Trapped (5 page)

“I’m saying the gun is for show. Don’t shoot nobody is

what I’m saying.”

“Okay,” says Roy. “I won’t.”

“Good. Little while, the aircraft will circle the field. It will

land from the east, over there,” Ricky says, indicating where

the long runway blends into the low scrub pine. “It will taxi

to us. First thing you do, when the engines shut down, you

come around from behind and put the chocks under the

wheels. Think you can do that?”

“I guess.”

“Make sure you come at it from the back of the plane,

behind the wing, so you don’t get your fool head cut off by

the props.”

“Okay.” Roy files it away, the propellers are dangerous,

watch out for the props.

“You just follow my lead,” Ricky says. “Wheels chocked,

okay? Next, we get the passengers out of the aircraft. There’s

a little door unfolds in the tail, that’s where they’ll exit. Don’t

show the gun till their feet’re on the ground.”

“How many passengers?” Roy asks, just to show that he’s

always thinking.

“One or two,” Ricky says, indifferent to the question.

“Whatever, you just hold the Glock on ’em. Don’t say noth-

ing, just look like you mean it. Don’t let ’em go back in the

plane but don’t shoot ’em. I’m doing all the shooting.”

Roy follows Ricky to his BMW, parked nearby. Dirt

adheres to the lower panels, fouling the hubs, probably mess-

ing up the brakes, too. Waste of a good car, Roy thinks, not

Trapped

39

meant for the backcountry. And then Ricky Lang, his scary

new boss, Ricky the crazy damn injun who is going to change

Roy’s life, he pops open the BMW trunk, produces an over-

size, odd-looking rifle. Almost a crossbow look to it, fitted

out with some sort of dartlike powerhead.

“What’s that?” Roy wants to know.

“Animal tranquilizers,” Ricky explains. Showing his white

teeth in a killer grin. “Works on people, too.”

8. Jumping Into The Bare Blue Sky

There are some things your eyes refuse to see. Sights un-

imaginable, or so out of context your brain can’t make sense

of them. That’s how it is with Kelly’s secret photo album. I’m

looking right at the pictures and still it doesn’t make any

sense. What would my daughter be doing on a runway, near

a small airplane? Why is she grinning so mischievously?

What is she holding up to the camera, some sort of backpack?

I know what it is but find it hard to even think the word,

let alone speak it aloud.

Parachute.

Must be a joke. She’s kidding around. Like those old trick

photos on Coney Island, where you stick your head through

a hole in the canvas and pretend to be a cowboy on a painted

horse. Like that.

More photos. Kelly climbing into the little airplane, wear-

ing a baggy jumpsuit and what looks like a crash helmet.

Kelly crouching inside the plane, giving a thumbs-up. Kelly

buddied-up with a handsome pilot, a young man with dark,

soulful eyes, gorgeous hair and white, white teeth. I didn’t

really get a good look at the guy on the motorcycle, but

something about the way this young man holds himself erect,

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Chris Jordan

good posture even sitting down, something makes me think

this might be Seth.

If so, he’s way too old for a girl of sixteen. Old enough to

be a pilot—how old is that? Has to be at least twenty-one,

right? Or is it younger? Hard to say—they both look so

pleased with themselves, and happiness makes you look

younger. Whatever his age, no way is he in high school with

my daughter. He’s not a school kid. No droopy drawers and

skateboards for him. He’s into airplanes, motorcycles, high-

speed machines.

Have him arrested,
that’s my first dark impulse. Send this

handsome, grinning man to jail. How dare he take my daughter

up in a small plane without my permission? How could he let

her jump into the bare blue sky. What was he thinking?

Because I know what comes next, even before I flip the

page. A shot of Kelly waving bye-bye from the open door. Pale

sky all around her. A wobbly, slightly blurred shot of an open

parachute, a slim figure dangling beneath it. Then the reunion

on the ground, with Kelly looking triumphant as she folds up

her colorful parachute. A parachute that looks about as sub-

stantial as the silk scarves displayed next to her counter at

Macy’s.

It feels like I’ve been kicked by a mule. At the same time,

in some weird way, everything has gone numb. How could I

have been so stupid, not to have had an inkling of what was

going on with this boy? Never knew he existed until yester-

day, and yet he and my daughter have, obviously, been exe-

cuting a series of death-defying stunts. No doubt there’s more

going on than motorcycles and parachute jumps.

Suddenly, whether or not Kelly has decided to have sex is

a lot less important than the fact that she’s risking her life to

impress an older, thrill-seeking boyfriend. Save that hogwash

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41

about skydiving being as safe as going to the supermarket.

If my purse doesn’t open, I don’t end up embedded in the

concrete, okay? When I make a mistake parallel parking, do

I drift into the high-tension wires? No. Skydiving is about

certain death being averted at the last possible moment, that’s

what makes it exciting. I may be a stick-in-the-mud, the type

who always fastens her seat belt, but I know that much.

When Kelly calls with whatever lame excuse she’s cooked

up, what should I do? What can I say that won’t make it

worse? Fern’s idea of chaining her to the radiator is starting

to sound reasonable. I’m at a complete loss here, but

whatever I decide to do, it means clearing my calendar for

today. No way can I meet with clients, or deal with Alex over

lunch.

First call is to Alex. Unfortunately, I get him, not the

machine. “Janey doll,” he says, chipper as ever. “I have you

down for Cholo’s at one.”

“I’ve got to cancel,” I tell him. “My daughter.”

“The divine Miss Kelly? Is she okay?”

Just like that I spill the beans. Everything, more or less.

Alex makes all the usual sympathetic noises, but he sounds

slightly impatient. “So your daughter has a boyfriend, Jane.

It’s not the end of the world.”

“She ran away! She’s jumping out of airplanes!”

“She left a note,” he reminds me. “She’ll call. And by the

way, more people get struck by lightning than die while sky-

diving.”

“She’s a child!”

“No,” Alex says firmly. “Kelly is no longer a child.”

I could strangle him. How dare he?

“She’s a totally amazing woman,” Alex concludes. “Very

much like you.”

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Chris Jordan

It’s a great relief when my accountant doesn’t pick up and

I’m able to leave a message about the quarterlies. Ditto for

my contact person at East Coast Wedding Wholesalers, im-

ploring them to put a trace on the Norbert and Spinelli orders.

Both calls seem to take a tremendous effort on my part, as

if merely thinking about work is exhausting. Luckily Tracy

has her schedule and can take care of herself, workwise,

because I can’t bear the thought of another phone call.

What’s wrong with me? Why do I feel so hollow and shaky?

Food. Haven’t eaten since I got up and discovered Kelly

gone. And I’m one of those people who simply must have

something in her stomach in the morning—must be a blood-

sugar thing.

That’s probably why my hands are shaking when my cell

phone rings. I’m thinking it can’t be Kelly—it’s not quite

noon and she never calls early—but that’s her name glowing

on the little screen.

“Kelly honey? Where are you?”

There’s a delay, a pause, long enough so I’m almost con-

vinced the connection has been broken. Then her voice

comes through. Not her bright, confident chatty voice. Her

whispering voice, as if she doesn’t want to be overheard. As

if she might be afraid.

“Mom, I need your help. Please call—”

That’s it. The call cuts off in mid-sentence. No static, no

nothing. Just a final, overwhelming silence.

9. Watching The Detectives

Kelly and I watch a lot of movies. Started out with kiddy

stuff, of course. When she was hospitalized or enduring

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43

chemo, movies were an escape, a way to avoid the harsh

reality of our situation. Early on I stopped worrying about how

a violent or racy scene might affect her. When an eight-year-

old stares death in the face every day, can you tell her she can’t

watch a car chase, or cartoonish villains firing automatic

weapons at infallible heroes, or someone saying a bad word?

Some parents did. Not me. Kelly wouldn’t let me. If a

movie had a kid with cancer in it—not many did, actually—

she always insisted on seeing it. Even if the child died. As

she told me, her face screwed up with righteous indignation,

she knew plenty of real children who had really died. Okay,

four or five at least, which is way more than the average kid.

So a character dying in a movie was no big thing to her. It

was pretend. Sometimes she’d cry, but that was because it

was a sad story, not because she thought the actor really died.

Movies were movies and life was life, and they were con-

nected, but not in a scary way. Not for my Kel. And we’ve

continued our habit of watching films together. Lately I’ve

had to keep my comments to myself, so as not to endure her

“please, Mom, give it a rest” reactions, but we still screen two

or three movies a week, more if she’s in the mood.

One of her favorites is
The Usual Suspects.
That comes

to mind because I’m waiting in a Nassau County Police De-

partment office, at the Fifth Precinct, in the Village of Valley

Stream. My very first visit, although I’ve often driven past

the building. From the outside it’s a blocky, innocuous kind

of place, plain as a potato. Inside it’s all cop, purposeful and

a bit macho—a banner declares “The Fighting Fifth”—

though it’s a lot less frantic than what you see on TV.

Detective Jay Berg has a cork bulletin board behind his

desk and that’s what reminds me of
The Usual Suspects.

Kevin Spacey staring at the stuff on the bulletin board, using

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Chris Jordan

it to make up a story. Not that Detective Berg thinks I’m mak-

ing up a story about a girl, a boy and a motorcycle.

“We treat every missing minor report seriously,” he

intones, tenting his fingers together as if in prayer. He’s a

pleasant-looking guy, very earnest, with a thinning widow’s

peak and jowls that make him look just a tiny bit like Kevin

Spacey, which is probably what got me started, come to think

of it. “Even when the minor may have left of her own accord,

we take it seriously,” he says. “Runaways are still missing,

however it started.”

Not for the first time I remind him, “She didn’t run away.

Something’s wrong.”

“It’s always wrong when a minor leaves parental custody.”

“She called. Said she needed my help. But when I called

back her phone was off and I got her voice mail. That’s not

like Kelly. She
never
shuts her cell off.”

He nods sympathetically. Giving the impression that he’s

counseled many an upset parent out here in the not-so-peace-

ful suburbs. “Very troubling,” he says. “Naturally you’re

upset. I would be, too. As I said, that’s why we’re issuing a

Be On The Lookout. Your daughter’s photograph and de-

scription will be circulated throughout the tri-state area.

Local police, county police, state police, within the hour

they’ll know to be on the lookout for Kelly Garner.”

“What about TV news?”

He leans back in his chair, touching his prayerful fingers

to his plump and dimpled chin. “We can’t compel the media

to run the story, but they will get the BOLO, and then it’s up

to them. Absent any indication that she’s been abducted, they

may or may not use it.”

“What about an AMBER Alert?”

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45

Berg sighs. He’s been waiting for that question, and he’s

ready with an answer. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Garner, the AMBER

system has been effective precisely because it’s reserved for

child abduction cases. Your daughter left home on her own

accord. There’s no indication of abduction. I really do expect

she’ll call you as soon as the excitement wears off.”

“She did call!” I say, exasperated. “She’s in trouble, I could

hear it in her voice. I’m sorry I don’t know the boyfriend’s

last name—I feel really stupid about that, okay?—but that

doesn’t mean this isn’t an emergency.”

More sympathetic nods from the detective. “Of course it

doesn’t. The fact is, we
are
treating this as an emergency.

Believe me, all police officers take this kind of thing seri-

ously. Many have daughters of their own. They know what