trapped.
16. Where The Sacred Waters Flow
Most high school students have more limo creds than I do. Proms, mitzvahs, sweet-sixteeners, and parents who hire a livery service rather than risk precious little junior denting the Lexus. Here on Long Island a certain class of teens ride hired cars like we used to ride buses. They know chauffeurs like we used to know school custodians. Although its unlikely that any of the chauffeurs look like Randall Shane. Who insists that I ride in the back—seat belt mandatory. He driver, I passenger.
“Personal quirk of mine,” he says. “Safety first.”
Actually we’re still in my driveway, with the big Lincoln Town Car in Park and the emergency brake engaged. Can’t think of the last time I set an emergency brake, but with Shane, you guessed it, standard procedure.
We’re idling there while he makes a few calls on his car phone. It’s not a cell or Bluetooth, but an old-fashioned heavy-duty car phone mounted in the console, equipped with a hardwired receiver. Years ago, I recall, it was a very big deal to have a car phone. Now it’s an anachronism that nevertheless seems to fit the driver, who nods at me as he rings Detective Jay Berg with the news, letting Berg know that Kelly’s hard drive sat up and begged for mercy before giving a full confession.
“Suspect’s name is Seth Earl Manning, age twenty-one. M-A-N-N-I-N-G. Correct, with a g.” From the front seat Shane gives me a tight smile. All part of including me in the loop, apparently.
“Yes, sir, I have an address in Oyster Bay.” He nods to himself as the conversation continues, goes uh-huh for a while, then locks eyes again with me as he says, “So you’ll add him to the BOLO, and any vehicles registered in his name? Thank you, Detective Berg. Yes, she’s right here with me. Oh, and before I forget, there’s evidence that this could be an Internet crime. Correct, in my judgment it could fall under the 2252 statute. Yes, sir. Excellent idea. I will, absolutely. I’m sure Mrs. Garner will be very grateful. Thanks again, sir.”
He returns the receiver to the neat little cradle built into the dash. “Stroking the locals,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Unpleasant, but somebody has to do it.”
I shake my head, not really sure what he’s talking about. “This means they’ll look for his car?”
“Absolutely. Goes to the top of the list.”
“What’s a 2252?” I want to know. “Is that like an AMBER Alert?”
“Let’s roll,” Shane suggests. “I’ll fill you in on the way.”
As drivers go he’s solid, cautious, and, by my standards, maddeningly slow. Hands on the wheel at ten and two, eyes on the road, checking the side and rear mirrors. On the other hand the ride is silky smooth and I do, in fact, feel almost absurdly safe. A meteor the size of Texas could strike, devastating all life, and we’d survive somehow, me and Randall Shane and his sturdy Lincoln Town Car. I feel—and this is pure craziness—that if I can get this man close enough to Kelly, she’ll be safe, too. Like the opposite of kryptonite, radiating strength and safety.
Like I said, crazy. Hours of anxiety and worry have addled my brain.
Once he’s on the thruway, Shane clears his throat and explains, “Statute 2252 is a federal law, Internet Crimes Against Children, ICAC for short. There’s an ICAC Task Force headquartered in Albany, under the state police, and Detective Berg indicated he would contact them.”
“Crimes against children?” Just saying it makes my stomach clench. “He can be arrested for crimes against children?”
“Probably not,” Shane concedes. “I made a point invoking the statute in hopes that he’d go on the watch list. ICAC has a nationwide reach, and that may be useful. But it doesn’t mean that if apprehended he’ll necessarily be prosecuted. Mostly the law concerns soliciting sex by transmission of indecent images. We didn’t see anything like that on Kelly’s computer. But there’s another part of the statute that covers endangering child welfare. Acting in any manner that is likely to be injurious to the physical, mental, or moral welfare of a child.”
“You’re saying he could be prosecuted, maybe.”
“Very tough to make that case,” Shane cautions. “Your daughter is technically a minor, but the courts are loath to invoke the law in teen romance situations.”
“He’s not a teenager!” I snap. “He’s grown man. Also he’s a flight instructor, that makes him like a teacher, right? With a teacher’s responsibility?”
“Agreed,” says Shane. “Absolutely. He had no business responding to a sixteen-year-old girl. The fact that she was, ah, somewhat deceptive about her revealing her age might or might not be a mitigating factor.”
I fold my arms across my chest, feeling stubborn. “They always say that, don’t they? ‘She said she was older. Showed me a fake ID.’ Or whatever.”
“They always do,” he agreed. “But let’s keep our priorities straight. The important thing is to locate your daughter. That’s our goal. After that, let the law take care of itself.”
“You think he’s in Oyster Bay? That he took her home?”
He glances at me in the rearview. “It’s a place to start. The Nassau County Police will make a drive-by, checking tags. I figure we’ll get a jump start, actually ring the doorbell.”
“A private investigator can do that?” I ask.
“Ring a doorbell?” He chuckles. “Most of them. But just so we’re clear, Mrs. Garner, I’m not a licensed P.I. I’m a consultant. And we consultants can ring doorbells like nobody’s business.”
An hour or so later—would have taken me forty-five minutes, tops—the big Lincoln finally rolls into Oyster Bay, heart of the so-called Gold Coast. North shore of the island, facing the Sound. Heading for the village, not the city. We’re not far from the inner bay, the local claim to fame, but it’s midnight and all I can see is a swath of the shore road illuminated by headlights. That and the moonless silhouettes of majestic trees and huge, estate-style homes nestled along the cove.
Randall Shane, clever devil, has an on-board navigation system.
“Teddy Roosevelt used to live out this way, did you know that?” he asks.
“I heard.”
“You do business here?”
“We’ve done a few weddings on Cove Neck. Amazing affairs, believe me. Twenty grand for a bridal gown, every stitch by hand. Two thousand just for the pearl embroidery. Anyhow, if you’re lucky enough to live out here you probably call it ‘the Neck’ or ‘the Village.’ That area to the west, along the shore, that’s ‘the Cove’. All very different from the city, where the working stiffs live. Out here on the Neck some of the residents tend to talk about Teddy like he lives next door. Like you might run into him at the next catered barbecue.”
“No kidding?” He glances at the navigation screen, slows for the next intersection. “So this area we’re heading into, the Mannings are likely to be wealthy, is that correct?”
“On the Neck? Super wealthy. Megabucks.”
“They may have security,” he points out.
“They all have security,” I tell him.
“Could be a problem this time of night.” He reaches into the glove compartment, takes out a small leather case.
“Gun?” I ask.
“Cell phone,” he says, deadpan. “In case some gung ho rent-a-cop picks us up.”
The navigation screen bongs gently. Shane applies the brakes, bringing the Town Car to a full and complete stop. “This is it,” he announces.
Headlights pick up a locked, black-iron gate and a long, curved driveway beyond, paved with finely crushed oyster shells. Appropriate, given the location. Costs a fortune but makes a nice, satisfying crunch when the Rolls rolls up the driveway. Or the Bentley, or the Ferrari. Whatever the vehicle of choice on any particular day.
Shane presses a button and the windows slide down to the smell of the sea, a whiff of cut grass coming to us out of the dark. For some reason I think of a song my mother used to hum, or maybe it was a poem she’d had to memorize for school. All I get are fragments from childhood memory: by the shore of something-or-other, where the sacred waters run. Xanadu, not Oyster Bay. But “sacred waters,” that has to be right. Any place this expensive, it has to be sacred, at least to the wily gods of real estate.
“How do we get past the gate?” I ask.
“Don’t you remember?” says Shane, grinning as he reaches a long arm out the window. “We ring the bell.”
17. The Man In Black
The gate never opens. Shane keeps pressing the button, speaking into the lighted intercom, announcing our presence.
“This is in regard to Seth Manning. Seth is in legal jeopardy, please respond,” and so on, never varying his authoritative tone. Sounding very much like a federal agent.
Legal jeopardy. Up to me, I’d say Seth Manning is in deep shit.
We’re both out of the Town Car, stretching our legs and checking out the heavy gate. In movies the hero simply mows the gate down, but this one has electronic locks that slip into a sturdy concrete footing and I’m not at all sure even the mighty Lincoln could get through. Plus we’re under surveillance by at least three cameras, one of which is night vision equipped, according to Shane. Try to monkey with the security gate and the local cops, rented and otherwise, will be on us long before we pry it open.
I know this because I’m the one who advocated the mow-it-down theory of making ourselves known.
“Can’t help you if I’m under arrest,” Shane points out, nixing the idea. “Antagonizing the authorities won’t help.”
Very rational, but I’m not feeling particularly rational. I’m exhausted, anxious and cranky. I’m acutely aware of wearing the same skirt and cotton top donned for my visit to the county cops, hours and ages ago. Clothing that now smells sour. I need a hot shower. I need a warm meal and a good night’s sleep. I need to brush my teeth. I need my daughter home, my life returned to normal.
“Doesn’t this just prove that he’s gone?” I fret, gesturing at the locked gate. “Or that he’s in there with Kelly and won’t come out?”
Shane studies me, runs a hand over his neatly trimmed beard. “Seth Manning is in his early twenties,” he says. “I’m assuming this is the family home. The property is listed under the name Edwin Manning. Could be the father.”
“Right, of course.” I’d been concentrating on the cradle-robber himself, hadn’t given a thought to his parents.
“His parents may not know what’s going on. If you were his age, planning to run off with a minor, would you inform your parents?”
“Doubtful.”
“For all we know, Seth may in fact live elsewhere,” Shane reminds me. “But this is the address on his driver license, so we start here.”
“Okay fine,” I concede. “So Mom and Dad are on vacation. They own other homes. They’re in Gay Paree, or the Ukraine, or touring the moon.”
“Yes, quite possibly they could be elsewhere,” he concedes, nodding in agreement. “You want to leave?”
“No! That’s not what I’m saying! I’m saying if nobody answers the damn bell, I’m climbing the damn fence!”
“There could be dogs.”
“Then the dogs better watch out. Woman bites dog, that’ll be the headline. And you can’t stop me!”
Not sure how it happened, exactly, but suddenly I’m seething, lashing out, and Randall Shane is a convenient target. Oddly enough, the big man doesn’t react. It’s as if he’s been expecting me to flip out, and braced himself for it.
“What makes you look so smug!” I demand.
“The lights,” he says, pointing at the heavy foliage obscuring the curve of the driveway.
Are there lights twinkling through the leaves? Hard to say.
“The house lights? Are you sure?”
“No,” he says. “Not to a certainty. But moments after I first pushed the button, lights shifted.”
“The wind? A timer?”
He shrugs. “Maybe. My gut says somebody is home. And ignoring a buzz from the gate, that tells us something.”
“What?” I ask, embarrassed for teeing off at the guy. “What does it tell us?”
Before he can explain, a figure emerges from the bushes and takes a position several paces behind the locked gate. Surprising the hell out of me but not, apparently, Randall Shane.
In the darkness the figure resolves into a small, slender man dressed from head to toe in black. He has thinning hair, raccoon eyes, and seems to have rubbed dirt on his face.
The small man raises something that could be a gun and points it at us. Before I can duck, the beam of light makes me flinch.
Flashlight, not gun.
“Who are you?” he demands in a shaky voice. “What do you want?”
“Mr. Manning? I’m Randall Shane and this is Mrs. Jane Garner.”
“I don’t know you.” He backs away, looks ready to slip back into the foliage. “What do you want?” His voice sounds like a speaker with a loose wire, like he’s on the verge of laryngitis, and fighting it.
Shane raises both hands, as if in surrender, and takes a step closer to the gate. “We have reason to believe that Mrs. Garner’s daughter, Kelly, has run away with Seth Manning, who is listed as living at this address. Are you Seth’s father, sir? Are you aware that Kelly Garner is a minor? Can you help us find them?”
At each statement of fact the man in black seems to shudder, as if receiving a series of thudding body blows. Shaking his head, no, no, no. “Never heard of the girl,” he responds, voice cracking. “You’ll have to leave. I demand that you leave immediately!”
Shane slips closer to the gate. His own powerful, compelling voice becomes less demanding, more conciliatory. “Where’s your son, Mr. Manning? Can you help us, please? Mrs. Garner is worried sick. This isn’t about pressing charges, it’s about getting her daughter back.”
“Go away! You must go away!”
“Why is that? Has something happened?”
The man in black retreats, blending into the foliage. Only his eyes showing, like the Cheshire cat. “Nothing happened,” he says softly. “Go away.”
Shane takes a business card from his wallet, slips it through the iron bars. It flutters to the ground like a small, white leaf. “My card, sir. I can help you.”
The eyes vanish. The voice has been reduced to a pleading whisper. “You can help by going away.”
Then the leaves shiver and he’s gone.
Shane pulls the Town Car over in a shallow turnaround a few hundred yards from the Manning estate. He kills the engine. On the other side of the road, seemingly close enough to touch, the water is black, glistening. A few miles away, visible along the shore, the snug little cove exudes life. Docks, homes, streetlights.
A familiar, clustered warmth that seems alien out here on the Neck, where many of the homes are hidden from view.
Shane shifts himself in the driver’s seat, facing me.
“Your reaction?” he asks.
“Messed up,” I admit. The feeling of dread has returned, nagging at my guts. Getting into the car, my knees had been weak. “That was Seth’s father, wasn’t it?”
Shane nods. I can’t quite make out his eyes. He’s a handsome skull in the dark. “Almost certainly,” he agrees. “I addressed him as ‘Mr. Manning’ several times and he failed to correct me. Probably used to people knowing who he is.”
“His face was dirty,” I say, mouth as dry as sandpaper.
“Smeared on the dirt so we wouldn’t see him,” Shane says. “I’m almost certain he was hiding in the leaves, listening to us for a while before he revealed himself.”
“But why?”
The big man sighs. “This is pure speculation, but I assume he wanted to know who we are. Or more importantly, who we aren’t.”
“Why?” I repeat. “Why not call the security guards to run us off? Or call the cops? Why come out to the gate at all? People who live in houses like that, on estates like that, they don’t run around at night, dressed all in black, faces smeared with dirt.”
I’m unaware of clutching the back of the leather headrest until Shane gives my hand a reassuring pat, as if preparing me for bad news.
“In my estimation Edwin Manning is desperate,” he says carefully, gauging my reaction. “He’s making it up as he goes along.”
Desperate, frightened, lost. That was my impression, too.
“I’ve seen parents behave like that, many times.” Shane says. “Not the sneaking-around part, exactly, but the frightened-out-of-their-wits part. He’s sick with worry, just like you.”
“Because his son took off with my daughter?” I ask, dreading the answer.
Shane says, “Or because his son has been abducted, and he’s been warned not to contact the police.”
18. Calling All Fathers
It’s after midnight and Ricky can’t sleep. Lying a foot or so from Myla on the custom king, he just can’t make it happen. Too many things going on. His sleep button is stuck and the pills no longer work. White man’s medicine, all it does is slow his thoughts a few miles per hour, not nearly enough to let his mind rest.
Only thing to do when this happens, he decides, is get up, keep moving. Forward motion pushes all the crazy thoughts to the back of his head, prevents them from bouncing. Saved by gravity or momentum, or whatever the hell it is.
Ricky slips out of bed, leaves Myla sleeping like a curled-up kitten, a slender hand draped over her eyes. He prowls his new house in the dark, naked. Bare feet cool on the tiles, walking a circuit that takes him through the kitchen, into the hallway, past the three bedrooms he furnished for his children, around through the entertainment alcove, and back into the dining room. Sodium lights coming though the slats like knife-cuts on the tile floors.
Step on a crack, he’s thinking, break the motherfucker’s back.
On his third circuit Ricky leans into Tyler’s room. Disney World poster, bed like a race car, brightly painted. No Tyler tonight. Sometimes there’s a shape in the bed that might be his little boy, but not tonight. Decides not to check on Alicia and Reya because the girls will be with Tyler, all three together, forever and ever, amen.
The new house, big as it is, is too small to contain him. In the laundry room he slips into a pair of elastic-waisted, cotton gym shorts, heads into the four-bay garage. No shirt, no shoes, he loves the feeling of air on his skin, believes he can soak up oxygen, make himself stronger. He decides, on impulse, to leave the Beemer and take Myla’s new convertible Mini Cooper. Pushes the driver’s seat as far back as it will go, his big arms cocked over the sides. Thinking he must look like one of those Shriners driving a toy car for the kids. All he needs is the funny hat.
Ha, ha, ha, he laughs all the way to the airstrip. Not quite to the airstrip, actually, because the ruts and potholes on the final approach are bigger than the Mini. So he parks the little car in the brush, goes the last couple of miles on foot, snorting great drafts of muggy, night-swamp air though his flaring nostrils. The odor of ancient muck, animal scat and the thin, delicious scent of slow-moving water. Thinking, this is how the old-timers did it, hunting more or less naked, alive to the world, paying attention with all the nerves of their bodies.
Ricky feels power flowing into him, and a soothing calmness that slows his brain, stops it from spinning like an off-kilter gyroscope. When he emerges into the clearing he instantly clocks the beautiful Beechcraft exactly where he left it, wings glinting with the light of distant stars. Not far away the jacked-up, fat-wheeled Dodge Ram lurks next to the camouflaged hangar. The toothy front grill makes the truck look like a shiny steel cougar ready to pounce.
“Roy!” Ricky bellows, cupping his hands to his mouth. “Dug! Roydug! Roydug! Roydug!”
Amused by putting their names together, the swamp-cracker twins who have sworn him allegiance in exchange for the new truck and whatever crumbs may dribble their way. Roy is the brains of the family, meaning he doesn’t drool overmuch. Whereas Dug, his very name apparently misspelled by his illiterate, white-trash mammy, young Dug seems to be missing about half his puzzle.
Ricky always deals with Roy, for obvious reasons, but this time it’s Dug who comes lurching out of the truck, swollen eyelids crunchy with sleep.
Upon seeing Ricky he stammers, “Um-um. Yeah hey what?”
Bare chested, bare-legged Ricky Lang coming out of the dark, chanting his name, it’s like being awakened by a hard slap in the face. An experience not entirely unknown to Dug, whose late and unlamented pappy was notoriously ill-tempered and free with his hands.
“Where’s Roy?” Ricky wants to know.
Dug is looking around, wondering how the man got here. A little segment of his brain wondering if maybe the crazy Indian really can fly without benefit of aircraft. Materializing like a ghost with Dug’s name in his mouth.
“Um-um,” says Dug.
“Um-um, where’s he at?” Ricky demands. Standing close so the stammering white-bread can smell the feral stink of him, the swamp and danger on his breath.
Dug is afraid of Ricky—any sane individual smaller than King Kong would be afraid of Ricky Lang, who exudes a kind of steroid strength from the top of his bowl-cut hairdo down to his splayed feet—but Dug is even more afraid that he’ll react the wrong way, ruin everything for Roy. Not knowing what to do, fearing the wrong reaction, he’s reduced to stammering, making um-um noises while his brain sorts out the options.
Strangely enough, Ricky seems to understand what’s going on with Dug—the obvious strain of having to think—and steps back, giving him room to work it out.
“Roy,” Dug finally says, savoring the name. “He gone to check on the girl. I’m guardin’ the airplane.”
Giving it the swamp-cracker pronunciations, two words, era plane.
“Left you the truck,” Ricky observes. “What’s he driving?”
Dug has to think about it, then carefully assemble the words. “Four-wheeler. One in the shed?”
That sets Ricky back on his bare heels just a little, because he has always intended the four-wheeler to be a present for his children, eventually. Purchased on a whim months ago, with nobody’s birthday pending anytime soon, he’d decided to store it at the airfield until they were old enough to drive the thing. Picturing Tyler gleeful as he guns the engine, spins the fat wheels. Tyler screaming.
Ricky takes a deep breath, swallows his rage, saving it for later.
“Took the wheeler, did he?” he says pleasantly, showing his teeth.
Dug nods deliberately and with enthusiasm, as if grateful for any question that doesn’t require a verbal response.
“Where’s that cell phone at, Dug? The one the girl had. Did Roy leave it with you?”
Dug nods again. Two in a row.
“Give it over, I need to make a call,” says Ricky, holding out his big fist, opening his blunt fingers.
Dug hurries to the truck, returns with the sporty little Razr cell phone, places it carefully into the palm of Ricky’s hand. Takes a step back, waiting.
“Battery, Dug,” says Ricky, ever so softly. “I need the battery, too.”
Back to the truck like a two-legged retriever. Actually Ricky’s pleased that the twins remembered to remove the battery, as instructed. Ricky knows all about surveillance and triangulation, and how an active cell phone can be a homing device.
He assembles the phone, fires it up, waits until the signal bars are glowing. Then thumbs the redial button, watches the familiar number march across the little blue screen.
“Yo, Edwin,” Ricky says jovially, his free hand slipping into his gym shorts, adjusting his genitals. “You still up. Me again, yeah. What’s a matter, can’t sleep? You call the cops yet? No? FBI? CIA, Wackenhut, Pizza Hut, whoever? No? You swear? Oh that’s good, I believe you. You’re pretty smart for a white dude. Yeah, I’m down with you, bro. We can figure a way out of this, we put our brains together and think real hard. Uh-huh, uh-huh. I know you’re worried about your son. I know that. You should be worried. If we can’t work this out, if you can’t help me, I’ll be forced to cut off your boy’s ears and his nose and his fingers and little white pecker, and then FedEx him to locations around the world.”
The FedEx stuff is pure improvisation, something he heard in a movie or on TV. Ricky has already decided that when the time comes the body will go into the swamp, clean and simple and forever. But who knows, FedEx might work for the smaller appendages.
Ricky loves this part, deciding who lives, who dies, who gets the power, who shrivels like an earthworm in the sun.
“Calm down, Edwin,” he says. “Concentrate on figuring out how to get me what I want. You’ve got twelve hours before I start cutting.”
19. The Taste Of Dirty Pennies
Men, most of them, seem to think that when a woman cries she’s signaling weakness, falling apart. But sometimes crying is just what you do to relieve the tension. Guys scream or sweat or kick the cat. We cry. There’s this old movie with Holly Hunter, she’s the producer of a TV news show, and she starts the day by sitting at her desk and crying her eyes out for about thirty seconds. Then she’s good to go.
I’m having a Holly Hunter moment. The forbidden word abducted is spoken and I’m a fountain, sobbing so hard it hurts in my ribs.
Give him credit, Randall Shane doesn’t try to comfort me or offer a shoulder to cry on. He sits back and gives me time, and when I’m finished blowing my nose he simply continues where he left off.
“It’s a theory and therefore by definition it could be wrong,” he says. “But I think we have to proceed on the assumption that Edwin Manning believes his son is in peril. Therefore we have to assume your daughter is also in peril, until we hear otherwise. Does this make sense to you, Mrs. Garner?”
I nod miserably. “Unfortunately, yes. I was thinking the same thing myself. Guess I didn’t want to admit it.”
“Then we’re in agreement?”
“I guess,” I say. “Does that mean we go to the cops? Tell them what we suspect?”
Shane shakes his head. “We’re not quite there. We need to know why Manning hasn’t called in the Feds. Why he’s so terrified that he’s prowling his own yard in camouflage. Once we’ve resolved that, once we have an indication that your daughter is in danger, we’ll notify the local authorities and they’ll contact the FBI. That’s how it’s done.”
“How do we find out? He won’t talk to us.”
In the dark his smile is tight, resolute. “I’ve got an idea,” he says.
Second time around, getting inside is easy. Shane’s idea is to push the button on the intercom and say, “Let us in, Mr. Manning, or I’ll call my colleagues at the FBI. The assistant director in charge of kidnapping is Monica Bevins and I have her on speed dial. Count of three. One … two.”
And just like that, the gates slid open. As we roll up the long, curving driveway, I ask Shane if he really has a Monica Bevins on speed dial, and if she’s really an agent-in-charge.
“Yes to both,” he says. “And yes, I’m fully prepared to make the call.”
“And they let you assist clients like me? The FBI?”
“Can’t stop me. I’m a civilian.”
“But you’ve got, like, all these connections to the agency, right?”
“Some useful connections, yes.”
“And this is what you did before you retired, you found missing children?”
His eyes find mine in the rearview mirror. He gives me an odd look, like I’m a kid asking too many questions at the wrong time. “No,” he says, “not exactly. I assisted with a number of kidnap cases as an agent on general assignment. At the time it wasn’t my specialty.”
At this point I’m too numb to be shocked by this revelation. “No? What did you do?”
“Electronics, surveillance gear, mostly hardware stuff. Gear and gizmos. Later I helped develop a software program for rapid fingerprint recognition.”
“You really were a computer geek? That’s what you did in the FBI?”
“Pretty much,” he admits.
What was I thinking, that he’d shot John Dillinger and smoked out terror cells? “So how’d you get into this line of work?”
“Long story,” he says. “Maybe later.”
Secrets. Apparently Randall Shane has a few of his own.
We’ve arrived at what appears to be the main building, having passed several low, modern outbuildings. Carriage house, guest cottage, maintenance shed, all very Long Island estate. Lush, illuminated landscaping that looks au naturel but isn’t, believe me. It’s all very tastefully planned, very big money.
The main structure is an artful arrangement of steel beams and smoked glass and daring architectural angles. Must be a million precisely weathered cedar shingles keeping out the rain. The property taxes probably exceed my yearly income. No wonder the owner has, apparently, been targeted for extortion—he’s got a lot to give.
Kelly’s boyfriend or flight instructor, whatever the hell he is, how did this happen? How did she find herself in this particular world?
Shane sets the parking brake and we get out. Lights come on, illuminating a wide, elaborately shingled portico. The oversize door opens—opaque green-glass panels set in a brushed-steel frame—and Edwin Manning staggers out, dressed more or less as we last saw him, with the exception of his face, which has been recently washed.
“Who are you?” he wants to know. Then he adds, in a voice so faint it seems to fade away, “Leave me alone. Just please leave me alone!”
He trips, falls to his knees, his skinny chipmunk face slick with tears. The poor man is a mess. Shane and I help him to his feet, each taking a black-clad arm. He doesn’t weigh all that much and I can feel his pulse pounding, as if his whole body is being struck like a gong.
He is, I realize, scared nearly to death, and that makes me even more frightened.
“My daughter,” I tell him urgently. “That’s all we want, my daughter back. Whatever else happened, I don’t care.”
Manning staggers like a drunk but there’s no smell of alcohol. He’s exhausted and stressed to the point of falling down. Not quite there yet myself, but I can see it coming if Kelly isn’t home by, say, this time tomorrow.
Once when Kelly was about ten, a year or so after her last treatment, she accompanied me on a house call, what I call a catalog call because it’s all about looking at photos of designs and fabric samples—satins, silks, laces and finishes. Lots of catalogs, lots of possibilities. Long drive to Montauk, a very successful novelist’s waterfront “cottage.” Won’t mention her name because I don’t want to be sued, but the bride-to-be (marriage number three) made all of her money writing sexy stories about rich divas and had either become one herself or started out that way. A very unpleasant person to deal with, unless you happened to be a fellow celebrity, in which case it was kiss-kiss-oh-I-missed-you-so-much.
Anyhow, Kelly’s eyes got big when she saw the house and the beautiful setting on the grassy dunes, and I could tell she longed to live in a place like this rather than in boring old suburban Valley Stream. Couldn’t blame her. The writer’s cottage looked like a Laura Ashley catalog cover, the one where Ralph Lauren is visiting, and all the children are perfectly chic. Not that there were any children present other than Kelly. The rich bitch had kids from earlier marriages, but they were all grown-up and not speaking to her.
Kelly wandered from room to room as the bride-to-be-again checked out flattering designs and bosom-enhancing brocades. As I soon discovered, the lady liked to vent on the “little people,” meaning employees or contractors, and she included me as one. Contractors were scum, painters were scum, plumbers and electricians were scum. Everybody who worked on her house was scum or stupid or worthless. She said so on David Letterman. Failing to mention that she changed her mind every other minute, made ridiculous demands, then complained when it took longer, cost more. I had already decided that I’d have a scheduling conflict that would prevent me from adding her to my client list, but didn’t quite know how to get out of there without having my head bitten off. So I went along, going through the motions, suggesting possible ensembles that might work—most every suggestion dismissed as “stupid”—absorbing abuse from a woman I’d just met and hadn’t said boo to.
When we finally escaped, a mile or so down the road, Kelly touches me on the hand and asks why that lady is so horrible. All I can do is shake my head and tell her that for some people money is like a poison. It makes them sick in the head. Kelly, ten years old, she looks me in the eye and goes, “That woman was always horrible, Mom. She was born that way. Tell her to take her wedding gown and put it where the sun don’t shine.”
Ten. I laughed till I cried. Right now, exhausted and shaky and ready to fall apart for at least the third time, I’m wondering if she ever set foot on the Manning estate, and if so, what she thinks of it, of them.
“Are you alone, sir?” Shane wants to know.
We’ve entered something like a glass hut with a high, cathedral ceiling vented with skylights. Canvas-bladed ceiling fans hang like monstrous white bats. Manning staggers to the right, bringing us to a living space. Cherry floors set in a herringbone pattern, stark leather couches, steel-and-strap chairs, lots of bookcases filled with books. Look like real books, too, not designer touches.
“Anybody here?” Shane asks, persisting. “Family, staff? Anybody at all?”
Edwin Manning has collapsed into one of the custom designer chairs, buried his face in his hands. When he looks up again he seems to have gained some resolve. His voice is hoarse, froglike, as if an invisible hand is gripping his throat. “Nobody,” he croaks. “Sent everyone away. I’m entirely alone.”
“Where’s your wife? Seth’s mother, where is she?”
The little man snorts, shakes his head. “Dead. Died when he was twelve. I never remarried.”
“Other children?” Shane asks.
“Just Seth.” He looks up, focuses on Shane. “If you call the FBI, or anyone else, he’ll die. Is that understood? He’ll die quite horribly. That’s really all I can tell you.”
Shane indicates that we should both sit. Put us on a level with Edwin Manning. Have a look into his sad, red-rimmed eyes, see what we can see.
“Has your son been abducted?” Shane asks, point-blank. “Is he being held for ransom? Is this about money?”
Manning shakes his head, clears his throat. “I can’t talk about it, not to you and not to anyone,” he says, as if reciting from a script. “That was made crystal clear. I have to do exactly what they say or he’ll die.”
Shane sits back, digesting Manning’s strangely laconic response. So far, almost every sentence ends in “die,” or contains the word “death” or “kill,” and yet the big guy doesn’t look the least bit discouraged. To the contrary, he has the slightly satisfied expression of a man whose assumptions have been confirmed.
“Okay,” Shane says. “We’ve established there is an abduction in progress, and that you believe your son’s life to be in danger. Have you received proof of life? An indication that Seth is still alive?”
Manning breaks eye contact, such as it is. His small, delicate jaw juts forward. “Stay out of this,” he says. “I read your card. If you’re former FBI you know what can happen.”
“What about Kelly?” I demand. Somehow I’m on my feet, trembling with anxiety and agitation. “Is she with your son? Is that what happened? Has she been kidnapped, too?”
Manning rubs his temples, avoids looking at me. “Never heard of her,” he says. “Seth never mentioned anyone by that name.”
For the first time I get a strong sense that he’s lying. He may not have met my daughter—what adult male brings home an underage girl to meet his daddy?—but he’s heard of her for sure. Mos def, as Kelly would say.
Shane leans in closer. His whole body seems to come into sharp focus, as if to demonstrate that he could, if provoked, crush the smaller man like bug.
“Are you aware that your son originally made contact with Mrs. Garner’s sixteen-year-old daughter on the Internet? That he took her skydiving, and apparently gave her flying lessons, all without her mother’s consent?”
Manning shakes his head. “I can’t discuss this.”
Shane leans closer still. His voice becomes softer, but somehow no less forceful. “You are in deep trouble, sir. You are out of your depth. Let me help.”
“I can’t do that. Leave my house at once, both of you.”
“Tell me what happened,” Shane suggests. “I’ll take it from there.”
Edwin Manning suddenly erupts, shaking his head so hard he almost spins out of the seat. “Go away!” he insists. “I don’t know about your daughter,” he says, turning to me, meeting my eyes for the first time. “If she’s with Seth, they’ll kill her, too. Do you understand? You have to let me handle this. You must. It’s the only way.”
Shane’s hands are suddenly gripping my upper arms, pulling me away. Anticipating, almost before I quite know it myself, that I’m about to launch myself at Manning, scratch out his lying eyes.
“We’re leaving,” Shane announces. “If you change your mind, call me. I can help.”
Couple miles down the road, heading out of the millionaire enclave, Shane pulls over so I can throw up. Kneeling in the darkness by the side of the road, the taste of dirty pennies in my mouth. Shane keeping back, not tempted to hold my head, because he knows what’s going on, why this has happened.
It’s not fear that’s makes me sick. It’s anger.
20. In The Bunker
Twelve hundred miles to the south, Ricky Lang heads for the bunker. A concrete cube, ready-made and then buried under a load of dirt and gravel long before Ricky was born. Supposedly it dates from the Cuban missile crisis. Some crazy white man shit, blow the whole world to pieces. The way he heard, a Cuban contractor buried the thing, all in a panic, convinced Fidel was coming to town on a rocket. Kept his family there for a few weeks, then walked away, never looked back. Whatever, Ricky’s been familiar with the bunker since he was a kid, when he used to play hide the weenie with some of the trailer girls down there. The trailer park is long gone, but the bunker still exists and you never know when a secure location will come in handy. Especially one that cannot be detected from the air.
Ricky is keenly aware that any fool with a computer can Google a satellite image these days, check out your backyard, see if you mowed the grass. He’s made sure the Beechcraft is concealed in a hangar, that activity in and around the airfield is kept to a minimum. The place is probably still under some sort of minimum DEA satellite photo surveillance from the bad old days. Nothing to draw their attention now—he made it his personal business to clean up the tribal drug trade. Couple of the stubborn old farts thought it was still a going concern, had to be fed to the gators. The others soon saw the error of their ways, agreed to live on tribal income and whatever they’d managed to hide in the ground.
Gator bait was usually ripe chicken, but like they say, everything tastes like chicken once you take the skin off.
“Smells bad down there,” Roy warns him, approaching the bunker.
Ricky stops, looks Roy in the eye. “White shit smells different from people shit, you ever notice? One sniff, I can tell.”
“Oh yeah?” Roy responds, glancing away. “The boy don’t know whether he’s coming or going, or where he’s at.”
“Uh-huh,” says Ricky. “Dug, you bring them loppers?”
“Yeah, Chief,” says Dug, bringing up the rear, letting the big-branch loppers bump against his trouser leg. Seems to think carrying the loppers is some sort of game he can win, if only he can figure it out.
Ricky holds out his hand, stops Dug in his tracks. “Ain’t no chief to you,” he says. “I am chief to my own people, only to them.”
No surprise, Dug looks confused, seeking help from his brother, who shrugs as if to say Roll with it.
“You got the key?” Ricky asks. “Open says me.”
Ricky’s laughing as Roy fumbles with the key. Neither brother registering the humor in “open says me,” puns and wordplay not being their thing. Which, in Ricky Lang’s febrile mind makes the Whittle twins more amusing than the usual swamp crackers, a tribe he has made use of, and thoroughly mistrusted, for his entire life. Started out helping his father, Tito Lang, swap tanned hides for the whiskey the crackers made in their hidden stills. Saw the contempt in their colorless eyes—drunk Indians selling their birthright for the poison that would surely kill them. A poison self-administered, and no different in its outcome than the hot bullets so many of the people fired into their own brains as punctuation to their defiled lives.
“Wait,” says Ricky, cocking an ear. “You hear that?”
Strange noises emanating from the bunker. Sounds like children keening. In his mind it feels like the transmission has slipped, can’t get in gear to the next thought. Stuck on children keening, eee eee eee.
“That’s the ventilation pipe,” Roy reminds him. “Wind goes across the top, makes a weird noise.”
Keening becomes wind and his mind moves on.
“Open the door,” he says.
Out comes the nasty smell. To Ricky a white smell. “Need to empty the bucket,” he points out.
“He kicked it over.”
“Then mop it up. Use Pine-Sol.”
Roy gives him a little look, like are you serious? gets it that Ricky is deadly serious, and looks away. “Okay, sure. Pine-Sol it is.”
Inside the fetid bunker Ricky clicks on his lantern flashlight. The beam finds a frightened face, hollow eyes, a handsome mouth distorted by a gag.
“Hey, Seth, I talked to your dad. He sends his love.”
Ricky jams a tranquilizer dart into the white boy’s thigh, sees his eyes registering a higher level of fear.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/chris-jordan/trapped/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.