Flashlight, not gun.
Who are you? he demands in a shaky voice. What do you want?
Mr. Manning? Im Randall Shane and this is Mrs. Jane Garner.
I dont know you. He backs away, looks ready to slip back into the foliage. What do you want? His voice sounds like a speaker with a loose wire, like hes on the verge of laryngitis, and fighting it.
Shane raises both hands, as if in surrender, and takes a step closer to the gate. We have reason to believe that Mrs. Garners daughter, Kelly, has run away with Seth Manning, who is listed as living at this address. Are you Seths father, sir? Are you aware that Kelly Garner is a minor? Can you help us find them?
At each statement of fact the man in black seems to shudder, as if receiving a series of thudding body blows. Shaking his head, no, no, no. Never heard of the girl, he responds, voice cracking. Youll have to leave. I demand that you leave immediately!
Shane slips closer to the gate. His own powerful, compelling voice becomes less demanding, more conciliatory. Wheres your son, Mr. Manning? Can you help us, please? Mrs. Garner is worried sick. This isnt about pressing charges, its about getting her daughter back.
Go away! You must go away!
Why is that? Has something happened?
The man in black retreats, blending into the foliage. Only his eyes showing, like the Cheshire cat. Nothing happened, he says softly. Go away.
Shane takes a business card from his wallet, slips it through the iron bars. It flutters to the ground like a small, white leaf. My card, sir. I can help you.
The eyes vanish. The voice has been reduced to a pleading whisper. You can help by going away.
Then the leaves shiver and hes gone.
Shane pulls the Town Car over in a shallow turnaround a few hundred yards from the Manning estate. He kills the engine. On the other side of the road, seemingly close enough to touch, the water is black, glistening. A few miles away, visible along the shore, the snug little cove exudes life. Docks, homes, streetlights.
A familiar, clustered warmth that seems alien out here on the Neck, where many of the homes are hidden from view.
Shane shifts himself in the drivers seat, facing me.
Your reaction? he asks.
Messed up, I admit. The feeling of dread has returned, nagging at my guts. Getting into the car, my knees had been weak. That was Seths father, wasnt it?
Shane nods. I cant quite make out his eyes. Hes a handsome skull in the dark. Almost certainly, he agrees. I addressed him as Mr. Manning several times and he failed to correct me. Probably used to people knowing who he is.
His face was dirty, I say, mouth as dry as sandpaper.
Smeared on the dirt so we wouldnt see him, Shane says. Im almost certain he was hiding in the leaves, listening to us for a while before he revealed himself.
But why?
The big man sighs. This is pure speculation, but I assume he wanted to know who we are. Or more importantly, who we arent.
Why? I repeat. Why not call the security guards to run us off? Or call the cops? Why come out to the gate at all? People who live in houses like that, on estates like that, they dont run around at night, dressed all in black, faces smeared with dirt.
Im unaware of clutching the back of the leather headrest until Shane gives my hand a reassuring pat, as if preparing me for bad news.
In my estimation Edwin Manning is desperate, he says carefully, gauging my reaction. Hes making it up as he goes along.
Desperate, frightened, lost. That was my impression, too.
Ive seen parents behave like that, many times. Shane says. Not the sneaking-around part, exactly, but the frightened-out-of-their-wits part. Hes sick with worry, just like you.
Because his son took off with my daughter? I ask, dreading the answer.
Shane says, Or because his son has been abducted, and hes been warned not to contact the police.
18. Calling All Fathers
Its after midnight and Ricky cant sleep. Lying a foot or so from Myla on the custom king, he just cant make it happen. Too many things going on. His sleep button is stuck and the pills no longer work. White mans medicine, all it does is slow his thoughts a few miles per hour, not nearly enough to let his mind rest.
Only thing to do when this happens, he decides, is get up, keep moving. Forward motion pushes all the crazy thoughts to the back of his head, prevents them from bouncing. Saved by gravity or momentum, or whatever the hell it is.
Ricky slips out of bed, leaves Myla sleeping like a curled-up kitten, a slender hand draped over her eyes. He prowls his new house in the dark, naked. Bare feet cool on the tiles, walking a circuit that takes him through the kitchen, into the hallway, past the three bedrooms he furnished for his children, around through the entertainment alcove, and back into the dining room. Sodium lights coming though the slats like knife-cuts on the tile floors.
Step on a crack, hes thinking, break the motherfuckers back.
On his third circuit Ricky leans into Tylers room. Disney World poster, bed like a race car, brightly painted. No Tyler tonight. Sometimes theres a shape in the bed that might be his little boy, but not tonight. Decides not to check on Alicia and Reya because the girls will be with Tyler, all three together, forever and ever, amen.
The new house, big as it is, is too small to contain him. In the laundry room he slips into a pair of elastic-waisted, cotton gym shorts, heads into the four-bay garage. No shirt, no shoes, he loves the feeling of air on his skin, believes he can soak up oxygen, make himself stronger. He decides, on impulse, to leave the Beemer and take Mylas new convertible Mini Cooper. Pushes the drivers seat as far back as it will go, his big arms cocked over the sides. Thinking he must look like one of those Shriners driving a toy car for the kids. All he needs is the funny hat.
Ha, ha, ha, he laughs all the way to the airstrip. Not quite to the airstrip, actually, because the ruts and potholes on the final approach are bigger than the Mini. So he parks the little car in the brush, goes the last couple of miles on foot, snorting great drafts of muggy, night-swamp air though his flaring nostrils. The odor of ancient muck, animal scat and the thin, delicious scent of slow-moving water. Thinking, this is how the old-timers did it, hunting more or less naked, alive to the world, paying attention with all the nerves of their bodies.
Ricky feels power flowing into him, and a soothing calmness that slows his brain, stops it from spinning like an off-kilter gyroscope. When he emerges into the clearing he instantly clocks the beautiful Beechcraft exactly where he left it, wings glinting with the light of distant stars. Not far away the jacked-up, fat-wheeled Dodge Ram lurks next to the camouflaged hangar. The toothy front grill makes the truck look like a shiny steel cougar ready to pounce.
Roy! Ricky bellows, cupping his hands to his mouth. Dug! Roydug! Roydug! Roydug!
Amused by putting their names together, the swamp-cracker twins who have sworn him allegiance in exchange for the new truck and whatever crumbs may dribble their way. Roy is the brains of the family, meaning he doesnt drool overmuch. Whereas Dug, his very name apparently misspelled by his illiterate, white-trash mammy, young Dug seems to be missing about half his puzzle.
Ricky always deals with Roy, for obvious reasons, but this time its Dug who comes lurching out of the truck, swollen eyelids crunchy with sleep.
Upon seeing Ricky he stammers, Um-um. Yeah hey what?
Bare chested, bare-legged Ricky Lang coming out of the dark, chanting his name, its like being awakened by a hard slap in the face. An experience not entirely unknown to Dug, whose late and unlamented pappy was notoriously ill-tempered and free with his hands.
Wheres Roy? Ricky wants to know.
Dug is looking around, wondering how the man got here. A little segment of his brain wondering if maybe the crazy Indian really can fly without benefit of aircraft. Materializing like a ghost with Dugs name in his mouth.
Um-um, says Dug.
Um-um, wheres he at? Ricky demands. Standing close so the stammering white-bread can smell the feral stink of him, the swamp and danger on his breath.
Dug is afraid of Rickyany sane individual smaller than King Kong would be afraid of Ricky Lang, who exudes a kind of steroid strength from the top of his bowl-cut hairdo down to his splayed feetbut Dug is even more afraid that hell react the wrong way, ruin everything for Roy. Not knowing what to do, fearing the wrong reaction, hes reduced to stammering, making um-um noises while his brain sorts out the options.
Strangely enough, Ricky seems to understand whats going on with Dugthe obvious strain of having to thinkand steps back, giving him room to work it out.
Roy, Dug finally says, savoring the name. He gone to check on the girl. Im guardin the airplane.
Giving it the swamp-cracker pronunciations, two words, era plane.
Left you the truck, Ricky observes. Whats he driving?
Dug has to think about it, then carefully assemble the words. Four-wheeler. One in the shed?
That sets Ricky back on his bare heels just a little, because he has always intended the four-wheeler to be a present for his children, eventually. Purchased on a whim months ago, with nobodys birthday pending anytime soon, hed decided to store it at the airfield until they were old enough to drive the thing. Picturing Tyler gleeful as he guns the engine, spins the fat wheels. Tyler screaming.
Ricky takes a deep breath, swallows his rage, saving it for later.
Took the wheeler, did he? he says pleasantly, showing his teeth.
Dug nods deliberately and with enthusiasm, as if grateful for any question that doesnt require a verbal response.
Wheres that cell phone at, Dug? The one the girl had. Did Roy leave it with you?
Dug nods again. Two in a row.
Give it over, I need to make a call, says Ricky, holding out his big fist, opening his blunt fingers.
Dug hurries to the truck, returns with the sporty little Razr cell phone, places it carefully into the palm of Rickys hand. Takes a step back, waiting.
Battery, Dug, says Ricky, ever so softly. I need the battery, too.
Back to the truck like a two-legged retriever. Actually Rickys pleased that the twins remembered to remove the battery, as instructed. Ricky knows all about surveillance and triangulation, and how an active cell phone can be a homing device.
He assembles the phone, fires it up, waits until the signal bars are glowing. Then thumbs the redial button, watches the familiar number march across the little blue screen.
Yo, Edwin, Ricky says jovially, his free hand slipping into his gym shorts, adjusting his genitals. You still up. Me again, yeah. Whats a matter, cant sleep? You call the cops yet? No? FBI? CIA, Wackenhut, Pizza Hut, whoever? No? You swear? Oh thats good, I believe you. Youre pretty smart for a white dude. Yeah, Im down with you, bro. We can figure a way out of this, we put our brains together and think real hard. Uh-huh, uh-huh. I know youre worried about your son. I know that. You should be worried. If we cant work this out, if you cant help me, Ill be forced to cut off your boys ears and his nose and his fingers and little white pecker, and then FedEx him to locations around the world.
The FedEx stuff is pure improvisation, something he heard in a movie or on TV. Ricky has already decided that when the time comes the body will go into the swamp, clean and simple and forever. But who knows, FedEx might work for the smaller appendages.
Ricky loves this part, deciding who lives, who dies, who gets the power, who shrivels like an earthworm in the sun.
Calm down, Edwin, he says. Concentrate on figuring out how to get me what I want. Youve got twelve hours before I start cutting.
19. The Taste Of Dirty Pennies
Men, most of them, seem to think that when a woman cries shes signaling weakness, falling apart. But sometimes crying is just what you do to relieve the tension. Guys scream or sweat or kick the cat. We cry. Theres this old movie with Holly Hunter, shes the producer of a TV news show, and she starts the day by sitting at her desk and crying her eyes out for about thirty seconds. Then shes good to go.
Im having a Holly Hunter moment. The forbidden word abducted is spoken and Im a fountain, sobbing so hard it hurts in my ribs.
Give him credit, Randall Shane doesnt try to comfort me or offer a shoulder to cry on. He sits back and gives me time, and when Im finished blowing my nose he simply continues where he left off.
Its a theory and therefore by definition it could be wrong, he says. But I think we have to proceed on the assumption that Edwin Manning believes his son is in peril. Therefore we have to assume your daughter is also in peril, until we hear otherwise. Does this make sense to you, Mrs. Garner?
I nod miserably. Unfortunately, yes. I was thinking the same thing myself. Guess I didnt want to admit it.
Then were in agreement?
I guess, I say. Does that mean we go to the cops? Tell them what we suspect?
Shane shakes his head. Were not quite there. We need to know why Manning hasnt called in the Feds. Why hes so terrified that hes prowling his own yard in camouflage. Once weve resolved that, once we have an indication that your daughter is in danger, well notify the local authorities and theyll contact the FBI. Thats how its done.
How do we find out? He wont talk to us.
In the dark his smile is tight, resolute. Ive got an idea, he says.
Second time around, getting inside is easy. Shanes idea is to push the button on the intercom and say, Let us in, Mr. Manning, or Ill call my colleagues at the FBI. The assistant director in charge of kidnapping is Monica Bevins and I have her on speed dial. Count of three. One two.
And just like that, the gates slid open. As we roll up the long, curving driveway, I ask Shane if he really has a Monica Bevins on speed dial, and if shes really an agent-in-charge.
Yes to both, he says. And yes, Im fully prepared to make the call.
And they let you assist clients like me? The FBI?
Cant stop me. Im a civilian.
But youve got, like, all these connections to the agency, right?
Some useful connections, yes.
And this is what you did before you retired, you found missing children?
His eyes find mine in the rearview mirror. He gives me an odd look, like Im a kid asking too many questions at the wrong time. No, he says, not exactly. I assisted with a number of kidnap cases as an agent on general assignment. At the time it wasnt my specialty.