Trapped (12 page)

and smoked glass and daring architectural angles. Must be a

million precisely weathered cedar shingles keeping out the

rain. The property taxes probably exceed my yearly income.

No wonder the owner has, apparently, been targeted for ex-

tortion—he’s got a lot to give.

Kelly’s boyfriend or flight instructor, whatever the hell he

is, how did this happen? How did she find herself in this par-

ticular world?

Shane sets the parking brake and we get out. Lights come

on, illuminating a wide, elaborately shingled portico. The

oversize door opens—opaque green-glass panels set in a

brushed-steel frame—and Edwin Manning staggers out,

dressed more or less as we last saw him, with the exception

of his face, which has been recently washed.

“Who
are
you?” he wants to know. Then he adds, in a

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voice so faint it seems to fade away, “Leave me alone. Just

please leave me alone!”

He trips, falls to his knees, his skinny chipmunk face slick

with tears. The poor man is a mess. Shane and I help him to

his feet, each taking a black-clad arm. He doesn’t weigh all

that much and I can feel his pulse pounding, as if his whole

body is being struck like a gong.

He is, I realize, scared nearly to death, and that makes me

even more frightened.

“My daughter,” I tell him urgently. “That’s all we want,

my daughter back. Whatever else happened, I don’t care.”

Manning staggers like a drunk but there’s no smell of

alcohol. He’s exhausted and stressed to the point of falling

down. Not quite there yet myself, but I can see it coming if

Kelly isn’t home by, say, this time tomorrow.

Once when Kelly was about ten, a year or so after her

last treatment, she accompanied me on a house call, what

I call a catalog call because it’s all about looking at photos

of designs and fabric samples—satins, silks, laces and

finishes. Lots of catalogs, lots of possibilities. Long drive

to Montauk, a very successful novelist’s waterfront “cot-

tage.” Won’t mention her name because I don’t want to be

sued, but the bride-to-be (marriage number three) made all

of her money writing sexy stories about rich divas and had

either become one herself or started out that way. A very

unpleasant person to deal with, unless you happened to be

a fellow celebrity, in which case it was kiss-kiss-oh-I-

missed-you-
so
-much.

Anyhow, Kelly’s eyes got big when she saw the house

and the beautiful setting on the grassy dunes, and I could

tell she longed to live in a place like this rather than in

boring old suburban Valley Stream. Couldn’t blame her.

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The writer’s cottage looked like a Laura Ashley catalog

cover, the one where Ralph Lauren is visiting, and all the

children are perfectly chic. Not that there were any children

present other than Kelly. The rich bitch had kids from

earlier marriages, but they were all grown-up and not

speaking to her.

Kelly wandered from room to room as the bride-to-be-

again checked out flattering designs and bosom-enhanc-

ing brocades. As I soon discovered, the lady liked to vent

on the “little people,” meaning employees or contractors,

and she included me as one. Contractors were scum,

painters were scum, plumbers and electricians were scum.

Everybody who worked on her house was scum or stupid

or worthless. She said so on
David Letterman.
Failing to

mention that she changed her mind every other minute,

made ridiculous demands, then complained when it took

longer, cost more. I had already decided that I’d have a

scheduling conflict that would prevent me from adding her

to my client list, but didn’t quite know how to get out of

there without having my head bitten off. So I went along,

going through the motions, suggesting possible ensem-

bles that might work—most every suggestion dismissed as

“stupid”—absorbing abuse from a woman I’d just met and

hadn’t said boo to.

When we finally escaped, a mile or so down the road, Kelly

touches me on the hand and asks why that lady is so horrible.

All I can do is shake my head and tell her that for some people

money is like a poison. It makes them sick in the head. Kelly,

ten years old, she looks me in the eye and goes, “That woman

was always horrible, Mom. She was born that way. Tell her to

take her wedding gown and put it where the sun don’t shine.”

Ten. I laughed till I cried. Right now, exhausted and shaky

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and ready to fall apart for at least the third time, I’m won-

dering if she ever set foot on the Manning estate, and if so,

what she thinks of it, of them.

“Are you alone, sir?” Shane wants to know.

We’ve entered something like a glass hut with a high, ca-

thedral ceiling vented with skylights. Canvas-bladed ceiling

fans hang like monstrous white bats. Manning staggers to the

right, bringing us to a living space. Cherry floors set in a her-

ringbone pattern, stark leather couches, steel-and-strap

chairs, lots of bookcases filled with books. Look like real

books, too, not designer touches.

“Anybody here?” Shane asks, persisting. “Family, staff?

Anybody at all?”

Edwin Manning has collapsed into one of the custom

designer chairs, buried his face in his hands. When he looks up

again he seems to have gained some resolve. His voice is

hoarse, froglike, as if an invisible hand is gripping his throat.

“Nobody,” he croaks. “Sent everyone away. I’m entirely alone.”

“Where’s your wife? Seth’s mother, where is she?”

The little man snorts, shakes his head. “Dead. Died when

he was twelve. I never remarried.”

“Other children?” Shane asks.

“Just Seth.” He looks up, focuses on Shane. “If you call

the FBI, or anyone else, he’ll die. Is that understood? He’ll

die quite horribly. That’s really all I can tell you.”

Shane indicates that we should both sit. Put us on a level

with Edwin Manning. Have a look into his sad, red-rimmed

eyes, see what we can see.

“Has your son been abducted?” Shane asks, point-blank.

“Is he being held for ransom? Is this about money?”

Manning shakes his head, clears his throat. “I can’t talk

about it, not to you and not to anyone,” he says, as if reciting

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95

from a script. “That was made crystal clear. I have to do

exactly what they say or he’ll die.”

Shane sits back, digesting Manning’s strangely laconic

response. So far, almost every sentence ends in “die,” or

contains the word “death” or “kill,” and yet the big guy

doesn’t look the least bit discouraged. To the contrary, he has

the slightly satisfied expression of a man whose assump-

tions have been confirmed.

“Okay,” Shane says. “We’ve established there is an abduc-

tion in progress, and that you believe your son’s life to be in

danger. Have you received proof of life? An indication that

Seth is still alive?”

Manning breaks eye contact, such as it is. His small,

delicate jaw juts forward. “Stay out of this,” he says. “I read

your card. If you’re former FBI you know what can happen.”

“What about Kelly?” I demand. Somehow I’m on my feet,

trembling with anxiety and agitation. “Is she with your son?

Is that what happened? Has she been kidnapped, too?”

Manning rubs his temples, avoids looking at me. “Never

heard of her,” he says. “Seth never mentioned anyone by

that name.”

For the first time I get a strong sense that he’s lying. He

may not have met my daughter—what adult male brings

home an underage girl to meet his daddy?—but he’s heard

of her for sure. Mos def, as Kelly would say.

Shane leans in closer. His whole body seems to come into

sharp focus, as if to demonstrate that he could, if provoked,

crush the smaller man like bug.

“Are you aware that your son originally made contact

with Mrs. Garner’s sixteen-year-old daughter on the Internet?

That he took her skydiving, and apparently gave her flying

lessons, all without her mother’s consent?”

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Chris Jordan

Manning shakes his head. “I can’t discuss this.”

Shane leans closer still. His voice becomes softer, but

somehow no less forceful. “You are in deep trouble, sir. You

are out of your depth. Let me help.”

“I can’t do that. Leave my house at once, both of you.”

“Tell me what happened,” Shane suggests. “I’ll take it

from there.”

Edwin Manning suddenly erupts, shaking his head so hard

he almost spins out of the seat. “Go away!” he insists. “I don’t

know about your daughter,” he says, turning to me, meeting

my eyes for the first time. “If she’s with Seth, they’ll kill her,

too. Do you understand? You have to let me handle this. You

must. It’s the only way.”

Shane’s hands are suddenly gripping my upper arms,

pulling me away. Anticipating, almost before I quite know it

myself, that I’m about to launch myself at Manning, scratch

out his lying eyes.

“We’re leaving,” Shane announces. “If you change your

mind, call me. I can help.”

Couple miles down the road, heading out of the millionaire

enclave, Shane pulls over so I can throw up. Kneeling in the

darkness by the side of the road, the taste of dirty pennies in

my mouth. Shane keeping back, not tempted to hold my head,

because he knows what’s going on, why this has happened.

It’s not fear that’s makes me sick. It’s anger.

20. In The Bunker

Twelve hundred miles to the south, Ricky Lang heads for

the bunker. A concrete cube, ready-made and then buried under

a load of dirt and gravel long before Ricky was born. Suppos-

edly it dates from the Cuban missile crisis. Some crazy white

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97

man shit, blow the whole world to pieces. The way he heard, a

Cuban contractor buried the thing, all in a panic, convinced

Fidel was coming to town on a rocket. Kept his family there for

a few weeks, then walked away, never looked back. Whatever,

Ricky’s been familiar with the bunker since he was a kid, when

he used to play hide the weenie with some of the trailer girls

down there. The trailer park is long gone, but the bunker still

exists and you never know when a secure location will come

in handy. Especially one that cannot be detected from the air.

Ricky is keenly aware that any fool with a computer can

Google a satellite image these days, check out your backyard,

see if you mowed the grass. He’s made sure the Beechcraft

is concealed in a hangar, that activity in and around the

airfield is kept to a minimum. The place is probably still

under some sort of minimum DEA satellite photo surveil-

lance from the bad old days. Nothing to draw their attention

now—he made it his personal business to clean up the tribal

drug trade. Couple of the stubborn old farts thought it was

still a going concern, had to be fed to the gators. The others

soon saw the error of their ways, agreed to live on tribal

income and whatever they’d managed to hide in the ground.

Gator bait was usually ripe chicken, but like they say, ev-

erything tastes like chicken once you take the skin off.

“Smells bad down there,” Roy warns him, approaching the

bunker.

Ricky stops, looks Roy in the eye. “White shit smells dif-

ferent from people shit, you ever notice? One sniff, I can tell.”

“Oh yeah?” Roy responds, glancing away. “The boy don’t

know whether he’s coming or going, or where he’s at.”

“Uh-huh,” says Ricky. “Dug, you bring them loppers?”

“Yeah, Chief,” says Dug, bringing up the rear, letting the

big-branch loppers bump against his trouser leg. Seems to

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think carrying the loppers is some sort of game he can win,

if only he can figure it out.

Ricky holds out his hand, stops Dug in his tracks. “Ain’t

no chief to you,” he says. “I am chief to my own people,

only to them.”

No surprise, Dug looks confused, seeking help from his

brother, who shrugs as if to say
Roll with it.

“You got the key?” Ricky asks. “Open says me.”

Ricky’s laughing as Roy fumbles with the key. Neither

brother registering the humor in “open says me,” puns and

wordplay not being their thing. Which, in Ricky Lang’s febrile

mind makes the Whittle twins more amusing than the usual

swamp crackers, a tribe he has made use of, and thoroughly

mistrusted, for his entire life. Started out helping his father, Tito

Lang, swap tanned hides for the whiskey the crackers made in

their hidden stills. Saw the contempt in their colorless eyes—

drunk Indians selling their birthright for the poison that would

surely kill them. A poison self-administered, and no different

in its outcome than the hot bullets so many of the people fired