Trapped (36 page)

tion into the disappearance of her daughter. The investiga-

tion is ongoing, but so far our main focus has been on Ricky

Lang, a prominent member of the Nakosha tribe. Mr. Lang

has no criminal record, but he does have a long and compli-

cated history with the tribe and, more important, with the

founding and financing of their new gaming resort. Until re-

276

Chris Jordan

cently he was, in fact, president of the tribal council and

chief of the Nakosha people. Our working theory is that

Ricky Lang abducted your son as a means to force you to

intercede with the tribal council on his behalf. Is that correct,

Mr. Manning?”

Agent Salazar’s cool, clear recitation of the facts seems to

have drained Manning of indignation, if not of anxiety. “Yeah,

that’s it. You figured it out. Did you figure out he’s crazy?”

“In Mr. Shane’s opinion, Ricky Lang shows signs of

mental instability and may be delusional,” Salazar concedes.

Manning’s expression is one of profound sorrow. “I’ll tell

you how crazy he is. Ricky contacted me a few days ago.

Wanted to borrow the Beechcraft, said it was a family emer-

gency. He knew Seth would be piloting the plane. He wanted

my son, not the plane. Ricky Lang kidnapped Seth, cut off

his ring finger, and FedExed it to me.”

Both agents bend over their notebooks.

Meanwhile my heart plummets, drowned by a vision of

my little girl being dismembered, one appendage at a time.

It’s too much, too awful. I have to banish the image or lose

my own hold on sanity.

On instinct I reach out, give Manning’s hand a squeeze.

He looks at me guiltily. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Ricky said if

I reported this to the authorities he’d send me pieces of Seth

in the mail. I kept my promise, but he cut off his little finger

anyway. I went to the council but those bastards refused to help.

They claim Ricky is no longer their concern or responsibility.”

Salazar clears her throat. “Any idea why Mr. Lang was

fired as chief?”

Manning shrugs. “No one will talk to me. You have to

understand, the tribe has always been very secretive. I assume

it’s because he became unstable, acting out. I do know he’s

Trapped

277

been showing up at the casino, ranting at the guards and cus-

tomers. I was told that he claims to have superpowers. For

all I know, he’s hearing voices from outer space.”

Salazar nods. “The casino incidents conform with our in-

formation—there have been several confrontations with Mr.

Lang, and at least one assault, although no charges have been

filed by the tribal police. We also find it interesting that Lang

is no longer living on the reservation. He recently purchased

a home in Cable Grove, did you know that?”

Manning looks surprised, maybe a little puzzled. “Cable

Grove? Well, I guess he could afford it. He’s quite wealthy,

you know. They all are. I helped make them rich and this is

how they repay me,” he adds bitterly.

Healy perks up. “Are you saying this was a revenge ab-

duction? That Ricky Lang took your son to get even?”

“No, no,” says Manning. “That’s what makes this whole

thing so crazy. Ricky had no reason to punish me. We, my

staff, we helped his tribe get full recognition. Our relation-

ship was always cordial, very businesslike. On a personal

level I liked the guy. He was bright, engaging, and very am-

bitious for his people.”

“In what way did you help the tribe get full recognition?”

Salazar wants to know.

“The same thing we’ve done for other small tribes who

want to cash in on gaming opportunities. I arranged to have

them represented in Washington by a top lobbying firm.”

“Sounds expensive.”

“Five million and change. Cheap when you consider what

they got out of it. The sovereign right to form their own gov-

ernment, their own police force, and of course their own casino.”

“Which made them all wealthy.”

Manning leans forward, making eye contact with the

278

Chris Jordan

agents. “Last year’s net profit for the casino and resort was

over four hundred million dollars. Ricky always said he

wanted every member of the tribe to be a millionaire. They

are now, no question.”

Healy and Salazar scribble busily in their notebooks.

“Are we correct that your hedge fund provides financing

but does not actually run the day-to-day operation?” Salazar

wants to know.

Manning nods. “The casino is run by an independent man-

agement company. No connection to Merrill Manning

Capital. My fund has a small investment in the company that

manages the hotel and resort, but we stay out of the gaming

operation.”

“You provide the money to get this all started and yet when

you went to them for help the tribal council threw you out?”

He nods miserably. “They’re afraid of Ricky. He’s out of

control and they know it. He wants to be reinstated as presi-

dent and chief of the Nakosha. They refuse. Claim he’s no

longer a member of the tribe.”

“Are you aware of any speculation as to why?”

“No. Like I said, the Nakosha are a small tribe and they’re

very secretive. It’s essentially a large family, a clan. Less than

two hundred adult members. All I know is, one day Ricky

Lang is the chief, the next day his cousin Joe takes over.”

“And this occurred about six months ago, is that correct?”

“In January, yes.”

“Where you in communication with Ricky Lang after he

was deposed as chief?”

Manning shakes his head. “I had no reason to be. The fund

doesn’t even deal directly with the tribe, we deal with the ac-

countants who manage the money.”

Trapped

279

Salazar gives him a tight smile, closes her notebook.

“Thank you, Mr. Manning. We know what a horrible experi-

ence this must be for you. The resources of the agency is

being deployed to attempt recovery of Kelly and Seth. We

will keep you informed.”

The two agents stand up, meeting over.

“That’s it?” Manning looks totally befuddled, lost in a fog

of anxious concern.

“Yeah, there’s one other thing,” says Special Agent Healy.

“We’ll need the finger.”

2. The News From Valley Stream

To be honest, Shane’s silence is freaking me out. Has the

big guy given up? Even with the FBI finally on the case, I

still want him on my side, searching for Kelly.

“Randall?” I ask. “Are you okay? Do you need to go to

the E.R.?”

Healy and Manning have departed. Leaving us with Agent

Salazar, who seems to share my concern for Shane’s well-

being.

“Place like this probably has a doctor on call,” she suggests.

“I’m fine,” he says gruffly, waving us off. “Just a broken

nose, no big deal. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last.”

Somehow I couldn’t square the image of Shane getting

beaten to the punch by another man. Which is ridiculous, es-

pecially if the other guy had a gun. Except the egg man had

a gun and Shane had taken it away in the blink of an eye, no

problem. So I’m confused. What happened?

Speaking of superheroes, how did mine fall to earth?

“I’m sorry, Jane,” he says, a world of hurt in his eyes.

“What can I say? I blew it.”

280

Chris Jordan

“But you found out who took Kelly,” I remind him. “He

confessed to you. We finally know who did it.”

“It was an error in judgment on my part,” says Shane, as

if obliged to make his own confession. “I never should have

gone onto his property, or into his house. I should have waited

for backup, done it by the book.”

“The book?” Salazar rolls her eyes. “That would have

taken hours. And based on what—your gut saying Lang

might be involved? Because his name had been mentioned

by a casino security cop? It was a good hunch, but it was thin.

Sean would have slow-played it. You did the right thing.”

“Sometimes observation is more effective than action,”

Shane says miserably. “I went in there so quick, I never

noticed the suspect was on the property.”

“In a boat,” I remind him.

“Yeah, but there all the same. Once he saw me enter that

house, he knew that we knew. It set him off.”

“So he punched you.”

“No, no,” says Shane, shaking his head. “That’s not what

I mean. Taking a punch is no big deal. What concerns me is

that my careless actions may have put your daughter into

more peril. Once I showed up, Ricky Lang went over the

edge.
I set him off.
He’s in end-game mode, and that’s on me.”

I’d like to slap some sense into the big guy, but don’t want

to reinjure his poor swollen nose. “So it’s your fault, what he

did to Kelly? What he intends to do to her? You going to sit

here feeling sorry for yourself, is that your plan?”

“I’m really sorry.”

“Get up, you big lug,” I tell him, hands on my hips. “I

know you’re not Superman, even if this crazy bastard thinks

he is. But you’re the best I’ve got, and that will have to do.”

Trapped

281

* * *

God for plastic—and on the road again. Even better, Randall

Shane has finally quit apologizing. Possibly because driving

requires all of his considerable concentration.

Honestly, you’d think he was piloting the space shuttle,

not a rental sedan.

The plan is, agents Healy and Salazar and the rest of the

FBI will be doing their thing while we do ours. The tribal

police have been informed of a suspected violation of federal

statute—kidnapping, abduction by force—and are expected

to cooperate in a reservation-wide manhunt for Ricky Lang

and his victims.

The arrangement is that FBI helicopters will search by air,

coordinating with the Nakosha cops below. One of the

choppers will carry a tactical assault team, who will be landed

and deployed the moment the FBI has a clear lead as to the

location.

The hunt for Kelly that started out with me alone, and then

Shane, has at long last expanded to more than two hundred

law enforcement agents, all of them focused on recovering

the captives alive.

It’s happening. The big guns are out. Part of me is jubilant,

part terrified. Bottom line, it’s a great relief to have all these

people searching for her, even if the search itself might make

the perpetrator do something drastic. Waiting has never been

a viable option, and now that we know Ricky Lang is taking

trophies, it’s even less so.

Taking trophies.

Don’t think about that. Think about Kelly, how much you

want to find her safe and sound. How good it will be when

it happens, when I have her back. Which reminds me of a line

282

Chris Jordan

from a song my own mother used to love, about a mother and

child reunion. Beach Boys? Joni Mitchell? I cycle through

Mom’s favorite bands, trying to think of the song. Helps the

“taking trophy” thing recede to where it’s manageable.

We’re about fifteen minutes from the hotel, heading for a

place called Glade City, on the far end of the Everglades.

Shane wants to “run down a person of interest”—not liter-

ally, he promises—check out the owner of the truck who was

messing with the Beechcraft. He says in Glade City I can rent

an entire motel for the price of a suite at Europa. Plus we’ll

be closer to the search area, good to go when the search

teams locate my baby.

“Simon and Garfunkel,” I say suddenly.

“’Scuse me?”

“One of my mom’s favorite bands. Never mind, just

thinking.”

“Think away,” he says, concentrating on traffic. “I can

always use the extra brain power.”

My cell rings. Fern with news.

“You’ll never guess” are the first words out of her mouth.

“Jessica knows all about Kelly and Seth Manning.”

“Jess?” I say, amazed. “I thought Jess and Kelly never

talked.”

“Ancient history, apparently,” says Fern with a chuckle.

“Now they do.”

One of the great regrets of our friendship is that our daugh-

ters never clicked. Never really bonded, despite sharing a crib

for a time and having moms who lived in each other’s

pockets. Whether it’s the age difference—Jess is fifteen

months older—or a difference in personality, we never knew.

Three years hadn’t kept Fern and me apart. If anything it

made the bond stronger because I always looked up to her,

Trapped

283

went to her for guidance, admired her tenacity and her tough-

ness. Not that Jess and Kelly hated each other, or worried

about competing for our affections. It’s just that we kept

pushing them together and they kept going their separate

ways. By the time Jess was in middle school—a crucial two

grades ahead—they might as well have been living on dif-

ferent planets. They ran with totally different crowds and

never seemed to be more than indifferently polite to each