by Chris Jordan
“Hey, big guy.”
That’s Dane Porter, popping through the door like a gorgeous little cuckoo expelled from her clock.
“Did you know that’s what they call you, your fans? I mean the medical staff. The Big Guy. I need to be more formal, being an attorney, so I’m thinking maybe of going with The Large Dude.”
“Please don’t.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Dane says, effervescent with good tidings. “Shane you are and Shane you shall be. Did Dr. Gallagher happen to mention Tommy Costello is getting a little antsy? She did? Well, we’re here to put your mind at rest. We just received evidence, physical evidence, that’s going to result in all charges being dropped. Maybe not today, but in the next few, that’s guaranteed.” She makes a sweeping gesture in my direction and says, “Alice? Tell him the wicked good news.”
When I tell Shane about the surveillance video that identifies the shooter he shakes his head and says, “Who the hell is Micky Lee?”
“He may have been an acquaintance of Jonny Bing, the entrepreneur,” I say. “We’re running that down. We’re assuming this was a hired hit, but we don’t yet know who did the hiring or why, exactly.”
Dane says, “The point is, you’re off the hook, or soon will be. Plus there have been some interesting developments. One of whom just happens to be drop-dead gorgeous.”
Over the course of the next ten minutes, the attorney tells him, very succinctly, about the extremely large-caliber bullet fired into the residence, as well as the arrival of Michelle Chen, also known as Ming-Mei, her triad background as the mistress of a dragon head and the real circumstances of Joey’s abduction.
“So that’s what happened,” Shane says when the summation is complete. “That’s why everything changed. The kid was being bounced between the two sides, both trying to get leverage on his father. Chasing the dream of a functioning quantum computer. You say your boss is convinced that Gatling is the one who had the boy lifted from Hong Kong? She’s absolutely sure about that?”
“Ninety-nine percent,” I say. “Naomi Nantz never goes a hundred. Ninety-nine is as good as it gets.”
“And she thinks he’ll do the right thing and have Joey released?”
“If he can find a way not to be implicated, why not? With the father dead, the son is no longer leverage, if ever he really was. Taylor Gatling isn’t overburdened with conscience, but he’s not a psychopath. At least, that’s our thinking.”
“Hope you’re right,” Shane says uneasily. “Gatling may not be a psycho, but he has a few of those on the payroll. Believe me, I know.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. If Kathy Mancero was duped into taking care of Joey, she’ll do everything in her power to keep him safe. I’m clinging to that. She may not look it, but she’s tough,” he says, looking suddenly exhausted.
“Naomi is confident we’ll have a location in the next twenty-four hours,” I promise him.
“Good. Good. You know the one thing that strikes me as odd?” Shane says thoughtfully. “That shot through the window? Sounds to me like someone was testing the system. Probably watching to see who responded and how fast.”
“You think?”
“Tell Nantz if it happens again to be very, very careful.”
“Consider her told. Listen, we have to get back to the ranch,” Dane says, repositioning the strap on her purse. “We’re expecting a stampede of lawmen and that’s going to make our boss very antsy, to say the least. You hang tight, okay?”
“Will do,” he says, yawning. “Thanks for everything.”
The good news having been properly and thoroughly delivered, we head back to the residence. Dane doing her power-walk and me jogging to keep up.
Shane drifts off, dreaming about a good day. Amy is an infant, three months old, the quintessential bundle of joy, and he and Jean have decided to take her to the lake, her very first visit to a body of water bigger than a bath basin, and she’s pointing at the birds, ducks and seagulls, and making cooing noises because apparently she thinks all birds are pigeons, and Jean is happily reading a book and Shane is just sitting there with his big feet in the sand, feeling like the luckiest man in the world, even though he knows how it all will end, he’s still the luckiest guy in the world because he got this much and them, and the happy day will always be there, somewhere in time, even if he can only visit in his dreams.
“Wake up,” someone whispers, shaking his sore shoulder.
He opens his eyes. A nurse leans over the bed, fussing to wake him with her right hand because her left is wrapped in gauze, which strikes him as odd.
“It’s me, Kathy Mancero,” she says, her desperate eyes locking on his. “We haven’t got much time.”
Chapter Fifty-One
A Man Who Would Walk through Fire
Having the residence invaded by felony detectives is hard enough to take once, let alone twice. But that’s exactly what happens. I’m the one who gets the call from the hospital and has the excited caller repeat the message twice before relating the stunning development to Naomi Nantz, who takes it like a slap in the face.
“Randall Shane escaped? That can’t be right.”
She takes the phone from my hand without so much as a please or thank-you and has the caller repeat the story for a third time. Then she drops the phone back in my hand and, muttering darkly, marches down the hall to lock the door to the command center.
“No one gets in there, do you understand? No one. We’ll deal with them in the library. I will not have the command center infiltrated by strangers.”
At least she puts the key in her pocket. For a moment there I thought she might swallow it.
Less than an hour ago the hordes of lawmen—three, actually, two from Cambridge and one liaison officer from Boston—left in possession of the downloaded surveillance tape, promising to share the new evidence with their respective superiors. Now they’re back with reinforcements including a special FBI detail commanded by Assistant Director Monica Bevins, who looks like she’s eaten a bad shrimp. Or maybe a dozen bad shrimp.
“Tell me you didn’t have anything to do with this,” are the first words out of her mouth.
“I’m as surprised as you are,” Naomi counters.
“Really?” the big FBI agent says. “Because I’m not that surprised.”
“No? Elucidate, please,” Naomi urges.
In response Bevins folds her arms and leans back in the chair, remaining more or less silent. As if she’s here because her presence is required, rather than because she has any particular enthusiasm for the interrogation. The questioning comes from the felony detectives, who seem to have taken Shane’s escape personally, and who are more than ready to blame Naomi Nantz, even if they have no particular proof to offer.
“You’re wasting your time and, even more important, my time,” she says. “I’ve told you that we had nothing to do with Shane escaping. That’s all you need to know. And even if he did leave the hospital without notification, so what? The charges against him were about to be dropped.”
“The charges haven’t been dropped and maybe now they won’t be,” the Cambridge detective reminds her, not even trying to keep the smirk from his voice. “Besides, this is a separate matter. If a man escapes from prison and proves his innocence he’s still guilty of escaping.”
Naomi gives him a dismissive look. “Is that the best you can do, threaten us with a movie?”
“Excuse me?”
“You just described The Shawshank Redemption. I sincerely hope your investigations are not being informed by fiction.”
Embarrassed, he retorts, “Yeah, well, the surety bond you posted has been forfeited. You’re on the hook for a million bucks and a charge of aiding and abetting, if we have anything to do with it.”
“We’ll see about that.” Naomi turns to Dane. “Hold them off. Do whatever it is that lawyers do.”
“I’m not a miracle worker,” Dane says, sounding slightly abashed.
�
��Yes, you are. I can think of at least four examples.”
Which leaves Dane speechless, a kind of miracle in itself.
For the next twenty minutes the cops harangue us from a number of directions, none unexpected, given the circumstances, before grudgingly admitting they have no proof of our complicity in Randall Shane’s escape.
“The man tore off his ankle monitor. Do you have any idea the kind of strength that takes?” one of the Boston detectives notes. He sounds awestruck. Awestruck and at the same time aggrieved because his men were responsible for keeping the prisoner in custody. “Obviously he can kill with his bare hands.”
Naomi says, “As I understand it, the guard at the door wasn’t killed. Is the injury serious?”
“Choke holds can kill.”
“I seriously doubt it was a choke hold. My guess is Shane pressed the guard’s vagus nerve,” she says, touching the nape of her neck instructively. “If done correctly pressure on the vagus nerve will induce a brief blackout.”
“You’re making excuses for him?”
“Not at all. Be assured that if Shane contacts us, we will contact you.”
“Damned right you will. If you don’t, it’s a felony violation and you can be sure the D.A. will prosecute.”
“Jack? If you have any theories about where Shane might have fled, please share them with these gentlemen.”
Jack has been fidgeting silently—he’s no doubt anxious to get into action mode—but he knows how to play the game and does so, lying like a pro. “No theories,” he mutters. “Shane lives in upstate New York. Maybe he went home.”
In all of this Monica Bevins remains strangely reticent. Confronted with Naomi’s conclusion that Taylor Gatling is somehow deeply involved, she merely grunts. More of a snort, really. As if she has knowledge she can’t share, or doesn’t fully understand herself. “Obviously he’ll be attempting to find the missing child,” she says. “That’s what Shane does. My question is, why now?”
“We got pictures of a female leaving the hospital in his company,” the Boston detective points out.
Bevins stirs herself to ask, “Have you identified her?”
“Not yet, but we will.”
The fact that the FBI assistant director doesn’t spill the beans—she has to suspect, as we do, that the female in question is Kathleen Mancero—is telling. Whatever Bevins is up to, it doesn’t involve sharing with Boston or Cambridge police, both of whom are keenly interested in apprehending Randall Shane, the sooner the better. But when the moment comes, when they all get up to leave and she could make an excuse to stay behind, she doesn’t. All she does is give Naomi a loaded glance and say, “It’s out of my hands, do you understand?”
When the group of angry law enforcement types are finally out the door, I bolt it behind them and hurry back to the command center, where the door has been unlocked and activities have already resumed. “What did she mean by that?” I demand of boss lady. “That you would understand?”
Naomi shrugs. “I think I do. Voices have spoken, orders have been given or alluded to, and the result is that she can’t touch Mr. Gatling. As we already knew, he has friends in very high places.”
“Friends who’ll let him get away with kidnapping a child?”
She shrugs, as if to say that is the way of the world. “Friends who have made fortunes hitching themselves to his star. Friends who must be aware that as a civilian he made decisions to target and kill suspects in Afghanistan. At least one of those targets turned out to be a school, for children most likely, and yet the investigation was squelched and his contract was not terminated.”
“This child is an American citizen.”
“Obviously the life of one particular child has not made a difference, in respect to those covering for Gatling and his enterprise. They have already established themselves as men lacking in conscience or they wouldn’t have allied themselves with him. That much must be obvious by now to you. Shall we all get back to work?”
There’s something in her manner that warns me off from any further discussion. Naomi Nantz is truly angry, and when that happens I’ve found from past experience that it’s best to bury the wisecracks and let her concentrate on the case. She takes her seat, but does not turn immediately to the screens where Teddy is already hard at work, fingers flying over the keyboards like some mad composer. “Jack? Your impressions?”
Jack Delancey has slumped into a seat looking thoroughly discouraged. “The shit has hit the fan. If Mancero has taken the risk of approaching Shane in the hospital, something must have gone badly wrong.”
“Do we know it’s her?”
“Not yet. They’ve confiscated the data from the hospital surveillance cameras. But who else could it be?”
“No other confederates leap to mind?”
“No. And why would he call in someone? It’s not like he needed help overpowering the guard. No, the only thing that makes sense is that something happened, she got separated from the kid or whatever and she went to Shane for help.”
“And in your estimation he would render assistance, even if it put him at legal peril?”
“Are you kidding? The guy would walk through fire.”
She nods, satisfied. “Then we agree. He’ll be going after Mr. Gatling.”
Jack says, “Absolutely. I should head back up to Cow Hampshire, stake out this scumbag Gatling. See if Shane has the same idea.”
“Not tonight,” Naomi says, very firmly. “Need I remind you that we are, all of us, under deep surveillance? They expect you to lead them to Shane. We must confound that expectation, however much we might want to assist our friend. He will contact us when he sees fit. Until then, I suggest we stand down and let him do his thing. With the exception of Teddy, who will maintain vigil in the event Shane makes contact, I advise you all to get some sleep. I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a big day.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
All They Need
“I’m worried about the gun,” Kathy Mancero says, staring at the motel room door. “Not having one, I mean.”
Shane, his sore and swollen ankle wrapped in hot towels, considers the problem. “Guns can be useful,” he says. “If we need one, we’ll get one.”
“How?”
“Leave that to me. First things first.”
There’s no need to be more specific than that. They both know that their first and only task is finding Joey. Shane notes that Kathy Mancero’s need is so deep in this regard that it radiates from her body like a fever. She has described the circumstances of her separation from the boy in very nearly the same terms that she used when speaking about her missing daughter, as if some vital part of her soul has been freshly amputated. Recounting how she had fled the basement with Joey and had then been knocked down by a massive electrical shock that had left flash-point burns in her left arm. She describes the sensation of falling into unconsciousness as dying, and how when she came back to life, hours later, she was somehow under a thick, bushy hedge at the corner of the property, with no memory of how she got there. If she had crawled to the hiding place, she has no memory of it.
“All I remember is this vague sense of a child lying next to me, breathing into my face and whispering, ‘Mommy, Mommy, wake up.’”
In her semiconscious state Kathy had believed it was her daughter, come to take her to heaven at last. Had longed for it to be so. But then she heard Joey calling out, from another corner of the property, and knew in her heart that his had been the voice begging her to wake up. She was injured but alive.
“He must have helped me get behind the hedges, out of sight. I can’t remember that part. All I know is, I woke up to the sound of Joey’s voice, from the opposite side of the yard. I almost called out to him. But something stopped me. Some instinct, I guess, because I certainly wasn’t thinking clearly.”
Whatever made her hesitate, silence had saved her. From her hiding place under the hedges she had seen Kidder stagger by—it was daybreak, how had that happen
ed?—and then she heard him howl in rage, a horrible animal sound, and she had tried to crawl out, anything to distract him from Joey. Because she knew with a terrible sickening thud exactly what the boy was doing. By calling out he was offering himself, saving her from Kidder, like a little bird drawing a predator away from the nest.
“It was almost as bad as Stacy dying, watching that monster grab Joey and take him back into the house and shut the door behind him.”
She had stayed there under the hedge, regaining her strength, and had managed to crawl to one of the windows, but could see nothing of Kidder or the boy—he must have taken him back down into the basement. Scrabbling back under the hedge she’d rooted around in the dirt until she uncovered a fist-size rock.
“Killing size,” she tells Shane, with no inflection in her voice. “I intended to kill him when I got the chance, which is what I should have done in the first place, to protect Joey.”
Except it hadn’t happened that way. As she waited, poised to strike, a van had pulled into the driveway and Kidder had come out through the garage and she was powerless to act, all she could do was watch and listen as Kidder and a younger man had argued, and then the younger man had gone into the house and emerged with Joey, the precious child unconscious but with his little hands and feet twitching in a way that convinced her he was still alive, and the new man had put the boy into the van and driven away.
Her eyes burning with the intensity of her need, Kathy says, “That’s when I put the license plate number on my arm. Because I might forget it, and then we’d never find Joey.”
Shane winces, aware that she scratched the tag number directly into the burned area on her arm, where it shows up white against the singed flesh.