Текст книги "Lost"

Автор книги: Chris Jordan

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Healy and Salazar scribble busily in their notebooks.

“Are we correct that your hedge fund provides financing but does not actually run the day-to-day operation?” Salazar wants to know.

Manning nods. “The casino is run by an independent management company. No connection to Merrill Manning Capital. My fund has a small investment in the company that manages the hotel and resort, but we stay out of the gaming operation.”

“You provide the money to get this all started and yet when you went to them for help the tribal council threw you out?”

He nods miserably. “They’re afraid of Ricky. He’s out of control and they know it. He wants to be reinstated as president and chief of the Nakosha. They refuse. Claim he’s no longer a member of the tribe.”

“Are you aware of any speculation as to why?”

“No. Like I said, the Nakosha are a small tribe and they’re very secretive. It’s essentially a large family, a clan. Less than two hundred adult members. All I know is, one day Ricky Lang is the chief, the next day his cousin Joe takes over.”

“And this occurred about six months ago, is that correct?”

“In January, yes.”

“Where you in communication with Ricky Lang after he was deposed as chief?”

Manning shakes his head. “I had no reason to be. The fund doesn’t even deal directly with the tribe, we deal with the accountants who manage the money.”

Salazar gives him a tight smile, closes her notebook. “Thank you, Mr. Manning. We know what a horrible experience this must be for you. The resources of the agency is being deployed to attempt recovery of Kelly and Seth. We will keep you informed.”

The two agents stand up, meeting over.

“That’s it?” Manning looks totally befuddled, lost in a fog of anxious concern.

“Yeah, there’s one other thing,” says Special Agent Healy. “We’ll need the finger.”

2. The News From Valley Stream

To be honest, Shane’s silence is freaking me out. Has the big guy given up? Even with the FBI finally on the case, I still want him on my side, searching for Kelly.

“Randall?” I ask. “Are you okay? Do you need to go to the E.R.?”

Healy and Manning have departed. Leaving us with Agent Salazar, who seems to share my concern for Shane’s well-being.

“Place like this probably has a doctor on call,” she suggests.

“I’m fine,” he says gruffly, waving us off. “Just a broken nose, no big deal. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last.”

Somehow I couldn’t square the image of Shane getting beaten to the punch by another man. Which is ridiculous, especially if the other guy had a gun. Except the egg man had a gun and Shane had taken it away in the blink of an eye, no problem. So I’m confused. What happened?

Speaking of superheroes, how did mine fall to earth?

“I’m sorry, Jane,” he says, a world of hurt in his eyes. “What can I say? I blew it.”

“But you found out who took Kelly,” I remind him. “He confessed to you. We finally know who did it.”

“It was an error in judgment on my part,” says Shane, as if obliged to make his own confession. “I never should have gone onto his property, or into his house. I should have waited for backup, done it by the book.”

“The book?” Salazar rolls her eyes. “That would have taken hours. And based on what—your gut saying Lang might be involved? Because his name had been mentioned by a casino security cop? It was a good hunch, but it was thin. Sean would have slow-played it. You did the right thing.”

“Sometimes observation is more effective than action,” Shane says miserably. “I went in there so quick, I never noticed the suspect was on the property.”

“In a boat,” I remind him.

“Yeah, but there all the same. Once he saw me enter that house, he knew that we knew. It set him off.”

“So he punched you.”

“No, no,” says Shane, shaking his head. “That’s not what I mean. Taking a punch is no big deal. What concerns me is that my careless actions may have put your daughter into more peril. Once I showed up, Ricky Lang went over the edge. I set him off. He’s in end-game mode, and that’s on me.”

I’d like to slap some sense into the big guy, but don’t want to reinjure his poor swollen nose. “So it’s your fault, what he did to Kelly? What he intends to do to her? You going to sit here feeling sorry for yourself, is that your plan?”

“I’m really sorry.”

“Get up, you big lug,” I tell him, hands on my hips. “I know you’re not Superman, even if this crazy bastard thinks he is. But you’re the best I’ve got, and that will have to do.”

Thirty minutes later we’re checked out of Europa—thank God for plastic—and on the road again. Even better, Randall Shane has finally quit apologizing. Possibly because driving requires all of his considerable concentration.

Honestly, you’d think he was piloting the space shuttle, not a rental sedan.

The plan is, agents Healy and Salazar and the rest of the FBI will be doing their thing while we do ours. The tribal police have been informed of a suspected violation of federal statute—kidnapping, abduction by force—and are expected to cooperate in a reservation-wide manhunt for Ricky Lang and his victims.

The arrangement is that FBI helicopters will search by air, coordinating with the Nakosha cops below. One of the choppers will carry a tactical assault team, who will be landed and deployed the moment the FBI has a clear lead as to the location.

The hunt for Kelly that started out with me alone, and then Shane, has at long last expanded to more than two hundred law enforcement agents, all of them focused on recovering the captives alive.

It’s happening. The big guns are out. Part of me is jubilant, part terrified. Bottom line, it’s a great relief to have all these people searching for her, even if the search itself might make the perpetrator do something drastic. Waiting has never been a viable option, and now that we know Ricky Lang is taking trophies, it’s even less so.

Taking trophies.

Don’t think about that. Think about Kelly, how much you want to find her safe and sound. How good it will be when it happens, when I have her back. Which reminds me of a line from a song my own mother used to love, about a mother and child reunion. Beach Boys? Joni Mitchell? I cycle through Mom’s favorite bands, trying to think of the song. Helps the “taking trophy” thing recede to where it’s manageable.

We’re about fifteen minutes from the hotel, heading for a place called Glade City, on the far end of the Everglades. Shane wants to “run down a person of interest”—not literally, he promises—check out the owner of the truck who was messing with the Beechcraft. He says in Glade City I can rent an entire motel for the price of a suite at Europa. Plus we’ll be closer to the search area, good to go when the search teams locate my baby.

“Simon and Garfunkel,” I say suddenly.

“‘Scuse me?”

“One of my mom’s favorite bands. Never mind, just thinking.”

“Think away,” he says, concentrating on traffic. “I can always use the extra brain power.”

My cell rings. Fern with news.

“You’ll never guess” are the first words out of her mouth. “Jessica knows all about Kelly and Seth Manning.”

“Jess?” I say, amazed. “I thought Jess and Kelly never talked.”

“Ancient history, apparently,” says Fern with a chuckle. “Now they do.”

One of the great regrets of our friendship is that our daughters never clicked. Never really bonded, despite sharing a crib for a time and having moms who lived in each other’s pockets. Whether it’s the age difference—Jess is fifteen months older—or a difference in personality, we never knew. Three years hadn’t kept Fern and me apart. If anything it made the bond stronger because I always looked up to her, went to her for guidance, admired her tenacity and her toughness. Not that Jess and Kelly hated each other, or worried about competing for our affections. It’s just that we kept pushing them together and they kept going their separate ways. By the time Jess was in middle school—a crucial two grades ahead—they might as well have been living on different planets. They ran with totally different crowds and never seemed to be more than indifferently polite to each other.

Secretly I’d always wondered if Jess found Kelly’s cancer off-putting. Not that she was ever mean, but that she found the whole subject icky, something she preferred not to think about. Like maybe Kelly’s situation was a constant reminder that kids her age can die, and who needed that? Plus there was the added complication of her parent’s marriage breaking up, dealing with her bereft and needy father, not to mention the consequences of her own wild behavior.

Fern’s talk about chaining her to a radiator, that wasn’t without cause. Let’s just say Jess went boy-crazy in a dangerous way and leave it at that. Then, miracle of miracles, she somehow manages to graduate from high school and within a few months her behavior changes radically. Steady boyfriend, a new outlook on life, and good grades in community college, where she’s studying to be a nurse. The sweet child reemerging as an adult. But it never occurred to me that one of the changes might have involved a connection with my daughter.

“Kelly never mentioned it,” I say. “I had no idea.”

“They never tell us anything,” Fern says. “We don’t exist. Not in their little world we don’t.”

“How did it happen?”

“According to Jess, Kelly bumped into her at the mall—they were shopping in the same store. Kelly had some really sweet things to say about a skirt Jess was trying on. So they ended up doing a mind-meld at Starbucks. Caffeinated girl talk. Yakking about their childhoods, and Kelly’s illness, and how their clueless mothers were always pushing them together, which they both hated. Not the other girl, but the pushing. Anywho, Jess talks about her relationship with Tim—they’re living together, did I mention that?—and Kelly tells her about this cute older guy she met online. From there it’s all about how Kelly wants to learn how to fly, which by the way doesn’t surprise Jess one bit, and how she’d be willing to sleep with her instructor, he’s that cute, but it turns out he’s gay.”

Fern waits for my reaction.

“Seth Manning is gay?” I ask, my voice rising. “Are you sure?”

Shane glances at me, shrugs, as if indifferent to the information.

“How could I be sure?” Fern says. “I never met the guy. Even then, who can tell if they don’t advertise? But my point is, Kelly told Jess he was gay. Deeply in the closet, too, because he adores his father and doesn’t want to disappoint him. Very conflicted. That’s the word Kelly used. Told Jess that in a few short months Seth had become her closest friend in the world. He was teaching her to fly and she was trying to help him deal with his father. Or deal with his own feelings about his father. Whatever, Jess was really impressed, said Kelly was having her first adult relationship, even if it didn’t involve sex. I blame that on the psych course she took last semester—now she’s an expert on adult relationships! As if! She came away thinking Kelly Garner is, in her words, really cool for her age. Like Jess is so much more grown-up, right?”

“Did she know about them flying to Florida?”

“Sorry, no. As far as Jess knew, the farthest Kelly had flown was to some airfield in upstate New York. Kelly said she wanted to solo in the mountains.”

“You’re amazing, Fern.”

“What’s amazing? I mentioned Kelly to Jess, she told me all about it. Wasn’t like I had to pry.”

Fern pauses, then asks, very lightly, “Any news?”

“Tons,” I say, and fill her in.

3. Papa Has A Plan

The helicopters look like giant dragonflies sweeping over the eastern edge of the rez, along the grassy shoreline. Busy things, buzzing around, scaring the birds, flattening the grass when they swoop down for a closer look at what, some old gator sunning himself? A wrecked vehicle abandoned to the elements? A roofless chickee hut from the bad old days when the people were poor?

Figure a few more hours of daylight, they’ll go back to wherever they came from, none the wiser.

Ricky isn’t worried because he’s willed himself invisible. Chopper could be right overhead, they’d never see him. White eyes don’t know how to look, wouldn’t know a man from a stump post. Might be fun to shoot one down. Why not? He’s got the firepower. Fully automatic Breda M37 machine gun with a full belt, a thousand rounds. Full-auto AA-12 shotgun with enough shells to melt the barrel. Couple of classic M16 semis that come with cool-looking bandoliers. A fully equipped M40, the Marine Corps standard issue sniper rifle, with day/night scope. Deadly up to a half mile, which is going to come in handy. Various pistols and revolvers, all.45 caliber so he doesn’t have to screw around with different shells for the handguns. And just for fun, a brace of Russian-made RPG-7s with fuel-air warheads capable of exploding a good-size house, or, for that matter, a noisy helicopter.

Oops, kaboom. Talk about wow factor.

Not now, though. For the moment he’ll remain unseen and unseeable. Thigh deep in the warm water, muck between his toes, pushing his flat bottom aluminum skiff ahead of him, following a shallow channel only he knows. The stash of weapons in the skiff, under a flat gray tarpaulin covered with grass. He’s coming in the back way with a little surprise for his brothers. He’ll cache the weapons, enough to arm a full platoon of warriors, then pop up where they least expect him, surprise, surprise.

What the council doesn’t know, Joe Lang and his little club, is that they’ve given him the power. Saying he doesn’t exist, that he’s dead to them, that’s what makes him invisible.

Soon he will be a ghost among ghosts, making amends to some, seeking revenge of others.

Letting the tall white man live, he’d wondered at his own generosity. Seeing the helicopters made him understand. Because the time has come, and the tall white man serves as the messenger, the go-between.

No more secrets, no more subterfuge. No more begging.

Ricky likes it that the choppers are over the rez, searching for him, for a needle in a hundred square miles of haystack. He likes that the tribal police have mustered a team in support of the federal invaders. Or pretended to. He’s noticed that none of the Nakosha uniforms have seen fit to leave their brand-new cruisers. They know Ricky Lang is out there and they’d rather stay on the roads, thank you very much. Doesn’t help that very few of them know the back-country, not like Ricky does. Most of the young officers would hesitate to get their feet wet, let alone hunt for an armed and dangerous enemy who could be anywhere.

Superman becomes Swamp Thing, that’s how his legend will be amended. The idea makes him laugh because he is, indeed, a thing of the swamp. Even his breath smells like a bog, a bull gator’s breath. The sour funk of all the bad things he’s done, and for which he must atone or risk being a ghost forever.

He hears a splash, sees that his children have come to play in the boat. Tyler, the baby, splashing gleefully while his older sisters wear the pirate costumes he bought them last Halloween.

“Hi, kids,” he says. “Papa’s happy to see you.”

The children stare at him, saying nothing.

“Soon we’ll talk,” he assures them, shoving along the boatload of weapons. “Papa has a plan.”

4. Blood Relations

“They not bad boys, understand, they just too poor to be good.”

Another folksy remark from Detective Rufus T. Sydell, of the Glade City Police Department.

Roof, as he asks to be called, is a skinny, small-boned gentleman with a sun-damaged complexion and a slightly goofy, frequently deployed smile that’s about as wide as his face. Deeply crinkled, flat-gray eyes, set wide apart, as if he can see around corners. Wears his silvery hair in a military burr cut and began his second career as cop after retiring from the United States Marine Corps.

“Sydell a cracker name, like Whittle is a cracker name,” Roof explains, weaving his fingers together as he speaks. “Go back far enough we got relatives in common, guaranteed. Them old boys got up to all kinds of mischief out in the islands, fathering children and what all. Young lady, I am referring to the Thousand Islands, an area runs along the west side of the Glades. Sydells lived on a shell mound out in the Glades, just like the Whittles. Mound is a little island made by the Calusa Indians long time ago—heaps of oyster shells piled in the mangroves till it gets to be a foot or so above flood level. Just barely in this world, you might say.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, feeling like one of his young recruits. Ten minutes into his charm-dog spiel, I know enough to shut up and salute.

We’re talking to Roof, or rather he’s talking to us, because Shane wants to follow up on the Whittle brothers, see if they have any connection to Ricky Lang. Could be they’re just taking advantage, trying to fence a stolen aircraft, or it might be that they’re acting as agents for Lang, in which case they might have knowledge of the abduction. A notion that Detective Sydell dismisses as improbable.

“Smugglin’ drugs like their pappy done is more likely,” he says. “From what I know, this Ricky Lang individual don’t have much to do with white folk. First ever I heard of him, he was raising hell with the Sheriff’s Department, trying to enforce a no-alcohol regulation on the reservation. Long-established cracker business, trading moonshine with the Indians, and Mr. Lang made it pretty clear he didn’t like ‘shine and he didn’t like crackers. Man was a real crusader.”

“What happened? What changed him?”

Roof shrugs happily. “Money and politics, I guess. You think them boys up in Tallahassee play fast and loose? Young lady, I refer to our noble state legislators. Tallahassee ain’t got nothing on a tribal council, from what I hear, not once they got a dollar to fight over.”

“Either of the Whittle brothers have a record?” Shane wants to know.

“No more than the usual juvenile hijinks,” Roof responds airily, putting his hands behind his head, leaning back in his chair. “As I recall, young Dug—spells his name like what gets dug with a shovel—young Dug was brought up on charges for tormenting an alligator. Dragged it behind a vehicle for a few miles, as I recall, and got caught by the game warden. Must have been about twelve years old at the time. Then there was neighbors complained of a missing dog and a pet raccoon, blamed it on Dug. So we kept an eye on him. Any more pets went missing, I never heard about it. Roy keeps a watch over him, too, is my guess. Dug ain’t what you’d call full-on retarded but he’s pretty dim.”

“The pickup truck was brand-new,” Shane points out. “Is Roy Whittle gainfully employed?”

Roof laughs. “You mean like a paycheck job? Not that I’m aware, no. That don’t mean nothin’ in particular. There’s ways to earn a living around here don’t involve criminal activity.”

From Shane’s tight smile I can tell he thinks Detective Sydell is playing him. “You’re not concerned they were on an unregulated airfield with an aircraft used in an abduction?”

In his friendly, corn-pone way, Roof remains dismissive. “Out of my territory. Took place on the reservation, correct? Seems to me, if the Whittle boys were trespassing, so was you, which makes you not much use as a witness, was it ever to come to that. That said, somebody from a law enforcement agency develops evidence or hands us a warrant, we’ll pick ‘em up, rest assured. But from what I know, an abduction scheme would be a big leap for Roy Whittle. Never struck me as that ambitious. So if you and all your associates in the federal guvmint don’t mind, let me check up on the Whittles. This is my little slice of the world, I prefer to strut my own stuff.”

“Okay, that’s fine,” says Shane, standing up. He adds, stiffly but politely, “Thanks for your time.”

“No problem, I try to be helpful.” Roof says cheerily. He takes my right hand in both of his, gives me a reassuring squeeze. “Young lady, I hope this all works out. Terrible thing when a child goes missing. We hear anything from the search parties, anything at all, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

He stops us at the door, pretends to have an afterthought. “Mr. Shane? Young lady? It just come to me, that if you’re looking for a local connection to Ricky Lang, might be you’re barking up the wrong tree. There is a connection, come to think, but it ain’t the Whittles. Man you want to see is a fella goes by the name Leo Fish.”

Shane perks up, interested. “Leo Fish. He’s associated with Ricky Lang?”

Roof smiles like a toad with a nice fat fly in its mouth. “There’s a blood association ‘tween ‘em. Ricky had children by Leo’s sister. Used to be real friendly, Leo and Ricky.”

“Used to be?”

Roof shrugs elaborately. “Heard they had a falling-out.”

“Where do we find this Leo Fish?”

If Roof’s smile got any wider he’d swallow his own head. “Now that might be a problem, if Leo don’t want to be found. Guess you best ask around, see what falls out of the tree.”

The Glade City Motorcourt Inn looks to have sprung up from the moldy wet ground in the 1950s, and the various hand-lettered signs posted around the office—No Fishing Off The Dock Past 10 PM, No Bait In Rooms, Ice For Beer Only—indicates a clientele of visiting anglers. That probably accounts for the slightly fishy smell to the place. The scrawny, curly-haired blonde in charge looks like a product of the same decade as the decaying motel, but can’t be more than thirty years old.

She introduces herself as Trishy, has the same wide-apart flat-gray eyes as Rufus Sydell, which makes me wonder if they’re related, but frankly I haven’t got the nerve to ask. Maybe everybody “hereabouts” has a blood connection, as good old Roof implied. I’m not exactly a world traveler—life intervened, as the saying goes—but in my few excursions have never felt so in need of a passport.

Not that Trishy is the least bit unfriendly. On the contrary, she’s very chatty and curious. “Welcome to Glade City,” she says, handing us separate keys. “You’ll notice it’s not exactly a city. Heck, it’s barely a village. Used to be called just plain Glade and added the city part when the developers come down from Naples. Then the developers got flooded out by the hurricanes and left the name behind. You here for the fishing?” she asks doubtfully, checking out my slacks and shoes.

When Shane explains, her eyes widen. “Oh gosh! The search! I just this now heard about it. Wondered about the helicopters, figured it was somebody lost. We get the kayak folks, sometimes they misplace themselves, can’t find their way back. Your daughter, she was took by Indians, you say?”

“Looks that way,” I say.

“The suspect is Nakosha,” adds Shane. “We don’t know who else might be involved.”

“I heard they’re on the hunt for Ricky Lang, is that true?”

I’m getting the impression that at least some of Trishy’s eagerness is about keeping Shane in the room. The batting of the eyelashes, the deep breathing that draws attention to her modest little chest. Maybe he reminds her of her father or a boyfriend, or both. An unkind thought—she seems totally sincere in her concerns—but I’m cranky and on edge, wondering why we’ve gone so far afield from the search area.

Wanting it to be over, wanting Kelly so bad my bones ache. Shouldn’t we be with the copter crews, or at least somewhere on the reservation, awaiting news? Shouldn’t we be doing something other than chatting up the locals?

“That’s right,” says Shane, warming to his fetching little inquisitor, or at least giving the impression of great interest. “Do you know Ricky Lang?”

“Me?” she giggles prettily. “Are you serious? No way! Not personal, but he’s real famous in these parts. Everybody’s heard of Ricky Lang. When he made all them Nakosha instant millionaires, folks around here started searching their family trees. You got old boys as white as cake flour claiming some Nakosha uncle, trying to get at the money. Nobody did, though. They had it sewed up tighter than a …” She hesitates, thinks better of what she was about to say. “Um, you know, real tight.”

“This is very helpful,” Shane says, leaning slightly closer. “Give me the lay of the land, as the saying goes.”

“Mmm. That surely is the saying.”

Batt-batt-batt of the long lashes. Who does she thinks she’s kidding? Okay, she’s probably capable of kidding every heterosexual male on planet Earth, but I’m not buying.

“How about Leo Fish?” Shane asks, very casual. “Do you know Leo?”

“Sure, a course. Everybody knows Fish. He’s a character, Fish is. One of the best fish and hunting guides ever, till he quit guidin’ and went back to the country. Oh!” she exclaims as a happy thought arrives. “Fish knows Ricky Lang! They’re practically related. That’s why you asked about Fish, right?”

“You’re quick, Trishy. Can’t fool you.”

If her smile was any more coy, some director would be yelling cut! “Oh, I can be fooled,” she says, entirely focused on the big guy. “Depends who’s doin’ the foolin’, if you know what I mean.”

Shane strokes her hand where it lays ever so fetchingly on the counter between them. “Trishy, you are a treasure,” he tells her. “Any idea where we can find Leo Fish?”

“Oh,” she says, melting. “I might.”

5. Another Way In

“The lay of the land? Trishy, you are a treasure?”

“Interrogation takes many forms,” Shane says archly.

Luggage has been dragged to our adjoining rooms, Trishy thoughtfully providing units sharing an interior door, with shoddy latches on both sides. The place is clean but primitive. Faded linoleum on the floors, peeling wallpaper with a fish motif. An old AC unit is noisy but it blows cold air—a great relief from the muggy heat of the fading twilight. The bath has cracked tiles but looks and smells recently scrubbed.

Not the Europa, certainly, but better on the inside than the out.

“Depends on who’s doin’ the foolin’, if you know what I mean,” I say breathily, batting my stubby little eyelashes.

Shane grins ruefully. “Okay, maybe I overdid it. But we’ve got a place to start looking. That’s more than we got out of Detective Sydell.”

“Maybe if you had patted his little hand,” I suggest.

“Maybe if you had, young lady,” he rejoins, mimicking the cop.

The bantering runs out of steam, leaving an awkward silence. The elephant we’re ignoring is what’s happening on the reservation, out of our control. The manhunt for Ricky Lang, and what might happen to my daughter as a consequence of those actions. Has she already been maimed? Is she even alive? Seth Manning was clearly the target, the means of forcing Edwin Manning to act on Lang’s behalf. Why keep another, relatively useless hostage alive?

I keep thinking of that ugly phrase, collateral damage.

Shane sets up his laptop, connecting a phone cord to the jack. No wireless of course. And nothing much to report, other than a credit report for Roy Whittle, the owner of the new pickup Shane spotted at the hidden airfield.

“Interesting,” says Shane, studying the screen. “No indication of a lien on the vehicle. Therefore no loan. I guess Roy must have saved his pennies, huh?”

“You mean how did he get the money?”

“Exactly. From what Sydell said, the family is dirt-poor. Fully equipped Dodge Ram is thirty grand, easy.”

Shane is seated on the bed because the cubbyhole desk is way too small to accommodate his long legs. I take the only chair in the room, force myself to stop pacing because the constant motion seems to make things worse.

“Why do we care about these guys?” I ask. “Why are we here, instead of with the FBI?”

Shane listens, considers, then formulates a response. “Okay, a couple of things. The agency will shut us out of the search. They’ll be very polite about it, but they absolutely do not want you—or me, for that matter—in the vicinity of their tactical teams. The Nakosha cops are likely to be even less inclusive. So we need another way in. That’s point one. Point two, Lang almost certainly has accomplices. He’s hanging out in Cable Grove, thirty miles from his old stomping ground. Somebody has to be looking after Kelly and Seth.”

“Maybe he hid them in Cable Grove. An apartment somewhere in Miami. Why not? Why does it have to be the reservation?”

“Good question. Theoretically the captive location could be anywhere. But the likelihood is that he’d use somewhere on the reservation not only because that’s where the abduction took place, but because it would be, from his point of view, much safer. No need to transport captives over public roads. Even better, state and local law enforcement is forbidden from entering the reservation. Investigations have to be carried out under the authority of tribal police. Federal authorities like the FBI can swoop in, demand cooperation, but how long did that take? Two days? Means he’s had a lot of time to find a hidey-hole and he’s operating in a familiar area. His homeland. An example of how that might be a factor, you may recall the pursuit of Eric Robert Rudolph, the Olympic Park bomber. Goes to ground in the Appalachians. FBI knows he’s in there somewhere, living off the land, but it takes years to apprehend him.”

“Great. Glad to hear it. You mean the man who took my daughter could do the same thing, run around the swamp for years.”

Shane looks rueful. “Sorry, no. Rudolph is simply an example of fugitive thinking, and a bad one at that. Unlike the Army of God bomber, Ricky Lang is mentally unstable. He’s unraveling. He thinks he has superpowers. Eventually he’ll make a mistake or deliberately reveal himself. Plus we know he has an agenda that involves the tribal council. That’s our hope, that the captives he abducted are no longer central to whatever is motivating him. Everything he’s done so far is an effort to get back what he lost—power, prestige, his place in what amounts to an extended family. Manning, your daughter, they’re just means to an end. What he wants is to reconcile with his tribe. Granted, he’s done it in a way that ensures he’ll never be reconciled—he’s now a federal fugitive—but that was his game plan. My impression, he’s mentally unbalanced, but there’s a certain logic to his actions.”

“Are you saying they won’t find Kelly? All those helicopters, all those people searching?”