Trapped (32 page)

worried about staining their underarms with flop sweat.

Fern’s dad bursting into tears when he saw her, and not of

happiness. Her mom dragging him off for a lecture about

pregnancy being a gift from God. Fern snorting and rolling

her eyes, telling me to ignore her ridiculous parents and make

her look beautiful please. Which she did, and yes I helped it

happen because the gown really was amazing, and we brides-

maids really did look like perfectly matching, skinny little

planets orbiting a wonderfully round sun goddess.

Once upon a time I used to stare at this photo—it remains

a precious keepsake, living in my purse—and imagine myself

not as the bridesmaid, but as the bride. I could see myself in

Fern’s place, in a smaller gown, of course. And not as beau-

tiful as Fern, that goes without saying. But for the life of me

I could never picture the groom.

Total blank. An empty space.

Less than a year after the photograph was taken, eight

months to be exact, I was pregnant with Kelly. Secretly,

deniably pregnant. No wedding for me, not then, not ever.

And my father didn’t burst into tears. He said the kind of

things that can’t be taken back and walked out the door. He’s

gone now, forever gone, as is my mother. Kelly, if she’s alive,

is the same age as me when I got pregnant with her. Can the

world be so cruel as to let a precious child survive cancer,

only to have her die because she’s in the wrong place at the

wrong time with the wrong guy?

Trapped

243

The answer, of course, is yes, the world can be that cruel.

Check the newspapers if you disagree. Except that in my

daughter’s case Shane thinks there may still be a chance. He’s

taking risks, pulling out all the stops.

Which doesn’t mean it isn’t already too late.

Unless it isn’t too late.

Unless it is.

All of which is swirling around in my throbbing head

when the phone rings. Not my cell, the hotel phone. Takes

me a minute to find it, focusing through the blur.

“Any news?” Fern wants to know. She sounds almost jovial.

“I can’t believe it,” I say, rubbing a tissue at my leaky nose.

“I was just looking at your picture.”

“This is your psychic hotline,” says Fern, into character

instantly. “I predict you’ll tell me what’s happening.”

So I recount the meeting with Special Agent Healy, checking

into the outrageous Europa, spying on Manning’s penthouse

from the balcony, following the Hummer to the casino complex.

Me in my ridiculous disguise. Then the strange and terrible

scene of Edwin Manning breaking down, begging.

“It’s like he knows his son is already gone,” I tell her,

clutching the phone to my ear like a lifeline. “Like he knows

he’s dead.”

“Janey, stop it!” Fern commands. “You’re obsessing. I

don’t know this jerk from a crack in the sidewalk, but if he’s

begging for help, then he thinks the boy is alive. Dead he’d

be arranging a funeral or seeking revenge, but not begging.

Begging is good.”

“Begging is good? You really think?”

“Trust me. What’s Mr. Incredible doing now?”

“Um, checking out a lead, a possible suspect. I’m sup -

posed to be lining up a lawyer, in case he gets arrested.”

244

Chris Jordan

“Shane?”

“Yeah. He may have to break a few laws.”

Fern squeals with pleasure. “I love it! Send lawyers, guns

and money. Plus he’s worried about you. He wants you in a

safe place while he does the dangerous stuff.”

“Or out of the way so I don’t mess things up. I’m useless,

Fern. I keep bursting into tears.”

“Panic attacks?”

I think about it. “Um, not since I got here. Not a full-blown

attack, no.”

“No? That’s interesting, don’t you think?”

“Not very. I wish you were here, Fern.You’re the strong one.”

Her big laugh is unforced, genuine. “Me? Are you serious?

Maybe I could beat you arm-wrestling, but you’re strong where

it counts, Janey poo. Doing what you did when Kelly was sick?

In and out of the hospital for years? Always, always being

strong for her, not letting her see how scared you were? Earning

a living with your talent, making a business? Then dealing

with your poor mother? Don’t you know what I tell everyone?

That my friend Jane Garner may look as sweet as a bowl of

Hershey’s Kisses, but you better watch out because she’s made

of diamonds and tungsten steel. She’s like that cute guy in
Ter-

minator 2,
knock her down, blow her up, she keeps on coming.”

“He was a bad guy,” I remind her.

“You can be a bad guy if you need to be. And a good guy

when you need to be. Whatever you need to be, Janey, that’s

what you’ll be, guaranteed. Diamonds and steel.”

“Now you’re making me cry.”

“Crying is natural. Go ahead, blow your nose. I was going

to fill you in on all the business calls. Problems with

fittings—somebody ate too many Fritos—a cancellation,

Trapped

245

some other stuff. But you know what? You don’t need to

know. Alex is helping Tracy take care of it. He’s really good.”

“Alex is good? I thought you hated Alex.”

“Hate? No, no. I hate things like cellulite, I never hated

Alex. And if I did I’ve changed my mind. He knows what he’s

doing, he’s good with customers, all these nervous women

love him, plus, and I never knew this, he can sew on a button.

What’s not to like?”

What can I say? I can’t say anything, I just cry some more.

Big strong me.

After Fern gets off, I follow her advice and take a long hot

shower. One of her main prescriptions for what ails you, the

other being “take a pill,” by which she means a sleeping pill.

Take a long hot shower or knock yourself out, or both. Sage

advice, in my opinion. Nothing more I’d like to do than take a

pill, sleep like the dead in my own bed. In the middle of the day,

just sleep. No dreams though. Dreams would be dangerous.

Conversation with a loving friend leaves me cried out, free

of the emotional roller coaster for now.You get to a point where

you’re so wrung, so whacked, that your mind can’t handle any

more anxiety. You become calm by default, because there’s

nothing else left. That’s where I’m at, all soaped up with the

shower pulsing, wondering idly how Edwin Manning is coping.

Does he have anybody to talk to besides his dopey guards?

Anybody to share with? Friends, relatives, associates, where

are they? Sure looks like he’s all alone out there, hanging off

the edge by his well-buffed fingernails. Being a financial master

of the universe isn’t doing him much good at the moment.

What does he know and why won’t he talk to us? Is Shane

the problem? The cop look of him? Hadn’t occurred to me, but

that might be it. Why not? From Manning’s point of view,

246

Chris Jordan

Shane represents a force that, in the full pursuit of justice, may

threaten his son’s life rather than save it. And if that’s true, if

that’s what he he’s afraid of, maybe I can use that to our advan-

tage.

That’s right,
our
advantage. Me and Kelly. It’s like she’s

in my head, encouraging me. Go Mom, do it.

Edwin Manning is a widower, never remarried, a doting

father, maybe he’ll respond to me as a mother, a parent. It’s

worth a shot, I’m thinking. Ring his doorbell while Shane is

otherwise engaged, see what happens.

Go Mom.

I’m actually smiling as I get out of the shower and grab a

towel. Having decided to do it, to visit the lion in his own

den. Me playing the part of the little mouse, offering to pull

the splinter from the lion’s paw.

And that, of course, is when the phone rings.

“It’s me,” Shane says in a hushed voice. “Write this down.”

“I’m just out of the shower, hang on,” I stammer.

As I hurry for pen and paper, dripping all over everything,

I’m glad he can’t see me blushing. Ridiculous as it may be,

I’ve never been comfortable speaking to a man on the phone

while naked. Which, as Kelly would say, explains a lot.

“Okay,” I say, fumbling with the pen. “Go.”

“Ricky Lang,” he whispers. “Twelve twenty-three Bay

Vista Drive, Cable Grove. Got it?”

“Got it. Is this the guy?” I ask, a flush of pure excitement

replacing the blush of embarrassment. “Is this the guy who

took Kelly?”

“Too soon to say,” says Shane, still whispering. “This is

a lead based on a rumor based on hearsay. Right now all I

know for sure is that he’s a member of the tribe and he’s had

some sort of long-running conflict with the tribal council. Ap-

Trapped

247

parently Lang is a very common name among the Nakosha.

Doesn’t sound Indian to me, but there it is.”

“What should I do?”

“Right, sorry. Call Special Agent Healy for me. If you

can’t find his card, his number will be on my laptop in the

address book. Give him the name and address and tell him

Shane says he’s a person of interest. Can you do that?”

“Of course.”

“I’d do it myself but I’m kind of in a situation here.”

“Where are you?”

“At the address I just gave you.”

“At this guy’s house?” I ask, alarmed.

“In it, actually,” Shane whispers. “Gotta go.”

Leaving me with a dial tone, wet hair, and a few million

questions.

19. Mr. Goldilocks And The One Bear

It was not like breaking and entering, not in the classic sense.

Entering, obviously, because here he is, prowling the cool tile

floors of a lovely expanded bungalow in one of the most exclu-

sive waterfront enclaves in Miami. Four-bedroom Mediterra-

nean style, recently refurbished, on a one-acre enclosed lot

with water access, had to have set Mr. Lang back a few mil. Not

grand enough or new enough for the rock stars and celebrities

who gravitated to the area, but very tasty, and beautifully land-

scaped with palms, cactus, and a lush Bermuda grass lawn that

looked like it would need to suck up half of Biscayne Bay on a

hot day.

What Shane thinks of as pre-Scarface Miami, before

wannabe crime bosses and Internet zillionaires who’d seen

too many episodes of
Miami Vice
came to town demanding

248

Chris Jordan

homes so gaudily, obviously expensive they resemble drive-

thru banks with big stucco hats.

Shane isn’t a fan of recent architectural trends, to say the

least. This joint he likes. Big enough so he has room to move,

cozy enough so it feels like a home, not a hotel lobby. True,

he has to duck under the ceiling fans, and he’s a slightly put

off to realize he and a potential suspect have similar taste in

dream houses, but still.

Getting inside had been a piece of cake. The place has the

usual security, and warning signs testifying to that effect, but

the gated driveway was left open. Shane had his driver—the

same baby-faced Haitian—drop him a few blocks away, and

he’d simply strolled up the driveway, expecting to find the

owner at home, given the open gate.

On the way to the front entrance he takes a peek through the

windows of the four-stall garage. Only one vehicle in resi-

dence, a spiffy little convertible Mini Cooper. Whereas there are

two, possibly three oil spots on the concrete. Interesting. Maybe

the suspect isn’t at home. The Mini Cooper strikes him as a wife

or girlfriend’s car, a fashion accessory, given the neighborhood.

He tries the buzzer, listens to the echo. No response. After

the buzzer fades, hushed silence pervades, nothing to indicate

that anyone is home.

Thinking maybe the three bears are out shopping or, who

knows, kidnapping, Shane decides to play Goldilocks. Casual

stroll around back, his Nikes easing into the lush grass as he

comes upon the cool sapphire swimming pool with a neatly

constructed tiki hut bar, and what looks like a recently erected

cabana. The backyard kingdom of the pool. Beyond that,

glimpsed through the rustling palm fronds, some sort of high-

speed craft on a boat hoist, blocking the wind-dappled waters

of the bay.

Trapped

249

Yup, a man could live here, no problem. Put up his big

tired feet and never leave. Spend a year or two staring at the

pool, grab a frosty at the tiki hut, then amble out to the

seawall, try fishing without a hook for the rest of his days.

Once upon a time Shane had something like this. The

suburban New York version, much more modest. Three-

bedroom ranch with pool. Nothing remarkable, but comfort-

able and welcoming because that earlier version of Randall

Shane was a nester. Loved to paint, putter and improve. Wife

and child, backyard barbecue, Volvo wagon equipped with

golden Lab, the whole bit. When that ended, a new Randall

Shane eventually emerged, one who lives in rented rooms,

hangs no pictures, and does as he damn well pleases.

Although lately the urge for domesticity has been sniffing at