Torn (10 page)

“Yes. Once I was thinking straight—and that’s up to question, I guess—I tried to contact her but had no luck.”

He folds down the lid of the laptop. “Okay, several leads with potential. That gets us started. Can I ask you one more thing?”

“Sure.”

“How are your driving skills?”

The last and only time I’ve ever been in a Town Car was on the way to Newark Airport for a spring break extravaganza. Me and the mall girls heading for a wild weekend in Cancun, or so we thought. Only we never got out of Newark because the chartered flight got canceled. As it turned out, a scammy Internet travel agency had taken our money and promptly gone out of business. So the limo excursion to the airport was a giggle fest, but the bus ride home was very subdued.

Obviously I wasn’t driving the hired car that day, so I had no idea how wide the Town Car is compared to, say, my Subaru wagon, which you can probably fit in the Lincoln’s trunk. Big or not, it still has a steering wheel and a couple of pedals, so I know how to drive it, more or less.

“When in doubt, slow down,” Mr. Shane cautions.

Turns out he’s a nervous passenger, always touching the invisible brake on his side, but assures me I shouldn’t take it personal. It’s not me, it’s him.

“I never allow myself to drive when I haven’t had a good night’s sleep,” he explains. “That’s how accidents happen.”

I didn’t sleep much, either, but decide not to share. Twelve ounces of strong coffee and I’m good to go. Driving has never been one of my problems or anxieties, I’m always happy to take the wheel, and within a few miles the Townie and I have come to an understanding.

First stop is the state police barracks in Montour Falls, just south of the Finger Lakes. An hour on the road, winding through some lovely countryside, and when Randall Shane finally decides I’m not going to run us into a tree he concentrates on his laptop. Funny to see such a large man hunched over such a small machine. He can cover the keypad with either hand, which makes it look awkward or even comical, but he nevertheless has a delicate touch and seems to be very comfortable navigating from site to site. If only he were that comfortable navigating on the open road.

“I saw that!” he exclaims, barely looking up from the screen. “Was that a dog?”

An animal has just shot across in front of us, a furry blur. I barely had time to tap the brakes before it was gone, and am surprised he noticed. Must have great peripheral vision.

“Fox,” I say. “It made it.”

“Bad luck, running over a fox.”

“No doubt. But the fox is fine, she’s hunting mice by now.”

Mr. Shane glances up from the laptop, gives an odd look. “You know what fox prey on? I thought you were a New Jersey girl.”

“Plenty of fox in New Jersey,” I protest. “But you’re right. In my other life I never paid attention. Up here, all you have to do is look out the window. Nature beckons.”

He looks pleased at my explanation. “I like that—nature beckons.”

“So you live in Connecticut, right? I bet they have fox in Connecticut.”

“Yeah, they do. A few.”

“And deer.”

“Lots of deer. Deer have become a problem.”

“Wife, kids?”

“Excuse me?”

“The bio stuff on the Web didn’t mention family, but I’m guessing you have a wife and kids.”

He glances away, looks out the side window. “Once upon a time. No longer.”

He says it in a way that convinces me he didn’t lose his family in a divorce. Something bad happened. Is that why he’s made such a name for himself, recovering missing children, because he lost someone close? My instincts tell me not to press the point, that he’ll tell me about it in his own time.

The GPS advises us to bear to the right, confirming what I already know, and a few minutes later we’re cruising into the village, which isn’t much larger than Humble in
population, and Mr. Shane is sucking in his breath and going, “Wow!”

“Pretty impressive, eh?”

I slow to a stop so he can get a gander at the Falls, which come steaming out of Lake Seneca and drop a hundred and sixty-five feet at the end of Main Street.

“So that’s why they call it Montour Falls,” he says.

“Yep. The Indian name of the waterfall is Chequagua. But the village is named for Catherine Montour, who was a Seneca chief, so I guess it counts.”

Shane grins at me. “And you know this how?”

“Wikipedia. Noah did a report on old Catherine, she’s very famous in these parts. Our local Sitting Bull. Plus Helen and I drove out here to see Tommy.”

“Trooper Thomas Petruchio.”

“Helen calls him Tommy. So does his mother.”

“Yeah? What do they call him at the barracks?”

“They call him Trooper.”

“Good to know,” says Mr. Shane, satisfied.

As I’m turning into the Finger Lakes Troopers headquarters, he clears his throat and goes, “We haven’t discussed this, but it’s better if I see Trooper Petruchio on my own.”

“No problem,” I say with a shrug. “Man talk, eh?”

Mr. Shane gives me a look. “More like there may be things he’d rather not discuss in the presence of a victim’s mother. Especially one who’s a friend of the family.”

“Like I said—man talk. Don’t worry about it, Mr. Shane. I’ll do what you need me to do, and you’ll tell me what I need to know, right?”

“Absolutely,” he says. “And it’s just Shane, please. No mister.”

8. Answer Me That, Batman

Shane loves that spit-and-polish smell of the barracks. Reminds him of his own days at the FBI Academy in Quantico, when he was young, desperate to impress, and invigorated by the competition. Unlike a lot of the recruits, that was as close as he ever got to the military. Although an argument could be made that the academy ordeal was every bit as difficult as regular army boot camp. He’d loved the endless running, the obstacle courses, the forensic science labs, the intensive classes, even studying for the exams—everything but the indoor firing ranges. Not because he had anything against guns—he’s always loved the oiled, mechanical satisfaction of a well-made firearm—but because for whatever reason he was a lousy shot and struggled to make a passing grade. Which may have had something to do with the turn his career took, come to think of it. More toward software, gadgets, and technical intelligence gathering than shoe leather on the street.

He’d been making up for that since leaving the Bureau. More street, less software. And the only gadget he truly relies on these days is his own brain. He still knows his way around a computer, of course, but his most reliable hard drive is between his ears. And that brain is nagging him right at the moment, questioning his judgment, telling him that despite a couple of puzzling coincidences there is really very little chance that Mrs. Corbin’s child is still among the living.

So why chase ghosts? Better to concentrate on helping her accept reality, and then move on to a case more likely to produce positive results. The mother-and-child reunion is what he’s all about, after all, the satisfaction of making
things right in a deeply flawed world. One thing he knows for certain: his considerable skills don’t include raising the dead.

Trooper Thomas Petruchio is currently on shift, but after some minutes of back-room discussion, his commanding officer agrees to make him available for a brief interview. Special circumstances, he says. Implying that it’s not Shane’s connection to the Bureau that’s allowing him to get a foot in the door, it’s a local courtesy being extended to a grieving parent.

“I appreciate it,” he says as he’s led down a corridor so clean it squeaks under his boat shoes.

The young trooper is running through a gear checklist for his squad—an inventory of assault weapons, various surveillance devices—and pointedly lets Shane know they’ll have to cut it short if the unit is dispatched. “You know how it is,” he says, offering a polite but unenthusiastic shake of the hand.

The young trooper—it’s hard for Shane not to think of him as a kid—is lean and long of limb. Hair closely cropped and thin, pink-tinged ears that jut out from a boney, high-cheeked skull. He’s nowhere near as tall as Shane, but there’s enough physical similarity that he’s reminded of himself at that age. Similar dedication and intensity of purpose. Similar skepticism, too. The trooper’s attitude is not exactly filial. More like, show me why I shouldn’t hold you in contempt.

Shane has an inkling where the ‘tude’ comes from and realizes he must deal with it if he expects to get anything from Tommy Petruchio.

“You mind if an old man takes a seat?” he asks.

The trooper snorts derisively. “You’re not exactly an old man, sir.”

“Old enough,” says Shane, who often chooses to sit down so he doesn’t tower over interviewees. “No ‘sir’ necessary.
That
really does make me feel old.”

“Yeah? So how is Haley doing?” the trooper asks pointedly. “Is she hanging in there?”

“Seems to be,” says Shane. “I understand you know her through a family connection?”

“Yeah, my aunt Helen. They’re book crazy, both of them.”

“You’re aware that Mrs. Corbin believes her boy wasn’t killed in the blast?”

Tommy Petruchio nods slowly, thoughtfully, obviously distrustful of the former agent’s motives. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m aware.”

“Mrs. Corbin is out in the car. I asked that she not attend this interview because I wanted you to be able to speak freely.”

“I’d never lie to the lady. Sir,” he adds pointedly.

“No, but you’d spare her feelings,” says Shane. “Anybody would. You don’t have to worry about sparing my feelings.”

Tommy grunts. “You got that right.”

Shane nods to himself, smiling his little smile. “Okay, Trooper, I get it. I do. You think I’m wasting my time, investigating what has already been thoroughly investigated?”

“I do, yeah. Among other things. Sir.”

“Call me Shane, please.”

“They got a positive match from the DNA. Sir. Sorry, force of habit.”

“No problem. You’re probably right about this being a waste of time, but I’ve agreed to look into this for Mrs. Corbin. To satisfy her mind. She’s adamant that it be done. If not me, I’m afraid it might be an unscrupulous person, one who might be interested in draining her of money instead of clarifying things. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Tommy’s expression is devoid of sympathy. “You’re not interested in her money? Really? That’s kind of odd, sir, because I heard she cut you a big check.”

Shane sits up straight, looks him in the eye, holding steady. “I’m not interested in money, Trooper, other than how it may be useful in finding and recovering a missing child. Your sources are correct. Mrs. Corbin offered me a generous retainer, but I haven’t yet taken it.”

“Oh yeah? And why is that?” asks Tommy, still deeply skeptical.

“Because it wouldn’t be right. Not unless I can determine that her son is somehow alive. Satisfied?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. If you say so.”

Shane opens his wallet, hands Tommy a card. “Check me out. Your concern is appreciated—the lady does need someone looking out for her best interests. But right now I’d appreciate your full cooperation, despite any reservations you may have about me personally.”

Tommy thinks about it, shrugs. “What do you want to know?”

“Mrs. Corbin tells me you knew the perpetrator. Let’s start with your impressions of him.”

Tommy grimaces at the recollection. “Roland Penny was a loser. Not a nice loser—a sneaky, lying, mean-ass loser. He was that way in first grade and he was that way
when he murdered poor Leo Gannett and scared the pee out of a bunch of children.”

“So you knew him for most of his life.”

“Yeah. Except not so much the last few years. Roland dropped out in tenth grade, soon as he turned sixteen. Small town you’re always aware of everybody your own age, but he was into drugs. I was into football. Different worlds. Plus I never liked him anyhow. Fifth grade he got suspended for torturing Billy Beribe. Billy’s got Down syndrome.”

“Torture?”

“Roland locked Billy in a dark broom closet, shoved his hands in a bucket of cold deer guts. Literally scared the shit out of poor little Billy.”

“He had a history of violent behavior?”

“I guess. He had a lot of grievances. Whatever he screwed up, it was always somebody else’s fault. Thought he should be somebody important, somebody successful, even though he never did much of anything. You know the type—not very smart himself but he assumes everybody else is stupid? That’s Roland.”

“He was smart enough to make a bomb,” Shane points out.

“Probably found plans on the Net.”

“Your impression is that he was organized? Capable of planning?”

Tommy shrugs. “Nah, not Roland. That wasn’t my assumption. My assumption was the dude couldn’t have planned a one-car funeral procession. But obviously I was mistaken.”

Shane makes a few notes in a small reporter’s notebook he carries for just such occasions. “I understand you managed to get a surveillance camera on-site.”