Trapped (9 page)

very clever way to make herself interesting to grown men?

“Four,” Shane announces.

“Four?”

“Responses to that particular e-mail.”

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The first response comes up with a snapshot of a guy who

has to be in his thirties. Deep in his thirties, with crinkled eyes

and a jaunty handlebar mustache. Wearing a distressed-

leather flight jacket as he poses in the open cockpit of an old-

fashioned airplane. Two wings, like Snoopy used to fly.

“That’s a Waco,” says Shane. “Famous stunt biplane. Big

bucks.”

“Stunt plane? You mean like loop-de-loops?”

“Yup,” says Shane. “If you like flying upside down, Waco

will provide.”

I almost say, I’ll kill her, then bite my tongue. The guy may

have a leather jacket and a big mustache, but he’s not the

young man from her photo collection.

As it happens, the second response is from our mystery

boy. There’s no photo, and not much of a message, just a

succinct more details, please, but it does include a name,

Seth Manning, and his e-mail address, [email protected].

“This is dated six weeks ago,” Shane notes.

“S-Man,” I say. “The folder. Can you open it?”

“Already there.”

The S-Man folder contains over a hundred e-mails,

messages from S-Man and responses from flygirl91.

“She didn’t have to mention gender,” I point out. “Flygirl

kind of gives it away.”

“Good point. If you don’t mind, I’d like to print these

out,” Shane suggests. “It’ll be faster and easier than opening

each e-mail.”

Maybe he’s not that comfortable having me hover over his

shoulder. Fine. Whatever, Kelly’s printer starts spitting out

pages at a rate of twenty per minute. I sit on the edge of her

bed, devouring her correspondence with Mr. Seth Manning,

flight instructor and seducer of teen girls. Or maybe not.

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Chris Jordan

From the tone, right from the beginning, my darling daughter

seems to be the aggressor.

What have u got 2 lose? Flygirl will make it worth yr while.

Hw old r u? Don’t lie.

Will b 18, all legal and tender, on 4th of July.

Two lies, actually. Her sixteenth birthday was in May, a

few weeks before flygirl started trolling for flyboys. By the

time Shane hands me the next batch of pages, I’m feeling

physically ill. Partly its residual guilt, for violating her pri-

vacy, but mostly what’s making me ill is righteous, motherly

anger. How dare she take such outrageous risks with her life

and well-being! There’s scarcely a broadcast of the local

evening news that doesn’t include mention of Internet pred-

ators. It’s not like Kelly didn’t know the danger. She just

didn’t care. Or worse—and this might be what’s really mak-

ing me sick—danger is precisely what she’s looking for.

All legal and tender.

Cool, oily sweat suddenly pours from my scalp into my

eyes, and I barely make it to the bathroom before heaving.

On my knees, gagging, emptying my stomach.

Shane makes me sit on the closed toilet as he applies a cold

cloth to my forehead. “Guess I was wrong about the toast,

huh?”

“Dummy.”

“Well, it’s not the first time I’ve been dumb,” he says

kindly, wringing the cloth out.

“No, me. I’m the dummy. Should have known. Should

have been checking her e-mail.”

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“Here, hold this,” he says, pressing the cold cloth to my

forehead. Gets a dry towel, pats the moisture from my neck.

“You couldn’t check her e-mail, remember? And if you

could, she’d have found another way. Your daughter is obvi-

ously a very willful young woman.”

“Obviously.”

He folds the towel, slips it back on the rack. Most of the

men I know, they’d drop it on the floor, because that’s where

used towels go. Not Randall Shane. He’s different. Been in

my house for an hour or so and I know that much.

“You feeling better?” he asks, standing tall, very tall.

“Good. I just got a hit on Seth Manning.”

“A hit?”

“His address. I know where he lives.”

15. Seven Finds A Wall

Time is squishy. Sometimes the seconds tick by in a rea-

sonable, almost ordinary way, and Kelly counts her heart-

beats, the pulse in her neck. One, two three, and so on. The

highest she gets is seventy-six and then the overwhelming

darkness seems to bend around her, a kind of dim gravity, and

the clock in her head stops ticking and gets all squishy.

No other way to describe it. Squishy.

Because she can’t measure the passage of time, Kelly has

no idea how long it takes for the paralysis to dissipate. All

she knows is that at some point she can wiggle her toes, raise

her languid arms and let them droop across her chest like

melted bones. Could be hours, days, eternity.

Thoughts slowly surface out of the inky black, like a die

rising inside a Magic 8-Ball. The usual 8-Ball answers, too:

Outlook not so good. Ask again later.

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Chris Jordan

She manages to place her tingling palms on the floor, detects

the familiar roughness of concrete. Not bare ground, concrete.

Is it night outside, is that why the darkness is so absolute?

Wait, how does she know she’s inside rather than outside?

Sluggish thoughts, and then she knows the answer.

Because it
feels
inside. The closed silence, the still air, a kind

of muffled feeling. Definitely in, not out. Enclosed.

On impulse she flails, looking for a wall. Wanting to find

an edge, a shape to the world.

Nothing.

You’re a baby, she thinks. Lying on the floor like a baby,

flailing around. Get up. Do something. Learn something.

Find a way back to the world.

It takes forever, and she has to endure a violent swirl of

dizziness, but Kelly eventually turns over, manages to get on

her hands and knees. Huffing the thick air because the effort

makes her feel faint.

Hot, stuffy. Wherever she is, that place can’t be very large.

The darkness is close, pressing. Slowly, very slowly, she crawls,

struggling to keep her balance. Not wanting to fall over like

some cheesy mechanical baby toy. Boink, I fall down, Mommy!

Counting as she crawls. One two three, four five six.

Seven finds a wall. A very solid wall. Slippery smooth

surface. Steel, like the cafeteria counters in school.

Now we’re getting somewhere, she thinks, and the thought

becomes a giggle. Now we’re getting somewhere? As if! Hi-

larious. Ironic. Whatever.

Keep going. Orient yourself. You wanted to learn to fly,

flygirl? Seth’s first flight lesson pours into her brain, and it

helps, hearing his gentle confident voice.

First rule, know where you are. Find the horizon. Very

good, keep your wings level. Trust your balance, but trust the

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73

instruments even more. It’s all about perception, judgment,

making choices. The choices you make keep you alive.

I choose to crawl, she thinks. Another giggle. But her

body keeps trying, keeps moving. She nudges along the wall,

counting as she crawls.

One two three four five.

Six smacks her head. Not hard enough to see stars. She’d

love to see stars, love to find the sky, locate a constellation,

but all she’s located is a corner. Ninety degrees. Steel walls

intersecting. Still, it means something. The world has a

corner. The shape of it begins to form in her mind. A small

shed? A big steel box? Where is she and why is she here?

What about Seth? What about her mom? What about the

beautiful airplane, and the fantastic flight that somehow

turned out wrong? What happened? Why?

Thoughts starting to click along as the drug wears off.

Suddenly the air moves. And then she sees the light.

Shocking, blinding light. Light that stops her heart. Almost

in the same instant, the sound of a door closing. A vault door,

heavy and solid and forever.

The light scares her. The light makes her want to pee her

pants. She has to pee anyhow and this makes it worse, much

worse. She starts to cry because she hates, she really really

hates being afraid. Long ago she decided that being afraid is

what makes you start to die. She’s been there, done that,

doesn’t want to go back.

With all the courage she can muster, Kelly forces her eyes

open. Sees her hands on the concrete floor—she got that part

right. Turns her head, willing herself to look directly at the

light.

Lamp.

Someone has shoved a small, portable lamp inside the

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Chris Jordan

door. The kind of battery-operated lamp you might use while

camping. The light it throws is actually pretty feeble, but it

reveals a steel-walled room, maybe eight feet by ten feet, and

a solid steel door so closely fitted that the seams are barely

visible. A room with no way out, she thinks.

Steel box. Trapped.

16. Where The Sacred Waters Flow

Most high school students have more limo creds than I do.

Proms, mitzvahs, sweet-sixteeners, and parents who hire a

livery service rather than risk precious little junior denting the

Lexus. Here on Long Island a certain class of teens ride hired

cars like we used to ride buses. They know chauffeurs like we

used to know school custodians. Although its unlikely that any

of the chauffeurs look like Randall Shane. Who insists that I

ride in the back—seat belt mandatory. He driver, I passenger.

“Personal quirk of mine,” he says. “Safety first.”

Actually we’re still in my driveway, with the big Lincoln

Town Car in Park and the emergency brake engaged. Can’t

think of the last time I set an emergency brake, but with

Shane, you guessed it, standard procedure.

We’re idling there while he makes a few calls on his car

phone. It’s not a cell or Bluetooth, but an old-fashioned heavy-

duty car phone mounted in the console, equipped with a hard-

wired receiver.Years ago, I recall, it was a very big deal to have

a car phone. Now it’s an anachronism that nevertheless seems

to fit the driver, who nods at me as he rings Detective Jay Berg

with the news, letting Berg know that Kelly’s hard drive sat

up and begged for mercy before giving a full confession.

“Suspect’s name is Seth Earl Manning, age twenty-one.

M-A-N-N-I-N-G.
Correct, with a
g.
” From the front seat

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Shane gives me a tight smile. All part of including me in the

loop, apparently.

“Yes, sir, I have an address in Oyster Bay.” He nods to

himself as the conversation continues, goes uh-huh for a while,

then locks eyes again with me as he says, “So you’ll add him

to the BOLO, and any vehicles registered in his name? Thank

you, Detective Berg. Yes, she’s right here with me. Oh, and

before I forget, there’s evidence that this could be an Internet

crime. Correct, in my judgment it could fall under the 2252

statute.Yes, sir. Excellent idea. I will, absolutely. I’m sure Mrs.

Garner will be very grateful. Thanks again, sir.”

He returns the receiver to the neat little cradle built into

the dash. “Stroking the locals,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“Unpleasant, but somebody has to do it.”

I shake my head, not really sure what he’s talking about.

“This means they’ll look for his car?”

“Absolutely. Goes to the top of the list.”

“What’s a 2252?” I want to know. “Is that like an AMBER

Alert?”

“Let’s roll,” Shane suggests. “I’ll fill you in on the way.”

As drivers go he’s solid, cautious, and, by my standards,

maddeningly slow. Hands on the wheel at ten and two, eyes

on the road, checking the side and rear mirrors. On the other

hand the ride is silky smooth and I do, in fact, feel almost

absurdly safe. A meteor the size of Texas could strike, dev-

astating all life, and we’d survive somehow, me and Randall

Shane and his sturdy Lincoln Town Car. I feel—and this is

pure craziness—that if I can get this man close enough to

Kelly, she’ll be safe, too. Like the opposite of kryptonite, ra-

diating strength and safety.

Like I said, crazy. Hours of anxiety and worry have

addled my brain.

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Chris Jordan

Once he’s on the thruway, Shane clears his throat and

explains, “Statute 2252 is a federal law, Internet Crimes

Against Children, ICAC for short. There’s an ICAC Task

Force headquartered in Albany, under the state police, and

Detective Berg indicated he would contact them.”

“Crimes against children?” Just saying it makes my stom-

ach clench. “He can be arrested for crimes against children?”

“Probably not,” Shane concedes. “I made a point invoking

the statute in hopes that he’d go on the watch list. ICAC has a

nationwide reach, and that may be useful. But it doesn’t mean

that if apprehended he’ll necessarily be prosecuted. Mostly the

law concerns soliciting sex by transmission of indecent