First rule, know where you are. Find the horizon. Very good, keep your wings level. Trust your balance, but trust theinstruments even more. Its 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. Shed love to see stars, love to find the sky, locate a constellation, but all shes 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. Shes been there, done that, doesnt want to go back.
With all the courage she can muster, Kelly forces her eyes open. Sees her hands on the concrete floorshe 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 backseat belt mandatory. He driver, I passenger.
Personal quirk of mine, he says. Safety first.
Actually were still in my driveway, with the big Lincoln Town Car in Park and the emergency brake engaged. Cant think of the last time I set an emergency brake, but with Shane, you guessed it, standard procedure.
Were idling there while he makes a few calls on his car phone. Its 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 its 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 Kellys hard drive sat up and begged for mercy before giving a full confession.
Suspects 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 youll add him to the BOLO, and any vehicles registered in his name? Thank you, Detective Berg. Yes, shes right here with me. Oh, and before I forget, theres 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. Im 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 hes talking about. This means theyll look for his car?
Absolutely. Goes to the top of the list.
Whats a 2252? I want to know. Is that like an AMBER Alert?
Lets roll, Shane suggests. Ill fill you in on the way.
As drivers go hes 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 wed survive somehow, me and Randall Shane and his sturdy Lincoln Town Car. I feeland this is pure crazinessthat if I can get this man close enough to Kelly, shell 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 hes on the thruway, Shane clears his throat and explains, Statute 2252 is a federal law, Internet Crimes Against Children, ICAC for short. Theres 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 hed go on the watch list. ICAC has a nationwide reach, and that may be useful. But it doesnt mean that if apprehended hell necessarily be prosecuted. Mostly the law concerns soliciting sex by transmission of indecent images. We didnt see anything like that on Kellys computer. But theres 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.
Youre 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.
Hes not a teenager! I snap. Hes grown man. Also hes a flight instructor, that makes him like a teacher, right? With a teachers 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, dont they? She said she was older. Showed me a fake ID. Or whatever.
They always do, he agreed. But lets keep our priorities straight. The important thing is to locate your daughter. Thats our goal. After that, let the law take care of itself.
You think hes in Oyster Bay? That he took her home?
He glances at me in the rearview. Its a place to start. The Nassau County Police will make a drive-by, checking tags. I figure well 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 were clear, Mrs. Garner, Im not a licensed P.I. Im a consultant. And we consultants can ring doorbells like nobodys business.
A private investigator can do that? I ask.
Ring a doorbell? He chuckles. Most of them. But just so were clear, Mrs. Garner, Im not a licensed P.I. Im a consultant. And we consultants can ring doorbells like nobodys business.
An hour or so laterwould have taken me forty-five minutes, topsthe 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. Were not far from the inner bay, the local claim to fame, but its 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?
Weve 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 youre lucky enough to live out here you probably call it the Neck or the Village. That area to the west, along the shore, thats 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 were 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 shed 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.
Dont 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.
Legal jeopardy. Up to me, Id say Seth Manning is in deep shit.
Were both out of the Town Car, stretching our legs and checking out the heavy gate. In movies the hero simply mows the gate down, but this one has electronic locks that slip into a sturdy concrete footing and Im not at all sure even the mighty Lincoln could get through. Plus were under surveillance by at least three cameras, one of which is night vision equipped, according to Shane. Try to monkey with the security gate and the local cops, rented and otherwise, will be on us long before we pry it open.
I know this because Im the one who advocated the mow-it-down theory of making ourselves known.
Cant help you if Im under arrest, Shane points out, nixing the idea. Antagonizing the authorities wont help.
Very rational, but Im not feeling particularly rational. Im exhausted, anxious and cranky. Im acutely aware of wearing the same skirt and cotton top donned for my visit to the county cops, hours and ages ago. Clothing that now smells sour. I need a hot shower. I need a warm meal and a good nights sleep. I need to brush my teeth. I need my daughter home, my life returned to normal.
Doesnt this just prove that hes gone? I fret, gesturing at the locked gate. Or that hes in there with Kelly and wont come out?
Shane studies me, runs a hand over his neatly trimmed beard. Seth Manning is in his early twenties, he says. Im assuming this is the family home. The property is listed under the name Edwin Manning. Could be the father.
Right, of course. Id been concentrating on the cradle-robber himself, hadnt given a thought to his parents.
His parents may not know whats going on. If you were his age, planning to run off with a minor, would you inform your parents?
Doubtful.
For all we know, Seth may in fact live elsewhere, Shane reminds me. But this is the address on his driver license, so we start here.
Okay fine, I concede. So Mom and Dad are on vacation. They own other homes. Theyre in Gay Paree, or the Ukraine, or touring the moon.
Yes, quite possibly they could be elsewhere, he concedes, nodding in agreement. You want to leave?
No! Thats not what Im saying! Im saying if nobody answers the damn bell, Im climbing the damn fence!
There could be dogs.
Then the dogs better watch out. Woman bites dog, thatll be the headline. And you cant stop me!
Not sure how it happened, exactly, but suddenly Im seething, lashing out, and Randall Shane is a convenient target. Oddly enough, the big man doesnt react. Its as if hes been expecting me to flip out, and braced himself for it.
What makes you look so smug! I demand.
The lights, he says, pointing at the heavy foliage obscuring the curve of the driveway.
Are there lights twinkling through the leaves? Hard to say.
The house lights? Are you sure?
No, he says. Not to a certainty. But moments after I first pushed the button, lights shifted.
The wind? A timer?
He shrugs. Maybe. My gut says somebody is home. And ignoring a buzz from the gate, that tells us something.
What? I ask, embarrassed for teeing off at the guy. What does it tell us?
Before he can explain, a figure emerges from the bushes and takes a position several paces behind the locked gate. Surprising the hell out of me but not, apparently, Randall Shane.
In the darkness the figure resolves into a small, slender man dressed from head to toe in black. He has thinning hair, raccoon eyes, and seems to have rubbed dirt on his face.
The small man raises something that could be a gun and points it at us. Before I can duck, the beam of light makes me flinch.
Flashlight, not gun.
Who are you? he demands in a shaky voice. What do you want?