Trapped (25 page)

lights gleam in electric jellybeans colors, cinnamon-red and

spearmint-green. Amazing how a little rain can make a city

look all shiny and clean, especially at night. Air smells fresher,

too, although a faint aroma of tropical funk remains. Eau de

rotting vegetation, or maybe it’s something deeper, something

more malignant, released from beneath the fragile ground by

marauding bulldozers, probing shovels, long-forgotten sins.

Morbid thoughts. I keep waiting for Shane to emerge,

figuring he’ll have to cross the street to get to Manning’s

condo building, but either the big guy has an invisible cloak

or he’s got a different route in mind. Should I call, check that

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he’s okay? No, his instructions were very specific: buzz if the

cops show. Most definitely he did not suggest that I call for a

chat, or to make sure his cell is set on vibe rather than “Teen

Spirit.”

I’ve seen that movie where the hero gets caught when his

phone trills at exactly the wrong moment. Can’t let that happen.

Randall Shane must be protected at all costs because he’s all

I’ve got. The police in Long Island, the obnoxious FBI agent,

they’re all just going through the motions, issuing bulletins and

be-on-the-lookouts. The assumption being that yet another

wild teenager has run off with her boyfriend. Big whoop,

happens every day. Girls eventually come home or they don’t,

it’s up to them, no matter what mom has to say on the subject.

And why exactly is this nonsense humming like a bad song

in my brain, one of those stupid popzillas you can’t get out of

your head? Because some tiny, miserable part of me worries

that the worst may have happened. Okay, not quite the worst,

not Kelly in a shallow grave, but Kelly involved in some sort

of death-defying stunt, helping her flyboy hit up his dad for a

few million bucks, just for the thrill of it. I’ll deny it to anyone

who asks, Fern included, but the fact is that if circumstances

are exactly wrong, if the temptation is too great, even so-called

good kids like Kelly can suddenly go off the rails. Like all teen-

agers, she’s vulnerable to the impulsive, wouldn’t-it-be-cool

riff that can lead, when things go bad, to prison or death.

When Kel started getting seriously mouthy, acting like a

different person, I did a little Google search to see if child-

hood cancer had any long-term effects on behavior, maybe

like post-traumatic stress disorder. Having cancer is cer-

tainly traumatic and stressful, right? Anyhow, that was my

theory. Then I clicked on an article that had nothing to do

with chemo or surviving cancer. It was a scary description

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of what physically happens to the human brain during ado-

lescence. According to the article, the brain starts shedding

synaptic connections at about age twelve to fourteen.

Synaptic connections are what enable us to think rationally,

to process information, so why is the teen brain getting rid

of vital connections? Because it’s preparing for the next big

growth spurt, which results in the formation of the deep

neurological connections that enable adults to make

reasoned decisions. The article compared the teen brain to

a plant pruning itself so it will eventually grow stronger. For

a couple of crucial years, the adolescent mind tends to react

emotionally—and often inappropriately—because the ra-

tional connectors are still in the process of forming. Which

explains lots of things, from slammed doors and hysterical

tears to kids who play Russian roulette with sex or, God

forbid, actual guns.

What makes me think my own darling daughter might be

capable of making a really bad decision? A decision that

changes her life, or maybe ends it?
Because I’ve been there.

I was that girl. There were no glamorous flyboys in my life,

no billionaire dads, but even so I had managed to screw up

so badly that two lives were put at risk. And all because I sur-

rendered to a crazy impulse on a moonless night.

My dark secret, you see, really is about darkness. Not

metaphorical darkness, but real, actual darkness. A darkness

so complete that the sultry summer night made me think I

was invisible, invulnerable. Like whatever happened in that

darkness did not count. And yet, of course, it did, no matter

how hard I tried to deny it at the time.

What happened that night all those years ago, in the secret

darkness, still haunts me. Makes me think crazy, frantic

thoughts. Makes me ashamed to imagine, for even a moment,

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that Kelly might behave as stupidly, as selfishly, as I had once

behaved.

She’s better than me. Smarter than me. No way is she par-

ticipating in some scatterbrained extortion scheme. Kelly

didn’t come home because she
can’t
come home. She needs

help. She needs her mother. Too bad her mother is weak and

pathetic. Too bad her mother keeps falling apart.

“Mrs. Garner?”

Shane stepping out on the balcony, observing me with

concern.

“It’s not ‘Mrs. Garner’!” I blubber. “I’m not married! I was

never married! Garner is my maiden name, my father’s name.”

“Sorry,” he says. “I forgot. Why are you crying? Has

something happened?”

Crying would be the polite description. Bawling my eyes

out is more like it. Guess the tear ducts weren’t empty after

all.

“She’s not me!” I blubber. “She’s better than me! She

might run away, she might risk her own life, but Kelly would

never, ever hurt another person! Not on purpose.”

Not sure how it happened, but I’m weeping into his big

chest. Strong, gentle hands hold me tight but not too tight.

I’m aware of the damp rain clinging to his close-cropped

beard, and the newer dampness of my own tears.

“It’s okay,” he says, speaking in a craggy whisper. “It’ll

be okay, I promise.”

I want, I want, I want—what do I want? Not sex, I’m

wound way too tight for that, vibrating with the exclusive,

overwhelming need to find Kelly. Plus the big guy isn’t really

my type, not physically. Although that, I suppose, could

change, given time and proximity. But no, the wanting is

linked to something else, a deeper need, something that can’t

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be satisfied by sex. What I want is something I can’t even ar-

ticulate. Father, brother, protector, friend, my own personal

superhero, all these things and more, all of it balled up into

a need so powerful that I cling to Randall Shane like he’s the

last man in the universe.

Bless the guy, he seems to understand that all the frantic

clinging and weeping isn’t about getting him into bed. His

hands never stray, never explore, and somehow I know ab-

solutely that he’d never take advantage of my emotional state.

Instead he lets me cry, allows me to sob my heart out until

there’s nothing left but hanging on. After a while he gently

disentangles himself, heads into the suite. He locates the

well-stocked minibar and returns with a bottle of Perrier and

a glass filled with ice cubes the size of fat diamonds.

“Drink,” he suggests. “You need the fluid.”

“I’m really, really sorry.”

“Don’t be. Never apologize for being a good mother.”

That sets me back for a moment. “How do you know I’m

a good mother?”

He shrugs. “I just do. Care to share?”

“Share?”

“What set you off. Something that happened when you

were Kelly’s age.”

“I said that?”

“You implied,” he responds.

My knees suddenly go wobbly—I’m a puppet with sev-

ered strings, looking for a place to collapse. Shane leads me

to a plush leather sofa, remains standing. “We’ll get to this

later,” he suggests. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“What about them?” I ask, indicating the condo tower

that looms over the hotel. Wanting rather desperately to

change the subject.

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“Mission accomplished, more or less,” he says with a grin.

“If the Hummer, moves, it will inform my laptop, and you

in turn will inform me.”

He sits me in front of his computer, shows me the

software. The screen frames a map of downtown Miami, and

on it the location of the tracking device pulses like an orange

gumdrop. Looks very much like the navigation screen on

Fern’s Escalade, the one that tells her when she takes a wrong

turn. The one she yells at.

“If the vehicle moves more than three feet, two things will

happen,” Shane says. “The program will bong until you click

on this button, okay? Then you’ll call me. If you can’t get

hold of me, just sit tight. The program will track Manning,

show us where he goes.”

“I’m supposed to call you? But where will you be?

He shrugs, avoiding my eyes. “I’ll be, um, otherwise

occupied for the next few hours.”

At first I assume he’s going to try and get some sleep,

maybe take a pill, but that’s not it. He has another mission,

a mission he’s not willing to discuss.

“So you want me to share, but not you? That doesn’t

seem fair.”

“Fairness is not a factor,” he informs me, crossing his

long arms over his chest. “Over the next few days there will

be things I need to do—actions that must be taken—which

are not strictly legal.”

“Like planting a tracking device.”

“Like that,” he admits. “Some of these actions, it’s best

you have no knowledge.”

“But I want to help.”

“You are helping,” he assures me. “But when two or more

individuals engage in a criminal activity, that can result in con-

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spiracy charges. Easier to prosecute and easier to prove than an

individual action. We want to avoid legal jeopardy, if possible.”

“Criminal activity?” I ask. “Did you say ‘criminal activity’?”

“Break the law, you’re engaging in criminal activity. No

point sugarcoating it.”

“What kind of criminal activity?” I ask.

“Best you have no knowledge. That’s the point.”

“Bad things?”

He smiles, shakes his head. “Not so bad. Not major felony.

But if I happen to be in violation of a particular statute, it will

be just me, do you understand?”

“Except for the GPS thing,” I point out. “I’m part of that

conspiracy.”

“You are,” he concedes. “My apologies, but I can’t monitor

the vehicle on my own. Not and do what needs to be done.”

“Okay,” I say, feeling completely spent. “You do your

thing, I’ll do mine. Still want me to buzz you if the cops show

up, or if Manning leaves the building?”

“Absolutely.”

A moment later he’s gone and I’m all alone. Just me, the

binoculars, and a pulsing gumdrop on a computer screen.

11. Cherchez La Femme

Randall Shane finally has his Town Car. Not actually his

own, of course, but hired from a car service. And because

Shane will not put himself behind the wheel when he’s been

awake for more than twenty-four hours, the car service has

also supplied a driver.

“You get much work this time of night?” Shane asks,

settling into the shotgun seat. Fully retracted and lowered, the

seat accommodates his long legs without his knees bumping

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the glove box. Taking the front so he can keep a keen eye on

the driver’s skills, which at first glance appear to be sufficient.

No squealing tires, no herky-jerky braking action.

The driver, a middle-aged Haitian with velvety dark skin and

delicate features, responds in formal, rhythmically accented

English. “Oh, yessuh, plenty much work nighttime. The people,

they go to the clubs and dance all night. They go to the beach

and watch the sun come up. Maybe then I take them to the

airport, they fly home to NewYork or Chicago or Los Angeles.”

“Rich people.”

“People with money, yessuh,” he says, gently correcting

his passenger. “Rich people, you know, they have full-time

chauffeur, S-Class Mercedes.”

Shane hadn’t really considered the distinction between

rich people and people with money. But of course there is an

important distinction. Taking himself as an example, he isn’t

wealthy but he’s able to hire a car. Therefore he belongs to

the category of people with money, in the form of a valid Visa

card with sufficient credit. That’s all it takes. Not so long ago,

within living memory, an average middle-class person

wouldn’t dream of hiring a car and driver. Such luxuries

were considered the province of millionaires. Nowadays the

average lawyer or dentist is a millionaire, at least on paper.

A typical school superintendent in a reasonably prosperous

district might in retirement be worth a million dollars, if she

bought the right house at the right time and invested in tax-

deferred funds. On certain blocks in Manhattan, doormen are

millionaires. Not doubt about it, billionaire is the new mil-