Trapped (37 page)

other.

Secretly I’d always wondered if Jess found Kelly’s cancer

off-putting. Not that she was ever mean, but that she found

the whole subject icky, something she preferred not to think

about. Like maybe Kelly’s situation was a constant reminder

that kids her age can die, and who needed that? Plus there

was the added complication of her parent’s marriage breaking

up, dealing with her bereft and needy father, not to mention

the consequences of her own wild behavior.

Fern’s talk about chaining her to a radiator, that wasn’t

without cause. Let’s just say Jess went boy-crazy in a danger-

ous way and leave it at that. Then, miracle of miracles, she

somehow manages to graduate from high school and within a

few months her behavior changes radically. Steady boyfriend,

a new outlook on life, and good grades in community college,

where she’s studying to be a nurse. The sweet child reemerg-

ing as an adult. But it never occurred to me that one of the

changes might have involved a connection with my daughter.

“Kelly never mentioned it,” I say. “I had no idea.”

“They never tell us anything,” Fern says. “We don’t exist.

Not in their little world we don’t.”

“How did it happen?”

“According to Jess, Kelly bumped into her at the mall—

they were shopping in the same store. Kelly had some really

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sweet things to say about a skirt Jess was trying on. So they

ended up doing a mind-meld at Starbucks. Caffeinated girl

talk. Yakking about their childhoods, and Kelly’s illness, and

how their clueless mothers were always pushing them

together, which they both hated. Not the other girl, but the

pushing. Anywho, Jess talks about her relationship with

Tim—they’re living together, did I mention that?—and Kelly

tells her about this cute older guy she met online. From there

it’s all about how Kelly wants to learn how to fly, which by

the way doesn’t surprise Jess one bit, and how she’d be willing

to sleep with her instructor, he’s that cute, but it turns out he’s

gay.”

Fern waits for my reaction.

“Seth Manning is gay?” I ask, my voice rising. “Are you

sure?”

Shane glances at me, shrugs, as if indifferent to the infor-

mation.

“How could I be sure?” Fern says. “I never met the guy.

Even then, who can tell if they don’t advertise? But my point

is, Kelly told Jess he was gay. Deeply in the closet, too,

because he adores his father and doesn’t want to disappoint

him. Very conflicted. That’s the word Kelly used. Told Jess

that in a few short months Seth had become her closest friend

in the world. He was teaching her to fly and she was trying

to help him deal with his father. Or deal with his own feelings

about his father. Whatever, Jess was really impressed, said

Kelly was having her first adult relationship, even if it didn’t

involve sex. I blame that on the psych course she took last

semester—now she’s an expert on adult relationships! As if!

She came away thinking Kelly Garner is, in her words, really

cool for her age. Like Jess is so much more grown-up, right?”

“Did she know about them flying to Florida?”

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“Sorry, no. As far as Jess knew, the farthest Kelly had

flown was to some airfield in upstate New York. Kelly said

she wanted to solo in the mountains.”

“You’re amazing, Fern.”

“What’s amazing? I mentioned Kelly to Jess, she told me

all about it. Wasn’t like I had to pry.”

Fern pauses, then asks, very lightly, “Any news?”

“Tons,” I say, and fill her in.

3. Papa Has A Plan

The helicopters look like giant dragonflies sweeping over

the eastern edge of the rez, along the grassy shoreline. Busy

things, buzzing around, scaring the birds, flattening the grass

when they swoop down for a closer look at what, some old

gator sunning himself? A wrecked vehicle abandoned to the

elements? A roofless chickee hut from the bad old days when

the people were poor?

Figure a few more hours of daylight, they’ll go back to

wherever they came from, none the wiser.

Ricky isn’t worried because he’s willed himself invisible.

Chopper could be right overhead, they’d never see him.

White eyes don’t know how to look, wouldn’t know a man

from a stump post. Might be fun to shoot one down. Why

not? He’s got the firepower. Fully automatic Breda M37

machine gun with a full belt, a thousand rounds. Full-auto

AA-12 shotgun with enough shells to melt the barrel. Couple

of classic M16 semis that come with cool-looking bandoliers.

A fully equipped M40, the Marine Corps standard issue

sniper rifle, with day/night scope. Deadly up to a half mile,

which is going to come in handy. Various pistols and revolv-

ers, all .45 caliber so he doesn’t have to screw around with

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different shells for the handguns. And just for fun, a brace of

Russian-made RPG-7s with fuel-air warheads capable of ex-

ploding a good-size house, or, for that matter, a noisy heli-

copter.

Oops, kaboom. Talk about wow factor.

Not now, though. For the moment he’ll remain unseen and

unseeable. Thigh deep in the warm water, muck between his

toes, pushing his flat bottom aluminum skiff ahead of him,

following a shallow channel only he knows. The stash of

weapons in the skiff, under a flat gray tarpaulin covered with

grass. He’s coming in the back way with a little surprise for

his brothers. He’ll cache the weapons, enough to arm a full

platoon of warriors, then pop up where they least expect

him, surprise, surprise.

What the council doesn’t know, Joe Lang and his little

club, is that they’ve given him the power. Saying he doesn’t

exist, that he’s dead to them, that’s what makes him invisible.

Soon he will be a ghost among ghosts, making amends to

some, seeking revenge of others.

Letting the tall white man live, he’d wondered at his own

generosity. Seeing the helicopters made him understand.

Because the time has come, and the tall white man serves as

the messenger, the go-between.

No more secrets, no more subterfuge. No more begging.

Ricky likes it that the choppers are over the rez, search-

ing for him, for a needle in a hundred square miles of

haystack. He likes that the tribal police have mustered a team

in support of the federal invaders. Or pretended to. He’s

noticed that none of the Nakosha uniforms have seen fit to

leave their brand-new cruisers. They know Ricky Lang is out

there and they’d rather stay on the roads, thank you very

much. Doesn’t help that very few of them know the back-

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country, not like Ricky does. Most of the young officers

would hesitate to get their feet wet, let alone hunt for an

armed and dangerous enemy who could be anywhere.

Superman becomes Swamp Thing, that’s how his legend

will be amended. The idea makes him laugh because he is,

indeed, a thing of the swamp. Even his breath smells like a bog,

a bull gator’s breath. The sour funk of all the bad things he’s

done, and for which he must atone or risk being a ghost forever.

He hears a splash, sees that his children have come to play

in the boat. Tyler, the baby, splashing gleefully while his older

sisters wear the pirate costumes he bought them last Hallow-

een.

“Hi, kids,” he says. “Papa’s happy to see you.”

The children stare at him, saying nothing.

“Soon we’ll talk,” he assures them, shoving along the

boatload of weapons. “Papa has a plan.”

4. Blood Relations

“They not bad boys, understand, they just too poor to be

good.”

Another folksy remark from Detective Rufus T. Sydell, of

the Glade City Police Department.

Roof, as he asks to be called, is a skinny, small-boned gen-

tleman with a sun-damaged complexion and a slightly goofy,

frequently deployed smile that’s about as wide as his face.

Deeply crinkled, flat-gray eyes, set wide apart, as if he can

see around corners. Wears his silvery hair in a military burr

cut and began his second career as cop after retiring from the

United States Marine Corps.

“Sydell a cracker name, like Whittle is a cracker name,”

Roof explains, weaving his fingers together as he speaks.

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“Go back far enough we got relatives in common, guaran-

teed. Them old boys got up to all kinds of mischief out in

the islands, fathering children and what all. Young lady, I

am referring to the Thousand Islands, an area runs along

the west side of the Glades. Sydells lived on a shell mound

out in the Glades, just like the Whittles. Mound is a little

island made by the Calusa Indians long time ago—heaps

of oyster shells piled in the mangroves till it gets to be a

foot or so above flood level. Just barely in this world, you

might say.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, feeling like one of his young recruits. Ten

minutes into his charm-dog spiel, I know enough to shut up

and salute.

We’re talking to Roof, or rather he’s talking to us, because

Shane wants to follow up on the Whittle brothers, see if they

have any connection to Ricky Lang. Could be they’re just

taking advantage, trying to fence a stolen aircraft, or it might

be that they’re acting as agents for Lang, in which case they

might have knowledge of the abduction. A notion that De-

tective Sydell dismisses as improbable.

“Smugglin’ drugs like their pappy done is more likely,” he

says. “From what I know, this Ricky Lang individual don’t

have much to do with white folk. First ever I heard of him,

he was raising hell with the Sheriff’s Department, trying to

enforce a no-alcohol regulation on the reservation. Long-es-

tablished cracker business, trading moonshine with the In-

dians, and Mr. Lang made it pretty clear he didn’t like ’shine

and he didn’t like crackers. Man was a real crusader.”

“What happened? What changed him?”

Roof shrugs happily. “Money and politics, I guess. You

think them boys up in Tallahassee play fast and loose? Young

lady, I refer to our noble state legislators. Tallahassee ain’t

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got nothing on a tribal council, from what I hear, not once

they got a dollar to fight over.”

“Either of the Whittle brothers have a record?” Shane

wants to know.

“No more than the usual juvenile hijinks,” Roof re-

sponds airily, putting his hands behind his head, leaning

back in his chair. “As I recall, young Dug—spells his name

like what gets dug with a shovel—young Dug was brought

up on charges for tormenting an alligator. Dragged it be-

hind a vehicle for a few miles, as I recall, and got caught

by the game warden. Must have been about twelve years

old at the time. Then there was neighbors complained of

a missing dog and a pet raccoon, blamed it on Dug. So we

kept an eye on him. Any more pets went missing, I never

heard about it. Roy keeps a watch over him, too, is my

guess. Dug ain’t what you’d call full-on retarded but he’s

pretty dim.”

“The pickup truck was brand-new,” Shane points out. “Is

Roy Whittle gainfully employed?”

Roof laughs. “You mean like a paycheck job? Not that I’m

aware, no. That don’t mean nothin’ in particular. There’s

ways to earn a living around here don’t involve criminal

activity.”

From Shane’s tight smile I can tell he thinks Detective

Sydell is playing him. “You’re not concerned they were on

an unregulated airfield with an aircraft used in an abduc-

tion?”

In his friendly, corn-pone way, Roof remains dismissive.

“Out of my territory. Took place on the reservation, correct?

Seems to me, if the Whittle boys were trespassing, so was you,

which makes you not much use as a witness, was it ever to

come to that. That said, somebody from a law enforcement

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agency develops evidence or hands us a warrant, we’ll pick

’em up, rest assured. But from what I know, an abduction

scheme would be a big leap for Roy Whittle. Never struck me

as that ambitious. So if you and all your associates in the

federal guvmint don’t mind, let me check up on the Whittles.

This is my little slice of the world, I prefer to strut my own

stuff.”

“Okay, that’s fine,” says Shane, standing up. He adds,

stiffly but politely, “Thanks for your time.”

“No problem, I try to be helpful.” Roof says cheerily. He

takes my right hand in both of his, gives me a reassuring

squeeze. “Young lady, I hope this all works out. Terrible

thing when a child goes missing. We hear anything from the

search parties, anything at all, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

He stops us at the door, pretends to have an afterthought.

“Mr. Shane? Young lady? It just come to me, that if you’re