Lost (30 page)

Empty. No place to hide a captive, every indication the shack hasn’t been occupied in years.

He resists the impulse to pound his fist through the wall. Because now he knows what Ricky Lang was up to, taking him for a boat ride. He’s buying time. Whatever is going down, it’s going to happen while Shane is stranded in
an abandoned stilt shack a mile or two from the nearest shoreline.

He’s been played.

Shane hurries outside to the porch, finds his cell phone in a soggy pocket. Shakes off the salty moisture, flips it open. Before daring to activate it, he blows the keys dry with his own breath, offering up a prayer.

Small miracle, the screen light comes on, the phone boots up. He waits impatiently while it searches for a connection. “Come on, you little beast,” he urges. “I’ll buy you a new battery, promise.”

The screen resolves. The bars climb. Connection established. Carefully he punches in a number, watches it play out across the screen.

“Special Agent Healy? Can you hear me? Good, excellent. This is Randall Shane. I’ve got a situation. You’re gonna love it, trust me.”

Part III
Dead Or Alive

1. Giving The Finger

For me, fear is like the flu. It starts in my belly and the small of my back and makes me want to hide in bed until the flu, or the fear, is over.

No bed today, no hiding. As much as I dread confronting Edwin Manning, it has to be done. My idea is to start by ringing his doorbell, assuming he has one, but the uniformed security guard in the lobby has other ideas.

“Sorry, miss. Only way you get upstairs is if they call down, put you on the access list.”

“This is a matter of life and d-d-death,” I stammer.

“Sorry, miss, those are the rules.”

I’m looking past him, wondering if I can make a dash for the elevators. He senses my desperation—or maybe he doesn’t want to waste batteries Tasering me—and offers to call the penthouse, make an inquiry.

“What do I say?” he asks me, wanting to be helpful.

“Tell him this is Jane Garner and if he doesn’t talk to me his son will die.”

The guard’s mild brown eyes widen in shock.

“I didn’t kidnap his son,” I assure him. “But I know who did. Tell him all of that.”

The guard hands me the intercom phone. “Better tell him yourself.”

The voice on the other end does not belong to Edwin Manning—might be the egg man, I can’t tell—but I nevertheless make my spiel, essentially repeating what I told the astonished security guard and adding, “You’ve one minute. I’m in the lobby.”

Fern says I’m the bravest woman she knows, but surely that can’t be true or I wouldn’t be fighting the impulse to throw up. It’s not that I’m afraid of Edwin Manning or his henchman. That’s not where the fear originates. The fear has to do with not knowing what is going to happen in the next few hours, and how I will survive if it all goes wrong.

What do you do if the world ends?

I’ve no idea and it makes me afraid.

In less than a minute Edwin Manning emerges from the elevator accompanied by Mr. Popkin. Both men look as concerned and uneasy as I feel, but there’s something in Manning’s palpable anxiety that makes me know exactly what to do.

Before he can speak I reach out and take his hand. “You have to come with me,” I tell him. “If you love your son, come with me.”

Our little team has assembled in my suite at the Europa. Randall Shane, looking beleaguered and for some reason ashamed as he holds an ice pack to his swollen face. In addition, Special Agent Sean Healy and his partner, Special Agent Paloma Salazar. All of whom had thought it might be nice if Mr. Manning was persuaded to join us, and agreed that
he’d be more likely to respond positively to a desperate fellow parent, which is where I came in.

Acting desperate had not been a problem.

“Who’s this?” Healy wants to know when the egg man comes through the door.

“Salvatore Popkin,” the bald man responds, holding out his left hand for a shake. “I work for Mr. Manning.”

Healy glances at the hand. “You’ll have to wait outside. Family only.”

When the egg man starts to protest, Manning goes, “Do what he says,” without a backward glance.

As Popkin backs awkwardly out the door, dissed and dismissed, I take him aside. “Sally? There’s a nice restaurant out by the pool. Get something to eat or drink, whatever you want. Put it on my room. I’ll let you know when your boss is ready to leave.”

The egg man blushes, not a pretty sight.

Back inside, Manning paces in a tight circle, flexing his hands like he wants to strangle someone. “Don’t tell me,” he says. “It all went to shit, right? That’s why you brought me here, to make your excuses.”

Special Agent Salazar guides Manning to a chair and insists that he sit, relax. She’s about thirty, with big lovely eyes, dark pixie hair that frames her oval face. She’s dressed in a nicely tailored linen suit, can’t be more than a size four, tops, and wearing expertly applied makeup. Only thing wrong with the picture is that she’s wearing flats instead of heels, but for all I know that’s an agency regulation. Makes sense—if you have to chase down a suspect, or stand and fire your weapon, heels are probably not a good idea.

Apparently the arrangement is that she will do most of
the talking and Healy will take notes and comment when he sees fit.

In a clear, melodic voice with a slight Latino accent, Agent Salazar informs Edwin Manning that the FBI has information they are obliged to share about his son.

Manning stares fiercely at his hands. “You’re going to tell me he’s dead. Get it over with.”

“Sir, we have no information regarding the physical condition of your son.”

His head lifts. “So he’s alive?”

“We don’t know his status,” says Salazar carefully. “We are in active pursuit of a suspect who confessed to the abduction of your son and Mrs. Garner’s daughter, and then fled. We believe he may be heading for home. Indian territory.”

If Edwin Manning looked sick before, now he looks on the point of death. “I told you people to leave us alone. Begged you. Now look what you’ve done!”

“Has Ricky Lang made contact with you today?”

Manning shakes his head.

“Has he at any time demanded payment for the safe return of your son and/or Mrs. Garner’s daughter?”

“It isn’t about money,” says Manning savagely, his eyes shiny. “Is that all you people understand?”

Maybe it’s just me, but the scorn for money seems kind of strange, coming from a guy who manages an eight-billion-dollar hedge fund. On the other hand he’s obviously been through the wringer, so I decide to cut him some slack. For a moment there in the lobby of his condo I’d thought we were finally in sync. Maybe not—he’s yet to admit to knowing about Kelly, or to acknowledge the fact that I’m as much a victim as he is.

When Shane glances up from his ice pack, he has two
slightly blackened eyes that make him look like a melancholy raccoon. “They’re trying to help,” he says to Manning. “I’m the one who screwed up.”

Healy snorts. “You said it.”

Shane keeps his silence for the rest of the meeting.

The petite but somehow imposing Agent Salazar remains a study in calm. Perched on the corner of one of the suite’s napa leather sofas, she elucidates her agency’s position deftly, and without a lot of the law enforcement jargon her partner favors.

“Here’s where we stand, Mr. Manning. Two days ago you declined assistance and refused to confirm that your son was missing. We respected your wishes. Then Mrs. Garner and her consultant—he’s the big gentleman over there, I believe you’ve met—Mrs. Garner and Mr. Shane developed evidence that her daughter Kelly was abducted from a private aircraft registered in your name. As near as we can determine she was a passenger on a flight piloted by your son, Seth Manning. We have a witness who will testify that the aircraft, a Beechcraft King Air 350, is being stored in a hangar at an unregistered airfield located within the Nakosha reservation. Therefore we conclude that your son was abducted at the same time as Kelly Garner, and that because of your financial connections to the Nakosha gaming resort, he may have been the prime target, and Miss Garner may simply have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“At Mrs. Garner’s request we have opened an investigation into the disappearance of her daughter. The investigation is ongoing, but so far our main focus has been on Ricky Lang, a prominent member of the Nakosha tribe. Mr. Lang has no criminal record, but he does have a long and complicated history with the tribe and, more important, with the founding and financing of their new gaming resort. Until recently
he was, in fact, president of the tribal council and chief of the Nakosha people. Our working theory is that Ricky Lang abducted your son as a means to force you to intercede with the tribal council on his behalf. Is that correct, Mr. Manning?”

Agent Salazar’s cool, clear recitation of the facts seems to have drained Manning of indignation, if not of anxiety. “Yeah, that’s it. You figured it out. Did you figure out he’s crazy?”

“In Mr. Shane’s opinion, Ricky Lang shows signs of mental instability and may be delusional,” Salazar concedes.

Manning’s expression is one of profound sorrow. “I’ll tell you how crazy he is. Ricky contacted me a few days ago. Wanted to borrow the Beechcraft, said it was a family emergency. He knew Seth would be piloting the plane. He wanted my son, not the plane. Ricky Lang kidnapped Seth, cut off his ring finger, and FedExed it to me.”

Both agents bend over their notebooks.

Meanwhile my heart plummets, drowned by a vision of my little girl being dismembered, one appendage at a time. It’s too much, too awful. I have to banish the image or lose my own hold on sanity.

On instinct I reach out, give Manning’s hand a squeeze.

He looks at me guiltily. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Ricky said if I reported this to the authorities he’d send me pieces of Seth in the mail. I kept my promise, but he cut off his little finger anyway. I went to the council but those bastards refused to help. They claim Ricky is no longer their concern or responsibility.”

Salazar clears her throat. “Any idea why Mr. Lang was fired as chief?”

Manning shrugs. “No one will talk to me. You have to understand, the tribe has always been very secretive. I assume it’s because he became unstable, acting out. I do know he’s
been showing up at the casino, ranting at the guards and customers. I was told that he claims to have superpowers. For all I know, he’s hearing voices from outer space.”

Salazar nods. “The casino incidents conform with our information—there have been several confrontations with Mr. Lang, and at least one assault, although no charges have been filed by the tribal police. We also find it interesting that Lang is no longer living on the reservation. He recently purchased a home in Cable Grove, did you know that?”

Manning looks surprised, maybe a little puzzled. “Cable Grove? Well, I guess he could afford it. He’s quite wealthy, you know. They all are. I helped make them rich and this is how they repay me,” he adds bitterly.

Healy perks up. “Are you saying this was a revenge abduction? That Ricky Lang took your son to get even?”

“No, no,” says Manning. “That’s what makes this whole thing so crazy. Ricky had no reason to punish me. We, my staff, we helped his tribe get full recognition. Our relationship was always cordial, very businesslike. On a personal level I liked the guy. He was bright, engaging, and very ambitious for his people.”

“In what way did you help the tribe get full recognition?” Salazar wants to know.

“The same thing we’ve done for other small tribes who want to cash in on gaming opportunities. I arranged to have them represented in Washington by a top lobbying firm.”

“Sounds expensive.”

“Five million and change. Cheap when you consider what they got out of it. The sovereign right to form their own government, their own police force, and of course their own casino.”

“Which made them all wealthy.”

Manning leans forward, making eye contact with the
agents. “Last year’s net profit for the casino and resort was over four hundred million dollars. Ricky always said he wanted every member of the tribe to be a millionaire. They are now, no question.”

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