Trapped (48 page)

the floor, looking sideways at Edwin Manning, who lies

sprawled nearby, a dart protruding from
his
neck.

Amazing. What happened exactly? Sally’s thoughts have

become vague. Is he dying? If so, it’s not so bad. So far.

A big, meaty fist comes into his angle of vision. For

some reason it reminds Sally of one of those coin-operated

games on the boardwalk, the one where you try to snatch a

kewpie doll with a little crane. The big fist locks on Mr.

Manning like he’s a kewpie doll, and from behind comes a

haunted voice that says, “I decided you and your son should

be together.”

And then the boss is gone.

18. Events In The Sky

Even as an adult, whenever I got seriously out of whack

my mother had a favorite song she would hum—”Cleopatra,

Queen of Denial.” She always did it with a smile—the idea

was to kid me into straightening out, or at least accepting

reality—but she had it right, believe me. For many years I

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was
the queen of denial. Something about the world I didn’t

like, I’d tune it out, ignore it to the point it no longer existed.

Best example, getting pregnant. I’m sixteen and my

periods have always been somewhat irregular. So it’s fairly

easy to not pay attention when the time comes and goes. And

okay, I did pretend to use and dispose of tampons, so Mom

wouldn’t catch on, but that was just to avoid embarrassing

questions about menstruating, not because a pregnancy was

possible. No way. Couldn’t be. Don’t even think about it.

I tucked away the fear—it was a terrifying notion, me having

a baby—and went on with my teenage, high school life. A life

in which I was the shy girl without a boyfriend. There were

plenty of girlfriends and friends who were boys, but no actual

hang-out, take-you-on-a-date, try-to-make-out boyfriends,

because either my father chased them away or I did. He because

of a deep belief that all teenage males were basically evil and

me because the whole idea of sex and boys was scary.

I wasn’t ready, didn’t have a clue.

Amazing attitude, considering that I was pregnant. The

queen of denial, floating on a river of lies. One month went

by. Two months. Three.

My body cooperated with my brain, hiding the truth. I

put on a few pounds, but not many, and besides, my weight

was fluctuating then, as I lost baby fat and put it back on,

dieted and binged. My belly muscles tightened rather than

expanded. Most women, healthy women, when they get

pregnant they want to show, and they do. Not only did I
not

want to show, I refused to admit the reality of what was hap-

pening. If I didn’t have a protruding belly I couldn’t be

pregnant, therefore I didn’t allow myself to have a belly.

That was good for about five months and then my seam-

stress skills came in handy, altering blouses and skirts, mak-

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ing sure the cut and drape of the fabric concealed what I

continued to deny.

Amazing what a few blousy frills can hide. Not even Fern

suspected, although to be truthful at the time she was pretty

busy with her own new baby, and fighting day and night

with her future ex-husband.

Bottom line, nobody knew, not until I was well into the

seventh month. I’m lying on the couch because my “tummy”

aches. Too many damned potato chips, according to my stern

and disapproving father, but in reality the infant in my belly

is kicking with both feet. We’re watching
Seinfeld,
my father

and me, while Mom is in the kitchen polishing the dishes with

a special cotton cloth so as to avoid my father’s wrath about

spots on the dishes, one of his numerous pet peeves. Anyhow,

I must have groaned in a certain way because Mom came

flying out of the kitchen and before I could stop her she put

her hand to my belly. She knew.

“Maybe it’s her appendix?” my father suggests, backing

away from the couch as if fearful his inexplicable daughter

might explode.

Mom reminds him that I had my appendix removed at the

age of eight. Her immortal, marriage-ending words: “She’s

pregnant, you asshole.”

Kelly was born three weeks later, a preemie but strong and

healthy despite that. It was a very long labor, with several starts

and stops, and when I finally got home from the hospital,

shocked and thrilled and terrified of the tiny infant in my arms,

my father had moved out of the house and from then on it was

just Mom and me. And Kelly, of course, who ruled from day

one. What a pair of fists that little girl had! Grabbing at anything

within reach and refusing to let go. Tiny, impossibly small

hands, of course, but amazingly strong. First time she latched

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onto my nose and wouldn’t let go was also the first time she

laughed. Gleeful. An actual grin of triumph. She was ten weeks

old. Way early, according to the pediatrician, but Kelly always

got there early. High-speed crawling at seven months, walking

at nine. She never toddled. She walked and then she ran.

The queen of denial is back, refusing to believe that Kelly

escaped and then was again taken captive. My girl is running.

No way did she let herself get kidnapped all over again.

Leo Fish may think he’s seen the “signs” and what he calls

the “trace,” a few spots of blood, the imprint of a flat-

bottomed boat nudged on the grass, and what he insists are

footprints. To my eye it’s all just bent grass. He can’t possibly

know what happened, other than that one man was murdered.

“Okay, she was here, she escaped, I believe that part,” I tell

him. “But how can you assume Lang grabbed her? Maybe she

got away while he was shooting this other man. It was dark, you

weren’t there, you can’t possibly know what really happened.”

“I agree it ain’t a certainty,” Fish says. “I can see where

you might be doubtful, not recognizing sign and trace.”

He’s being patient with me, which of course drives me

nuts. How dare he?

“Maybe Ricky got her, maybe he didn’t,” Shane says,

interceding. “Whichever it is, we still need to locate her.”

“Best get a move on,” Fish suggests, preparing to lead the

way.

“My cell is out of range,” Shane says. “Got any flares?”

“Might be one or two in the pan,” Fish responds.

Shane’s idea, set off a flare to alert the helicopters, let them

know where to recover the body. It’s not just the body, but

whatever evidence may be developed from the site—his old FBI

instincts tell him there may be important clues in the vicinity,

and he can’t walk away without notifying the authorities.

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I immediately like the idea, because if Kelly is out there,

running or hiding, she may see the flare and understand that

her rescuers are nearby.

“Ricky will see it, too,” Fish points out, but he doesn’t

argue the point. Knowing two very stubborn people when

he sees them.

Standing ankle deep in the dark water, so as not to set the

grasslands on fire, Shane ignites the flare and holds it high

in the air, a Statue of Liberty pose without the crown or the

gown. The hot-red flame is so bright I have to look away as

billows of white smoke rise up into the morning sky.

“They gotcha,” Fish comments in his laconic way.

He indicates a direction and I pick up on a helicopter

cruising the distant horizon. Sure enough it has shifted course

and is heading in our direction, no doubt having spotted the

smoke if not the flare itself.

As we wait for the helicopter the discussion turns to strategy.

Should we proceed by air? Does it make sense for Fish to guide

search parties from the helicopter? Shane seems to be pushing

for the helicopter, in the belief that we can cover more ground

quickly, whereas Fish seems to think the helicopter is a bad idea

because Ricky will hear it coming and take precautions.

“Man apparently believes he can make himself invisible,”

Fish points out. “In some ways he can, if we’re in the air and

he’s on the ground. This may look like open country but it

ain’t. There’s a million places to hide and a thousand ways

to not be seen. Ricky knows all the tricks. Best chance is me

locating his sign.”

In the end the discussion is settled by events in the sky.

The search-and-rescue helicopter, which Shane identifies as

a Bell 412, is close enough so we can discern the pilot, as

well as a passenger using binoculars. The passenger seems

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Chris Jordan

to be pointing, no doubt at the flare smoke, which has begun

to disperse. Worried that they’ll lose us, I wave my arms and

jump up and down. Figuring if I can see them, they can see

me, which may or may not be true.

Which is why I’m looking directly at the helmeted pilot

when the helicopter explodes in a ball of hot orange flame.

“Pretty cool, eh Tyler?” Ricky says, lowering the RPG

launcher.

Tyler grins, makes a boom! motion with his hands, and

goes back to running in circles around his sisters, who are

drifting through the saw grass, light as butterflies in their

pinafore dresses.

The children have been with him more or less continuously

since he had the conversation with his father. Their presence

is a comfort, and he doesn’t want them frightened away by

roving helicopters. Figuring one down, they’ll call back the

rest. Not expecting rocket-propelled grenades or, indeed, any

of the other interesting weapons he has in his arsenal. What did

they think, his weapons would be limited to bow and arrow?

“Reya, honey? Careful of the water, you don’t want to get

your shoes wet.”

Reya—it means
queen
in Spanish, her mother’s idea—

Reya is the middle child, tends to be careless of her belong-

ings, and she sticks her tongue out at him and skips through

the shallow water in open defiance.

Ricky smiles. This is the new Ricky Lang. There was a

time when he might have lost his temper, maybe even

spanked her little bottom, but those days are over. He’ll not

raise a hand to any of the children now, or ever again. Solemn

promise, hand to his heart.

Strange. His big hand searches around his chest, attempt-

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369

ing to locate a heartbeat. Can’t find one. As the black smoke

rises from the wreckage of the helicopter, he grabs his wrist,

checking for a pulse.

No pulse. Amazing.

The sudden realization that he’s dead fills Ricky Lang

with joy. He’s left himself behind! He can no longer be killed.

Being dead creates all sorts of interesting possibilities.

19. The View From The Fire Tower

Maybe I’ve led a sheltered life, but up to now the only

place I’ve ever seen a dead body was in a hospital setting or

a funeral parlor. In the hospital the dead look empty and at

peace and at funerals they tend to resemble wax dummies.

Sad but not remotely scary, and never a hint of violence.

So far this morning my count includes the victim of a

gunshot wound and two would-be rescuers blown out of the

air. It feels like we’re surrounded by sudden death and frankly

it almost scares the pee out of me. Not quite, because I

manage to get behind a clump of bushes to do my business.

My male companions avert their eyes and say not a word,

for which I’m grateful.

“What happened?” I manage to stammer upon return.

“Why did it blow up? Was there a bomb?”

“Surface-to-air explosive device,” Shane concludes.

“Probably an RPG.”

My first reaction is that we lured them to their doom, homing

in on our flare. Shane looks like he’s thinking the same thing.

“You couldn’t know,” I tell him.

“No, I couldn’t,” he admits.

“It’s like you call the fire department to report a fire and

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on the way somebody shoots at the fire truck. It wasn’t you

who made them shoot.”

Shane looks rueful. “Not quite the same. I knew he was

out there, I just never imagined he had the weapons to bring

down a helicopter.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Makes you wonder,” Fish says, staring off at the black

smoke. “We know he’s got a fully automatic shotgun and now

a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. What else has he got,

and why’s he need such an arsenal?”

“Must have big plans,” Shane suggests.

Fish nods agreement. “Revenge type plans. Who’s he mad

at, besides the rich white man who helped him buy the casino?”

“His own people,” Shane responds instantly. “For

kicking him out.”

At the top of a new steel fire tower, located not far from the

forward deployment area, Special Agent Paloma Salazar backs

away from her spotting scope. She closes her eyes, takes a

deep breath, exhales slowly. Bird down, no doubt about it.

Salazar gets on the radio, orders the remaining helicop-