Measure of Darkness (3 page)

G
radually he awakens, becomes aware on some primitive level that is sentient. At first there is no sense of self. He's no more than an assemblage of pain, nerves firing from various locations on his large body, defining a vague shape. Hands painfully cramped, feet aching, joints smoldering. Something in the middle makes itself known, unpleasantly. A sack of bubbling acid? No, a stomach, seething. At one end, pounding, a brain held like a bruised yolk inside a damaged shell.

He has a name, if only he can find it.

Halfway to forever, the name finally surfaces, drifting lazily around the brain. He claims it, holds it tight. At some point Shane realizes that his eyes are open and the darkness is an actual darkness. His limbs are restrained by something soft and unyielding. He's strapped down, elaborately, on a padded table. Testing the restraints, he measures his own unnatural weakness and surmises that he's been heavily drugged, possibly with muscle relaxants. They'll be watching, whoever “they” are. Darkness being no barrier with the right equipment. He stops struggling and waits, knowing they will come, eventually, and that he must prepare himself.

The rest of forever goes by. As more memories surface he replays recent conversations, examines decisions, finds himself wanting. How could he have been so wrong?

At last, from deep inside the darkness, a voice. “Joseph Keener.”

Behind him somewhere, and then closer, much closer. Close enough to feel the air move in a reedy whisper. “Professor Joseph Keener. What did he know?”

Shane attempts to speak, discovers that his tongue will not respond.

Louder.
“What did Joe know?”

Eventually it becomes a kind of chant.

A
t 6:00 p.m. precisely we convene in the library for the first case briefing, which is always a big deal. Naomi is a stickler for being on time, so the protocol is to show up a minute or two early, take your seat and try to sit up straight. Boss lady is never there to begin with; she always makes an entrance, and this evening is no exception. The other notable entrance of the evening belongs to Dane Porter, our attorney. Dane is five foot nothing, but feisty, and has a legal mind that's the antidote to every blond joke. How many blond lawyers does it take to keep Naomi Nantz and her team out of jail when they overstep the bounds? Exactly one.

“Sorry I missed all the excitement,” Dane says, sauntering in on spike heels that should be registered as weapons. She's wearing a hand-tailored power suit—wide pinstripes on a dark blue background, trim lapels, a tight-vested waist—and a custom-made handbag given to her by a female hip-hop artist (a famous one, who shall remain nameless here because she likes handguns) who happens to dance to the same music as the lovely lawyer.

“Was it really a helicopter attack? Men on ropes?” she asks Jack, who is busy examining his well-buffed nails.

“That's affirmative,” he says.

“Alice?” Dane says, flashing me a radiant smile. “Tell me lover boy is joking.”

“Never saw the helicopter,” I say, “but there were definitely men on ropes. With guns.”

“How exciting!”

“Good evening, Counselor,” says Naomi, entering with laptop in hand. She takes the temporary command seat, directly across the table from me.

As usual it will be my job to take meticulous notes in my personal shorthand, in a form known only to myself, and to keep a precise chronology of the ongoing investigation, updated on a daily and sometimes hourly basis. The active case briefings are never, ever electronically recorded for a variety of reasons, legal and otherwise. The idea is to prevent criminals we might be investigating—or interested law enforcement agencies—from hacking into our system and determining what we know at any given moment. It's not paranoia, because it actually happened on an earlier case, hence the precautions.

“We convene this evening in extraordinary circumstances,” Naomi begins. “A man was kidnapped from this premises by agents unknown, possibly for the purposes of enhanced interrogation. We have as yet no clue as to his whereabouts, his state of health or who, exactly, is holding him. This is intolerable, and tonight we begin the process of finding out what happened and why. Teddy, you'll present first. Start with the murder victim.”

Teddy's hands shake slightly as he presses a key on his laptop. An image lights up the screen. “Joseph Vincent Keener,” he announces, gathering confidence. “Age forty-two. Born, Hanover, New Hampshire.”

We're looking at a head shot of Joseph Keener, wearing an ill-fitting suit and tie. A round, unremarkable face.
Heavy black-rimmed glasses and just a hint of jowls, despite a scrawny neck that doesn't quite fill his shirt collar. High forehead with the beginnings of pattern baldness thinning his light brown hair. His ears stick out, making him look oddly vulnerable. He's not smiling and was glancing to the side and slightly down when the shutter clicked. Even in a formal head shot with studio lighting he seems to be lost in a world of his own.

There's a moment of awkward silence. We're looking at a dead man.

Teddy says, “Keener was a ward of the state—his parents, both talented musicians, died in an accident—and he was raised in a succession of foster homes from infancy. Somehow he managed to get himself enrolled at Caltech, age fifteen, which pretty much says it all. Language skills pretty average, but mathematical concepts and theoretical geometry are off the charts. When Shane called him a genius he wasn't exaggerating. After Caltech, Joseph Keener came back East to pursue doctoral studies in quantum physics at MIT and was eventually made a full professor. There's no mention of a marriage, or indeed of any family at all. Professor Keener is widely published, and considered something of a recluse with a possible social interaction deficit, but at MIT that's not exactly unusual. His lectures are well attended, and despite a shyness that causes him to avert his eyes while in conversation, Professor Keener is able to take questions and lead discussions with his brilliant and often challenging students. That's a quote, more or less.”

“A quote,” Jack says, puzzled. “Where'd you get it? You didn't leave the residence, correct? Didn't interview any associates?”

“There's a site for student evals.”

“Evals?”

“Evaluations,” Teddy explains. “Some were real flamers, others seemed fair and balanced. But they all commented on Professor Keener's social awkwardness, one way or another.”

Jack nods, gives him a thumbs-up. “Way to go, kid. That would have taken me at least a day's worth of shoe leather.”

Teddy tries to hide his grin, but it doesn't take a rocket scientist (or a physicist for that matter) to see that he's pleased. For the first month or so on the job he was so intimidated by the former FBI agent that he avoided him whenever possible. To be fair it took dapper Jack a while to get used to Teddy's fashion statements, in particular the piercings, which he refers to as “staples,” as in, hey kid, what's with the staple in your cheek? Lately they seem to have entered a zone of mutual tolerance and now, perhaps, collegial respect.

“In addition to teaching full-time at MIT, Professor Keener helped found QuantaGate, an R & D firm in Waltham, out on 128.”

“Sounds familiar,” Naomi muses. “A defense contractor, I believe.”

Teddy looks startled. “Correct. Something to do with developing a quantum computer, which as far as I know is pretty much still theoretical. The stuff on the Net is very vague, mostly PR postings about the founding of the company. If we want more specifics on what exactly they're working on, or how far they've gotten, I'd have to get into the DOD.”

Naomi's eyes glint. “You will absolutely not attempt to hack into the Department of Defense, is that understood?”

“Oh yeah, understood,” Teddy says, without really
backing down. “I understand I could do it, but you don't want me to.”

Naomi says, “A quantum computer, theoretical or not, would be of interest to any number of covert agencies from any number of countries. It's probable that's what Shane referred to as a top-secret project. We'll come back to that, but for now let's stick with the victim's bio. You say you found no mention of Professor Keener being the father of a five-year-old boy?”

“No,” Teddy says. “Not by the students or the staff. They pretty much peg him as an SWG. That's, um, Single White Geek in eval shorthand. Professor Keener's biweekly deduction for the university medical is for a single plan, and there are no births registered naming him as a father in any databases. From what I can tell this kid is so missing he doesn't exist.”

“Sounds like your shoe leather might be useful after all, Jack,” Naomi suggests. “Who were his parents, how did they die, what was his experience in foster care? Maybe somebody from his past would know about personal things, like having a child out of wedlock.”

“I'll get on it,” he says, making an entry in his notebook.

“Let's move on to Randall Shane,” Naomi suggests.

The photo of the victim is replaced by a recent snapshot of Randall Shane, seen from the waist up and looking very purposeful and muscular. Teddy says, “This was posted on the Facebook page of a woman whose daughter was recovered by Mr. Shane, and who was effusive in her praise. He's camera-shy and asked her to take it down, which she did, but it wasn't deleted from the cache.”

We learn that Shane, 46, graduated from a public high school in East Hampstead, Long Island, and eventually from Rochester Institute of Technology in Rochester,
New York, with a degree in computer science. While at Rochester he met the woman he would eventually marry. Recruited as a civilian software engineer by the FBI to help modernize their fingerprint database, he'd eventually applied to and been accepted as a special agent, in which capacity he continued until the deaths of his wife and daughter, after which he resigned from the FBI.

“That's the standard bio on the guy,” Teddy says. “There's more, of course.”

“Hold on, cowboy,” Dane says. “Are you telling us that bad boy is a computer geek? With those guns?”

“Guns?” Naomi asks, puzzled. “He was unarmed.”

“Muscles, silly.” Dane poses, cocking her right arm. “Biceps.”

“Ah,” says Naomi, satisfied. “Continue.”

Teddy is new enough to the team to still be made uneasy by the frequent, challenging interruptions, encouraged by boss lady, who believes that banter and peer pressure create what she calls “free thought radicals.” The back-and-forth is all part of her method, which can be difficult for a person as naturally shy as Teddy. He swallows hard, takes a deep breath, finds his place. “In those days Shane was kind of a geek at heart, if not in appearance. That's how the FBI used him, too. He spent about half his career testifying or lecturing on methods of forensic identification, not out in the field. He was basically an expert with a cool badge. They still use his program for the fingerprint database.”

Naomi interrupts, as is her wont: “Jack? Does that accord with your personal knowledge?”

“Yep,” says Jack, adjusting the crease of his slacks. “The kid has it right.”

Naomi's attention returns to Teddy. “Continue.”

He takes a breath, nods. “So everything changes one
rainy Sunday night in New Jersey. Shane and his wife and kid are driving back from D.C. to New York. Mr. Shane at this time works out of the FBI field office in Manhattan.”

“They're in Washington why?”

“Um, school project for the daughter. Visiting the Smithsonian.”

“Keep going.”

“Jersey Turnpike. Shane's feeling sleepy, so his wife takes over the driving. He nods off, and at some point the vehicle is sideswiped by a freight truck. When he wakes up in the wreckage, wife and daughter are both dead. As you might expect, the man himself was a wreck for a while. He resigns from the Bureau and eventually establishes himself as a legendary finder of lost children, but he retains a number of key contacts who still work for the FBI, including the current Assistant Director of Counterterrorism.”

“A-Dick,” Jack says, smiling, throwing it out there.

“What?”

“That's what they call an assistant director. An AD or A-Dick. Not necessarily a term of affection.”

“As I was saying,” Teddy says, elbowing his way back into the conversation, “there's some indication that Assistant Director Bevins is a friend with benefits.”

“They sleep together?”

“Past tense, if it happened. But they're still close.”

“Jack?”

“A matter of speculation,” he admits with an indifferent shrug. “Nobody knew for sure and they certainly weren't saying.”

“Okay. The counterterrorism connection is interesting, given what's happened,” Naomi points out. “Let's keep that in mind as we move on.”

“How did he first get in the business of rescuing kidnapped kids?” Dane wants to know. “Was that part of his purview at the Bureau?”

“No. Later, after the accident, while he was undergoing therapy for a sleep disorder. An acquaintance asked for help, he managed to recover the child and found a new calling.”

“Back up there,” Naomi says. “Sleep disorder?”

“Yeah. I don't know if it's weird or ironic or what, but ever since he woke up from the accident, Mr. Shane has suffered from a peculiar, possibly unique sleep disorder. Like they've studied him, written articles about it.”

“Ironic would not be the correct term,” Naomi suggests. “Tragic would be the correct term. Is that agreed?”

“Great song, though,” Dane interjects airily.

“Nuts,” Jack says, suddenly animated. “If you don't know what ironic means, don't use it in the lyrics. Rain on a wedding day isn't irony, it's bad weather. It sucks, but it isn't ironic.”

Naomi interjects, “Enough on the golden-oldie lyrics. Back to subject, please. Teddy?”

“A death row pardon two minutes too late is definitely ironic,” Teddy points out, in a small, hesitant voice.

“Teddy!”

“Okay, okay. Took a while to separate the facts from the legend, but despite or possibly because of his sleep disorder, which means he sometimes stays awake for days at a time and eventually hallucinates, Randall Shane is considered to be among the best solo operatives who specialize in child recovery.”

“Not among,” Jack says, arms folded. “The best, period. Randall Shane is the last of the real kid finders. They broke the mold.”

Teddy shrugs his narrow shoulders, as if to concede
the point. “Unlike many in the field, which can be pretty shady, monetary gain does not seem to be his primary motivation. For him it's a calling.”

“Most of his cases are pro bono,” Jack concedes.

“Seventy percent,” Teddy says.

“Whatever, Shane ain't about the money. He can't even afford to drive a decent car,” Jack says.

Teddy suddenly has a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Current ride, a five-year-old Townie, previously registered to John B. Delancey of Gloucester, Mass.”

Jack shrugs his wide, well-tailored shoulders, but he's no doubt impressed. “Donation to a good cause. And no, I didn't get a tax deduction because Shane has never registered as a nonprofit, although he should.”

Teddy keeps going. “Current residence, Humble, New York. Small town in the general vicinity of Rochester.”

“Humble?” Dane says, grinning. “Is
that
ironic?”

Naomi sighs loudly, which effectively stops the banter. “You have more?” she asks.