Trapped (33 page)

his ankles like some sly, familiar dog, wanting to know where

he’s been, when he’s coming home.

Not yet, Shane thinks, taking it all in, but when the time

comes, this will do. There’s still the small matter of having to

win a multistate lottery, but what the heck, a man can dream.

He tries a French door that exits onto the patio and is not

entirely surprised to find it unlocked. No screaming siren, no

flashing lights, so he assumes the security system is not

armed. As his eyes adjust to the dim light he finds himself in

what must be the master bedroom. The oversize bed designed

to look like it’s floating over marble floor. Sleek matching

furniture, beautifully lacquered and illuminated by discrete

cove lighting. Louvered door to what he assumes is a walk-

in closet, and the typical master bath that’s big enough to park

an extra SUV if the garage ever gets filled up.

He checks out the walk-in. One side jammed with a young

woman’s clothing, size six and under. The other side more

sparsely populated with white guayaberras, khaki cargo

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pants, a few muscle shirts, and a neat selection of Tommy

Bahama silk tropicals that have either never been worn or are

fresh from the dry cleaners. Gives him a picture of Mr. Ricky

Lang and his wife or girlfriend, but the real purpose of search-

ing a closet is to locate hidden assets like safes, file boxes or

firearms. Especially firearms. Ninety percent of gun owners

stash their weapons in a closet.

He checks all the likely spots. Then all the unlikely spots.

The place is clean. Either the suspect is not in fact a bad boy,

or he keeps his toys and weapons elsewhere.

It’s while he’s in the closet that Shane feels a faint thump

resonate through the cedar-lined wall. Like someone tossed

a tennis ball in an adjacent room. Or dropped a shoe.

Silence follows, but Shane instantly understands that he

has miscalculated. Despite his initial assessment, he is not

alone in the house. That’s when he decides to call Mrs.

Garner, give her the name and address, ask her to share it with

Special Agent Healy, a precaution he should have taken

before venturing up the driveway.

Serious about wanting a lawyer on standby, he has no in-

tention of letting himself be arrested, not inside the house.

Helps that he didn’t damage a lock or slice a screen, because

if need be he can argue that he was invited into the residence,

plead a misunderstanding.

The old vampire defense—your honor, he asked me in.

When the call to Jane is completed, Shane slips the cell

phone into his pocket. He’s bending down, preparing to recon

through the slats of the louvered door, when a sizable fist

comes crashing through the louvers and into his nose.

Knocking him down but not quite out.

The pink fog means the nose has been broken—not for the

first time—but what really concerns him are two indisputable

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facts: the man wielding the fist is immensely strong and

knows how to punch, and has in his possession a Glock G37,

which typically holds ten .45 caliber rounds in the magazine.

Shane knows this because the short barrel of the gun is

about eighteen inches away, aiming at his broken nose.

“So which is it?” asks the man with the gun. “You sniffing

panties or jock straps? Or maybe both?”

The thing about a broken nose is that the pain is beyond

belief for a couple of minutes before it subsides to bearable.

Making it hard to think clearly, or formulate replies to leading

questions. So rather than make any rash decisions—like, say,

attempting to disarm his assailant—Shane prudently decides

to rest on his haunches and bleed for a while.

The light is behind his assailant, rendering him into a

bulky silhouette that fills the closet doorway. Even at that,

the description more or less matches the one given by Tony

Carlos, the casino security chief:
What is it you Anglos say?

Built like a brick shithouse? That’s Ricky Lang. Some people

think he looks like one of the Three Stooges. Others call him

The Hulk. Personally I find him just plain scary.

“You’re a big mother,” the hulking figure observes, em-

phasizing with the Glock. “Nothing in there is your size.

Doubtful you could even fit one of Myla’s little thongs on

that big fat head of yours.”

Shane gets the impression that, despite the taunting, his

assailant knows full well he’s dealing with more than a

common intruder. Having a little fun with him while he

decides what to do next. Call the cops? Report a break-in?

Shoot?

Florida’s Stand Your Ground law is pretty clear. A home

owner can shoot and kill an intruder if he believes the intruder

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represents a danger to his person. No obligation to retreat.

No actual weapon or threat required, simply the impression

of danger. And what person would not assume danger, having

come upon an intruder?

Fire away, the law implies. Shoot ’em if you got ’em.

As the throbbing in his head subsides to no more than a

common jackhammer, Shane decides he has nothing to gain

by silence or denial. “You Ricky Lang?” he asks, his tongue

so thick in his mouth he sounds drunk.

His assailant laughs. “What, you got my name off the

mailbox?”

“It’s not on the mailbox,” Shane points out. “Can I get up?

Maybe get a cold washcloth?”

“Nah,” says Lang. “You messed up enough of my stuff

already. Can’t have you spoiling the washcloths.”

“Fine,” says Shane, wadding his shirttail and using it to

stanch the blood.

“Come on out, but crawl. If you stand up or move quick,

I’ll shoot,” Lang warns, backing up.

Shane works his way through the door. Calculations for

escape or counterattack running through his mind. Maybe try

a feint, get the gun hand moving, leap the other way. But

moves like that work in the movies, not in real life. In real

life Lang, who clearly knows how to handle a gun, will put

a bullet in his spine.

One of the disadvantages of being large, he makes a

bigger target.

Having crawled out of the closet as instructed, Shane

remains on his haunches. That will give him an opportunity

to launch himself at Lang if he gets the chance. Also he can

bleed on the marble floor, leaving his DNA marker in the

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cracks between the close-fitting tiles. Little gift for the crime-

scene technicians, if it comes to that.

“Stop right there,” Lang orders. “Stay on your knees.”

Shane stops, letting his nose drip. His eyes are swollen

from the blow but his vision has cleared and the light is such

that he can finally focus on his assailant, who has perched

on the edge of the oversize bed, the Glock never wavering.

Strong arms, to hold a weapon so steadily with one rock-

solid hand. The average civilian has no idea of the difficulty,

holding and aiming a large-bore handgun. Thirty-five ounces

may not sound like much—a little more than two pounds

fully loaded—but the compact weight, held in an outstretched

hand, soon becomes massive. Gravity is unrelenting. The

hand tends to drop, the forearm muscles compensate by rais-

ing, tightening. Muscles start twitching and the hand wavers

or trembles. Officers are trained to brace the wrist with the

other hand, but even with two hands, wavering or trembling

can’t be avoided for long.

Ricky Lang does not waver or tremble.

Perched on the edge of the bed, grinning as if he’s just heard

the best joke in the world, Lang does indeed resemble a Native

American version of Moe Howard. Mostly because of the thick

black hair, the crude bowl-cut that leaves glossy bangs covering

his forehead. The Hulk description works, too. Something about

his broad sloping shoulders, the over-amped lats and biceps, the

narrow waist and powerful legs. Bare feet adding to the effect,

as if the man was continually bursting out of his shoes.

Shane figures that in a fair fight—if such a thing ever

exists—he might well prevail, using his own considerable

strength and relying on his added leverage. But in close com-

bat, an eye-gouging, throat crushing fight to the death, Ricky

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Lang would be exceedingly dangerous. Might come down to

who lands the first damaging blow.

“You can’t be a cop,” Lang muses. “Cops always come in

pairs.”

“My name is Randall Shane. I’m former FBI. I consult on

missing children.”

Lang finds this interesting. “No shit? A
former
Fed? So

what, they fired you? Caught you going through underwear

drawers, vamoosed your sorry ass?”

“Something like that.”

Lang shakes his head, vastly amused. “This is good. I’m

out in my boat, changing the oil? I hear this footstep, real soft,

on the patio? Take a peek and there you are, big as a line-

backer, breaking and entering into my bedroom.”

“The door was unlocked,” Shane points out. “My col-

leagues have my location. They’ll respond soon.”

“Yeah? I’d like to meet ’em. Except you said you were fired.”

“Resigned.”

“Uh-huh. So what you doin’ here, Randall?”

Moment of truth, Shane thinks and decides he doesn’t

care to die with a lie on his lips. “I’m looking for Seth Man-

ning and Kelly Garner.”

Ricky Lang smiles and nods. “The pilot and his girl. It’s

about time,” he says. “What took you guys so long?”

There are lots of things going on with Shane physically,

from the wicked throb of his freshly broken nose to the ache

of his hamstrings, but nothing so bad it overwhelms the flesh-

crawling chill that runs up his spine.

He did it. He found the perp.

Now if only he can live long enough to do something

about it.

“You a hero, man,” Ricky Lang is saying, sounding gen-

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uinely pleased for him. “Just this morning I’m trying to

figure, should I kill ’em or let ’em go? You know, like weigh-

ing it on my mind? And then along comes you.”

“Easy decision,” Shane encourages. “Let them go.”

The disturbing thing, other than the unwavering Glock, is

the way Ricky Lang’s smile flashes on and off like a neon

sign with a bad connection. Like he’s all there one moment

and gone the next.

“Want to know how I got you, man? Pow through the

door?
Because I can be invisible.
I can make it so you can’t

see or hear me, like a blindfold on your mind. Then boom!

nailed you through the door. Because also I’ve got X-ray

vision, like Superman.”

“You saw me through the louvers.”

“Nah, man, I
sensed
you. I got the magic, man. I got the

power.”

“But you’ll let them go.”

“Sure,” Ricky Lang says with a shrug. “Why not?”

He stands up, tucks the Glock in his waist. “Let’s get you

that cold washcloth, then I’ll take you to them.”

20. What Gods Provide

Live or die.

The choice has become that simple. During the dark and

endless hours she has come to understand that dying would

be easy. Just give up, let go. Stop drinking from the jug of

water. Stop eating the ridiculous peanut butter sandwiches

her captor left in a plastic bread bag.

Famished, she had demolished several of the awful sand-

wiches, gagging with every bite, the soft white bread tasting

of greasy fingers. Worse than any of those icky hospital meals

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because it has been touched by the unclean hands of her tor-

mentors. And yet she had consumed the awful things because

to refuse would have been to become weaker. Again, very like

the conscious choice she’d made as a nine-year-old. Deciding

to be strong and resolute and not give in to her illness. Sum-

moning all of her strength, willing her body to overcome the

ravages of radiation treatments and chemotherapy. Fighting

for her life by refusing to die.

Kelly had been a voracious reader, even at her sickest. Partly

because books were an escape, entry into another world where

she could, if she wanted, be a warrior princess fighting dragons,

or Harry Potter’s friend Hermione, or just a normal healthy girl

having fun with her friends. An early chapter book stuck in her

mind because of the vivid illustrations.
Myths of The Ancient

World.
All about the battles between gods and heroes.

Especially resonant with Kelly was the way gods liked to

play tricks on the heroes and punish them horribly for what

seemed like small infractions of rules. Lying in her hospital

bed, weak from whatever the nurses and technicians had in-

flicted on her small body, she could readily identify with the

fire-giver Prometheus, chained to the ground so a vulture could

eat his liver. And then overnight his liver would grow back and

the vulture would come again, its great beak gleaming like