Trapped (28 page)

flame-orange Hummer is moving at a crawl though morning

rush-hour traffic, no more than a quarter mile ahead. Shane

can follow it on the GPS map and I can see it with my own

eyeballs, big as life and not exactly easy to maneuver in

bumper-to-bumper conditions.

“Okay, good,” he says, breathing a sigh of relief. “For all

we know, this could be a false alarm. Maybe they’re off to

breakfast at IHOP, running an errand, whatever.”

Stomach rumbling, my head begging for coffee, I ignore

the reference to breakfast and point out that the Hummer has

darkly tinted windows. So how do we know Edwin Manning

is in the vehicle? Could be anybody, right?

“Could be,” Shane acknowledges. “Want to turn around?”

“I’m just saying.”

“Sorry. You’re right—all we know is that the Hummer is

on the move. We don’t know who, or why, or where it might

be headed. Standard tail, we’d have someone maneuver

ahead of the target vehicle, confirm passenger identity. But

we don’t have that luxury.”

“Because we’re on our own,” I say bitterly.

Shane gives me a glance, and his voice softens. “Maybe

not for long.”

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“What do you mean, maybe not for long?”

As we slog in the stop and go, the bright orange roof of

the Hummer slowly beckoning us onward, Shane recounts

what he was up to last night. His better-not-to-know mission.

Not pursuing leggy South Beach models or hanging out at

clubs, obviously. More like entering forbidden territory, and

very nearly getting himself killed in the process. Avoiding

sleeping snakes and gopher holes and something called

palmetto, which he describes as a palm tree with a built-in

machete. All of which he blames on something called Google

Earth.

“That’s how I located the strip,” he explains. “By checking

out satellite images of the area within fifteen miles of that cell

tower. The images aren’t as clear as those available to military

analysts, of course, but they’re good enough to identify larger

structures.”

“You were trespassing? In the Everglades, in the middle

of the night?”

“Figured it was more dangerous in daylight,” he says with

a wry grin. “Night you can find a shadow, blend in. Daylight

you’re exposed. And it’s not exactly the Everglades, that par-

ticular area. Technically it’s pine scrub. More or less dry

underfoot.”

“But you found the airplane? The King Whatever?”

“Beechcraft King Air 350. Yeah, it was there. I was able

to confirm the tail numbers. Aircraft is registered to Edwin

Manning, DBA Merrill Manning Capital Funds.”

“Amazing!” I exclaim, suddenly elated. “Maybe that’s

where they’re keeping Kelly, right at the airport!”

“It’s not an airport, Mrs. Garner,” Shane responds, cau-

tioning me. “It’s a very narrow strip of cleared land, suitable

for surreptitious landings.”

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“But you said there was a building!” I protest, pushing the

idea that Kelly might be there.

“A camouflaged hangar. I checked it out after they left. No

sign of Kelly or Seth. No indication anyone had been held there

against their will. Just an expensive aircraft in an otherwise

empty hangar. Wherever they’re keeping Kelly, it’s not there.”

That shuts me up for a while. The giddy spike of hope

quickly dissolves into low-level anxiety. Don’t think about

Kelly, or what might be happening to her at this very moment,

just concentrate on keeping the Hummer in sight.

They’ve gotten one light ahead, but are at the moment

frozen in gridlock. We could get out and walk.

“Okay, we haven’t found her yet, but it does mean a lot,

identifying the plane,” Shane explains, sensing my plum-

meting mood. “She’s almost certainly being held some-

where in Southern Florida, probably in a location just as

remote as the hidden landing strip. Quite possibly within

the Nakosha territory.”

We’re not moving. Slowed to a crawl, now we’re not even

crawling. Stuck in gridlock just like the Hummer, what Kelly

gleefully calls a Hum Job. Downtown Miami makes the LIE

look like a trek in the remote wilderness. I turn in the seat,

wanting to look Shane in the eye. “You think Indians did this?

Kidnapped Kelly?”

The big guy shrugs, rubbing at his injured leg. “Don’t

know. The men who came to inspect the aircraft were white.

Redneck white. But the airstrip is right in the middle of tribal

territory, so there has to be some sort of relationship. Could

be someone in the tribe leases it out to smugglers. Lot of that

went on in the old days. Tribe looks the other way, eventu-

ally makes some money out of the deal, in a way that can’t

easily be traced or connected to the smuggling operation.”

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215

“Is that what this is about. Smuggling? You think Kelly’s

flyboy was running drugs?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “At a glance, yes, it looks that

way. Drug deal gone bad. Except that Edwin Manning is

involved, and somehow I don’t think a billionaire running a

billionaire’s hedge fund is consorting with drugs dealers

trying to turn a quick profit.”

I shake my head. “Look, I’m mad enough at this boy to

strangle him. Seth I mean. For putting my daughter in danger.

But you saw the pictures. He gets his kicks from airplanes

and motorcycles and parachutes.”

“Agreed,” says Shane. “Smuggling drugs is low prob-

ability. Unless it was for the thrill of it. Like skydiving.”

“Now you’re really scaring me.”

Shane strokes, strokes thoughtfully at his carefully trimmed

beard. “Whatever happened, we can know that Manning has

been contacted. Demands have been made. He admitted that

much.”

“Yeah, but what kind of demands?” I want to know.

“That’s the billion-dollar question.”

I’m grumbling at the stalled traffic when a light goes on

over my dim, undercaffeinated brain.

“Give me your hat,” I say, snatching the ball cap off his

head. “Take the wheel.”

I put the car in Park, engine idling. In a moment I’m out

the door, dodging bumpers. Horns honk at me, but so what?

Let ’em honk. Let ’em shoot me the digit, who cares?

In a few strides I’m clear of traffic and on the crowded

sidewalk, giving a thumbs-up to a very startled Randall Shane

as he tries to get his long legs behind the wheel, take control

of the vehicle.

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Chris Jordan

Pulling down the brim on the oversize hat, I head for the

Hum Job.

14. Planet Ricky

Four miles to the south, more or less, in the gated enclave

of Cable Grove, Myla methodically gnaws the glitter off her

fingernails and wonders what should she do about Ricky.

Munching nails in the cabana because that’s where she’s

been hiding for the past five hours. Okay, not hiding, exactly,

that’s the wrong word because Ricky hasn’t exactly been

trying to find her. More like she moved her butt to the pool

cabana because the house is simply too scary to share when

Ricky Lang starts conversing with invisible people.

Talking with ghosts or whatever.

It began at three or so in the morning, with Myla sound

asleep, snuggled under the covers because the AC is on frosty,

just the way she likes it. Hot as a bug outside, where she left

Ricky on a lounger by the pool, lying with his enormous

forearms crossed under his head, staring up at the stars.

Talking about how the stars hold stories of the ancient days,

the days when the animal gods roamed the world and spoke

to men in their true voices. Which was sort of romantic, until

the clouds came rolling in and the rain started and Ricky

would not stir from the lounger. Telling her the rain was

good for her soul, if she had one.

If she had one.
What did he mean by that? Everybody has

a soul, right? You get it when you’re born. It comes with. So,

feeling a little petulant, a little put out, she’d left him there

in the spattering rain and gone to bed. To be awakened hours

later by a weird, high-pitched yowl that sounded like a

raccoon caught in trap. She was instantly awake, ice water

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217

in her veins, skin crawling. Because she knew it was Ricky

making the noise.

She found him in Tyler’s bedroom, curled up on the little

race-car bed. Hanging off the sides, actually, because he’s way

too big. Eyes closed, his high cheekbones glistening with tears.

And when he opens his eyes, responding to the light she

switches on, he roars, shut that fucking off you bitch! and leaps

to his feet, as agile and jumpy as some cougar on bad crank.

Brushing her aside with a shrug of his powerful shoulders.

Slamming her into the wall—although he didn’t mean to—it

was as if she didn’t exist. As if he didn’t know who she was.

Right after the incident in Tyler’s room he starts talking,

and not to her. Yakking and gesturing with someone who isn’t

there. Pausing for the voices only he can hear, and then

arguing with himself.

Myla has no idea what he’s talking about because he’s

speaking what he calls pidgin. Nakosha words and phrases

mixed with English and then stirred with a Spanish swizzle

stick, is how he once explained it to her, bragging about the

private language of his clan, understood by less than a hun-

dred people on planet Earth. A planet no longer occupied by

Ricky Lang, apparently.

Having no experience or understanding of active psy-

chotic episodes, Myla assumes he’s on drugs. Eating mush-

rooms or buttons or whatever Indians do. All she knows is

that he’s scarier than usual, and that’s when she decides to

hang in the cabana for a while, until he calms down.

Hours go by. He never shuts up. Raging and laughing, crying

and pleading, mostly in his own private language. Meanwhile

Myla makes a nest for herself in the chlorine-smelling cabana,

tries to nap on some deck-chair cushions but she can’t get com-

fortable. She thinks about calling someone—she has her cell—

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Chris Jordan

but who would she call? His family? Not an option. The cops?

Ricky would kill her, really and truly kill her to death.

Truth is, Myla has no ideas, no options, other than to wait

for whatever happens next.

Last thing she expects is a gentle knock on the cabana’s

flimsy door. “Myla? Time for breakfast, honey.”

The door opens and there’s Ricky, showered and wearing

a change of clothes. The tight black Calvin Klein muscle shirt

she likes, the one that shows off his amazing pecs. Loose

khaki cargo pants cinched with a leather belt at his narrow

waist, bare feet with his brown toes splayed. What a guy. His

eyes are deep, dark and haunted, but he looks so powerful,

her own personal Incredible Hulk. Like he’s ready, willing,

and able to leap into the air and fly to the ends of the earth,

if that’s what it takes to make things right.

At the moment, making things right means breakfast.

“Scrambled eggs and toast,” he says, smiling and showing

his strong white teeth.

Myla isn’t sure if he wants her to prepare the food or if

he’s already made it just for her. Not that it matters. Either

way is okay because it means they’ll be together.

She takes his arm, tracing her fingertips over his taut

bicep. “Did you sleep okay, baby?” she wants to know.

Stuck in rush-hour gridlock, Shane blames it on sleep. If

he wasn’t still groggy from his unplanned nap, no way would

his client have managed to slip out of the vehicle before he

stopped her. Instead he sits here like a goof, watching in as-

tonishment as Jane Garner flips the bird to at least three

honking drivers, then strides up the sidewalk with a purpose.

He powers down the window so he can see better. She’s

moving fast, dodging pedestrians. Medium height but she’s

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219

got long legs when she wants to. Great legs, come to think,

and a nice look in those trim linen slacks. A little rumpled

for having nodded off in a chair, but on her, rumpled looks…

sexy.

He puts on the brakes, the mental brakes that stop this kind

of salacious thinking. Reminds himself that Mrs. Garner is

a client, experiencing tremendous stress and anxiety over a

missing child. No matter how attractive, she’s vulnerable

and therefore off-limits.

Don’t go there, don’t even think about it.

Having taken an icy shower, mentally, he concentrates on

keeping her in view. Not easy because at this time of day, in

this part of the city, the sidewalks are loaded. Folks on their

way to work, or out to the shops, or intent on grabbing a flaky,

guava-filled pastelito. A strolling mix of business suits and

guayaberras, because it’s one those high-traffic areas where

everything comes together, the various ethnicities and

business interests, from international banking to hand-rolled