Текст книги "Lost"

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The man tends to his generically handsome self like a faithful gardener, that’s the impression. Snap judgments can be wrong, but Shane decides to play it that way, assuming the security chief will respond with alacrity to any threats to his comfort and well-being.

“Sixteen wonderful years but you didn’t go twenty,” Shane points out. “Most guys, they do sixteen, they’ll go for the full twenty, get it on the books.”

The security chief shakes his carefully coiffed head. He’s smiling, showing off his nice dental work, but not in a particularly friendly way.

“Tribe made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Same benefits, more money, regular hours.”

“I bet it was the regular hours did the trick.”

“It helped. So what can we do for you, Mr. Shane?” he says, allowing his impatience to show. “My girl said you wanted an application, I should check you out with my own eyes.”

Shane gives him a flat, humorless smile. “If I wanted a job, Mr. Carlos, it would be your job. Guys on the floor, they’re making what, ten an hour?”

“Something like that. Says here on your application you were FBI. But since you don’t want a job, I guess that was just to impress me, huh?”

“Get your attention, not impress. I doubt you impress that easily.”

“My girl was impressed by your size, not your résumé,” the security chief says, forcing a laugh.

“Is she your girl?”

“Excuse me?”

“The female person at the desk. Daughter? Wife? Girlfriend?”

“My secretary,” says the security chief, getting pissed.

“Ah,” says Shane.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Ah means ah, Mr. Carlos. We FBI men are trained to be sensitive in all matters regarding female persons.”

“Former FBI, and I don’t much care for your attitude. Is this how you’re spending your leisure years, harassing security personnel?”

“No,” says Shane. “I’m spending my leisure years working for the man who owns this casino.”

The security chief smirks. “The Nakosha people own this casino. And I know damn well you don’t work for them.”

“Think harder,” Shane suggests. “You’ll figure it out.”

The security chief thinks about it, and as he does so his expression morphs from smug to chagrined.

“Shit.”

“Technically you’re correct,” Shane concedes. “My boss doesn’t own the casino. He controls the various financial instruments that allowed the casino to be built, staffed, promoted and run on a day-to-day basis. He owns the money. In the neighborhood of three hundred million dollars. Which I’m sure you’ll agree is a pretty nice neighborhood.”

Carlos raises his hands in supplication. “I had nothing to do with that.”

“With what, Mr. Carlos?”

“Him being escorted from the premises.”

If birds of prey could chuckle they would sound like Randall Shane. “Oh really. Is that what you call it? ‘Escorted from the premises.’ I’ll be sure to mention that in my report, so Mr. Manning can factor it in when he garnishees your salary, and the salary of all casino employees, and uses every legal means to obtain satisfaction by attaching liens to your assets. House, boat, vehicle, whatever.”

“He can’t do that,” Carlos blusters.

“I wouldn’t bet your retirement on what Edwin Manning can and cannot do.”

“It was out of my hands! What the council wants, the council gets.”

Shane sits back, rocking a little in the undersize chair, as if getting comfortable for the long haul. For his purposes it helps to think of Tony Carlos as a simple instrument. Press certain keys and he will respond favorably. Keep playing and he will divulge whatever he knows. No torture required, just good musical skills.

“So what are you saying?” Shane asks, as if he’s open to reasonable explanations. “The council asked you to remove Mr. Manning and you refused? And that’s why they resorted to the tribal police?”

Carlos utters a short, humorless laugh. “That bunch? Please. Tribal police look and act like cops. That was the, um, special squad.”

“Okay. Why not you and your men? Why not the tribal cops, if you refused? Why call in the goon squad?”

Carlos considers his answer, deciding what to lie about, where to tweak the truth in his own favor. “Me, they never asked. Probably knew I’d never agree to bounce a guy like Mr. Manning. Nakosha cops, I doubt they’d respond. Policy is, stay out of the casino. More than policy, it’s tribal law. You may have noticed, no Nakosha in the house. Not for employment purposes, not for gambling. The council members are the only ones inside, and they pretty much keep to their office. Counting receipts, I assume, or doing whatever.”

“Doing whatever?”

“I wouldn’t know. Security personnel are not allowed in the council chambers, only members of the council.”

“You know why Manning was in the house?”

Carlos shakes his head. “Why would I? I assume he was here on business. It’s not unusual, him checking in. Happens every month or two. Except he usually comes on his own, without an entourage.”

“Ever bring his son along? Fly down on the corporate aircraft, pop in to check on their investment?”

Carlos decides to get cagey. “I don’t know. Maybe. If so, I was never introduced.”

Shane nods thoughtfully, studying the security chief. “The reason my boss is so upset? The reason he’s asking questions? His boy Seth has been abducted.”

The security chief’s complexion goes from spa tan to fish-belly gray in a heartbeat. “You’re kidding, right?”

“It’s not a joking matter, Mr. Carlos. That’s why I’m here, to help Edwin Manning recover his son, dead or alive. We’d prefer alive.”

The man exhales slowly, seems to shrink a little as beads of sweat the size of small, oily bullets form on his brow. “You know I had nothing to do with this, right?”

“Do I? We have information that the abduction was carried out by a member of the tribe. I believe the description was ‘some crazy big-shot Indian everybody is scared of.’ I’m guessing the crazy part is right on, considering the consequences and, from the panicked way the tribal council is responding, the gentleman really does inspire fear. I’m also guessing, from the little lightbulb that just went on over your head, that a name popped into your mind.”

The security chief nods miserably.

18. Begging Is Good

My first wedding gown was for my friend Fern. Fern’s January wedding to Edgar who was impossibly slim and good-looking at the time. Fern, always gorgeous in her own unique way, had put on fifty pounds in pregnancy but still managed to glow. She had insisted that I not attempt to hide her baby-full belly when draping the gown. As if. There she is on the steps outside the church, posing for the formal photograph, looking like she was having quintuplets at least. But that smile, and her fabulous eyes, and the way she’s looking at Edgar, like she’s ready to eat him in one big bite. I’m there, too, a skinny, nervous, teenage bridesmaid, one of three in identical blue satin gowns. We look like frosting accents on Fern’s fabulous white wedding cake.

That was the idea, that the bridesmaids would echo the colors on the cake. A totally stupid concept, all mine, but somehow it worked because somehow a wedding always seems to work, even if the marriage itself is doomed to end badly, with poor Edgar begging for his favorite recliner and Fern crossing her arms and saying no, like a scene out of a bad sitcom, Men Behaving Pathetically.

All these years later, I’m still not sure what got into me, volunteering to make the gowns. There was more to it than Fern not having the money for a proper bridal shop gown, which even then were outrageous. Maybe it was about me wanting to be involved in the wedding itself, as more than a best friend and bridesmaid. Putting my mark on the event. All I really remember is looking in the shop window with Fern, announcing with great virginal confidence that I could make her a gown like that, no problem. I’d been sewing my own stuff for a year or two at that point, what was the big deal? A pattern, a little nice lace, a few ruffles, nothing to it.

Could I have been that naive? Or maybe I knew what I was getting into, the panic and the endless fittings, all the hand-stitching because the lovely silk kept bunching in the machine. The other two bridesmaids squirming like eels, worried about staining their underarms with flop sweat. Fern’s dad bursting into tears when he saw her, and not of happiness. Her mom dragging him off for a lecture about pregnancy being a gift from God. Fern snorting and rolling her eyes, telling me to ignore her ridiculous parents and make her look beautiful please. Which she did, and yes I helped it happen because the gown really was amazing, and we bridesmaids really did look like perfectly matching, skinny little planets orbiting a wonderfully round sun goddess.

Once upon a time I used to stare at this photo—it remains a precious keepsake, living in my purse—and imagine myself not as the bridesmaid, but as the bride. I could see myself in Fern’s place, in a smaller gown, of course. And not as beautiful as Fern, that goes without saying. But for the life of me I could never picture the groom.

Total blank. An empty space.

Less than a year after the photograph was taken, eight months to be exact, I was pregnant with Kelly. Secretly, deniably pregnant. No wedding for me, not then, not ever. And my father didn’t burst into tears. He said the kind of things that can’t be taken back and walked out the door. He’s gone now, forever gone, as is my mother. Kelly, if she’s alive, is the same age as me when I got pregnant with her. Can the world be so cruel as to let a precious child survive cancer, only to have her die because she’s in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong guy?

The answer, of course, is yes, the world can be that cruel. Check the newspapers if you disagree. Except that in my daughter’s case Shane thinks there may still be a chance. He’s taking risks, pulling out all the stops.

Which doesn’t mean it isn’t already too late.

Unless it isn’t too late.

Unless it is.

All of which is swirling around in my throbbing head when the phone rings. Not my cell, the hotel phone. Takes me a minute to find it, focusing through the blur.

“Any news?” Fern wants to know. She sounds almost jovial.

“I can’t believe it,” I say, rubbing a tissue at my leaky nose. “I was just looking at your picture.”

“This is your psychic hotline,” says Fern, into character instantly. “I predict you’ll tell me what’s happening.”

So Irecount the meeting with Special Agent Healy, checking into the outrageous Europa, spying on Manning’s penthouse from the balcony, following the Hummer to the casino complex. Me in my ridiculous disguise. Then the strange and terrible scene of Edwin Manning breaking down, begging.

“It’s like he knows his son is already gone,” I tell her, clutching the phone to my ear like a lifeline. “Like he knows he’s dead.”

“Janey, stop it!” Fern commands. “You’re obsessing. I don’t know this jerk from a crack in the sidewalk, but if he’s begging for help, then he thinks the boy is alive. Dead he’d be arranging a funeral or seeking revenge, but not begging. Begging is good.”

“Begging is good? You really think?”

“Trust me. What’s Mr. Incredible doing now?”

“Um, checking out a lead, a possible suspect. I’m supposed to be lining up a lawyer, in case he gets arrested.”

“Shane?”

“Yeah. He may have to break a few laws.”

Fern squeals with pleasure. “I love it! Send lawyers, guns and money. Plus he’s worried about you. He wants you in a safe place while he does the dangerous stuff.”

“Or out of the way so I don’t mess things up. I’m useless, Fern. I keep bursting into tears.”

“Panic attacks?”

I think about it. “Um, not since I got here. Not a full-blown attack, no.”

“No? That’s interesting, don’t you think?”

“Not very. I wish you were here, Fern. You’re the strong one.”

Her big laugh is unforced, genuine. “Me? Are you serious? Maybe I could beat you arm-wrestling, but you’re strong where it counts, Janey poo. Doing what you did when Kelly was sick? In and out of the hospital for years? Always, always being strong for her, not letting her see how scared you were? Earning a living with your talent, making a business? Then dealing with your poor mother? Don’t you know what I tell everyone? That my friend Jane Garner may look as sweet as a bowl of Hershey’s Kisses, but you better watch out because she’s made of diamonds and tungsten steel. She’s like that cute guy in Terminator 2, knock her down, blow her up, she keeps on coming.”

“He was a bad guy,” I remind her.

“You can be a bad guy if you need to be. And a good guy when you need to be. Whatever you need to be, Janey, that’s what you’ll be, guaranteed. Diamonds and steel.”

“Now you’re making me cry.”

“Crying is natural. Go ahead, blow your nose. I was going to fill you in on all the business calls. Problems with fittings—somebody ate too many Fritos—a cancellation, some other stuff. But you know what? You don’t need to know. Alex is helping Tracy take care of it. He’s really good.” “Alex is good? I thought you hated Alex.” “Hate? No, no. I hate things like cellulite, I never hated Alex. And if I did I’ve changed my mind. He knows what he’s doing, he’s good with customers, all these nervous women love him, plus, and I never knew this, he can sew on a button. What’s not to like?”

What can I say? I can’t say anything, I just cry some more. Big strong me.

After Fern gets off, I follow her advice and take a long hot shower. One of her main prescriptions for what ails you, the other being “take a pill,” by which she means a sleeping pill. Take a long hot shower or knock yourself out, or both. Sage advice, in my opinion. Nothing more I’d like to do than take a pill, sleep like the dead in my own bed. In the middle of the day, just sleep. No dreams though. Dreams would be dangerous.

Conversation with a loving friend leaves me cried out, free of the emotional roller coaster for now. You get to a point where you’re so wrung, so whacked, that your mind can’t handle any more anxiety. You become calm by default, because there’s nothing else left. That’s where I’m at, all soaped up with the shower pulsing, wondering idly how Edwin Manning is coping. Does he have anybody to talk to besides his dopey guards? Anybody to share with? Friends, relatives, associates, where are they? Sure looks like he’s all alone out there, hanging off the edge by his well-buffed fingernails. Being a financial master of the universe isn’t doing him much good at the moment.

What does he know and why won’t he talk to us? Is Shane the problem? The cop look of him? Hadn’t occurred to me, but that might be it. Why not? From Manning’s point of view, Shane represents a force that, in the full pursuit of justice, may threaten his son’s life rather than save it. And if that’s true, if that’s what he he’s afraid of, maybe I can use that to our advantage.

That’s right, our advantage. Me and Kelly. It’s like she’s in my head, encouraging me. Go Mom, do it.

Edwin Manning is a widower, never remarried, a doting father, maybe he’ll respond to me as a mother, a parent. It’s worth a shot, I’m thinking. Ring his doorbell while Shane is otherwise engaged, see what happens.

Go Mom.

I’m actually smiling as I get out of the shower and grab a towel. Having decided to do it, to visit the lion in his own den. Me playing the part of the little mouse, offering to pull the splinter from the lion’s paw.

And that, of course, is when the phone rings.

“It’s me,” Shane says in a hushed voice. “Write this down.”

“I’m just out of the shower, hang on,” I stammer.

As I hurry for pen and paper, dripping all over everything, I’m glad he can’t see me blushing. Ridiculous as it may be, I’ve never been comfortable speaking to a man on the phone while naked. Which, as Kelly would say, explains a lot.

“Okay,” I say, fumbling with the pen. “Go.”

“Ricky Lang,” he whispers. “Twelve twenty-three Bay Vista Drive, Cable Grove. Got it?”

“Got it. Is this the guy?” I ask, a flush of pure excitement replacing the blush of embarrassment. “Is this the guy who took Kelly?”

“Too soon to say,” says Shane, still whispering. “This is a lead based on a rumor based on hearsay. Right now all I know for sure is that he’s a member of the tribe and he’s had some sort of long-running conflict with the tribal council. Apparently Lang is a very common name among the Nakosha. Doesn’t sound Indian to me, but there it is.”

“What should I do?”

“Right, sorry. Call Special Agent Healy for me. If you can’t find his card, his number will be on my laptop in the address book. Give him the name and address and tell him Shane says he’s a person of interest. Can you do that?”

“Of course.”

“I’d do it myself but I’m kind of in a situation here.”

“Where are you?”

“At the address I just gave you.”

“At this guy’s house?” I ask, alarmed.

“In it, actually,” Shane whispers. “Gotta go.”

Leaving me with a dial tone, wet hair, and a few million questions.

19. Mr. Goldilocks And The One Bear

It was not like breaking and entering, not in the classic sense. Entering, obviously, because here he is, prowling the cool tile floors of a lovely expanded bungalow in one of the most exclusive waterfront enclaves in Miami. Four-bedroom Mediterranean style, recently refurbished, on a one-acre enclosed lot with water access, had to have set Mr. Lang back a few mil. Not grand enough or new enough for the rock stars and celebrities who gravitated to the area, but very tasty, and beautifully landscaped with palms, cactus, and a lush Bermuda grass lawn that looked like it would need to suck up half of Biscayne Bay on a hot day.

What Shane thinks of as pre-Scarface Miami, before wannabe crime bosses and Internet zillionaires who’d seen too many episodes of Miami Vice came to town demanding homes so gaudily, obviously expensive they resemble drive-thru banks with big stucco hats.

Shane isn’t a fan of recent architectural trends, to say the least. This joint he likes. Big enough so he has room to move, cozy enough so it feels like a home, not a hotel lobby. True, he has to duck under the ceiling fans, and he’s a slightly put off to realize he and a potential suspect have similar taste in dream houses, but still.

Getting inside had been a piece of cake. The place has the usual security, and warning signs testifying to that effect, but the gated driveway was left open. Shane had his driver—the same baby-faced Haitian—drop him a few blocks away, and he’d simply strolled up the driveway, expecting to find the owner at home, given the open gate.

On the way to the front entrance he takes a peek through the windows of the four-stall garage. Only one vehicle in residence, a spiffy little convertible Mini Cooper. Whereas there are two, possibly three oil spots on the concrete. Interesting. Maybe the suspect isn’t at home. The Mini Cooper strikes him as a wife or girlfriend’s car, a fashion accessory, given the neighborhood.

He tries the buzzer, listens to the echo. No response. After the buzzer fades, hushed silence pervades, nothing to indicate that anyone is home.

Thinking maybe the three bears are out shopping or, who knows, kidnapping, Shane decides to play Goldilocks. Casual stroll around back, his Nikes easing into the lush grass as he comes upon the cool sapphire swimming pool with a neatly constructed tiki hut bar, and what looks like a recently erected cabana. The backyard kingdom of the pool. Beyond that, glimpsed through the rustling palm fronds, some sort of high-speed craft on a boat hoist, blocking the wind-dappled waters of the bay.

Yup, a man could live here, no problem. Put up his big tired feet and never leave. Spend a year or two staring at the pool, grab a frosty at the tiki hut, then amble out to the seawall, try fishing without a hook for the rest of his days.

Once upon a time Shane had something like this. The suburban New York version, much more modest. Three-bedroom ranch with pool. Nothing remarkable, but comfortable and welcoming because that earlier version of Randall Shane was a nester. Loved to paint, putter and improve. Wife and child, backyard barbecue, Volvo wagon equipped with golden Lab, the whole bit. When that ended, a new Randall Shane eventually emerged, one who lives in rented rooms, hangs no pictures, and does as he damn well pleases. Although lately the urge for domesticity has been sniffing at his ankles like some sly, familiar dog, wanting to know where he’s been, when he’s coming home.

Not yet, Shane thinks, taking it all in, but when the time comes, this will do. There’s still the small matter of having to win a multistate lottery, but what the heck, a man can dream.

He tries a French door that exits onto the patio and is not entirely surprised to find it unlocked. No screaming siren, no flashing lights, so he assumes the security system is not armed. As his eyes adjust to the dim light he finds himself in what must be the master bedroom. The oversize bed designed to look like it’s floating over marble floor. Sleek matching furniture, beautifully lacquered and illuminated by discrete cove lighting. Louvered door to what he assumes is a walk-in closet, and the typical master bath that’s big enough to park an extra SUV if the garage ever gets filled up.

He checks out the walk-in. One side jammed with a young woman’s clothing, size six and under. The other side more sparsely populated with white guayaberras, khaki cargo pants, a few muscle shirts, and a neat selection of Tommy Bahama silk tropicals that have either never been worn or are fresh from the dry cleaners. Gives him a picture of Mr. Ricky Lang and his wife or girlfriend, but the real purpose of searching a closet is to locate hidden assets like safes, file boxes or firearms. Especially firearms. Ninety percent of gun owners stash their weapons in a closet.

He checks all the likely spots. Then all the unlikely spots. The place is clean. Either the suspect is not in fact a bad boy, or he keeps his toys and weapons elsewhere.

It’s while he’s in the closet that Shane feels a faint thump resonate through the cedar-lined wall. Like someone tossed a tennis ball in an adjacent room. Or dropped a shoe.

Silence follows, but Shane instantly understands that he has miscalculated. Despite his initial assessment, he is not alone in the house. That’s when he decides to call Mrs. Garner, give her the name and address, ask her to share it with Special Agent Healy, a precaution he should have taken before venturing up the driveway.

Serious about wanting a lawyer on standby, he has no intention of letting himself be arrested, not inside the house. Helps that he didn’t damage a lock or slice a screen, because if need be he can argue that he was invited into the residence, plead a misunderstanding.

The old vampire defense—your honor, he asked me in.

When the call to Jane is completed, Shane slips the cell phone into his pocket. He’s bending down, preparing to recon through the slats of the louvered door, when a sizable fist comes crashing through the louvers and into his nose.

Knocking him down but not quite out.

The pink fog means the nose has been broken—not for the first time—but what really concerns him are two indisputable facts: the man wielding the fist is immensely strong and knows how to punch, and has in his possession a Glock G37, which typically holds ten.45 caliber rounds in the magazine.

Shane knows this because the short barrel of the gun is about eighteen inches away, aiming at his broken nose.

“So which is it?” asks the man with the gun. “You sniffing panties or jock straps? Or maybe both?”

The thing about a broken nose is that the pain is beyond belief for a couple of minutes before it subsides to bearable. Making it hard to think clearly, or formulate replies to leading questions. So rather than make any rash decisions—like, say, attempting to disarm his assailant—Shane prudently decides to rest on his haunches and bleed for a while.

The light is behind his assailant, rendering him into a bulky silhouette that fills the closet doorway. Even at that, the description more or less matches the one given by Tony Carlos, the casino security chief: What is it you Anglos say? Built like a brick shithouse? That’s Ricky Lang. Some people think he looks like one of the Three Stooges. Others call him The Hulk. Personally I find him just plain scary.

“You’re a big mother,” the hulking figure observes, emphasizing with the Glock. “Nothing in there is your size. Doubtful you could even fit one of Myla’s little thongs on that big fat head of yours.”

Shane gets the impression that, despite the taunting, his assailant knows full well he’s dealing with more than a common intruder. Having a little fun with him while he decides what to do next. Call the cops? Report a break-in? Shoot?

Florida’s Stand Your Ground law is pretty clear. A home owner can shoot and kill an intruder if he believes the intruder represents a danger to his person. No obligation to retreat. No actual weapon or threat required, simply the impression of danger. And what person would not assume danger, having come upon an intruder?

Fire away, the law implies. Shoot ‘em if you got ‘em.

As the throbbing in his head subsides to no more than a common jackhammer, Shane decides he has nothing to gain by silence or denial. “You Ricky Lang?” he asks, his tongue so thick in his mouth he sounds drunk.

His assailant laughs. “What, you got my name off the mailbox?”

“It’s not on the mailbox,” Shane points out. “Can I get up? Maybe get a cold washcloth?”

“Nah,” says Lang. “You messed up enough of my stuff already. Can’t have you spoiling the washcloths.”

“Fine,” says Shane, wadding his shirttail and using it to stanch the blood.

“Come on out, but crawl. If you stand up or move quick, I’ll shoot,” Lang warns, backing up.

Shane works his way through the door. Calculations for escape or counterattack running through his mind. Maybe try a feint, get the gun hand moving, leap the other way. But moves like that work in the movies, not in real life. In real life Lang, who clearly knows how to handle a gun, will put a bullet in his spine.

One of the disadvantages of being large, he makes a bigger target.

Having crawled out of the closet as instructed, Shane remains on his haunches. That will give him an opportunity to launch himself at Lang if he gets the chance. Also he can bleed on the marble floor, leaving his DNA marker in the cracks between the close-fitting tiles. Little gift for the crime-scene technicians, if it comes to that.

“Stop right there,” Lang orders. “Stay on your knees.”

Shane stops, letting his nose drip. His eyes are swollen from the blow but his vision has cleared and the light is such that he can finally focus on his assailant, who has perched on the edge of the oversize bed, the Glock never wavering.

Strong arms, to hold a weapon so steadily with one rocksolid hand. The average civilian has no idea of the difficulty, holding and aiming a large-bore handgun. Thirty-five ounces may not sound like much—a little more than two pounds fully loaded—but the compact weight, held in an outstretched hand, soon becomes massive. Gravity is unrelenting. The hand tends to drop, the forearm muscles compensate by raising, tightening. Muscles start twitching and the hand wavers or trembles. Officers are trained to brace the wrist with the other hand, but even with two hands, wavering or trembling can’t be avoided for long.

Ricky Lang does not waver or tremble.

Perched on the edge of the bed, grinning as if he’s just heard the best joke in the world, Lang does indeed resemble a Native American version of Moe Howard. Mostly because of the thick black hair, the crude bowl-cut that leaves glossy bangs covering his forehead. The Hulk description works, too. Something about his broad sloping shoulders, the over-amped lats and biceps, the narrow waist and powerful legs. Bare feet adding to the effect, as if the man was continually bursting out of his shoes.

Shane figures that in a fair fight—if such a thing ever exists—he might well prevail, using his own considerable strength and relying on his added leverage. But in close combat, an eye-gouging, throat crushing fight to the death, Ricky Lang would be exceedingly dangerous. Might come down to who lands the first damaging blow.

“You can’t be a cop,” Lang muses. “Cops always come in pairs.”

“My name is Randall Shane. I’m former FBI. I consult on missing children.”

Lang finds this interesting. “No shit? A former Fed? So what, they fired you? Caught you going through underwear drawers, vamoosed your sorry ass?”

“Something like that.”

Lang shakes his head, vastly amused. “This is good. I’m out in my boat, changing the oil? I hear this footstep, real soft, on the patio? Take a peek and there you are, big as a linebacker, breaking and entering into my bedroom.”

“The door was unlocked,” Shane points out. “My colleagues have my location. They’ll respond soon.”

“Yeah? I’d like to meet ‘em. Except you said you were fired.”

“Resigned.”

“Uh-huh. So what you doin’ here, Randall?”

Moment of truth, Shane thinks and decides he doesn’t care to die with a lie on his lips. “I’m looking for Seth Manning and Kelly Garner.”

Ricky Lang smiles and nods. “The pilot and his girl. It’s about time,” he says. “What took you guys so long?”

There are lots of things going on with Shane physically, from the wicked throb of his freshly broken nose to the ache of his hamstrings, but nothing so bad it overwhelms the flesh-crawling chill that runs up his spine.

He did it. He found the perp.

Now if only he can live long enough to do something about it.

“You a hero, man,” Ricky Lang is saying, sounding genuinely pleased for him. “Just this morning I’m trying to figure, should I kill ‘em or let ‘em go? You know, like weighing it on my mind? And then along comes you.”

“Easy decision,” Shane encourages. “Let them go.”

The disturbing thing, other than the unwavering Glock, is the way Ricky Lang’s smile flashes on and off like a neon sign with a bad connection. Like he’s all there one moment and gone the next.

“Want to know how I got you, man? Pow through the door? Because I can be invisible. I can make it so you can’t see or hear me, like a blindfold on your mind. Then boom! nailed you through the door. Because also I’ve got X-ray vision, like Superman.”