Lost (8 page)

Shane makes me sit on the closed toilet as he applies a cold cloth to my forehead. “Guess I was wrong about the toast, huh?”

“Dummy.”

“Well, it’s not the first time I’ve been dumb,” he says kindly, wringing the cloth out.

“No, me. I’m the dummy. Should have known. Should have been checking her e-mail.”

“Here, hold this,” he says, pressing the cold cloth to my forehead. Gets a dry towel, pats the moisture from my neck. “You couldn’t check her e-mail, remember? And if you could, she’d have found another way. Your daughter is obviously a very willful young woman.”

“Obviously.”

He folds the towel, slips it back on the rack. Most of the men I know, they’d drop it on the floor, because that’s where used towels go. Not Randall Shane. He’s different. Been in my house for an hour or so and I know that much.

“You feeling better?” he asks, standing tall, very tall. “Good. I just got a hit on Seth Manning.”

“A hit?”

“His address. I know where he lives.”

15. Seven Finds A Wall

Time is squishy. Sometimes the seconds tick by in a reasonable, almost ordinary way, and Kelly counts her heartbeats, the pulse in her neck. One, two three, and so on. The highest she gets is seventy-six and then the overwhelming darkness seems to bend around her, a kind of dim gravity, and the clock in her head stops ticking and gets all squishy.

No other way to describe it. Squishy.

Because she can’t measure the passage of time, Kelly has no idea how long it takes for the paralysis to dissipate. All she knows is that at some point she can wiggle her toes, raise her languid arms and let them droop across her chest like melted bones. Could be hours, days, eternity.

Thoughts slowly surface out of the inky black, like a die rising inside a Magic 8-Ball. The usual 8-Ball answers, too:
Outlook not so good. Ask again later.

She manages to place her tingling palms on the floor, detects the familiar roughness of concrete. Not bare ground, concrete.

Is it night outside, is that why the darkness is so absolute?

Wait, how does she know she’s inside rather than outside?

Sluggish thoughts, and then she knows the answer. Because it
feels
inside. The closed silence, the still air, a kind of muffled feeling. Definitely in, not out. Enclosed.

On impulse she flails, looking for a wall. Wanting to find an edge, a shape to the world.

Nothing.

You’re a baby, she thinks. Lying on the floor like a baby, flailing around. Get up. Do something. Learn something. Find a way back to the world.

It takes forever, and she has to endure a violent swirl of dizziness, but Kelly eventually turns over, manages to get on her hands and knees. Huffing the thick air because the effort makes her feel faint.

Hot, stuffy. Wherever she is, that place can’t be very large. The darkness is close, pressing. Slowly, very slowly, she crawls, struggling to keep her balance. Not wanting to fall over like some cheesy mechanical baby toy. Boink, I fall down, Mommy!

Counting as she crawls. One two three, four five six.

Seven finds a wall. A very solid wall. Slippery smooth surface. Steel, like the cafeteria counters in school.

Now we’re getting somewhere, she thinks, and the thought becomes a giggle. Now we’re getting somewhere? As if! Hilarious. Ironic. Whatever.

Keep going. Orient yourself. You wanted to learn to fly, flygirl? Seth’s first flight lesson pours into her brain, and it helps, hearing his gentle confident voice.

First rule, know where you are. Find the horizon. Very good, keep your wings level. Trust your balance, but trust the
instruments even more. It’s all about perception, judgment, making choices. The choices you make keep you alive.

I choose to crawl, she thinks. Another giggle. But her body keeps trying, keeps moving. She nudges along the wall, counting as she crawls.

One two three four five.

Six smacks her head. Not hard enough to see stars. She’d love to see stars, love to find the sky, locate a constellation, but all she’s located is a corner. Ninety degrees. Steel walls intersecting. Still, it means something. The world has a corner. The shape of it begins to form in her mind. A small shed? A big steel box? Where is she and why is she here? What about Seth? What about her mom? What about the beautiful airplane, and the fantastic flight that somehow turned out wrong? What happened? Why?

Thoughts starting to click along as the drug wears off.

Suddenly the air moves. And then she sees the light. Shocking, blinding light. Light that stops her heart. Almost in the same instant, the sound of a door closing. A vault door, heavy and solid and forever.

The light scares her. The light makes her want to pee her pants. She has to pee anyhow and this makes it worse, much worse. She starts to cry because she hates, she really really hates being afraid. Long ago she decided that being afraid is what makes you start to die. She’s been there, done that, doesn’t want to go back.

With all the courage she can muster, Kelly forces her eyes open. Sees her hands on the concrete floor—she got that part right. Turns her head, willing herself to look directly at the light.

Lamp.

Someone has shoved a small, portable lamp inside the
door. The kind of battery-operated lamp you might use while camping. The light it throws is actually pretty feeble, but it reveals a steel-walled room, maybe eight feet by ten feet, and a solid steel door so closely fitted that the seams are barely visible. A room with no way out, she thinks. Steel box. Trapped.

16. Where The Sacred Waters Flow

Most high school students have more limo creds than I do. Proms, mitzvahs, sweet-sixteeners, and parents who hire a livery service rather than risk precious little junior denting the Lexus. Here on Long Island a certain class of teens ride hired cars like we used to ride buses. They know chauffeurs like we used to know school custodians. Although its unlikely that any of the chauffeurs look like Randall Shane. Who insists that I ride in the back—seat belt mandatory. He driver, I passenger.

“Personal quirk of mine,” he says. “Safety first.”

Actually we’re still in my driveway, with the big Lincoln Town Car in Park and the emergency brake engaged. Can’t think of the last time I set an emergency brake, but with Shane, you guessed it, standard procedure.

We’re idling there while he makes a few calls on his car phone. It’s not a cell or Bluetooth, but an old-fashioned heavy-duty car phone mounted in the console, equipped with a hardwired receiver. Years ago, I recall, it was a very big deal to have a car phone. Now it’s an anachronism that nevertheless seems to fit the driver, who nods at me as he rings Detective Jay Berg with the news, letting Berg know that Kelly’s hard drive sat up and begged for mercy before giving a full confession.

“Suspect’s name is Seth Earl Manning, age twenty-one.
M-A-N-N-I-N-G.
Correct, with a
g.
” From the front seat
Shane gives me a tight smile. All part of including me in the loop, apparently.

“Yes, sir, I have an address in Oyster Bay.” He nods to himself as the conversation continues, goes uh-huh for a while, then locks eyes again with me as he says, “So you’ll add him to the BOLO, and any vehicles registered in his name? Thank you, Detective Berg. Yes, she’s right here with me. Oh, and before I forget, there’s evidence that this could be an Internet crime. Correct, in my judgment it could fall under the 2252 statute. Yes, sir. Excellent idea. I will, absolutely. I’m sure Mrs. Garner will be very grateful. Thanks again, sir.”

He returns the receiver to the neat little cradle built into the dash. “Stroking the locals,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Unpleasant, but somebody has to do it.”

I shake my head, not really sure what he’s talking about. “This means they’ll look for his car?”

“Absolutely. Goes to the top of the list.”

“What’s a 2252?” I want to know. “Is that like an AMBER Alert?”

“Let’s roll,” Shane suggests. “I’ll fill you in on the way.”

As drivers go he’s solid, cautious, and, by my standards, maddeningly slow. Hands on the wheel at ten and two, eyes on the road, checking the side and rear mirrors. On the other hand the ride is silky smooth and I do, in fact, feel almost absurdly safe. A meteor the size of Texas could strike, devastating all life, and we’d survive somehow, me and Randall Shane and his sturdy Lincoln Town Car. I feel—and this is pure craziness—that if I can get this man close enough to Kelly, she’ll be safe, too. Like the opposite of kryptonite, radiating strength and safety.

Like I said, crazy. Hours of anxiety and worry have addled my brain.

Once he’s on the thruway, Shane clears his throat and explains, “Statute 2252 is a federal law, Internet Crimes Against Children, ICAC for short. There’s an ICAC Task Force headquartered in Albany, under the state police, and Detective Berg indicated he would contact them.”

“Crimes against children?” Just saying it makes my stomach clench. “He can be arrested for crimes against children?”

“Probably not,” Shane concedes. “I made a point invoking the statute in hopes that he’d go on the watch list. ICAC has a nationwide reach, and that may be useful. But it doesn’t mean that if apprehended he’ll necessarily be prosecuted. Mostly the law concerns soliciting sex by transmission of indecent images. We didn’t see anything like that on Kelly’s computer. But there’s another part of the statute that covers endangering child welfare. Acting in any manner that is likely to be injurious to the physical, mental, or moral welfare of a child.”

“You’re saying he could be prosecuted, maybe.”

“Very tough to make that case,” Shane cautions. “Your daughter is technically a minor, but the courts are loath to invoke the law in teen romance situations.”

“He’s not a teenager!” I snap. “He’s grown man. Also he’s a flight instructor, that makes him like a teacher, right? With a teacher’s responsibility?”

“Agreed,” says Shane. “Absolutely. He had no business responding to a sixteen-year-old girl. The fact that she was, ah, somewhat deceptive about her revealing her age might or might not be a mitigating factor.”

I fold my arms across my chest, feeling stubborn. “They always say that, don’t they? ‘She said she was older. Showed me a fake ID.’ Or whatever.”

“They always do,” he agreed. “But let’s keep our priorities
straight. The important thing is to locate your daughter. That’s our goal. After that, let the law take care of itself.”

“You think he’s in Oyster Bay? That he took her home?”

He glances at me in the rearview. “It’s a place to start. The Nassau County Police will make a drive-by, checking tags. I figure we’ll get a jump start, actually ring the doorbell.”

“A private investigator can do that?” I ask.

“Ring a doorbell?” He chuckles. “Most of them. But just so we’re clear, Mrs. Garner, I’m not a licensed P.I. I’m a consultant. And we consultants can ring doorbells like nobody’s business.”

An hour or so later—would have taken
me
forty-five minutes, tops—the big Lincoln finally rolls into Oyster Bay, heart of the so-called Gold Coast. North shore of the island, facing the Sound. Heading for the village, not the city. We’re not far from the inner bay, the local claim to fame, but it’s midnight and all I can see is a swath of the shore road illuminated by headlights. That and the moonless silhouettes of majestic trees and huge, estate-style homes nestled along the cove.

Randall Shane, clever devil, has an on-board navigation system.

“Teddy Roosevelt used to live out this way, did you know that?” he asks.

“I heard.”

“You do business here?”

“We’ve done a few weddings on Cove Neck. Amazing affairs, believe me. Twenty grand for a bridal gown, every stitch by hand. Two thousand just for the pearl embroidery. Anyhow, if you’re lucky enough to live out here you probably call it ‘the Neck’ or ‘the Village.’ That area to the west, along
the shore, that’s ‘the Cove’. All very different from the city, where the working stiffs live. Out here on the Neck some of the residents tend to talk about Teddy like he lives next door. Like you might run into him at the next catered barbecue.”

“No kidding?” He glances at the navigation screen, slows for the next intersection. “So this area we’re heading into, the Mannings are likely to be wealthy, is that correct?”

“On the Neck? Super wealthy. Megabucks.”

“They may have security,” he points out.

“They all have security,” I tell him.

“Could be a problem this time of night.” He reaches into the glove compartment, takes out a small leather case.

“Gun?” I ask.

“Cell phone,” he says, deadpan. “In case some gung ho rent-a-cop picks us up.”

The navigation screen bongs gently. Shane applies the brakes, bringing the Town Car to a full and complete stop. “This is it,” he announces.

Headlights pick up a locked, black-iron gate and a long, curved driveway beyond, paved with finely crushed oyster shells. Appropriate, given the location. Costs a fortune but makes a nice, satisfying crunch when the Rolls rolls up the driveway. Or the Bentley, or the Ferrari. Whatever the vehicle of choice on any particular day.

Shane presses a button and the windows slide down to the smell of the sea, a whiff of cut grass coming to us out of the dark. For some reason I think of a song my mother used to hum, or maybe it was a poem she’d had to memorize for school. All I get are fragments from childhood memory:
by the shore of something-or-other, where the sacred waters run.
Xanadu, not Oyster Bay. But “sacred waters,” that has
to be right. Any place this expensive, it has to be sacred, at least to the wily gods of real estate.

“How do we get past the gate?” I ask.

“Don’t you remember?” says Shane, grinning as he reaches a long arm out the window. “We ring the bell.”

17. The Man In Black

The gate never opens. Shane keeps pressing the button, speaking into the lighted intercom, announcing our presence.

“This is in regard to Seth Manning. Seth is in legal jeopardy, please respond,” and so on, never varying his authoritative tone. Sounding very much like a federal agent.