Trapped (35 page)

lates his odds. What he’d prefer is to subdue the suspect and

then conduct the search, in case the shack is a ruse or a trap,

as seems likely. But his adversary is pumped and hyper and

despite being a head shorter looks about as easy to subdue

as a charging rhino on amphetamines.

Everything about Ricky Lang screams
go on, make your

move,
like he’s been practicing his quick-draw techniques

and wants to try them out. Plus there’s the fact that he may

be clinically insane, talking to invisible children and mutter-

ing about, of all things, Superman. What that signifies, Shane

hasn’t a clue. Other than a conviction, born of experience,

that psychotic suspects are infinitely more difficult to subdue.

“They’re in the shack,” Shane says, watching Lang’s

hands. “Kelly and Seth. Alive?”

Ricky Lang grins. “Only one way to find out, man.

Because you ain’t got X-ray vision, that’s obvious. You had

X-ray like me, you’d already know.”

Shane makes his decision, slips over the side. Ready to

duck under the hull if Lang reaches for the Glock. Instead he

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265

slams the gear into reverse, leaving Shane standing, as

promised, in waist-deep water.

By the time Shane wades over the soft, mucky bottom to

the stilts beneath the shack, the big racing machine is nothing

but a white rooster tail fading into the hazy distance. He’s

pulling himself up a rusty iron ladder when he remembers

that the cell phone is in his pants pocket, and therefore has

been submersed in salt water.

Great, perfect. And maybe that’s what Ricky Lang

intended all along. Neutralize the larger man with promises,

put him off balance with feigned insanity, then dump him in

the water a couple of miles offshore and make an escape.

Crawling up the ladder, Shane shakes his head. Still

doesn’t make sense. No need to play games when Lang had

the Glock. One bullet does it, either to disable or kill. No need

for mind games or boat rides or stories about superheroes.

Unless his captives are really stashed in the shack. Alive

or dead.

At floor level Shane hauls himself up through an opening

in what remains of a narrow porch that runs around the entire

building. The seagulls have fled, but unless the birds are big

beer drinkers, the shack has a history as a party destination.

Empty cans and bottles strewn everywhere. The windows and

doors have been securely boarded with heavy plywood by

Biscayne National Park, which has stenciled warnings all

over the plywood.

No Trespassing

Condemned Property

Criminal Penalties Apply

This Means You!

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Chris Jordan

Shane, dripping and no longer hopeful, bangs a fist on the

plywood. “Kelly! Seth! Anybody there?”

He puts his ear to the plywood. Hears a moaning. Not

human, but wind whistling through the building. Which

means there must be an opening. He lopes around the deck,

scuffling through the party debris, searching. Finds, on the

side facing the sea, a section where the plywood has been un-

fastened along the bottom edge. Leaving a gap of an inch or

so, more than enough for the wind.

Shane braces himself, heaves against the heavy plywood.

Not quite enough leverage. He repositions his feet against the

base of the wall, leans back, using his legs.

With a mighty screech the sheet of plywood comes loose,

yanking screws and through-bolts through the softened wood

frame. Shane lands on his ass with his hands full of splinters

and the plywood in his lap.

Catches his breath, shoves the plywood aside, and crawls

through the dark opening.

Shane stands up.

The floor is spongy underfoot. There’s a stink he asso-

ciates with nesting birds. A few slashes of sunlight penetrate

through the galvanized metal roof and under the eaves. As

his eyes adjust he’s able to determine that the shack is basi-

cally one big room, bare to the wood frame walls, stripped

of anything that’s not nailed down.

Empty. No place to hide a captive, every indication the

shack hasn’t been occupied in years.

He resists the impulse to pound his fist through the wall.

Because now he knows what Ricky Lang was up to, tak-

ing him for a boat ride. He’s buying time. Whatever is go-

ing down, it’s going to happen while Shane is stranded in

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267

an abandoned stilt shack a mile or two from the nearest

shoreline.

He’s been played.

Shane hurries outside to the porch, finds his cell phone in

a soggy pocket. Shakes off the salty moisture, flips it open.

Before daring to activate it, he blows the keys dry with his

own breath, offering up a prayer.

Small miracle, the screen light comes on, the phone boots

up. He waits impatiently while it searches for a connection.

“Come on, you little beast,” he urges. “I’ll buy you a new

battery, promise.”

The screen resolves. The bars climb. Connection estab-

lished. Carefully he punches in a number, watches it play out

across the screen.

“Special Agent Healy? Can you hear me? Good, excellent.

This is Randall Shane. I’ve got a situation. You’re gonna love

it, trust me.”

Part III

Dead Or Alive

1. Giving The Finger

For me, fear is like the flu. It starts in my belly and the

small of my back and makes me want to hide in bed until the

flu, or the fear, is over.

No bed today, no hiding. As much as I dread confronting

Edwin Manning, it has to be done. My idea is to start by

ringing his doorbell, assuming he has one, but the uniformed

security guard in the lobby has other ideas.

“Sorry, miss. Only way you get upstairs is if they call

down, put you on the access list.”

“This is a matter of life and d-d-death,” I stammer.

“Sorry, miss, those are the rules.”

I’m looking past him, wondering if I can make a dash for

the elevators. He senses my desperation—or maybe he

doesn’t want to waste batteries Tasering me—and offers to

call the penthouse, make an inquiry.

“What do I say?” he asks me, wanting to be helpful.

“Tell him this is Jane Garner and if he doesn’t talk to me

his son will die.”

The guard’s mild brown eyes widen in shock.

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Chris Jordan

“I didn’t kidnap his son,” I assure him. “But I know who

did. Tell him all of that.”

The guard hands me the intercom phone. “Better tell him

yourself.”

The voice on the other end does not belong to Edwin

Manning—might be the egg man, I can’t tell—but I neverthe-

less make my spiel, essentially repeating what I told the as-

tonished security guard and adding, “You’ve one minute.

I’m in the lobby.”

Fern says I’m the bravest woman she knows, but surely

that can’t be true or I wouldn’t be fighting the impulse to

throw up. It’s not that I’m afraid of Edwin Manning or his

henchman. That’s not where the fear originates. The fear has

to do with not knowing what is going to happen in the next

few hours, and how I will survive if it all goes wrong.

What do you do if the world ends?

I’ve no idea and it makes me afraid.

In less than a minute Edwin Manning emerges from the

elevator accompanied by Mr. Popkin. Both men look as

concerned and uneasy as I feel, but there’s something in

Manning’s palpable anxiety that makes me know exactly

what to do.

Before he can speak I reach out and take his hand. “You

have to come with me,” I tell him. “If you love your son,

come with me.”

Our little team has assembled in my suite at the Europa.

Randall Shane, looking beleaguered and for some reason

ashamed as he holds an ice pack to his swollen face. In

addition, Special Agent Sean Healy and his partner, Special

Agent Paloma Salazar. All of whom had thought it might be

nice if Mr. Manning was persuaded to join us, and agreed that

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273

he’d be more likely to respond positively to a desperate

fellow parent, which is where I came in.

Acting desperate had not been a problem.

“Who’s this?” Healy wants to know when the egg man

comes through the door.

“Salvatore Popkin,” the bald man responds, holding out

his left hand for a shake. “I work for Mr. Manning.”

Healy glances at the hand. “You’ll have to wait outside.

Family only.”

When the egg man starts to protest, Manning goes, “Do

what he says,” without a backward glance.

As Popkin backs awkwardly out the door, dissed and dis-

missed, I take him aside. “Sally? There’s a nice restaurant out

by the pool. Get something to eat or drink, whatever you

want. Put it on my room. I’ll let you know when your boss

is ready to leave.”

The egg man blushes, not a pretty sight.

Back inside, Manning paces in a tight circle, flexing his

hands like he wants to strangle someone. “Don’t tell me,” he

says. “It all went to shit, right? That’s why you brought me

here, to make your excuses.”

Special Agent Salazar guides Manning to a chair and

insists that he sit, relax. She’s about thirty, with big lovely

eyes, dark pixie hair that frames her oval face. She’s

dressed in a nicely tailored linen suit, can’t be more than

a size four, tops, and wearing expertly applied makeup.

Only thing wrong with the picture is that she’s wearing

flats instead of heels, but for all I know that’s an agency

regulation. Makes sense—if you have to chase down a

suspect, or stand and fire your weapon, heels are probably

not a good idea.

Apparently the arrangement is that she will do most of

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Chris Jordan

the talking and Healy will take notes and comment when he

sees fit.

In a clear, melodic voice with a slight Latino accent, Agent

Salazar informs Edwin Manning that the FBI has informa-

tion they are obliged to share about his son.

Manning stares fiercely at his hands. “You’re going to tell

me he’s dead. Get it over with.”

“Sir, we have no information regarding the physical con-

dition of your son.”

His head lifts. “So he’s alive?”

“We don’t know his status,” says Salazar carefully. “We

are in active pursuit of a suspect who confessed to the abduc-

tion of your son and Mrs. Garner’s daughter, and then fled.

We believe he may be heading for home. Indian territory.”

If Edwin Manning looked sick before, now he looks on

the point of death. “I told you people to leave us alone.

Begged you. Now look what you’ve done!”

“Has Ricky Lang made contact with you today?”

Manning shakes his head.

“Has he at any time demanded payment for the safe return

of your son and/or Mrs. Garner’s daughter?”

“It isn’t about money,” says Manning savagely, his eyes

shiny. “Is that all you people understand?”

Maybe it’s just me, but the scorn for money seems kind

of strange, coming from a guy who manages an eight-billion-

dollar hedge fund. On the other hand he’s obviously been

through the wringer, so I decide to cut him some slack. For

a moment there in the lobby of his condo I’d thought we were

finally in sync. Maybe not—he’s yet to admit to knowing

about Kelly, or to acknowledge the fact that I’m as much a

victim as he is.

When Shane glances up from his ice pack, he has two

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275

slightly blackened eyes that make him look like a melancholy

raccoon. “They’re trying to help,” he says to Manning. “I’m

the one who screwed up.”

Healy snorts. “You said it.”

Shane keeps his silence for the rest of the meeting.

The petite but somehow imposing Agent Salazar remains

a study in calm. Perched on the corner of one of the suite’s napa

leather sofas, she elucidates her agency’s position deftly, and

without a lot of the law enforcement jargon her partner favors.

“Here’s where we stand, Mr. Manning. Two days ago you

declined assistance and refused to confirm that your son was

missing. We respected your wishes. Then Mrs. Garner and

her consultant—he’s the big gentleman over there, I believe

you’ve met—Mrs. Garner and Mr. Shane developed evidence

that her daughter Kelly was abducted from a private aircraft

registered in your name. As near as we can determine she was

a passenger on a flight piloted by your son, Seth Manning.

We have a witness who will testify that the aircraft, a Beech-

craft King Air 350, is being stored in a hangar at an unreg-

istered airfield located within the Nakosha reservation.

Therefore we conclude that your son was abducted at the

same time as Kelly Garner, and that because of your finan-

cial connections to the Nakosha gaming resort, he may have

been the prime target, and Miss Garner may simply have been

in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“At Mrs. Garner’s request we have opened an investiga-