Текст книги "Lost"

Автор книги: Chris Jordan

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“Oh my God,” I say, hand to my mouth. “She was trolling.”

Shane chuckles and shakes his head. “I believe it’s called ‘browsing,’ Mrs. Garner. Simply a way to search through the millions of entries for someone you might find interesting. The folks on MySpace often affiliate themselves with groups or common interests. Just like people tend to do in real life.”

The Facers file contains dozens of images of young men, mostly posing with their computers or leaning against their cars. One has his shirt off, showing tattoos on his arms and chest. Another, his new nipple ring. There are several motorcycles and a hang glider proudly displayed by boys who look ready to die at a moment’s notice. All of it heart attack material for the mother of a teenage girl.

“This is interesting,” Shane says, clicking on the photo of the kid with the nipple ring.

“It must have hurt,” I say, wincing at the very thought.

“No, I mean what’s missing. Your daughter saved this image, but there’s no indication she ever messaged this particular individual.”

“Thank God for that.”

“It’s true for most of these images,” Shane says, making eye contact. “She was culling pictures but not necessarily making herself known to the subjects.”

“But what does it mean?” I ask.

Shane shrugs. “Hard to say. Might just means she liked the pictures. Maybe because they fit her definition of a Facer, whatever that is. Kind of a wise guy, out-there type, maybe? Any thoughts? Have you heard her use the word?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe. The cool words change from day to day, you know?”

“We can Google it later, if it seems to be pertinent. Right now I’ll concentrate on the file contents.”

Shane scrolls through my daughter’s secret life, or her fantasy life, all of it reduced to thumb-size snapshots. I’m standing over his broad shoulders, close enough to smell his deodorant—kind of a pine scent—aware that under normal circumstances this level of intimacy with a stranger would be, for me, uncomfortable. But these are not normal circumstances. Far from it.

“You think that’s how she met this Seth person?” I ask “Because she saw his picture—his Facer—on the Web site?”

“Yet to be determined,” says Shane, manipulating the keyboard with all ten fingers, a level of typing skill never mastered by yours truly.

“Ah,” he says, as another folder opens. “Here we go. This is linked to a message Kelly mass-mailed to forty-six recipients.”

He deftly places the e-mail in the center of the screen, enlarges the font so we can both read.

Young, aspiring pilot looking for flight instruction. Willing to help with cleaning, maintenance of aircraft. Ready to learn.

I’m too stunned to speak.

“You notice she doesn’t mention her age or gender, other than to say ‘young.’”

“I never knew. Never had any idea.”

“That she wants to learn how to fly?”

“Any of it. Willing to help with cleaning? I can’t even get her to vacuum the hallway! She takes care of her own room, that’s it.”

Ready to learn. The question is, and it breaks my heart to think it, was she ready to learn more than flying? Was this her very clever way to make herself interesting to grown men?

“Four,” Shane announces.

“Four?”

“Responses to that particular e-mail.”

The first response comes up with a snapshot of a guy who has to be in his thirties. Deep in his thirties, with crinkled eyes and a jaunty handlebar mustache. Wearing a distressed-leather flight jacket as he poses in the open cockpit of an old-fashioned airplane. Two wings, like Snoopy used to fly.

“That’s a Waco,” says Shane. “Famous stunt biplane. Big bucks.”

“Stunt plane? You mean like loop-de-loops?”

“Yup,” says Shane. “If you like flying upside down, Waco will provide.”

I almost say, I’ll kill her, then bite my tongue. The guy may have a leather jacket and a big mustache, but he’s not the young man from her photo collection.

As it happens, the second response is from our mystery boy. There’s no photo, and not much of a message, just a succinct more details, please, but it does include a name, Seth Manning, and his e-mail address, [email protected].

“This is dated six weeks ago,” Shane notes.

“S-Man,” I say. “The folder. Can you open it?”

“Already there.”

The S-Man folder contains over a hundred e-mails, messages from S-Man and responses from flygirl91.

“She didn’t have to mention gender,” I point out. “Flygirl kind of gives it away.”

“Good point. If you don’t mind, I’d like to print these out,” Shane suggests. “It’ll be faster and easier than opening each e-mail.”

Maybe he’s not that comfortable having me hover over his shoulder. Fine. Whatever, Kelly’s printer starts spitting out pages at a rate of twenty per minute. I sit on the edge of her bed, devouring her correspondence with Mr. Seth Manning, flight instructor and seducer of teen girls. Or maybe not. From the tone, right from the beginning, my darling daughter seems to be the aggressor.

What have u got 2 lose? Flygirl will make it worth yr while.

Hw old r u? Don’t lie.

Will b 18, all legal and tender, on 4th of July.

Two lies, actually. Her sixteenth birthday was in May, a few weeks before flygirl started trolling for flyboys. By the time Shane hands me the next batch of pages, I’m feeling physically ill. Partly its residual guilt, for violating her privacy, but mostly what’s making me ill is righteous, motherly anger. How dare she take such outrageous risks with her life and well-being! There’s scarcely a broadcast of the local evening news that doesn’t include mention of Internet predators. It’s not like Kelly didn’t know the danger. She just didn’t care. Or worse—and this might be what’s really making me sick—danger is precisely what she’s looking for.

All legal and tender.

Cool, oily sweat suddenly pours from my scalp into my eyes, and I barely make it to the bathroom before heaving. On my knees, gagging, emptying my stomach.

Shane makes me sit on the closed toilet as he applies a cold cloth to my forehead. “Guess I was wrong about the toast, huh?”

“Dummy.”

“Well, it’s not the first time I’ve been dumb,” he says kindly, wringing the cloth out.

“No, me. I’m the dummy. Should have known. Should have been checking her e-mail.”

“Here, hold this,” he says, pressing the cold cloth to my forehead. Gets a dry towel, pats the moisture from my neck. “You couldn’t check her e-mail, remember? And if you could, she’d have found another way. Your daughter is obviously a very willful young woman.”

“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,” Shane suggests. “I’ll fill you in on the way.”

As drivers go he’s solid, cautious, and, by my standards, maddeningly slow. Hands on the wheel at ten and two, eyes on the road, checking the side and rear mirrors. On the other hand the ride is silky smooth and I do, in fact, feel almost absurdly safe. A meteor the size of Texas could strike, devastating all life, and we’d survive somehow, me and Randall Shane and his sturdy Lincoln Town Car. I feel—and this is pure craziness—that if I can get this man close enough to Kelly, she’ll be safe, too. Like the opposite of kryptonite, radiating strength and safety.

Like I said, crazy. Hours of anxiety and worry have addled my brain.

Once he’s on the thruway, Shane clears his throat and explains, “Statute 2252 is a federal law, Internet Crimes Against Children, ICAC for short. There’s an ICAC Task Force headquartered in Albany, under the state police, and Detective Berg indicated he would contact them.”

“Crimes against children?” Just saying it makes my stomach clench. “He can be arrested for crimes against children?”

“Probably not,” Shane concedes. “I made a point invoking the statute in hopes that he’d go on the watch list. ICAC has a nationwide reach, and that may be useful. But it doesn’t mean that if apprehended he’ll necessarily be prosecuted. Mostly the law concerns soliciting sex by transmission of indecent images. We didn’t see anything like that on Kelly’s computer. But there’s another part of the statute that covers endangering child welfare. Acting in any manner that is likely to be injurious to the physical, mental, or moral welfare of a child.”

“You’re saying he could be prosecuted, maybe.”

“Very tough to make that case,” Shane cautions. “Your daughter is technically a minor, but the courts are loath to invoke the law in teen romance situations.”

“He’s not a teenager!” I snap. “He’s grown man. Also he’s a flight instructor, that makes him like a teacher, right? With a teacher’s responsibility?”

“Agreed,” says Shane. “Absolutely. He had no business responding to a sixteen-year-old girl. The fact that she was, ah, somewhat deceptive about her revealing her age might or might not be a mitigating factor.”

I fold my arms across my chest, feeling stubborn. “They always say that, don’t they? ‘She said she was older. Showed me a fake ID.’ Or whatever.”

“They always do,” he agreed. “But let’s keep our priorities straight. The important thing is to locate your daughter. That’s our goal. After that, let the law take care of itself.”

“You think he’s in Oyster Bay? That he took her home?”

He glances at me in the rearview. “It’s a place to start. The Nassau County Police will make a drive-by, checking tags. I figure we’ll get a jump start, actually ring the doorbell.”

“A private investigator can do that?” I ask.

“Ring a doorbell?” He chuckles. “Most of them. But just so we’re clear, Mrs. Garner, I’m not a licensed P.I. I’m a consultant. And we consultants can ring doorbells like nobody’s business.”

An hour or so later—would have taken me forty-five minutes, tops—the big Lincoln finally rolls into Oyster Bay, heart of the so-called Gold Coast. North shore of the island, facing the Sound. Heading for the village, not the city. We’re not far from the inner bay, the local claim to fame, but it’s midnight and all I can see is a swath of the shore road illuminated by headlights. That and the moonless silhouettes of majestic trees and huge, estate-style homes nestled along the cove.

Randall Shane, clever devil, has an on-board navigation system.

“Teddy Roosevelt used to live out this way, did you know that?” he asks.

“I heard.”

“You do business here?”

“We’ve done a few weddings on Cove Neck. Amazing affairs, believe me. Twenty grand for a bridal gown, every stitch by hand. Two thousand just for the pearl embroidery. Anyhow, if you’re lucky enough to live out here you probably call it ‘the Neck’ or ‘the Village.’ That area to the west, along the shore, that’s ‘the Cove’. All very different from the city, where the working stiffs live. Out here on the Neck some of the residents tend to talk about Teddy like he lives next door. Like you might run into him at the next catered barbecue.”

“No kidding?” He glances at the navigation screen, slows for the next intersection. “So this area we’re heading into, the Mannings are likely to be wealthy, is that correct?”

“On the Neck? Super wealthy. Megabucks.”

“They may have security,” he points out.

“They all have security,” I tell him.

“Could be a problem this time of night.” He reaches into the glove compartment, takes out a small leather case.

“Gun?” I ask.

“Cell phone,” he says, deadpan. “In case some gung ho rent-a-cop picks us up.”

The navigation screen bongs gently. Shane applies the brakes, bringing the Town Car to a full and complete stop. “This is it,” he announces.

Headlights pick up a locked, black-iron gate and a long, curved driveway beyond, paved with finely crushed oyster shells. Appropriate, given the location. Costs a fortune but makes a nice, satisfying crunch when the Rolls rolls up the driveway. Or the Bentley, or the Ferrari. Whatever the vehicle of choice on any particular day.

Shane presses a button and the windows slide down to the smell of the sea, a whiff of cut grass coming to us out of the dark. For some reason I think of a song my mother used to hum, or maybe it was a poem she’d had to memorize for school. All I get are fragments from childhood memory: by the shore of something-or-other, where the sacred waters run. Xanadu, not Oyster Bay. But “sacred waters,” that has to be right. Any place this expensive, it has to be sacred, at least to the wily gods of real estate.

“How do we get past the gate?” I ask.

“Don’t you remember?” says Shane, grinning as he reaches a long arm out the window. “We ring the bell.”

17. The Man In Black

The gate never opens. Shane keeps pressing the button, speaking into the lighted intercom, announcing our presence.

“This is in regard to Seth Manning. Seth is in legal jeopardy, please respond,” and so on, never varying his authoritative tone. Sounding very much like a federal agent.

Legal jeopardy. Up to me, I’d say Seth Manning is in deep shit.

We’re both out of the Town Car, stretching our legs and checking out the heavy gate. In movies the hero simply mows the gate down, but this one has electronic locks that slip into a sturdy concrete footing and I’m not at all sure even the mighty Lincoln could get through. Plus we’re under surveillance by at least three cameras, one of which is night vision equipped, according to Shane. Try to monkey with the security gate and the local cops, rented and otherwise, will be on us long before we pry it open.

I know this because I’m the one who advocated the mow-it-down theory of making ourselves known.

“Can’t help you if I’m under arrest,” Shane points out, nixing the idea. “Antagonizing the authorities won’t help.”

Very rational, but I’m not feeling particularly rational. I’m exhausted, anxious and cranky. I’m acutely aware of wearing the same skirt and cotton top donned for my visit to the county cops, hours and ages ago. Clothing that now smells sour. I need a hot shower. I need a warm meal and a good night’s sleep. I need to brush my teeth. I need my daughter home, my life returned to normal.

“Doesn’t this just prove that he’s gone?” I fret, gesturing at the locked gate. “Or that he’s in there with Kelly and won’t come out?”

Shane studies me, runs a hand over his neatly trimmed beard. “Seth Manning is in his early twenties,” he says. “I’m assuming this is the family home. The property is listed under the name Edwin Manning. Could be the father.”

“Right, of course.” I’d been concentrating on the cradle-robber himself, hadn’t given a thought to his parents.

“His parents may not know what’s going on. If you were his age, planning to run off with a minor, would you inform your parents?”

“Doubtful.”

“For all we know, Seth may in fact live elsewhere,” Shane reminds me. “But this is the address on his driver license, so we start here.”

“Okay fine,” I concede. “So Mom and Dad are on vacation. They own other homes. They’re in Gay Paree, or the Ukraine, or touring the moon.”

“Yes, quite possibly they could be elsewhere,” he concedes, nodding in agreement. “You want to leave?”

“No! That’s not what I’m saying! I’m saying if nobody answers the damn bell, I’m climbing the damn fence!”

“There could be dogs.”

“Then the dogs better watch out. Woman bites dog, that’ll be the headline. And you can’t stop me!”

Not sure how it happened, exactly, but suddenly I’m seething, lashing out, and Randall Shane is a convenient target. Oddly enough, the big man doesn’t react. It’s as if he’s been expecting me to flip out, and braced himself for it.

“What makes you look so smug!” I demand.

“The lights,” he says, pointing at the heavy foliage obscuring the curve of the driveway.

Are there lights twinkling through the leaves? Hard to say.

“The house lights? Are you sure?”

“No,” he says. “Not to a certainty. But moments after I first pushed the button, lights shifted.”

“The wind? A timer?”

He shrugs. “Maybe. My gut says somebody is home. And ignoring a buzz from the gate, that tells us something.”

“What?” I ask, embarrassed for teeing off at the guy. “What does it tell us?”

Before he can explain, a figure emerges from the bushes and takes a position several paces behind the locked gate. Surprising the hell out of me but not, apparently, Randall Shane.

In the darkness the figure resolves into a small, slender man dressed from head to toe in black. He has thinning hair, raccoon eyes, and seems to have rubbed dirt on his face.

The small man raises something that could be a gun and points it at us. Before I can duck, the beam of light makes me flinch.

Flashlight, not gun.

“Who are you?” he demands in a shaky voice. “What do you want?”

“Mr. Manning? I’m Randall Shane and this is Mrs. Jane Garner.”

“I don’t know you.” He backs away, looks ready to slip back into the foliage. “What do you want?” His voice sounds like a speaker with a loose wire, like he’s on the verge of laryngitis, and fighting it.

Shane raises both hands, as if in surrender, and takes a step closer to the gate. “We have reason to believe that Mrs. Garner’s daughter, Kelly, has run away with Seth Manning, who is listed as living at this address. Are you Seth’s father, sir? Are you aware that Kelly Garner is a minor? Can you help us find them?”

At each statement of fact the man in black seems to shudder, as if receiving a series of thudding body blows. Shaking his head, no, no, no. “Never heard of the girl,” he responds, voice cracking. “You’ll have to leave. I demand that you leave immediately!”

Shane slips closer to the gate. His own powerful, compelling voice becomes less demanding, more conciliatory. “Where’s your son, Mr. Manning? Can you help us, please? Mrs. Garner is worried sick. This isn’t about pressing charges, it’s about getting her daughter back.”

“Go away! You must go away!”

“Why is that? Has something happened?”

The man in black retreats, blending into the foliage. Only his eyes showing, like the Cheshire cat. “Nothing happened,” he says softly. “Go away.”

Shane takes a business card from his wallet, slips it through the iron bars. It flutters to the ground like a small, white leaf. “My card, sir. I can help you.”

The eyes vanish. The voice has been reduced to a pleading whisper. “You can help by going away.”

Then the leaves shiver and he’s gone.

Shane pulls the Town Car over in a shallow turnaround a few hundred yards from the Manning estate. He kills the engine. On the other side of the road, seemingly close enough to touch, the water is black, glistening. A few miles away, visible along the shore, the snug little cove exudes life. Docks, homes, streetlights.

A familiar, clustered warmth that seems alien out here on the Neck, where many of the homes are hidden from view.

Shane shifts himself in the driver’s seat, facing me.

“Your reaction?” he asks.

“Messed up,” I admit. The feeling of dread has returned, nagging at my guts. Getting into the car, my knees had been weak. “That was Seth’s father, wasn’t it?”

Shane nods. I can’t quite make out his eyes. He’s a handsome skull in the dark. “Almost certainly,” he agrees. “I addressed him as ‘Mr. Manning’ several times and he failed to correct me. Probably used to people knowing who he is.”

“His face was dirty,” I say, mouth as dry as sandpaper.

“Smeared on the dirt so we wouldn’t see him,” Shane says. “I’m almost certain he was hiding in the leaves, listening to us for a while before he revealed himself.”

“But why?”

The big man sighs. “This is pure speculation, but I assume he wanted to know who we are. Or more importantly, who we aren’t.”

“Why?” I repeat. “Why not call the security guards to run us off? Or call the cops? Why come out to the gate at all? People who live in houses like that, on estates like that, they don’t run around at night, dressed all in black, faces smeared with dirt.”

I’m unaware of clutching the back of the leather headrest until Shane gives my hand a reassuring pat, as if preparing me for bad news.

“In my estimation Edwin Manning is desperate,” he says carefully, gauging my reaction. “He’s making it up as he goes along.”

Desperate, frightened, lost. That was my impression, too.

“I’ve seen parents behave like that, many times.” Shane says. “Not the sneaking-around part, exactly, but the frightened-out-of-their-wits part. He’s sick with worry, just like you.”

“Because his son took off with my daughter?” I ask, dreading the answer.

Shane says, “Or because his son has been abducted, and he’s been warned not to contact the police.”

18. Calling All Fathers

It’s after midnight and Ricky can’t sleep. Lying a foot or so from Myla on the custom king, he just can’t make it happen. Too many things going on. His sleep button is stuck and the pills no longer work. White man’s medicine, all it does is slow his thoughts a few miles per hour, not nearly enough to let his mind rest.

Only thing to do when this happens, he decides, is get up, keep moving. Forward motion pushes all the crazy thoughts to the back of his head, prevents them from bouncing. Saved by gravity or momentum, or whatever the hell it is.

Ricky slips out of bed, leaves Myla sleeping like a curled-up kitten, a slender hand draped over her eyes. He prowls his new house in the dark, naked. Bare feet cool on the tiles, walking a circuit that takes him through the kitchen, into the hallway, past the three bedrooms he furnished for his children, around through the entertainment alcove, and back into the dining room. Sodium lights coming though the slats like knife-cuts on the tile floors.

Step on a crack, he’s thinking, break the motherfucker’s back.

On his third circuit Ricky leans into Tyler’s room. Disney World poster, bed like a race car, brightly painted. No Tyler tonight. Sometimes there’s a shape in the bed that might be his little boy, but not tonight. Decides not to check on Alicia and Reya because the girls will be with Tyler, all three together, forever and ever, amen.

The new house, big as it is, is too small to contain him. In the laundry room he slips into a pair of elastic-waisted, cotton gym shorts, heads into the four-bay garage. No shirt, no shoes, he loves the feeling of air on his skin, believes he can soak up oxygen, make himself stronger. He decides, on impulse, to leave the Beemer and take Myla’s new convertible Mini Cooper. Pushes the driver’s seat as far back as it will go, his big arms cocked over the sides. Thinking he must look like one of those Shriners driving a toy car for the kids. All he needs is the funny hat.

Ha, ha, ha, he laughs all the way to the airstrip. Not quite to the airstrip, actually, because the ruts and potholes on the final approach are bigger than the Mini. So he parks the little car in the brush, goes the last couple of miles on foot, snorting great drafts of muggy, night-swamp air though his flaring nostrils. The odor of ancient muck, animal scat and the thin, delicious scent of slow-moving water. Thinking, this is how the old-timers did it, hunting more or less naked, alive to the world, paying attention with all the nerves of their bodies.

Ricky feels power flowing into him, and a soothing calmness that slows his brain, stops it from spinning like an off-kilter gyroscope. When he emerges into the clearing he instantly clocks the beautiful Beechcraft exactly where he left it, wings glinting with the light of distant stars. Not far away the jacked-up, fat-wheeled Dodge Ram lurks next to the camouflaged hangar. The toothy front grill makes the truck look like a shiny steel cougar ready to pounce.