Torn (16 page)

“Okay,” I tell him. “All safe and sound. So what’s the verdict?”

Making it sound cheery, like how’s the weather, but well aware that his decision may change my life forever.

“You know how I said I’d come back and tell you, no matter what I found out? I’ll still be doing that. I’m waiting
to board as we speak. But I thought why not let you know, that’s what phones are for.”

“So you’re taking the case,” I insist, having decided not to take no for an answer.

“Oh absolutely,” he agrees. “Didn’t I say that?”

“Not exactly.” The blood seems to drain from my head in a pleasant way, leaving me happy and a little light-headed. “But thank you, Shane. Thank you, thank you.”

“Sorry, doing two things at once here. Laptop and phone. The thing is, Mrs. Corbin, an associate has entrusted me with some very interesting data. Everything the FBI has accumulated on the Rulers, including a list of their current members, which is supposed to be a closely guarded secret. Anyhow, first thing I ran a couple of names. Guess who comes up?”

“Roland Penny.”

“No, actually, Roland isn’t on the list. But get this, a Michael Delancey has been a regular contributor to the Conklin Institute for the last seven years, and his wife, Irene, is on the books for the last five years.”

It takes a moment for the names to register.

“Mrs. Corbin?”

“Oh my god,” I say in a small voice. “His homeroom teacher!”

“Yeah. That pretty much decided me, right there. One coincidence too many. Following your lead about Mr. Delancey working on Wall Street, I did a little more checking, and last year at this time
both
of the Delanceys were working on Wall Street.”

“Both?”

“She worked under her maiden name. So yes, they were employed as investment bankers, managing currency port
folios. A power couple making, one assumes, the big bucks. Next thing, they’re in Humble and she’s suddenly the kindly schoolmarm, taking a special interest in your son.”

“The
bitch,
” I hiss. “I can’t believe it! She seemed so nice!”

Shane makes sympathetic noises. “She probably
is
nice, on some level. But she was in on it, the whole scene, she had to be. That seems clear. Every compass is pointing to the Rulers.”

“I
knew
it.”

“You did, you did,” he agrees. Then his voice thickens with concern, and he sounds a teeny bit hesitant, as if not wanting to impart bad news. “Listen, Mrs. Corbin. I’ve, ah, been consulting with the Bureau’s expert on cults and cult behavior, okay? I won’t go into the details now, but in her expert opinion there’s reason to believe that you may be in danger from these people. Not just your son, you personally.”

“They already did their worst,” I say. “What more can they do to me?”

“I’ll explain it all when I get there,” Shane says, speaking quicker. Noises in the background make it sound like he’s on the move. “For now I want you to go home, lock the doors, and don’t open for anyone but me. Not even for folks you think are friends. If the Rulers planted a member in the school system, they might have somebody else in a position of power or influence. I’ll need to run names against the list, see if anyone else pops.” He waits a beat, wanting my reaction. “Mrs. Corbin?”

“Soon as I get back, I’ll lock the door, promise,” I tell him and then explain how someone has finally responded
to my find-this-missing-child flyers, and that, as it happens, I’m already on my way to the airport to meet Mr. Paranoid.

Before I can give him the details, he interrupts forcefully. “No! Absolutely not! Turn around, Mrs. Corbin, go home. Please! I’ll check the guy out when I get there.”

“I don’t even know his name,” I protest. “His phone number was blocked. How could you possibly find him?”

“You say he works at the airport? I’ll find him.”

“No, no. That was just my impression, that he works there, okay? He never actually said whether it was the airport proper or in the vicinity. All I know for sure, he has something he wants to tell me about Noah and he’s scared to do it over the phone. So I’m meeting him at the car-rental lot.”

“He implied he witnessed something?”

“That’s what he said. All I know for sure, he’s nervous and worried and if I don’t show up, I doubt he’ll ever call again.”

“Do not do this alone,” he says, pleading. “Go home. Lock the door.”

“It’s a rental-car agency,” I remind him. “There will be people around. There will be lights, surveillance cameras, airport security. Plus I’ve got my pepper spray. First sign of anything scary, I’ll blast away, promise.”

Shane sighs, obviously exasperated by my response. “You’re a very stubborn woman, Mrs. Corbin. If you’re determined to go ahead with this, do me a favor, okay? After you meet with this guy, whoever he is, don’t leave the airport. Find the most public place, a cafeteria or a ticket counter, waiting lounge, whatever is open. Someplace where people congregate. Wait for me there. I’ll find you. I’ll be on the ground in less than two hours.”

“So now you don’t want me to go home? What changed?”

“Thinking it through. This could be nothing, just a guy who thinks he saw something, but it could be a ploy to get you out of the house. So find a safe, public place and stay there until I find you. Promise me you’ll do that?”

“Yeah, okay. Wait for you at the airport.”

“Good, great. Gotta go. We’re boarding. I’ll see you in less than two hours.”

Taking unnecessary risks is not my thing. Never has been. Bungee jumping, skydiving, extreme sports, that’s not me. My idea of danger is taking a chance on a new furniture polish. But there’s no way I’m going to let Mr. Paranoid walk away. This might be a waste of time, in fact probably is. I know that. Maybe the guy saw another kid who reminded him of Noah, an honest mistake. Maybe he’s off his medication. Maybe he’s scheming to collect a reward. Maybe he’s one of those sickos who gets his kicks messing with worried parents. Whatever, I’m going to find out. Because it’s also possible that he’s the key, that something he witnessed will lead to my son.

How can a mother
not
take that risk?

My destination, the Budget Rental lot, is on the loop at Airport Road, within sight of the terminal complex. Plenty of lights blazing, but to tell the truth, it feels way more remote than I expected. When I pull up to the rear of the lot as instructed, my little Subaru wagon shivers, buffeted by great blasts of wind from the runways and open fields.

Wind from the north we usually blame on Canada. This is from the east, so I guess Vermont must be at fault. Or maybe Albany. Whatever, I wish it would stop. Surely no
one will be wandering around in weather like this, not even Mr. Paranoid. Peering through the slightly blurred windshield, all I can make out are bright security lights, stark shadows, and row upon row of partially frosted vehicles. Small, vivid whirlwinds of snow dancing like tight-hipped ballerinas through the lanes between cars, then suddenly collapsing, as if exhausted by the cold, sucked back into the earth.

He’s not going to show, whoever he is. Something spooked him. Come as soon as you can, he’d said, as if he’d be there, regardless. As if he worked here. Doing what? The exit barrier is automatic, and if there’s someone manning the return booth, no more than a cubicle, he’s keeping out of sight, below the window line. Asleep perhaps?

Should I honk the horn, announce myself?

Inches from my head, a frozen claw rakes ice from the side window. My heart clenches as I jerk around to see a ski-masked face studying me up close, eyes watering.

Not a claw, but a plastic ice scraper. He gestures with the scraper, wanting me to lower the window.

Mr. Paranoid.

I lower the window a few inches, right hand in the pocket of my parka, clutching the canister of pepper spray.

“Haley Corbin?” he asks.

A boy’s voice, younger in person. He peels up the ski mask, his breath steaming. A bony, feral-looking face, bad skin, uneven gaps in his teeth. High school or there-abouts—under twenty for sure. The puffs of steam carry the smell of cigarettes and beer.

Mr. Paranoid is drinking on the job. Maybe to calm his nerves—he’s a jittery little guy, dancing beside my car.

“In the van,” he says, gesturing with the plastic scraper as if it’s a light saber. “We’ll talk there. Not out here.”

Looking around, very furtive, so nervous and flighty I have to remind myself that he could be a threat. He might smite me with the little scraper, breathe toxic fumes at me, gnaw at me with his brittle teeth.

Okay, he looks harmless, more scared of me than I of him, but my hand stays on the pepper spray.

“Keeping the windshields clear, that’s my job,” he says, suddenly chatty as we squeak through the cold snow. Leading me toward a white Budget Rental van, motor running, windshield steamed. “Every vehicle comes with a scraper, but sometimes that ain’t enough. So we got, you know, deicing spray and stuff.”

“Like the airlines.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Like that.”

“What’s your name?”

“Um, I, ah, rather not say. No names, okay?”

“You know mine.”

“Yeah.”

I stop a yard from the van, holding my ground. Hand still in my parka, but ready. “I’m not getting in there with you,” I announce. “What if you decide to drive way?”

“Why would I do that?” he asks, sounding stunned by the idea.

“What do you know about Noah?” I demand. “What did you see? Did you see my little boy?”

His hands start waving around his head, as if he’s being assaulted by bees. “No! Not out here!” he cautions. “Inside. You can sit in the driver’s seat. Take the keys if you want, I ain’t drivin’ you nowhere.”

He stamps around the van, gets into the passenger seat, slams the door. I tap at the window. He shakes his head, points at the driver’s side.

I slip inside, holding the spray canister in my lap. He stares at the dashboard, his bony face all knotted up, as if he’s tasting something unpleasantly sour.

“Okay, here I am, like you wanted. So what about my little boy? What did you see?”

Mr. Paranoid turns to me, his expression still nervous but now also sorrowful.

“Sorry,” he says plaintively. “I really needed the money.”

Before I can react, something rises behind me.

A strong hand clamps a wet rag to my face.

Dizzy, swirling. Fumes in my eyes.

I’m screaming into the rag when the darkness pulls me down, into the cold, into the black.

5. Strolling Like Kanye

Randall Shane cools his heels in a small, windowless room deep inside the airport terminal. The room is furnished with a small laminated table, three molded plastic chairs, and way too much incandescent lighting. The bilious green walls can’t be an accident. Probably some Homeland Security consultant with a theory about color-induced confessions. Sick-making color schemes being about as effective, in Shane’s not-so-humble opinion, as blasting loud music at suspects. Turn down the Snoop Dogg, I surrender! Right. Tell it to the Branch Davidians.

An hour creeps by, ever so slowly. Deprived of his cell, laptop, and notes—all connection to the outside world—
he has nothing to occupy his thoughts but an examination of what has transpired since his plane touched down. Whatever mistakes or errors in judgment he may have made, beginning with his decision to go to Washington when, in hindsight, he should have been looking out for the lady. His thoughts keep roving back to that awful moment of tightly controlled panic when he realizes that his worst fears have come to pass: his client is nowhere to be found, not in the airport or vicinity, not at her home. Haley Corbin is gone. First her husband, then her son, now her.

A burly, sour-faced man enters holding two steaming Starbucks cups. He kicks the door shut behind him. “Hey, Randy, thought you might want a coffee.”

“Randy?” says Shane, lifting an eyebrow.

“Just trying to be friendly.”

“Ah,” says Shane without inflection. “That explains it. You were just being friendly when you locked the door.”

Preston Chumley, a forty-four-year-old senior investigator with the New York State Police Bureau of Criminal Investigations, feigns an innocent look. “The door was locked? My apologies. That was an oversight. You’re not being detained. You’re not under arrest.”

“I’m also not a suspect,” Shane points out. “The sooner you confirm that to your own satisfaction, the sooner you can concentrate on finding Mrs. Corbin.”

“Thanks for the advice. We’re doing our best, in our simple, bumbling way.”

Shane sighs, studying the man, decides his eyes are too close together, that’s the problem. Makes it hard for him to see the obvious. Plus his beefy neck bulges over his collar, causing him to resemble a pale, overstuffed sausage.
Maybe it’s the too-tight clothing—your basic cheap plainclothes suit—that makes him irritable and suspicious. Why else detain the very man who reports a woman missing?

“Did you call my contact numbers?”

Chumley shrugs. “I called the first one. Monica whatever.”