Lost (23 page)

From the refuge of the tall grass he surveys the terrain through the NV goggles. It’s no accident that the landing strip doesn’t look like much. Just a slash through the pinelands, a mile in length but less than a hundred feet wide. From altitude it looks like a short stretch of unfinished highway, maybe, or the remains of some abandoned canal or drainage project. Years ago there were dozens of similarly camouflaged landing roads cut into the wilderness west of Miami. Even from the air they were hard to locate, mere slices in the firmament, but if the gravel was packed and graded properly a sizable aircraft could land and take off, provided the exact coordinates were known to the pilot. Some cases it wasn’t even necessary to take off again—the value of the illicit cargo was such that the aircraft could be abandoned, or dragged into the swamp to make room for the next flight.

This is no abandoned airstrip. There are a few weeds poking up through the compacted surface, but the whole thing has a groomed look that doesn’t originate in nature. Someone is actively maintaining the place. Let it go for even a few months and the scrub would take over.

Shane hasn’t seen them yet, but he’s betting there are hidden beacons—flicked on for only moments at a time—that allow night-landing pilots to make fine adjustments at the very last minute.

The secret landing strip is interesting—the only possible use is for illicit cargo—but what originally got his attention on the Google Earth image lies a quarter mile away, and as rushed as he is for time he wants to thoroughly surveil it before approaching. In the satellite imagery the anomaly appeared to be no more than a faint, roughly rectangular shadow, notable only because of its proximity to the mile-long slash that he’d recognized as a possible landing strip. In the lenses of the NV goggles its true form is revealed.

Hangar.

An aircraft hangar cleverly constructed and landscaped to look like a natural slope of ground, and therefore almost completely invisible from directly overhead. Palmetto and slash pine grow from the top of the mound, contributing to the effect, but on the side facing the runway there’s a vertical cut wide enough to accommodate almost any aircraft capable of landing on the narrow strip. As if the builder had been inspired by some of the old camouflage techniques from World War II where, say, what appeared to be a caravan trail in North Africa might actually hide a squadron of fighter planes under the dunes, ready to roll out at a moment’s notice.

This is scrub pineland, not desert, but the effect is the same: hide in plain sight by blending into the landscape. The hangar
entrance has been obscured with palm fronds, but Shane can make out the vertical panels of a wide door. A shut-up hangar without cross ventilation, it must be hot as an oven in there.

What’s inside that needs hiding?

He’s approaching the hangar, intent on a closer look, when the high drone of a gasoline motor makes itself known. Coming at speed. Automotive engine, not aircraft. Shane runs full tilt for cover as headlights flicker though the palmettos. He scrambles atop the mound of earth covering the hangar, figuring if he’s on higher ground the headlights won’t pick him up.

A heartbeat later a pickup truck skids onto the runway from the access road, kicking gravel, and heads straight for the hidden hangar.

What happens in the next few moments will depend on whether the sudden appearance of visitors is a coincidence or the result of remote surveillance. Maybe he has unknowingly activated a motion detector or been picked up by an infrared video-cam. Or maybe it’s just time to make the donuts, or check on the drug stash or whatever.

Belly to the ground, Shane edges his way back from the curve of earth that obscures the hangar beneath it. When the truck stops moving, so does he, knowing that a human figure is easier to pick out of a dim landscape when the eyes are quiet, not jouncing around on the stiff suspension of what looks to be a shiny new Dodge Ram.

Moment of truth, Shane thinks as the truck doors snap open, shedding pools of yellow light. Wishing he had a firearm, or lacking that, a Kevlar vest.

The cab spills out three men, two of them young and solidly built, of more or less identical height. The third man, stretching and yawning, is somewhat older and taller, a scrawny, narrow-shouldered guy with a funny, protuberant
belly. Like he’d swallowed half a soccer ball. He’s wearing a straw cowboy hat, well broken in, and has a lilting drawl that sounds to Shane like coastal Alabama, or maybe the Panhandle region of Florida.

“In there?” Straw Hat wants to know, loud enough to be heard over the big V-8, which has been left running.

“Pretty cool, huh?” says one of the two younger men, tugging on his cap. “Sort of like the bat cave.”

“Bat cave? Y’all got them fanged little devils out heah in the swamp?”

“Naw. Like Batman from the movies.”

“Oh yeah? Oh, ah gets it, Roy. Good ‘un.”

Shane quickly picks up on the fact that of the two younger men, the one called Roy does most of the talking. It’s also clear that an intruder has not been detected—the men have business having to do with the hangar.

Roy takes out a ring of keys—his face obscured by a ball-cap visor—and approaches the hangar, thereby passing out of sight. Meanwhile the other one—they could easily be brothers—lowers the truck’s tailgate, recovers a coil of thick rope or cable.

Beneath him, Shane hears a big hangar door sliding open.

“Son of a bitch!” the man in the straw cowboy hat exclaims. “Oo-ee, y’all ain’t lyin’! Ah be damned if this ain’t the real deal!”

Very excited about whatever it is inside the hangar.

“Pretty little thang, ain’t she?”

“Ah swear, Roy, she’s givin’ me a bone! Hot damn!”

The leering tone of conversation almost convinces Shane that the two men are discussing Jane Garner’s missing daughter. Until they rig the rope from the front bumper of the Dodge and pull the sexy aircraft from the hangar.

The long white wings of a twin-engine Beechcraft King Air pass directly beneath Shane, looking down from the top of the hangar. Might as well be angel wings. He can’t quite make out the tail numbers, not from this angle, not yet, but he knows in his heart that this is Edwin Manning’s missing aircraft, the very same plane his hotshot son flew out of Long Island, accompanied by Kelly Garner.

Lying on the roof of the hidden hangar, Shane grins into the dirt and mouths a silent Yes!

13. Chasing The Hum Job

Sleeping in chairs is bad for the back. Plus it can give you nightmares. Apparently I fell asleep sitting up, waiting for the laptop to bong, the binoculars cradled in my lap. Dreaming that Kelly is somewhere in Manning’s penthouse but I can’t find her because the binoculars won’t focus. Also I’m late for a fitting and can’t locate the wedding party.

Anxious dreams, but not quite nightmares. In nightmares Kelly would be dead.

My bleary eyes are open for a moment before I register what woke me. Daylight filtering through the sliders? My own internal alarm clock? The doorbell?

Bong.

The warning signal on the GPS! The laptop is telling me that Manning is on the move!

With a sharp little scream I jump to my feet. Eyes skidding wildly around a superluxury, two-bedroom hotel suite, empty except for me.

“Shane!”

Pointless. My half-asleep brain boots up just enough to remind me that the big guy left last night on a mission. A
mission he refused to discuss. Some creepy-crawly investigation thing it’s best I don’t know about. Or so he said. For all I know he’s trolling South Beach for leggy lingerie models. Hitting the late-night club scene because, you know, he can’t sleep.

Why not? I know nothing about the man, not really, except that he’s left me holding the bag. What should I do? Grab the laptop, run down to our rented car and try to follow the GPS signal? Stand on the balcony and scream? What?

“Mrs. Garner?”

Shane stands in the bedroom doorway, bare chested, wearing white boxers and a big bandage on his leg. Dark blood seeps from the bandage. His eyes are puffy. Like me, he’s just awakened.

Liar.

“You were asleep!” I say accusingly. “You said you never sleep!”

“Yeah. Amazing,” he responds thickly, shaking his head. “REM sleep, dreams, the whole nine yards. I got back late and didn’t want to wake you and I guess I conked out.”

The laptop keeps bonging. Shane finally notices.

“They’re in motion!” he exclaims. “The Hummer is moving!”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you!”

“Go,” he says, returning to the bedroom for his clothes. “Get the car out of the garage, meet me on the street. Grab your purse and go!”

There’s nothing more disorienting than waking up to an emergency in a strange place. Not that Miami is particularly strange—okay, actually it is—but it isn’t home, and therefore I can’t rely on a familiar comfort level. It’s as if
there’s no bottom or limit for my anxiety. And yet I can’t, no way, I simply can’t let myself turn into a hyperventilating mess.

Cling to that, girl. Make it your religion for just this day, the Church of No Panic Allowed. Focus on not being afraid, because your fear could ruin any chance you have of finding your daughter alive. Don’t think about it, just react. Grab your purse, run to the elevators. Avoid the temptation to bang on the doors or punch the button into oblivion, it won’t make the elevator arrive any faster. Let’s see, twelve stories to the garage level, does it make sense to take the stairs?

Give it a few more seconds. Patience.

The signal dings, the doors open. Empty car. Perfect. Get in, punch G, thumb the Door Close button. There, you’re dropping, going down, gravity never felt so good. And while you’re dropping try to picture where, exactly, you parked the rental car, the precious Crown Victoria. See it in your mind. Recall pulling into the dim garage, slightly blinded, following the signs and arrows. Finding a parking slot three rows from the elevators, feeling proud of yourself as you grabbed your bag from the trunk, headed for the lobby.

Small miracle, the elevator proceeds uninterrupted to the garage level. The door slides open. And right there where you pictured it, the dark green Crown Vic, big as life.

Keys! Are the keys in your purse? How could you be so stupid! How could you not make sure about the keys?

Tears of frustration start to blur my vision, but that stops when my questing fingers grasp the plastic fob to the car keys—a warm pulse of relief—and then I’m in the big sedan, being waved through the gate and onto the street a full thirty seconds before Shane hits the lobby level and spots me waiting at the curb. Bolting through the exit with the laptop
cradled under his arm like a football. Who are the big guys, the runners? Fullbacks? He looks like a fullback ready to run over anyone who dares to get in his way. Except for the small problem of his Top-Siders being unlaced, flapping dangerously. And the slightly askew baseball cap.

“Beautiful,” is the first word out of his mouth as he slips into the passenger seat, slightly breathless, grinning at me. “Well done! Go, go! Turn right onto Brickell, then left at the first light. They’re heading west.”

All the panic and hurry turns out to be unnecessary. The flame-orange Hummer is moving at a crawl though morning rush-hour traffic, no more than a quarter mile ahead. Shane can follow it on the GPS map and I can see it with my own eyeballs, big as life and not exactly easy to maneuver in bumper-to-bumper conditions.

“Okay, good,” he says, breathing a sigh of relief. “For all we know, this could be a false alarm. Maybe they’re off to breakfast at IHOP, running an errand, whatever.”

Stomach rumbling, my head begging for coffee, I ignore the reference to breakfast and point out that the Hummer has darkly tinted windows. So how do we know Edwin Manning is in the vehicle? Could be anybody, right?

“Could be,” Shane acknowledges. “Want to turn around?”

“I’m just saying.”

“Sorry. You’re right—all we know is that the Hummer is on the move. We don’t know who, or why, or where it might be headed. Standard tail, we’d have someone maneuver ahead of the target vehicle, confirm passenger identity. But we don’t have that luxury.”

“Because we’re on our own,” I say bitterly.

Shane gives me a glance, and his voice softens. “Maybe not for long.”

“What do you mean, maybe not for long?”

As we slog in the stop and go, the bright orange roof of the Hummer slowly beckoning us onward, Shane recounts what he was up to last night. His better-not-to-know mission. Not pursuing leggy South Beach models or hanging out at clubs, obviously. More like entering forbidden territory, and very nearly getting himself killed in the process. Avoiding sleeping snakes and gopher holes and something called palmetto, which he describes as a palm tree with a built-in machete. All of which he blames on something called Google Earth.

“That’s how I located the strip,” he explains. “By checking out satellite images of the area within fifteen miles of that cell tower. The images aren’t as clear as those available to military analysts, of course, but they’re good enough to identify larger structures.”

“You were trespassing? In the Everglades, in the middle of the night?”

“Figured it was more dangerous in daylight,” he says with a wry grin. “Night you can find a shadow, blend in. Daylight you’re exposed. And it’s not exactly the Everglades, that particular area. Technically it’s pine scrub. More or less dry underfoot.”

“But you found the airplane? The King Whatever?”

“Beechcraft King Air 350. Yeah, it was there. I was able to confirm the tail numbers. Aircraft is registered to Edwin Manning, DBA Merrill Manning Capital Funds.”

“Amazing!” I exclaim, suddenly elated. “Maybe that’s where they’re keeping Kelly, right at the airport!”

“It’s not an airport, Mrs. Garner,” Shane responds, cautioning me. “It’s a very narrow strip of cleared land, suitable for surreptitious landings.”

“But you said there was a building!” I protest, pushing the idea that Kelly might be there.

“A camouflaged hangar. I checked it out after they left. No sign of Kelly or Seth. No indication anyone had been held there against their will. Just an expensive aircraft in an otherwise empty hangar. Wherever they’re keeping Kelly, it’s not there.”