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Trapped. Chris Jordan
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There’s 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 internist’s 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, we’ll 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. “That’s great. I’ll 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 don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to. It’s just the way computers organize themselves. Each folder has a name and a location. I was able to list the folders by title, but can’t open them without the password. If this particular software doesn’t get us there, I have other ways.” Making it sound almost ominous. Like no mere microchip would dare defy him.
“So you’re, um, a computer expert?”
“In a limited way, yes. As you say, I’m something of a geek.” He smiles, letting me know that geekness doesn’t 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 don’t 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 doesn’t matter. If the big man manages to get a line on the mysterious Seth, and Kelly’s location, I don’t care what his specialty is or was, or why he left the FBI.
“Have a seat,” he suggests. “I need to get some background.”
There’s only one chair in Kelly’s room, so I perch on her bed. Amazingly enough, this stranger is offering me a seat in my own house. Not that he’s trying to be offensive—far from it. He’s focused on a task, on helping me, and for that I’m grateful. Still, I can’t 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 I’m even slightly interested—every 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 Kelly’s father in all this?”
“Nowhere,” I respond, a little too fast.
“I take it you’re no longer married?”
“I’m a single mom.”
He nods. Not a judgmental nod, just noting another fact. “Has the father been informed that she’s 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, that’s 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 you’re in sales.”
I shrug. “Bridal design, we like to say.”
“Dissatisfied customers?”
“It happens. But no one has been upset enough to take it out on my daughter.”
Duly noted.
“You’re sure about that?” he asks without looking up from his notebook.
“Last time it happened I refunded their deposit, simple. That was more than a year ago.”
Mrs. Hampton-Barlow of the Sag Harbor Hampton-Barlows. The bridal gown arrived on time, but the bridesmaid gowns were lost in transit, and no time to make them again. We arranged for perfectly good store-bought versions. No fault of mine, but I couldn’t really blame her for being upset. We parted with a formal apology on my part, and a promise to return her deposit, which I did. The Hampton-Barlows had their wedding and moved on. Me, too.
“Okay,” he says, ticking that off. “Ever been involved in a lawsuit?”
“Small-claims court, does that count?”
“Depends on the circumstance.”
“Collecting an unpaid bill. The marriage was annulled and the couple walked away from their debt.”
“You never collected?”
“There was nothing left to collect. That’s what they told me.”
“And this was when?”
“Three or four years ago. Cost of doing business. Happens every now and then. You try to cover your outlay with the initial deposit. In that case, I got stuck on the wrong side of the estimate. My own fault, you might say. They upgraded an order, I failed to upgrade the deposit. Live and learn.”
“Uh-huh.” Scribble, scribble. “Personal animosities?”
“Excuse me?”
“Does anybody hate you, Mrs. Garner? Hate you enough to hurt your daughter?”
What a question. And yet it has occurred to me, of course. Is there someone out there in the world who is angry enough at me to lure Kelly away? After a moment, I say, “No one I can think of.”
“No personal vendettas? How about angry boyfriends? Stalkers?”
That’s easy. “No boyfriends, period. No stalkers that I know of.”
Shane’s eyebrows lift. Men always seem to think that any reasonably attractive single woman under the age of forty is being hounded by suitors. Guys with flowers constantly ringing the doorbell, begging to sweep you off your feet. If only.
“Has Kelly complained of unwanted attention?” he wants to know. “Mentioned someone following her or watching her, or exhibiting menace?”
“No,” I say with a quick head shake. “But to be honest, over the last few hours I’ve been thinking about that a lot. And I’m not sure she’d tell me. Yesterday I’d have sworn on a Bible that Kel would share the important stuff, but today I’m not so sure.”
At that moment her computer chimes.
Shane’s eyes snap to the screen. Beneath his trim, neatly cropped beard his lips turn up in a slight smile.
“Bingo,” he says.
14. Flygirl
My mother put up with a lot. It wasn’t that I was a surly adolescent, not like Kelly, because my pathological shyness extended to the family. We had learned, Mom and I, never to raise our voices in the presence of my father. How to hide in plain sight. But I had my silent, secretive ways, and that probably bothered Mom more than surliness or back talk. What are you thinking? she would ask me, as if she really wanted to know, and I would never say, or mutter something and go hide in my room, or have long phone conversations with Fern where we said nothing much at great length.
Poor Mom. All she wanted were a few clues, a guidepost or two, and I couldn’t or wouldn’t oblige. Now I know my punishment for letting