Trapped (14 page)

worms or stupid movies, there was nothing in real life that

truly frightened her.

Until now. The hot steel box changed everything. Now

she’s really and truly terrified. Having to deal with the

adrenaline shakes, an unfamiliar weakness that seems to

spread from her knees into her guts, making it hard to hold

her pee. Hard to hold the lamp without her hands shaking.

Hard to resist screaming. Hard to think coherently.

Thinking clear, that’s something to cling to, something to

strive for. All she has to do, be as brave as her nine-year-old

self. Back then she actually visualized herself in a coffin, and

the hot steel box is not a coffin, not yet. Has to be a way out.

There’s always a way out, right?

“Right? Right? Right?”

Kelly’s not too sure, but she may actually have said that

out loud. Shout or a whisper, she can’t tell—the darkness

makes it hard to distinguish words from thoughts, and her

volume control is totally whacked.

Let there be light, she thinks, switching on the lamp. Hold-

ing it up to the grate, she can see where the narrow vent takes

a ninety-degree turn. There are no fans blowing or circulat-

ing air, but to Kelly it feels as if the air is fresher at the vent,

and she decides to linger in the vicinity.

If the air is fresher it must be coming from the outside, right?

“Right! Right! Right!”

Weird, but it’s like she can see herself screaming into the

vent. Only she’s not screaming
help!
she’s screaming, “Right!”

Which is pretty mental, when you think about it. What would

someone think? They’re walking down the street, minding

Trapped

107

their own business, and a voice shouting “right!” comes out

of a vent? They’ll think
crazy person, mind your own business.

Kelly gets a grip, puts a different word in her mouth.

“Help! Help! Help!” she screams, shouting into the vent.

Shouting into her own personal black hole. Black hole suck-

ing in her fear, making it part of the darkness. Black hole

where the little girl inside her still lives, visualizing coffins,

facing the monster.

23. Snow Bunnies In Heaven

Randall Shane stands in the doorway, watching her sleep.

Keenly aware that not all sleep is quiet or restful. Example: Mrs.

Garner moaning softly, fingertips quivering against the pillow.

Her large and lovely eyes move fitfully beneath her eyelids, in-

dicating an active dream state—they won’t be good dreams,

either, not with a daughter missing, presumed kidnapped.

Interesting woman, Jane Garner. Interesting not only because

she’s strong willed and self-reliant, traits he admires, but

because she’s an accomplished liar. Deftly pulling the curtain

to hide a significant portion of her life, a crucial something

having to do with the identity of her daughter’s biological father.

Rape? Shame? Some dark variation on family tragedy?

What, exactly, makes her hold tight the secret, even at a time

like this?

Shane backs away, closes the door, walks to the daughter’s

bedroom in his stocking feet, holding his Top-Siders lightly

in his left hand. Moving as quietly and purposefully as a big

jungle cat, with the athletic balance and grace of a much

younger man. Grateful as always that he had the sense to quit

football after a single high school season, while his knees

were still uninjured. Lots of big men his age, early forties,

108

Chris Jordan

were already limping from joints damaged long ago, when

size and agility and adolescent adrenaline had put them into

violent collisions with young men of similar size and agility.

The human knee is a marvelous feat of biological engineer-

ing, but it is not meant to endure the sideways force applied

suddenly by a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound tackler running

at full speed, leverage enhanced by cleats. As Shane had de-

termined on his own, at age fifteen, disappointing every coach

who’d ever seen him move. Guy your size and speed, they’d

say, what a waste. I’m fine, his shyly proud, teenage self

would respond. Coaches would come back with promises of

athletic scholarships, unaware that the big, rangy kid was an

actual scholar, top of his class academically, that he’d read and

understood medical research papers on sport-damaged joints

and made a rational decision not to participate. Not because

he was afraid of pain or injury—as an adolescent he had been

totally fearless—but because he liked the feel of his large

strong body, what it was becoming, and wanted to keep it that

way.

He’d had plans, big plans. All of which changed one re-

markably cold day in Rochester, New York. Enrolled in the

tough-as-nails engineering school at R.I.T., Shane maintains

a perfect 4.0 average, despite working several part-time jobs.

His job as a library assistant includes returning books to the

higher shelves—they call him the human ladder—and

keeping the pathways leading to the library clear of snow.

That’s where it happens, outside in the wickedly crispy cold.

One minute he’s leaning on his shovel, daydreaming about

the Nobel Prize he will one day be given for his work in

chemical engineering—astonishing discoveries that will

change the world—the next minute Jean Dealy walks by in

her arctic survival suit, armored and padded and insulated

Trapped

109

against the fierce winter wind roaring in from the Genesee

River. This on a campus where students routinely go hatless

at ten below, and the truly foxy coeds wear thin little mini-

skirts, or less, no matter how cold it gets. And yet this young

woman has chosen a genderless arctic survival suit that

covers her from toes to nose, obscuring every feature but her

marvelous eyes, peeking out of the padded suit. Eyes that

floor Randall, stopping his heart as she passes by, the snow

squeaking merrily under her fur-lined boots. The squeak of

his big plans grinding to a halt because in that moment Jean

Dealy becomes his new big plan, even before he knows her

name or sees himself reflected in her amazing eyes.

Twenty-some odd years later, the thought still makes

him smile. Strange how the physical act of smiling sets off

a pang of loss that closes his throat, as powerful as a fist to

the larynx. Mother and daughter connections, that’s what

does it, that’s what gets him in the secret place where he

tends his memories. Because, like his new client, Randall

Shane has secrets of his own.

Snow bunnies in heaven, that’s just one of his many

secrets.

He sits sideways at Kelly Garner’s computer because his

knees are too big to fit under the desk. He scans the teenager’s

files, makes a few notes and then carries the notebook to the

front door, where he dons his Top-Siders. Out in the driveway

he manually unlocks the Lincoln Town Car because the

woop-woop of the remote key might awaken his sleeping

beauty.

In the hush of the big sedan he picks up the clunky car

phone, presses a key for an oft-called number, leaves a

message.

“It’s me. Any and all information regarding the following

110

Chris Jordan

individuals—Jane S. Garner, her daughter Kelly Garner, no

middle initial.” He gives the address, dates of birth, Social

Security numbers, then concludes, “Particular attention to any

information regarding Kelly’s birth father. Soonest. Thanks.”

Shane hangs up, glances at his wristwatch—too soon for the

next call, the crucial call. The call that just might find the missing

girl, or at least point him in the right direction. He powers the

seat, lays it back as far as it will go. Closes his eyes, tries to rest,

willing his mind to blankness. He thinks: Superman has his

Fortress of Solitude, Randall Shane his Lincoln Town Car.

The self-comparison to a comic-book character makes

him smile again, and this time the smile does not hurt.

24. Janet Reno’s Dance Party

In the dream my bed lies on a train, a swaying commuter

train, and a giant peers in an open door, watching me sleep.

Part of me knows I should wake up, search the train for Kelly,

but I can’t keep my eyes open. It’s the train’s fault, because

trains make me sleepy.

“Mrs. Garner? There’s someone to see you.”

Shane in the hallway, making his voice big enough to be

heard through the solid panel of the bedroom door.

One moment I’m asleep, dreaming, the next I’m up, a cold

thrill in my blood. Stepping into linen Capri pants, shrugging

on a top and calling out, “What? What happened? Is it Kelly?

What do you mean ‘someone to see me’?”

Shane waits until I open the door. Hands me a mug of

hot tea. His cheerful smile has to be a good sign. “My

friend from the agency,” he says. “She was kind enough

to drop by.”

Trapped

111

There’s a stranger in my kitchen, talking on her cell as I

enter, bleary-eyed and clutching my mug of tea.

Remember the famous
Saturday Night Live
routine where

Will Ferrell impersonates Janet Reno, the former Attorney

General? Which was all the more convincing because Reno

was such a tall, big-boned woman that at certain angles,

under bad TV lights, she really did look like a man in drag.

The FBI agent waiting in my kitchen has Reno’s masculine

build—big swimmer’s shoulders—but a much more feminine

face. A quite pretty face, with a delicate mouth, big, thick-

lashed brown eyes, and a narrow, slightly freckled nose. The

combo of large but delicately beautiful is unusual, and I find

myself staring, a form of rudeness the agent is apparently

used to, because she smiles a greeting and offers her hand.

“This is Monica Bevins,” says Shane by way of introduction.

“Good morning, Mrs. Garner,” she says. “Sorry to wake

you so early, but I’m on my way back from the Long Island

field office, so it was now or never. Hope you were able to

get some sleep.”

“No problem.”

“Back in the day Monica and I were in the same class at

Quantico,” Shane adds. “Difference is, I eventually resigned

and she eventually got promoted. And promoted. And

promoted. Monica is now an assistant director. Affectionately

known as an ‘A-Dick.’ And duly expected to rise to the D.D.

That’s deputy director. As high as you can go without a presi-

dential appointment.”

“Randall, stop gushing.”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

The big woman rolls her pretty eyes, but the irritation is

feigned. She’s basking in his admiration. Truth is, given her

size and forthright personality, she and Shane look like they

112

Chris Jordan

could be brother and sister. And that’s the vibe between

them—old, trusted friends who have endured bad times and

good.

“I understand this big galoot is going to help locate your

daughter,” she says. “Mrs. Garner, are you okay?”

My legs are still wobbly and I feel weirdly on the verge

of tears and don’t want to unleash that particular fountain.

So I nod and sit down, clutching at the counter.

“You took a pill,” Shane reminds me.

A sleeping pill, right. No wonder my brain feels muffled

in cotton.

“Randall has requested a shadow investigation,” the big

woman says. “Are you in agreement?”

“Shadow investigation?” I ask, puzzled. “What’s that?”

“It’s what we sometimes do in a situation like this, when

we haven’t been officially brought in. Despite what you see

on TV, the agency almost never imposes on a local investi-

gation if the parents are uncooperative. We follow very

specific guidelines governing abduction or kidnapping cases.

Bottom line, without a request from the parents or the Nassau

County Police, we can’t take an active role.”

“What about me?” I ask. “I’m a parent.”

“Indeed. And we’ll put your daughter on our missing

persons list, and alert all of our local offices. If evidence

develops that your daughter has been abducted—a ransom

call or note, or some other indicator—this will automatically

become a full-on, agents-in-place investigation. Meanwhile,

we’ll very quietly take a look at Edwin Manning, see what

we can determine. As I say, what we call a shadow investi-

gation.”

“Okay, I get it.”

Trapped

113

“You understand we are constrained from an active role,

unless and until you get a ransom demand?”

“Yes,” I say.

“I wouldn’t authorize this if Randall hadn’t assured me

that your daughter is not a typical teen runaway, in which case

you’d have to rely on local police efforts to locate her.”

A sudden flush warms my cheeks. “Kelly’s in trouble and

it has something to do with Manning’s son. We know that.

We were there.”

The big woman nods. “So Randall said. He’s almost