Trapped (6 page)

you’re going through, Mrs. Garner. You can be sure they’ll

study the BOLO and they will in fact be very much on the

lookout. As I said before, if you had a probable destination,

or a point of origin, or a make and model of a motor vehicle

or motorcycle, we could start from there.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I feel so stupid.” No matter how hard

I try, another spasm of weeping comes along every few

minutes. Detective Berg has thoughtfully provided a box of

tissues and my lap is full of wadded-up Kleenex.

“You’re not stupid, Mrs. Garner,” he assures me. “Believe

me, the parent is often the last to know. And if this guy your

daughter is seeing is over eighteen, as you suspect, he might

even face charges.”

“I don’t care about that. I just want her back, safe and sound.”

“Of course. But there are legal ramifications. Let me read

you the statute,” he says, picking up a card from the desk. “If

the victim is under fifteen and the perpetrator is at least

eighteen, this constitutes a second degree sexual offense.

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Chris Jordan

However, if the defendant is less than four years older than

the victim, this may constitute an affirmative defense.’”

“What’s an ‘affirmative defense’?”

Berg reads from the back of the card. “‘Affirmative de-

fenses are those in which the defendant introduces evidence

which negates criminal liability.’”

“Meaning he gets away with it? Taking advantage?”

The detective shrugs. “The legal age of consent in the state

of New York is seventeen. Your daughter is sixteen, so it

depends on how much older he is. If he’s thirty, he can and

probably will be prosecuted. If he’s twenty or under, probably

not, unless your daughter testifies that he forced himself on her.”

“Oh God.” The whole thing feels like it’s spinning out of

control. All this talk about criminal liability and prosecutable

offenses, all I want is for Kelly to be okay. And I want every

cop in the known universe out looking for my daughter. I

want them a lot more proactive than Be On The Lookout.

“I told you the boy is a pilot. Can’t he be traced that way?

Can’t I look at pictures, pick him out?”

“You already have a photo of the guy,” he reminds me.

“We’ll post it with the BOLO.”

“A picture but no name. Can’t you like run it through a

computer or something?”

Berg chuckles. “Like on TV? Face-recognition software

isn’t that precise, not in the real world. Plus, you’d have to get

access to the right database. But there might be someone who

can help.” He rummages around in a desk drawer, hands me a

card. “Never met this guy, but he comes highly recommended.”

I check out the business card. Just a name, title and phone

number. Nothing fancy. “Says here he’s retired,” I say,

feeling stunned.

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47

The friendly, sympathetic detective is passing me off to

some geezer.

“He’s not a real cop,” I point out.

“Don’t let him hear that, these retired guys get very of-

fended.” Berg stands up. The interview is over. He’s palm-

ing me off, passing me along. “Get me a name, Mrs. Garner.

A last name for this bad boy who ran off with your daughter.

Give us a place to start and we’ll do the rest.”

He shows me the door.

10. Girl Talk

First thing I do when I get home is call Kelly’s best friend,

Sierra Wavell. I’m thinking I should have called her first,

before reporting Kelly missing. Call the girlfriend, that

should have been obvious. If I’d been thinking straight.

Which, admittedly, I’m not.

I’m instantly bumped to her voice mail, which means her

cell is already engaged, no surprise.

“Sierra? This is Jane Garner, Kelly’s mom. Please call me

when you get this. It’s an emergency, Sierra. Please?”

I leave my number, enunciating slowly.

Next task is Kelly’s computer. Seth will be on there some-

where. Name or number. Something to work with. Something

to give the cops.

My computer skills are, by the standards of your average

ten-year-old, modest. I know how to work my spreadsheet

software, how to send and receive e-mails, even, with

Kelly’s coaching, how to download digital photographs

from my little Nikon, which comes in handy for taking

pictures of first fittings. I know how to search for stuff on

Google, all of it business related—fabrics, suppliers, manu-

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Chris Jordan

facturers and so on. I have a pretty good understanding of

how computerized cutting and sewing machines operate,

how the information is fed in one end and the complete item

comes out the other.

That’s pretty much it. A recreational computer person I am

not. I don’t game or chat or role-play. If I have an hour to

myself I’d rather read a book, or, if my brain is really stressed,

veg out watching one of my shows.

So I don’t know how to write code or mess with the hard-

ware or hack into encrypted programs. Which means I’m able

to open Kelly’s e-mail program, but I can’t get into the files

where she actually keeps her saved mail. Files marked with

enticing names like Girltalk, Junk-o-la, Facers, S-man.

Girltalk. Very clever, my daughter. This will be where she

keeps all the gossipy stuff. And every time I click on the file

it comes up
File locked, enter code.
Which I would gladly

do if I knew the code.

I try Kelly’s birthday.

Log-in did not complete for the following reason(s):

Log-in Information Is Missing Or Invalid

I try her never-to-be-mentioned middle name. (Edith, my

mother’s name—there I said it. Kelly Edith Garner. Live

with it.)

Log-in did not complete for the following reason(s):

Log-in Information Is Missing Or Invalid

I try the date when she got the all-clear from her cancer.

Hit return, fingers mentally crossed.

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49

Log-in did not complete for the following reason(s):

Log In Information Is Missing Or Invalid

I try, what the hell,
SETH.
Banging hard on the keys,
S-

E-T-H,
take that!

Log-in has timed out. Please exit program.

Three strikes, I’m out, and it’s all I can do not to push the

insolent little computer off her desk, thinking there ought to

be an emergency button for mothers.

Maybe it’s not being able to make the computer give up

its secrets; maybe it’s having been more or less dismissed by

the Nassau County cop. Whatever the reason, suddenly I’m

having my first major meltdown.

Heart racing, lungs gulping far too much air.

Panic attack.

It’s been years. Okay, weeks. Part of me able to make the

diagnosis, the rest of me huffing like a fish pulled out of water.

Paper bag. I’m supposed to get a paper bag, breathe into

it so I don’t pass out. But the bags are in the kitchen, a million

miles away. Can’t possibly make it down the stairs. Finally

I put my head between my knees, and that helps. Constrict-

ing the diaphragm.

Whoa, that’s better. Big sigh.

I’m in the kitchen, uncapping a spring water, when my

cell goes off.

I flip it open, hoping it’s Kelly. No such luck.

“Hi, Sierra. Thanks for calling back.” My heart instantly

tripping again, hands so slick it’s hard to hold the phone.

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Chris Jordan

“You said it was an emergency,” Sierra says, adopting a

tone of whiny accusation.

“It is an emergency. Kelly is missing and I think she’s in

trouble. I need to call Seth, do you know how I can do that?”

After a pause she says, “
Seth?
Seth who?”

“Her boyfriend, Sierra. She must have mentioned him.”

“Uh-uh. Nope. There’s a Seth in my math class but he’s

like fourteen. A freshman. Him?”

The very idea of a freshman boy offends her.

“This Seth is older,” I tell her. “He might be nineteen or

twenty. Maybe even older.”

“No
way!
”

“Way,” I insist. “I can’t believe she wouldn’t mention a

new boyfriend. You’re still best friends, right?”

Another long pause, I can sense her fidgeting, imagine the

face she’s making. “Not exactly?”

“Not exactly? What does that mean?”

“We’re, like, still friends and everything.”

“You’re not sharing?”

“Not exactly.”

Not exactly. The adolescent equivalent of “that’s for me

to know and you never to find out.”

“Please, Sierra, I need your help. Kelly took off in the mid-

dle of the night. I assume with Seth. I’ve reported her missing

but the police need somewhere to start. Like with the boy-

friend.”

Big gasp. “You’re going to have her arrested? Your own

daughter?
”

“No, of course not. I’m trying to find her. She called me

and said she needed help, but her cell phone got cut off before

she could tell me where she is.”

“Really?”

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51

“Yes, really. I wouldn’t bother you otherwise.”

“Mmm, okay, sure,” Sierra hems and haws for a while.

“It’s like, Mrs. Garner, it’s like you’re not bothering me ex-

actly. I just don’t know anything. Sorry.”

I tell her about the photo album, the images of Kelly sky-

diving. “You don’t know anything about that, Sierra? She

never mentioned skydiving?”

“No
way!
” she squeals, excited again. “She really jumped

out of a plane?”

“I think her friend Seth was flying the plane.”

“Oh. My.
God.
” And then, to whomever she’s with, a

shout to the side. “It’s Kelly Garner! She jumped out of a

plane! That’s so cool!”

And so it goes. There’s probably no way to know for sure,

not without hooking Sierra up to a lie detector—and maybe

not even then—but I’m starting to believe she really doesn’t

know anything. Not that she’d tell me if she did. At least not

directly.

We chat for another few minutes. According to Sierra, Kelly

has been like out of the group, you know? An older guy makes

like so much sense, because she never wants to hang with them

anymore even though she’s been like superficial friendly and

everything and one time Sierra went to Kelly, she went, what’s

up with you lately? and Kelly gave her this like Mona Lisa smile

thing that, I’m sorry, Mrs. Garner, but it really pissed me off.

I know that silent smile, how infuriating it can be.

“Sierra, can you do me a big favor? Can you ask around?”

“I guess.” Sounding like she’d rather extract one of her

own wisdom teeth with a pair of rusty pliers.

“It’s very important. Please?”

“Yeah, okay, whatever.”

Then she breaks the connection. Not goodbyes, just a

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Chris Jordan

hang-up. Not that she means to be rude, or even knows what

rude is. And I’m left with basically nothing, not a clue, or

even a sense of where to go next.

Kelly, Kelly, Kelly. Where are you, baby?

11. When The Scream Stays Inside Your Mind

Kelly Garner wakes up dead. Dead and floating.

That’s the feeling. Her body isn’t there; she’s left it behind.

All that remains are a few dim thoughts flickering in the dark

nothing. The sensation of flying, of falling through the air.

His face, his voice holds her attention briefly, earnestly, then

fades. Can’t think of his name. Name on the tip of her tongue,

if only she had a tongue. Then gone, leaving nothing behind.

It’s just herself alone now, the part of her that lives inside

her mind, the dark, knotted core of her innermost self.

Warm.

There, she actually feels something, a physical sensation.

Where is it coming from? Is death warm? No, no, she’s

feeling the warm on her skin, on her forehead and scalp.

That’s where the warm message is coming from.

Beads of perspiration on her scalp. Sweat in her eyes. She

blinks instinctively, feels her eyelids respond.

How very strange. Her eyes are open but she sees nothing.

And although she’s starting to detect the numbing tingle of

a body beyond her face, it’s very distant, as if her limbs have

been hidden over the next horizon. Not that she can see the

horizon in the dark.

Dark.

That’s why she can’t see! It’s dark. The absence of light.

With that realization—she’s alive, in the dark, and some-

thing is terribly wrong with her body—comes a wave of

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sheer terror. A flood of icy adrenaline that freezes her brain

like an arctic blast.

Why can’t she feel her hands, her feet, what’s wrong with

her? Was there an accident?

The memory floats up like a bubble through honey: she

didn’t have an accident. There was an attack. Just as she and

Seth are disembarking the aircraft. She has the cell to her ear,

telling her mother something important. Something about

trouble, about calling the cops. Before she can finish asking

her mom for help, a man on the runway is pointing some-