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Trapped. Chris Jordan
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“Obviously.”
He folds the towel, slips it back on the rack. Most of the men I know, they’d drop it on the floor, because that’s where used towels go. Not Randall Shane. He’s different. Been in my house for an hour or so and I know that much.
“You feeling better?” he asks, standing tall, very tall. “Good. I just got a hit on Seth Manning.”
“A hit?”
“His address. I know where he lives.”
15. Seven Finds A Wall
Time is squishy. Sometimes the seconds tick by in a reasonable, almost ordinary way, and Kelly counts her heartbeats, the pulse in her neck. One, two three, and so on. The highest she gets is seventy-six and then the overwhelming darkness seems to bend around her, a kind of dim gravity, and the clock in her head stops ticking and gets all squishy.
No other way to describe it. Squishy.
Because she can’t measure the passage of time, Kelly has no idea how long it takes for the paralysis to dissipate. All she knows is that at some point she can wiggle her toes, raise her languid arms and let them droop across her chest like melted bones. Could be hours, days, eternity.
Thoughts slowly surface out of the inky black, like a die rising inside a Magic 8-Ball. The usual 8-Ball answers, too: Outlook not so good. Ask again later.
She manages to place her tingling palms on the floor, detects the familiar roughness of concrete. Not bare ground, concrete.
Is it night outside, is that why the darkness is so absolute?
Wait, how does she know she’s inside rather than outside?
Sluggish thoughts, and then she knows the answer. Because it feels inside. The closed silence, the still air, a kind of muffled feeling. Definitely in, not out. Enclosed.
On impulse she flails, looking for a wall. Wanting to find an edge, a shape to the world.
Nothing.
You’re a baby, she thinks. Lying on the floor like a baby, flailing around. Get up. Do something. Learn something. Find a way back to the world.
It takes forever, and she has to endure a violent swirl of dizziness, but Kelly eventually turns over, manages to get on her hands and knees. Huffing the thick air because the effort makes her feel faint.
Hot, stuffy. Wherever she is, that place can’t be very large. The darkness is close, pressing. Slowly, very slowly, she crawls, struggling to keep her balance. Not wanting to fall over like some cheesy mechanical baby toy. Boink, I fall down, Mommy!
Counting as she crawls. One two three, four five six.
Seven finds a wall. A very solid wall. Slippery smooth surface. Steel, like the cafeteria counters in school.
Now we’re getting somewhere, she thinks, and the thought becomes a giggle. Now we’re getting somewhere? As if! Hilarious. Ironic. Whatever.
Keep going. Orient yourself. You wanted to learn to fly, flygirl? Seth’s first flight lesson pours into her brain, and it helps, hearing his gentle confident voice.
First rule, know where you are. Find the horizon. Very good, keep your wings level. Trust your balance, but trust the instruments even more. It’s 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. She’d love to see stars, love to find the sky, locate a constellation, but all she’s 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. She’s been there, done that, doesn’t want to go back.
With all the courage she can muster, Kelly forces her eyes open. Sees her hands on the concrete floor—she 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 back—seat belt mandatory. He driver, I passenger.
“Personal quirk of mine,” he says. “Safety first.”
Actually we’re still in my driveway, with the big Lincoln Town Car in Park and the emergency brake engaged. Can’t think of the last time I set an emergency brake, but with Shane, you guessed it, standard procedure.
We’re idling there while he makes a few calls on his car phone. It’s 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 it’s 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 Kelly’s hard drive sat up and begged for mercy before giving a full confession.
“Suspect’s 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 you’ll add him to the BOLO, and any vehicles registered in his name? Thank you, Detective Berg. Yes, she’s right here with me. Oh, and before I forget, there’s 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. I’m 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 he’s talking about. “This means they’ll look for his car?”
“Absolutely. Goes to the top of the list.”
“What’s a 2252?” I want to know. “Is that like an AMBER Alert?”
“Let’s roll,”