Trapped (8 page)

help, or have questions.”

I’m halfway down the stairs before I realize he just ordered

me out of my own daughter’s bedroom.

He may be brusque and bossy, but Randall Shane is right

about my needing to eat. The toast settles my stomach and

the hot, sweet tea gives me energy. Hadn’t realized how de-

pleted I’d been, how close to passing out. Maybe even faint-

ing, as he’d suggested. But “at this juncture”? Is the man a

robot? Nobody says “at this juncture.”

Cops do, I realize. They lapse into cop talk. And FBI

agents are federal cops. They dress better but they have cop

hearts. Not that I’ve ever met an FBI agent, retired or other-

wise. All my thoughts on the subject of FBI agents come

from TV shows, and muttered asides from my late father, so

maybe I’m way off, reading too much into Shane’s formal

manner of speech.

Whatever, I’m not about to remain confined to the kitchen.

With an extra mug of tea as my excuse, I slip upstairs, into

Kelly’s room, and find him at her computer. Making her

prim little swivel chair look small indeed.

“You said tea, so I thought maybe you drank it, too.”

Without looking up from the screen he says, “Thanks.

Leave it on the desk.”

“Any progress?”

“I’ll know in twenty-six minutes,” he says, grunting softly

to himself as he hits a key. “Make it twenty-five.”

There’s a clock on screen, counting down.

Shane swivels in the chair, picks up the mug, takes a

cautious sip. He studies me with a good internist’s eyes.

“You look better,” he says, rendering judgment.

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Chris Jordan

“I am, thank you.”

“Proprietary software,” he explains, nodding at the screen.

“If Kelly left her password anywhere on the hard drive,

we’ll find it, and if need be the software will crack it. Pre-

liminary search indicates numerous references to both Seth

and S-Man, so once I get the files open, we should know a

lot more.”

“You found his last name?” I say. “That’s great. I’ll call

the county cops. I mean police.”

“Cops will do,” he says with a slight grin. “No, not his last

name. Not yet. Just a search engine tracer showing there are

references buried within the files. E-mail folders, HTML

folders, chat room folders.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to. It’s just the way computers organize

themselves. Each folder has a name and a location. I was able

to list the folders by title, but can’t open them without the

password. If this particular software doesn’t get us there, I

have other ways.” Making it sound almost ominous. Like no

mere microchip would dare defy him.

“So you’re, um, a computer expert?”

“In a limited way, yes. As you say, I’m something of a

geek.” He smiles, letting me know that geekness doesn’t

offend him. “Actually, for the last several years before I left

the bureau, that was my primary role, overseeing the devel-

opment of software applications.”

“You don’t look old enough to be retired,” I point out.

“I resigned under special circumstances,” he responds, in

a way that shuts down that particular line of inquiry.

Retired or fired, gunslinger or geek, it doesn’t matter. If

the big man manages to get a line on the mysterious Seth,

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63

and Kelly’s location, I don’t care what his specialty is or was,

or why he left the FBI.

“Have a seat,” he suggests. “I need to get some background.”

There’s only one chair in Kelly’s room, so I perch on her

bed. Amazingly enough, this stranger is offering me a seat

in my own house. Not that he’s trying to be offensive—far

from it. He’s focused on a task, on helping me, and for that

I’m grateful. Still, I can’t think of the last time a single man

has been in my home, let alone one of the bedrooms.

No ring. I noticed. Not that I’m even slightly interested—

every fiber of my being is focused on getting what I need to

find Kelly.

Shane glances at the clock on the screen, seems satisfied

with the progress, then takes a small notebook from his brief-

case. “First things first,” he begins. “Where is Kelly’s father

in all this?”

“Nowhere,” I respond, a little too fast.

“I take it you’re no longer married?”

“I’m a single mom.”

He nods. Not a judgmental nod, just noting another fact.

“Has the father been informed that she’s missing?”

“There is no father,” I tell him, a flush rising into my

cheeks. “Can we leave it at that?”

“For now,” he says, conceding nothing. “So. How do you

make your living?”

“Weddings,” I tell him. “I design and make wedding

gowns, bridal gowns, bridesmaids gowns. Or anyhow, that’s

how I got into the business. I still do custom gowns when re-

quested, but mostly we work with a couple of different gown

manufacturers. Small specialized factories. We do the

fittings, they do the sewing.”

He makes a note. “So you’re in sales.”

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Chris Jordan

I shrug. “Bridal design, we like to say.”

“Dissatisfied customers?”

“It happens. But no one has been upset enough to take it

out on my daughter.”

Duly noted.

“You’re sure about that?” he asks without looking up from

his notebook.

“Last time it happened I refunded their deposit, simple.

That was more than a year ago.”

Mrs. Hampton-Barlow of the Sag Harbor Hampton-

Barlows. The bridal gown arrived on time, but the bridesmaid

gowns were lost in transit, and no time to make them again.

We arranged for perfectly good store-bought versions. No

fault of mine, but I couldn’t really blame her for being upset.

We parted with a formal apology on my part, and a promise

to return her deposit, which I did. The Hampton-Barlows had

their wedding and moved on. Me, too.

“Okay,” he says, ticking that off. “Ever been involved in

a lawsuit?”

“Small-claims court, does that count?”

“Depends on the circumstance.”

“Collecting an unpaid bill. The marriage was annulled

and the couple walked away from their debt.”

“You never collected?”

“There was nothing left to collect. That’s what they told

me.”

“And this was when?”

“Three or four years ago. Cost of doing business.

Happens every now and then. You try to cover your outlay

with the initial deposit. In that case, I got stuck on the

wrong side of the estimate. My own fault, you might say.

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65

They upgraded an order, I failed to upgrade the deposit.

Live and learn.”

“Uh-huh.” Scribble, scribble. “Personal animosities?”

“Excuse me?”

“Does anybody hate you, Mrs. Garner? Hate you enough

to hurt your daughter?”

What a question. And yet it has occurred to me, of course.

Is there someone out there in the world who is angry enough

at me to lure Kelly away? After a moment, I say, “No one I

can think of.”

“No personal vendettas? How about angry boyfriends?

Stalkers?”

That’s easy. “No boyfriends, period. No stalkers that I

know of.”

Shane’s eyebrows lift. Men always seem to think that

any reasonably attractive single woman under the age of

forty is being hounded by suitors. Guys with flowers con-

stantly ringing the doorbell, begging to sweep you off your

feet. If only.

“Has Kelly complained of unwanted attention?” he wants

to know. “Mentioned someone following her or watching her,

or exhibiting menace?”

“No,” I say with a quick head shake. “But to be honest,

over the last few hours I’ve been thinking about that a lot. And

I’m not sure she’d tell me. Yesterday I’d have sworn on a

Bible that Kel would share the important stuff, but today I’m

not so sure.”

At that moment her computer chimes.

Shane’s eyes snap to the screen. Beneath his trim, neatly

cropped beard his lips turn up in a slight smile.

“Bingo,” he says.

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Chris Jordan

14. Flygirl

My mother put up with a lot. It wasn’t that I was a surly

adolescent, not like Kelly, because my pathological shyness

extended to the family. We had learned, Mom and I, never to

raise our voices in the presence of my father. How to hide in

plain sight. But I had my silent, secretive ways, and that

probably bothered Mom more than surliness or back talk.

What are you thinking? she would ask me, as if she really

wanted to know, and I would never say, or mutter something

and go hide in my room, or have long phone conversations

with Fern where we said nothing much at great length.

Poor Mom. All she wanted were a few clues, a guidepost

or two, and I couldn’t or wouldn’t oblige. Now I know my

punishment for letting her down, all those years ago. It’s

right there on the computer screen: Kelly has a secret life.

Or, more accurately, a life she has kept from me, and appar-

ently from her friends as well.

Her user name is
flygirl91.
The number is, of course, the

year of her birth and the “flygirl,” well, to this mother’s ears

it sounds slutty somehow. Wild and crazy, at the very least.

“But she swore she didn’t have a page on MySpace!” I

wail, staring in horror at all the messages and responses in

the files she calls “Facers” and “S-man.”

“She doesn’t,” Shane explains, manipulating the mouse as

we scroll through the files. “You don’t have to post a Web

page on MySpace to have access to the site. It appears Kelly

logged in as a member but never set up an accessible Web

site. She seems to have been deeply involved in searching

categories for particular types of individuals.”

“Oh my God,” I say, hand to my mouth. “She was trolling.”

Shane chuckles and shakes his head. “I believe it’s called

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‘browsing,’ Mrs. Garner. Simply a way to search through the

millions of entries for someone you might find interesting.

The folks on MySpace often affiliate themselves with groups

or common interests. Just like people tend to do in real life.”

The Facers file contains dozens of images of young men,

mostly posing with their computers or leaning against their

cars. One has his shirt off, showing tattoos on his arms and

chest. Another, his new nipple ring. There are several motor-

cycles and a hang glider proudly displayed by boys who look

ready to die at a moment’s notice. All of it heart attack

material for the mother of a teenage girl.

“This is interesting,” Shane says, clicking on the photo of

the kid with the nipple ring.

“It must have hurt,” I say, wincing at the very thought.

“No, I mean what’s missing. Your daughter saved this

image, but there’s no indication she ever messaged this par-

ticular individual.”

“Thank God for that.”

“It’s true for most of these images,” Shane says, making

eye contact. “She was culling pictures but not necessarily

making herself known to the subjects.”

“But what does it mean?” I ask.

Shane shrugs. “Hard to say. Might just means she liked

the pictures. Maybe because they fit her definition of a Facer,

whatever that is. Kind of a wise guy, out-there type, maybe?

Any thoughts? Have you heard her use the word?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe. The cool words change from day

to day, you know?”

“We can Google it later, if it seems to be pertinent. Right

now I’ll concentrate on the file contents.”

Shane scrolls through my daughter’s secret life, or her

fantasy life, all of it reduced to thumb-size snapshots. I’m

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Chris Jordan

standing over his broad shoulders, close enough to smell his

deodorant—kind of a pine scent—aware that under normal cir-

cumstances this level of intimacy with a stranger would be, for

me, uncomfortable. But these are not normal circumstances. Far

from it.

“You think that’s how she met this Seth person?” I ask

“Because she saw his picture—his Facer—on the Web site?”

“Yet to be determined,” says Shane, manipulating the

keyboard with all ten fingers, a level of typing skill never

mastered by yours truly.

“Ah,” he says, as another folder opens. “Here we go. This is

linked to a message Kelly mass-mailed to forty-six recipients.”

He deftly places the e-mail in the center of the screen,

enlarges the font so we can both read.

Young, aspiring pilot looking for flight instruction. Willing to

help with cleaning, maintenance of aircraft. Ready to learn.

I’m too stunned to speak.

“You notice she doesn’t mention her age or gender, other

than to say ‘young.’”

“I never knew. Never had any idea.”

“That she wants to learn how to fly?”

“Any of it. Willing to help with cleaning? I can’t even get

her to vacuum the hallway! She takes care of her own room,

that’s it.”

Ready to learn. The question is, and it breaks my heart to

think it, was she ready to learn more than flying? Was this her