Hot tears leak from her paralyzed eyes. Shes five again, terrified beyond endurance, and she wants her mommy.
12. The Man Called Shane
Its Fern who suggests trying the name on the card. Having called for an update and gotten an earfulanxiety makes me ventFern has agreed that the computer files are vitally important.
Itll all be there, she assures me. These kids, they keep everything in their e-mail and blogs, or on MySpace.
Kellys not on MySpace is my instant retort.
Really? How do you know?
She promised. We agreed it was too dangerous. All that stuff in the news about perverts.
Fern sighs, thinks Im being ridiculous. Teens lie about everything, get over it. Okay, fine, shes the only girl in Valley Stream without a page on MySpace, whatever. What about her e-mail? Her address book files? Whatever whippy snippy thing the girls have going this week. You need to get in there.
I need help, Fern. And it has to be fast. Today.
Agreed. So call the consultant, see if he can recommend an expert.
Consultant?
You said the cop gave you a card. So call. What can it hurt? Takes you three minutes. Worst case, he cant help. Best case, he looks like Johnny Depp.
Fern!
Admit it, when Johnny Ds on the screen you are stuck to the seat like a sticky bun.
Swear on a Bible, if I was lying in the wreckage of a major vehicular accident, gasoline leaking, wires sparking, Fern could still make me laugh. After decades, all the way from that first day in first grade, she knows where the laugh button is, and when to push it. Plus shes right, I have to stop letting anxiety and panic get the best of me. I have to get my little house in order for my daughters sake. Get on the horn, Jane, start making some noise, get things rolling. The world is full of computer geeks, I just have to find one who can get started right now, no excuse, no delay. And if the old retired fogy from the FBI cant help with that, then he gets crossed off the list of helpers, on to the next.
Randall Shane Former Special Agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation Consultant, Special Cases
Special cases, what does that mean, exactly? Only one way to find out. Punching in the number, I rehearse my opening gambit. Try to sound cool, calm and collected. All of which vanishes the instant a thick male voice comes on the line.
Shane.
Um, I need, ah, to speak to, ah, Randall, um, Shane?
This is he. Sounding more than a little gruff. Like, get on with it lady, whats your problem?
Its about my daughter, I blurt out. Shes gone. Missing.
His tone is no longer impatient. Go ahead, Im listening.
They gave me your card, I tell him in a rush, clutching the phone with both hands so it doesnt slip out of my fingers. I dont know the boy, isnt that stupid? I mean I do know his first name, its Seth. But not his last name, or where he lives. Nothing! I never heard of him until yesterday and by then it was too late. They cant, the police, they need somewhere to start, I understand that, really I do, but I dont know anything and now shes gone and she was supposed to call and she did and she said she needed help and then the phone got cut off and something really bad has happened I can feel it in my bones a mother knows you know?
Okay, says the voice. Take a deep breath. Hold it for a count of ten and then let it out slowly. Okay?
Kay, I manage.
Ill count. One. Two. Three
As he counts I can feel my heart slowing, and Im thinking he may be an old fogy, he might be a scam artist, but hes got a great voice and would be calming and reassuring even if he was reading from the phone book. Or counting, for that matter.
Okay, he says. Good. Now, if you could tell me your name.
I tell him.
Jane Garner, fine. Heres how it works, Mrs. Garner. Im going to ask you a few questions and then well decide if I can be of assistance, okay? Well start with the note your daughter left. What exactly did it say?
My brow furrows. I mentioned the note?
Not exactly. You mentioned a promise to call. I assumed that promise was in the form of a note, but I suppose it could have been a voice mail.
It was a note, I tell him. Ive got it right here.
As I read him Kellys note, part of me concludes that weve been in conversation for, at best, a few minutes, and already hes established that hes paying attention. Listening. Which is not what I carried away from my conversation with Jay Berg, the Nassau County detective, who let me run on more out of professional politeness than actual interest. As far as Berg had been concerned, my daughter took off with a guy, end of story. Whereas Mr. Shane seems to be taking me seriously. Or at least taking the situation seriously.
Okay, he says. Got it.
I can hear him taking notes, the mouse squeak of a felt-tip pen. He reads it back, and I agree hes got it, word for word.
Now the call, he says, As best you can remember.
Mom, I need your help, please call.
Thats it?
Last word was cut off.
And what was her tone? Excited, worried?
She was whispering. Like shed didnt want anyone to hear. Whispering and worried and maybe a little afraid.
Please call as in please call back, or please call for help.
I think about it, Kellys voice replaying in my head. Not please call back. It was like she had a lot to say and had to tell me in as few words as possible. So it was more like please call for help.
Or please call someone specific?
Maybe. I rack my brains, reliving the call, but thats all I get, a maybe.
You mentioned computer files.
I must have, but have no recollection. Unless, of course, hes a mind reader. Thats why I called. To see if you know anyone who can get into protected files.
How protected? he wants to know.
I dont know her password.
So not necessarily encrypted? Just password protected?
Im not really sure. All I know is I cant into the files. So, do you know anyone who can?
The man called Shane chuckles, warming my ear.
He says, Matter of fact, I do.
13. Bingo He Says
Two hours later, Randall Shane arrives in a gleaming black Lincoln Town Car with tinted windows. Is it a cop car thing, or a retired FBI thing, or does he moonlight as a chauffeur? Or does he just prefer a car the size of a boat? As it pulls into my driveway, the big Lincoln looks like it could eat my little Mercedes wagon and spit out the chrome.
Standing in the open doorIve been chewing my nails and watching the street for at least an hourI give a wave of greeting as Mr. Shane unfolds himself from the drivers seat. He nods in my directionright place, obviouslyand pops the trunk lid with his key. Retrieves a bulky briefcase and a laptop, secures the trunk, and strides up the walkway, all business.
Theres a lot of him. Very tall, six feet four or five. Wide shoulders, long muscular arms, and a purposeful, no-nonsense way of walking. Not a walk exactly, certainly not a strutmore of a march. Ferns joke comes to mindcant think of anyone who looks less like Johnny Depp. He could put Johnny Depp in his pocket and still have room for lint. No, theres nothing wistful or soft or feminine about Randall Shane. More the Liam Neeson type, if you have to pick an actor. Hes all angles, with a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper goatee that gives him a long, slightly gaunt face. Deep-set, utterly serious sky-blue eyes that are already studying me. Age, somewhere in his forties. Surely not old enough to be retired, and obviously not the elderly gent Id been expecting, even if he does drive a car associated with seniors.
His attire is less formal than I expected. Crisply pressed khaki trousers, a lime-green Polo shirt with a soft rolled collar, brown leather Top-Siders. On someone else it might be a preppy look. Not on Shane. On him it looks like something an NFL linebacker would wear on his day off.
Mrs. Garner? he asks, with a slight, wary smile. Nice, even teeth.
Jane, please. Come in, come in. This is very kind of you.
Well see, he says, ducking slightly as he eases into the foyer. No promises.
Understood. Ill pay for your time, whatever happens.
He shrugs, as if indifferent to the notion of payment. Towering over me in the little foyer, smelling faintly of Ivory soap and something like cedar. Manly cedar, though, not the perfumed version.
Show me to her room, he says.
This way. Up the stairs and to the left.
No calls?
I shake my head. No calls, no contact. My frantic calls are still going directly to voice mail, and my daughter is still in the wind.
The summer days are long, so theres plenty of light in the sky, but early evening has arrived, and as we traipse up the stairs, the host in me automatically offers this stranger something to eat.
Not right now, he says, pushing open the door to Kellys bedroom. A step inside and he stops, checking out the walls, furnishings. The place is girly-girl, teenage girly-girl, but very clean and organized because Kelly is a neat freak.
Did you tidy up? he wants to know.
She keeps it this way.
He nods to himself, as if registering a fact to be filed away. Sets his briefcase on the floor, his laptop on her desk, and then turns to look at me. More of a quick study than a look.
You didnt have supper, he says. A statement of fact.
Not hungry.
Okay. He nods to himself, registering another fact. Do you drink tea?
Whats this about? Im thinking, but admit that sometimes I do, in fact, drink tea.
Good. Then I suggest you make yourself a mug of strong, hot tea. Put sugar in it, for energy. Eat two pieces of toast, youll be able to hold that much down.
What? I say, thinking hes been here less than a minute, already hes telling me when and what to eat.
You look like youre about to faint, Mrs. Garner. Time and efficiency are very important at this juncture, and I need you to be conscious and thinking coherently. In a crisis like this, many parents tend to fall apart. We dont have that luxury. Tea, toast. Stay downstairs. Ill let you know if I need help, or have questions.
Im halfway down the stairs before I realize he just ordered me out of my own daughters 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. Hadnt realized how depleted Id been, how close to passing out. Maybe even fainting, as hed 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 Ive ever met an FBI agent, retired or otherwise. All my thoughts on the subject of FBI agents come from TV shows, and muttered asides from my late father, so maybe Im way off, reading too much into Shanes formal manner of speech.
Whatever, Im not about to remain confined to the kitchen. With an extra mug of tea as my excuse, I slip upstairs, into Kellys 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?
Ill know in twenty-six minutes, he says, grunting softly to himself as he hits a key. Make it twenty-five.
Theres 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 internists eyes. You look better, he says, rendering judgment.
I am, thank you.
Proprietary software, he explains, nodding at the screen. If Kelly left her password anywhere on the hard drive, well find it, and if need be the software will crack it. Preliminary 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. Thats great. Ill 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 dont understand.
You dont need to. Its just the way computers organize themselves. Each folder has a name and a location. I was able to list the folders by title, but cant open them without the password. If this particular software doesnt get us there, I have other ways. Making it sound almost ominous. Like no mere microchip would dare defy him.
So youre, um, a computer expert?
In a limited way, yes. As you say, Im something of a geek. He smiles, letting me know that geekness doesnt offend him. Actually, for the last several years before I left the bureau, that was my primary role, overseeing the development of software applications.
You dont 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 doesnt matter. If the big man manages to get a line on the mysterious Seth, and Kellys location, I dont care what his specialty is or was, or why he left the FBI.
Have a seat, he suggests. I need to get some background.
Theres only one chair in Kellys room, so I perch on her bed. Amazingly enough, this stranger is offering me a seat in my own house. Not that hes trying to be offensivefar from it. Hes focused on a task, on helping me, and for that Im grateful. Still, I cant 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 Im even slightly interestedevery 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 briefcase. First things first, he begins. Where is Kellys father in all this?
Nowhere, I respond, a little too fast.
I take it youre no longer married?
Im a single mom.
He nods. Not a judgmental nod, just noting another fact. Has the father been informed that shes 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, thats how I got into the business. I still do custom gowns when requested, 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 youre in sales.