Trapped (49 page)

ters grounded. These are search-and-rescue craft, not

equipped to defend against surface-to-air attacks, and she

simply can’t risk keeping them on task. Thinking about risk

management, there’s the problem of unarmed ground-search

units who have volunteered to tramp through the grasslands.

They lack body armor and would be vulnerable to gunfire.

Should they be pulled back, too?

Not an easy decision, weighing two lives with known

risk—indeed, they may already be dead—against possible

risk to several hundred. On the other hand the volunteer units

knew going in that an armed madman was out there.

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For the moment the ground-search teams will remain

deployed.

Salazar is about to phone Special Agent Healy, who is

coordinating with the tribal police, when the fire tower

begins to vibrate. Instantly she drops into a crouch, unhol-

stering her firearm.

A head of thick black hair appears above the access ladder.

Salazar reholsters her firearm. “Good morning, Assistant

Director.’

“‘A-Dick’ is fine,” says Monica Bevins, pulling her full,

six-foot height to the top of the fire tower. “Nice view.”

“Not so nice, I’m afraid,” Salazar remarks, glancing at the

wisp of black smoke spiraling up from the horizon.

“Sorry, of course,” says the A-Dick, chagrined.

“Am I being relieved?” Salazar wants to know. Well aware

that having an assistant director on site in the middle of an

operation is not exactly a vote of confidence.

“No, nothing like that,” Bevins says brightly, surveying the

wide-open landscape. She folds her arms, an unconscious

habit that slightly diminishes the width of her powerful

swimmer’s shoulders. “I have every confidence in your or-

ganizational skills. Because of our, shall we say ‘delicate’ re-

lations with Indian nations, the D.D. wants an eyes-on report.”

“You can assure the deputy director we’re fully coopera-

tive with Nakosha law enforcement and responsive to their

concerns.”

Monica towers over the smaller, lower-ranking agent, but

she’s not the type to use her man-size body for intimidation,

quite the opposite. She backs up a step to give the little lady

breathing space. “I’ll do that,” she vows. “Now bring me up

to speed, please.”

“Yesterday we initiated a full-scale search-and-rescue

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slash manhunt for fugitive Ricky Lang and two victims we

believe he kidnapped. Said victims being the same as those

identified in the shadow investigation of Edwin Manning, ini-

tiated by, I’m assuming, you.”

“Your assumption is correct. I initiated the investigation

at the suggestion of former agent Randall Shane. Have you

had the pleasure?”

The way Monica is smiling—kind of a Mona Lisa deal—

makes Salazar wonder if
she’s
had the pleasure. Not an image

Salazar cares to linger on, having seen large animals mating

on the Nature Channel. “We met with Mr. Shane after he’d

been assaulted by the suspect.”

“Two black eyes, I heard.”

“Yeah, and a broken nose. Caught him by surprise, appar-

ently.”

“You can be sure of that,” Monica says firmly.

“Anyhow, it was the right call, getting a jump on the missing

girl. Manning folded, gave us everything he knew about Lang.”

“What’s your take on the suspect?”

“May I be candid?”

“Please.”

“He’s a full-blown nut-job with berserker tendencies. I

doubt he’ll be taken alive. Recent reports indicate he’s delu-

sional, possibly hallucinating. He’s already killed or been

responsible for the deaths of his three children, his common-

law wife, and his own father, and he’s a suspect in another

suspicious burning death.”

“Wait a minute,” Monica says, looking startled. “The

father? When did that occur?”

“Just happened in the last hour, A-Dick. I haven’t seen it

yet, but apparently there is surveillance footage of him

breaking into a rest home here on the reservation. Went in

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through a screen door unimpeded. Location not far from where

we stand, actually. There was no interior surveillance, but

Lang’s father was found in his bed, smothered with a pillow.”

“Right under our noses, so to speak.”

“Right under our noses, most definitely. To be fair to my

people, it was the tribal police who had the rest home under

surveillance. If you don’t mind another candid observation,

A-Dick, the tribal cops are scared to death of Ricky Lang.

They’re going through the motions, giving us access and so

on, but frankly I’m not expecting much from that quarter.”

“Noted,” says Monica. “Anybody know how he managed

to get his hands on an RPG?”

“Not yet, no, but this is South Florida. Plus various well-

armed Cuba Libre militias have trained in the area. Who

knows what they left lying around?”

“I thought ‘Cuba libre’ was a drink?”

Salazar’s eyes get slightly hot. “It’s a way of life in Miami,

A-Dick. As I’m sure you know.”

“Sorry, Agent Salazar, it slipped my mind that your father

was at the Bay of Pigs. No offense intended. Have the Na-

kosha been apprised that we think the suspect has access to

heavy assault weapons?”

Salazar nods curtly. “Gentleman by the name of Joe Lang,

he’s running the show. Relative of the suspect, obviously.

Agent Healy advised him the suspect has rocket grenades,

maybe worse.”

“What was the response?”

“These folks don’t exactly talk your ear off, A-Dick, but

Healy said Lang—that’s Joe Lang, the new tribal president—

he’s already assuming that the suspect will come in with

guns blazing, possibly targeting the village.”

“The berserker segment of your nut-job diagnosis.”

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Chris Jordan

“I never claimed to be a profiler, A-Dick.”

“No, but you might make a good one. I agree, everything

about this guy, including the recent murder of his father, in-

dicates he intends to go down in a hail of bullets. That’s the

endgame scenario.”

“Yes, A-Dick.”

“And if it comes to that, the deputy director would prefer

that the hail of bullets come from tribal authorities. Has the

tribal president indicated how they intend to respond?”

Salazar shrugs. “He told Agent Healy that they’d be ready,

but declined to provide details. Which, pardon me, A-Dick,

but that’s typical of this operation. They’re polite and all, but

they don’t share.”

“Not a surprise, Agent Salazar. My report to the D.D. will

indicate you’re doing all that can be done in a difficult situa-

tion.”

“Thank you. I do appreciate that.”

“Any word from Randall Shane?”

“Nothing recent. Last I heard, he was planning to hire a

backcountry guide.”

“Interesting.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Salazar’s cell phone starts to vibrate. She flips it open.

“Yes? Go ahead. What?” The diminutive agent’s eyes get big.

“Holy shit, I’ll be right there.”

“What happened?” Monica wants to know.

“It’s Edwin Manning. He’s missing and his bodyguard has

been found, drugged with animal tranquilizer.”

“Holy shit indeed,” says the A-Dick.

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20. Run, Jane, Run

Crouching in the muck of the Everglades, the mud that

gave birth to his people, Ricky feels the power of the earth

entering his body through the soles of his bare feet. He will

come to them as avenging warriors came to the Nakosha in

the old times, streaked with gray mud. The righteous wrath

of an unseeable ghost may be what his people deserve—

death from the sky, falling upon them like bolts of light-

ning—but the mud will make him visible, so they can gaze

upon the instrument of their destruction.

Delicately he strokes three fingers of mud upon his left

cheek, three upon his right. Using a razor-sharp KA-BAR

killing knife, he saws away his black bangs, exposing a broad

forehead.

There, with a single index finger, he paints a dollar sign.

They’ll see him coming for sure, a creature of mud and

vengeance, with the white man’s sign upon him. Sign of greed

and corruption. Sign of the great forgetting. Sign of the end.

Out of the rising sun he will come, wielding the white

man’s terrible weapons, leaving all of his people behind. The

old and the young, the guilty and the innocent, none shall be

spared. As a tribe of ghosts he will lead them away from

temptation, into the perfect wilderness of a new and better

world.

In the great river of grass his children hover like fireflies,

glowing from within.

He calls them. “Alicia! Reya! Tyler! Come to your father!”

The girls obey, glorious in their incandescent white

dresses. Tyler, ever the impish wayward boy, hangs back,

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Chris Jordan

hiding in the deep grass. Peeping at them with eyes like little

candle-flames. Now you see him, now you don’t.

“Wait for me here,” he tells them. “The house is forbidden,

do you understand? It was paid for with the white man’s filthy

dollars, and must be turned to ash. It must be erased from the

earth. Tyler! Pay attention, son, this is important. Keep with

your sisters, they’ll protect you until I get back. Understood?

Very good. Your father loves you, children. He loves you to

death.”

Before he gathers his weapons, Ricky strides along the

shore, dripping with the rich black silt of the Everglades. There,

in an area that once served as a boat ramp, on sloping ground

a few inches above water level, he has arrayed his sacrifices.

Three being the sacred number, the number of his dead

children.

The sacrifices have been camouflaged with fresh cut

palm fronds, to hide them from the air. The white man’s

helicopters, the white man’s satellites—their cold me-

chanical eyes can’t see the life beneath the green and the

grass.

Ricky crouches, gently parts the fronds until he can see a

frightened blue eye looking out at him.

“Your blood will not be wasted,” he assures the frightened

blue eye. “Before my people came from the mud, the alligator

gods ruled the water and the grass. It is said that they walked

upon two legs, and spoke in a tongue that not even the sun could

understand. My people made them walk upon four legs, but

gave them tails so they could swim, and teeth so they could eat.”

The blue eye blinks furiously, swinging violently from

side to side.

“Struggling is good,” he says, patting at the palm fronds.

“Struggling will bring them more quickly. Don’t worry, you

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377

will not be eaten alive. The alligator first drowns his prey, and

if the prey is large he will keep it hidden and consume it at

his leisure. This time next year, my dear, you’ll be a purse

and a pair of shoes.”

Ricky leaves them staked to the ground and goes to gather

up his weapons.

Some people are made for running. Slender bodies with

long skinny legs and narrow hips. You can tell they like it,

running through the pain or whatever. Not for me. I’m small

waisted and fairly long legged for my size, but these child-

bearing hips were not engineered with marathons in mind.

Even if I had been a runner, one of those moms who race

along pushing special three-wheeled baby carriages, it’s

doubtful I could keep up with Randall Shane. One stride and

he’s past me, three and he’s heading for the horizon.

A mile, Fish tells us. The site of Ricky Lang’s house, the

one he burned to the ground, is located roughly a mile along

the shoreline. Half a mile beyond it, the new residential

village constructed by the Nakosha. Traditional chickee huts

built on stilts, as well as a new school, health clinic, and elder

hospice, all of which may be his targets.

If he wants to kill a lot of people, his own people, that’s

where he’d go.

Shane, already out of sight, can obviously run a mile. For

all I know he can run a hundred. Whereas I’ve never run a

mile in my life. I’m a Long Island girl, we drive.

Fish isn’t even trying. Bad knees. He’ll pole his way along

in his little boat, meet us there in twenty minutes.

Kelly may not have twenty minutes, which is why I’m

running with Shane, racing along the shoreline, kicking

through the saw grass. More like I’m kicking through it and

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Chris Jordan

he’s leaping over it. Long arms pumping, long legs eating up

the yards, what an amazing man. That big and he runs like a

gazelle.

He wants to save the world. I want to save my daughter.

God help me, that’s all I care about, just the one life.

Let her live, let her live, let her live,
that’s the mantra that

keeps my legs pumping, my heart pounding.

Glancing down as I run, my thin linen trousers are in