by Chris Jordan
“Mrs. Bickford? Randall Shane. Really sorry to keep you waiting at a time like this. I had trouble finding a cab. Said they’d be over in ten minutes, it was more like thirty.”
“Cab?” Seeing the deep sadness that emanates from his faded blue eyes, I feel my anger drain away.
“Maria didn’t tell you? I don’t drive. May I come in?”
I’m thinking that if Clint Eastwood had a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper goatee, he’d bear a passing resemblance to Randall Shane. That is, if Mr. Shane could be persuaded to stand up straight. Dressed not in faded denim but slightly wrinkled khaki pants, long in the leg, moccasin boat shoes, and the kind of loose, buttoned shirt that fishermen favor, with multiple pockets. His hands, I can’t help noticing, are large, blue-veined and strong. The kind of hands that can palm a basketball or make a powerful fist.
Having been ready to dismiss him out of hand, after a bad first impression, my inner compass instantly swings one hundred and eighty degrees. My Shane is not the hero from the movie, perhaps, but he’s half again as tall as Alan Ladd, and looks plenty capable of handling himself in a difficult situation. Looks, indeed, as if he’s been handling difficult situations all his life.
That, I’m thinking, may be exactly what my situation requires. What I require. Because the man in the mask continues to scare me stupid, and I can’t seem to shake the fear.
“I see you’ve got a coffeemaker,” Shane says. “Mind if I make myself a cup?”
I offer to do it for him. I am, after all, a professional caterer, and ought to be able to play gracious host, even in a dump like this. But the big man shrugs me away. “Always make my own coffee,” he says. “One of my quirks.”
I think it a trifle odd that he doesn’t offer to make me a cup, too, (not that I want one of the tasteless things) but then recall that Ms. Savalo said he was eccentric. Maybe his eccentricities extend from not driving to not sharing beverages.
Right away he sets me straight on the latter point. “Thing is, you look shaky as hell,” he says, bring his cup over to the little laminated table. “I’m guessing you haven’t slept in at least twenty-four hours. No caffeine for you.”
I open my mouth to tell him I’m perfectly capable of monitoring my own caffeine intake, and then think better of it. What do I care? All that matters is that he’s capable of finding my son. If he can do that, and wants me to walk ten paces behind him, eyes averted, I’ll gladly comply.
“How do you do it?” I ask him. “How do you find kids who’ve been abducted?”
He shrugs, sips quietly at his coffee. “Depends on the situation. Tell me all about it, then I’ll have some idea of how to proceed.”
Once I get rolling, Shane doesn’t interrupt and he doesn’t take notes, he just sips his coffee, his eyes directed at the floor, as if fascinated by the variety of stains in the carpet. I tell him what I told Ms. Savalo, trying my best to include all the details she had to pry out of me. When I get at last to the body in the freezer, he puts his empty cup down and levels his sad blue eyes at me.
“The bastard,” he says, sounding appalled but not terribly surprised. “Had you thinking it was your boy in the freezer, didn’t he?”
I nod, a lump in my throat. Exactly right. Exactly what I’d been dreading when I lifted the lid. And no doubt why my hands are shaking now. Because even thinking about it still scares me. No, not “it,” my fear is not centered on dead bodies, but upon the man in the mask. Because an essential part of me is convinced he’s still out there in the shadows. Maybe right there in the parking lot, waiting to pounce, waiting to put me under his control.
Randall Shane picks up on my anxiety—anybody would, I suppose—and probes me for the specific symptoms.
“Just thinking of this man gets your heart racing, right?” he asks. “Brings on a cold sweat? Weakness in the belly and knees. Trembling?”
I nod, feeling deeply ashamed.
“Got an idea,” Shane announces, sounding utterly confident. He folds his large hands and places them under his chin, as if posing for Rodin’s Thinker, the khaki-clad version. “Just go with me here, okay?” he says. “I want to try something.”
I’ve no idea what he has in mind, but nod my assent.
The big hands have folded themselves together, as if in prayer. Indeed, Shane is staring up at the ceiling, as if in prayer. But he does not, as I’m half expecting, invoke the name of God. Not even close.
After a pause, he says, “What’s the most harmless name you can think of? A man’s name. First harmless name that comes to mind, Mrs. Bickford. Give me a harmless name.”
I shrug. “Bruce?”
Shane grins, exposing teeth that have not been laser-whitened or capped, which is oddly reassuring. “I know a couple of macho Scots would take mortal offense at that choice, but Bruce it is. From now on, until we establish his identity, that’s what we’ll call the man in the mask. Bruce.”
“Bruce?”
“Bruce is a bastard, but he’s not all-powerful, okay? He’s just a man. One who probably had military training in how to intimidate a victim. Wants you to fear him because his training teaches him that fear makes victims weak, makes them not pay attention to what he’s really doing. Does what I’m saying make sense?”
“I guess so. Sure.”
“Are you offended by vulgar language, Mrs. Bickford.”
“My son listens to Eminem and 50 Cent. I’ve gotten used to it.”
“Good,” he says, as if I’ve helped him arrive at a decision. “Now repeat after me—Fuck Bruce.”
“Excuse me?”
“Humor me, Mrs. Bickford. I’m sure Maria told you I was eccentric. Probably told you worse than that. So repeat after me—Fuck Bruce.”
The thing is, and this may sound silly or even prissy, but fuck is not a word I use. Lots of women in my age group and social class swear like sailors, but since I’m always meeting and greeting potential customers, I’m careful to avoid language that might be offensive.
“Come on, Mrs. Bickford. Give it a try. Fuck Bruce.”
I take a deep breath and go for it. “Fuck Bruce.”
“Good. Now say it like you mean it.”
“Fuck Bruce!”
He grins again. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Bruce is not a monster, he’s a man. Therefore he makes mistakes. We don’t know exactly what mistakes yet, but I’ll find out, starting first thing tomorrow morning. The mistakes will lead us to Bruce, and from Bruce to your son.”
“Why can’t we start right now?” I want to know.
“I’m afraid it can’t be ‘we,’ Mrs. Bickford. I’ll handle this on my own, in my own way.”
“You said you don’t drive.”
He shrugs. “True. I’ll hire a driver.”
“I’d be paying for the driver, correct?”
Another shrug. “I suppose so. Eventually you’d recompense Maria’s office and she’d recompense me.”
“Then I’m hiring a driver. Me.”
He studies me, sees that I’m serious. “We’ll discuss this in the morning.”
“Why wait until morning? Why not start right now?”
“Because we start with a lawyer, and his office won’t be open at this hour.”
“The guy in Queens?”
“The guy in Queens, exactly right.” Randall Shane stands up and stretches his long, lanky frame.
I really like the fact that his knuckles brush the ceiling.
17
what the pastry chef said
The rental car arrives at 9:30 a.m., delivered by a neatly dressed young man with raven-black hair and soulful, chocolate-brown eyes who introduces himself as Mohammed. He cheerfully presents me with the key and a business card, should there be any problems with the car.
“Ford Taurus very reliable,” he assures me. Then quickly slips into an almost identical sedan that followed him to the motel, driven by another dark young man who could be Mohammed’s brother. A moment later they leave the parking lot without a
backward glance. Mission accomplished.
Elapsed time, less than one minute. I’m thinking there are certain things we still do pretty well here in the good old U.S.A., and no-muss-no-fuss car rentals is one of them.
Wheels. I’m feeling a little more in control of myself and my fractured world, and that’s good. Actually got about nine hours’ sleep, which is amazing, considering. The same can’t be said for Mr. Shane, who shared my funky room for the night, having volunteered as bodyguard to alleviate any anxiety I might have about the man in the mask returning. Excuse me—Bruce.
“He won’t be back,” Shane had assured me. “But just in case, I’ll be here.”
With that, he borrowed a pillow, laid his long frame out on the ancient carpeting and proceeded to stare at the ceiling.
“I’ll be fine,” he said, sensing my concern. “Good floor.”
It seems that Randall Shane doesn’t sleep, at least not in a normal way. He confided that he hasn’t slept normally for many years. Some sort of sleep disorder, although he’s been somewhat vague about the specifics.
“Best I can do is achieve a kind of meditative state,” he said, as if describing an affliction as ordinary as tennis elbow or a bad back. “I kind of zone out, but my eyes are usually open.”
“Are you serious? That sounds horrible!”
“It is,” he admitted. “I’ve been hospitalized for it twice. Went through the whole course at a sleep disorder clinic. Flunked it, too. Only way I can achieve a full unconscious state is by taking powerful drugs. Not sleeping pills, the stuff they use on horses. Can’t tolerate the side effects, so I don’t use it. And in any case, the drugged state isn’t refreshing. Because it isn’t a normal sleep.”
“My God.”
“Praying doesn’t work, not for a sleep disorder. Tried it.”
“It must drive you crazy.”
“It does,” he said from the floor. “Humans need to dream—most animals do, apparently—and I can’t, so my brain sometimes produces hallucinations. That’s why I can’t drive. Might see something that isn’t there. Or not see something that is.”
He’s still examining the ceiling, so he can’t be aware that my jaw has dropped. It seems that Ms. Savalo’s description of him as “eccentric” is no exaggeration. If eccentric covers those who suffer from waking hallucinations.
“Don’t worry,” he assured me. “I’m perfectly sane. I don’t see people who aren’t there, or hear voices. Just images. They tell me it’s retinal firing, whatever that is. My brain attempting to sleep when the rest of me is wide-awake. That’s the theory, anyhow. Nobody really knows.”
“But you can work?”
I must have sounded concerned, because something in my tone made him sit up and meet my eyes.
“I can work just fine,” he said. “Just can’t drive. So normally I hire a car service.”
“Not this time. I’m driving.”
“No way to dissuade you?”
“No.”
“Could be dangerous if I stumble on to something,” he points out.
“That’s why I want to be there. In case you do.”
“How about this?” he says. “How about we take it one day at a time.”
“If you find my son, I have to be there. However many days it takes.”
Shane sighs. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll find your son, Mrs. Bickford. Go on, get some z’s.”
“Can’t.”
“Sure you can. Sleep for both of us.”
I remember undressing under the covers, and then nothing until seven in the morning, when a ray of sunshine came through a broken slat of the venetian blinds. With waking came a brief spasm of total panic. Where am I? Where’s Tommy? After sorting that out—yes, it all happened, it wasn’t a bad dream—I notice that Shane is gone.
“Randall?”
Instantly the door opens. Shane tilts his head into the room, a cell phone up to his ear—he’s stepped outside to make or take a call, that’s all—and whatever relief I feel is deflated by the reminder that I find myself in need of a bodyguard-slash-investigator. Not to mention a lawyer.
After a quick shower, I put on the new underwear, jeans and T-shirt. Shane is waiting for me outside, hair still damp from his own shower, and as we walk down to breakfast he explains that he’s just completed a lengthy phone consultation with Maria Savalo. Discussing legal and investigative strategy. A petulant twinge makes me wonder if I’m paying for both ends of the conversation. Of course I am, but what does it matter?
“Maria says she’ll speak to you later today,” Shane tells me, as we walk into the shabby little motel restaurant. “I told her our plan for the day—or at least, my plan—and that we’d keep in touch. I didn’t mention you’d be driving me. She wouldn’t approve, to put it mildly.”
“He’s my son. I’m going to be there.”
Shane nods.
After breakfast—not bad, really, considering what the place looks like—we go back to the room and wait for the rental-car delivery. Making polite conversation but not discussing the situation, as if by unspoken assent agreeing to let our food digest before returning to the grim reality.
Now, finally, we’re on the road.
“I need to stop at work first,” I tell him, accelerating into a gap in the traffic circle.
“Work?”
“My catering business,” I remind him.
“Oh. Right. I thought you ran that out of your house.”
“I take calls there, and have a home office, but the actual food is prepared elsewhere. I’ve got to speak to Connie, my floor manager.”
The warehouse is only a few miles from the motel, and traffic is light, so we’re there in less than ten minutes. Shane suggests I cruise past the place, make sure no media hounds are baying for my blood.
I recognize most of the cars in the lot, in particular Connie’s new lime-green Beetle, with the small bouquet of real cut flowers she always keeps in the vase bolted to the dash. She loves that little car, and it makes me ache with wanting to explain what has happened. God knows what she’s heard on the news, or via local gossip.
“You want me inside?” Shane asks.
I kill the ignition and take a deep breath, heart pounding. “Better do this myself,” I tell him. Not at all sure that I’m capable of explaining Randall Shane to anyone, let alone a group of anxious employees.
Inside the warehouse, I hear a buzz of voices coming from the industrial kitchen down the hall. First person I see upon opening the door is Sherona, our pastry chef, and when she spots me her chubby brown face actually pales. “Oh!” she squeaks. “Oh!”
“Hi, Sherona. Hi, Connie. Hi, everybody.”
“Oh, my God!” says Connie, hands to her mouth. “We heard you were in jail!”
I plop down onto a stool, next to the rack of ovens. Which are not being utilized, I can’t help noticing. The day’s work has not yet commenced. Perfectly understandable, considering that the boss has just been unveiled as a killer mom, or at the very least a suspect in a murder.
“Okay, people, if you’ll listen up, please. I only want to say this once, and hope you’ll understand if I’m not my usual charming self.” That produces a guffaw from Sherona, and suddenly there are a few tentative grins showing on the concerned faces. “I was in jail, but no charges have been filed.”
“What happened, Kate?” Connie wants to know.
Connie Pendergast, six feet tall in her flats, is lean and angular, with great cheekbones and what my mother used to call a “strong” nose. Profile a bit like Virginia Woolf, come to think, or maybe Nicole Kidman playing Woolf. Someone trying to be unkind might describe Connie as “horsey,” but I’d argue that she’s handsome. Beautiful gray eyes that glow with intelligence, and a clear, tightly pored complexion make her look at least a decade shy of her forty years. Connie is twice divorced, currently paired with Mr. Yap, her pathologically spoiled Pekingese, and is one of the few women I know who play chess seriously.
As a manage
r, she happens to be so utterly competent I’ve been toying with the idea of making her partner. Or at least giving her an interest in the business. Haven’t mentioned it to her yet, and this isn’t the time. No guarantee the business will even survive, given the current state of affairs.
“I can’t go into all the details right now,” I continue, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “So here’s the short version. My son, Tommy, was kidnapped three days ago. I paid the ransom but he has not been returned. The kidnappers, or someone in league with them, killed Fred Corso and left his body in my house. Evidence implicating me was placed on his body. The police consider me a prime suspect but have not yet indicted me. I’ve no idea what they’re going to do.”
“What are you going to do?” Connie wants to know.
“I’m going to find my son. I’ve hired an expert on recovering abducted children. He thinks we’ve got a good shot at finding Tommy alive. Obviously, I won’t have time to be here, looking after the business, so I’m going to rely on all of you to get the job done.”
They all looked stunned, maybe even a little frightened. Most of the employees I know very well, having worked with them every day. A few are recent hires, less familiar to me, and my next statement is really for them.
“Here’s the deal—stick by me and I’ll stick by you. Or stick by the business, if you want to think of it that way. For now, everyone gets paid. If the catering dries up because my reputation is ruined, I’ll sell off the assets and divide them among the employees. That’s my promise. In return, I ask that you not discuss me or my son or this business with anyone from the media. Will you all agree to that?”
Twelve somber faces nod agreement.
“We need to talk privately,” I say to Connie, and she follows me into the small, stacked-with-can-goods room we share as an office.
When the door is eased shut I hand her a box of tissues and say, “First thing, I want you to stop crying.”