One hundred and four very long minutes after the abrupt hang-up, a fist rat-a-tats the motel-room door, causing me to jump about a foot in the air, my heart slamming. Scared and angry, I undo the chain and yank the door open. Ready to give him hell if he so much as raises his voice.

Standing in the doorway, looking more sheepish than intimidating, is a tall, rangy, slope-shouldered man in his midforties. Before I can speak—not that I know what to say—he removes a Red Sox baseball cap, revealing close-cropped gray hair, and apologizes profusely.

“Mrs. Bickford? Randall Shane. Really sorry to keep you waiting at a time like this. I had trouble finding a cab. Said they’d be over in ten minutes, it was more like thirty.”

“Cab?” Seeing the deep sadness that emanates from his faded blue eyes, I feel my anger drain away.

“Maria didn’t tell you? I don’t drive. May I come in?”

I’m thinking that if Clint Eastwood had a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper goatee, he’d bear a passing resemblance to Randall Shane. That is, if Mr. Shane could be persuaded to stand up straight. Dressed not in faded denim but slightly wrinkled khaki pants, long in the leg, moccasin boat shoes, and the kind of loose, buttoned shirt that fishermen favor, with multiple pockets. His hands, I can’t help noticing, are large, blue-veined and strong. The kind of hands that can palm a basketball or make a powerful fist.

Having been ready to dismiss him out of hand, after a bad first impression, my inner compass instantly swings one hundred and eighty degrees. My Shane is not the hero from the movie, perhaps, but he’s half again as tall as Alan Ladd, and looks plenty capable of handling himself in a difficult situation. Looks, indeed, as if he’s been handling difficult situations all his life.

That, I’m thinking, may be exactly what my situation requires. What I require. Because the man in the mask continues to scare me stupid, and I can’t seem to shake the fear.

“I see you’ve got a coffeemaker,” Shane says. “Mind if I make myself a cup?”

I offer to do it for him. I am, after all, a professional caterer, and ought to be able to play gracious host, even in a dump like this. But the big man shrugs me away. “Always make my own coffee,” he says. “One of my quirks.”

I think it a trifle odd that he doesn’t offer to make me a cup, too, (not that I want one of the tasteless things) but then recall that Ms. Savalo said he was eccentric. Maybe his eccentricities extend from not driving to not sharing beverages.

Right away he sets me straight on the latter point. “Thing is, you look shaky as hell,” he says, bring his cup over to the little laminated table. “I’m guessing you haven’t slept in at least twenty-four hours. No caffeine for you.”

I open my mouth to tell him I’m perfectly capable of monitoring my own caffeine intake, and then think better of it. What do I care? All that matters is that he’s capable of finding my son. If he can do that, and wants me to walk ten paces behind him, eyes averted, I’ll gladly comply.

“How do you do it?” I ask him. “How do you find kids who’ve been abducted?”

He shrugs, sips quietly at his coffee. “Depends on the situation. Tell me all about it, then I’ll have some idea of how to proceed.”

Once I get rolling, Shane doesn’t interrupt and he doesn’t take notes, he just sips his coffee, his eyes directed at the floor, as if fascinated by the variety of stains in the carpet. I tell him what I told Ms. Savalo, trying my best to include all the details she had to pry out of me. When I get at last to the body in the freezer, he puts his empty cup down and levels his sad blue eyes at me.

“The bastard,” he says, sounding appalled but not terribly surprised. “Had you thinking it was your boy in the freezer, didn’t he?”

I nod, a lump in my throat. Exactly right. Exactly what I’d been dreading when I lifted the lid. And no doubt why my hands are shaking now. Because even thinking about it still scares me. No, not “it,” my fear is not centered on dead bodies, but upon the man in the mask. Because an essential part of me is convinced he’s still out there in the shadows. Maybe right there in the parking lot, waiting to pounce, waiting to put me under his control.

Randall Shane picks up on my anxiety—anybody would, I suppose—and probes me for the specific symptoms.

“Just thinking of this man gets your heart racing, right?” he asks. “Brings on a cold sweat? Weakness in the belly and knees. Trembling?”

I nod, feeling deeply ashamed.

“Got an idea,” Shane announces, sounding utterly confident. He folds his large hands and places them under his chin, as if posing for Rodin’s Thinker, the khaki-clad version. “Just go with me here, okay?” he says. “I want to try something.”

I’ve no idea what he has in mind, but nod my assent.

The big hands have folded themselves together, as if in prayer. Indeed, Shane is staring up at the ceiling, as if in prayer. But he does not, as I’m half expecting, invoke the name of God. Not even close.

After a pause, he says, “What’s the most harmless name you can think of? A man’s name. First harmless name that comes to mind, Mrs. Bickford. Give me a harmless name.”

I shrug. “Bruce?”

Shane grins, exposing teeth that have not been laser-whitened or capped, which is oddly reassuring. “I know a couple of macho Scots would take mortal offense at that choice, but Bruce it is. From now on, until we establish his identity, that’s what we’ll call the man in the mask. Bruce.”

“Bruce?”

“Bruce is a bastard, but he’s not all-powerful, okay? He’s just a man. One who probably had military training in how to intimidate a victim. Wants you to fear him because his training teaches him that fear makes victims weak, makes them not pay attention to what he’s really doing. Does what I’m saying make sense?”

“I guess so. Sure.”

“Are you offended by vulgar language, Mrs. Bickford.”

“My son listens to Eminem and 50 Cent. I’ve gotten used to it.”

“Good,” he says, as if I’ve helped him arrive at a decision. “Now repeat after me—Fuck Bruce.”

“Excuse me?”

“Humor me, Mrs. Bickford. I’m sure Maria told you I was eccentric. Probably told you worse than that. So repeat after me—Fuck Bruce.”

The thing is, and this may sound silly or even prissy, but fuck is not a word I use. Lots of women in my age group and social class swear like sailors, but since I’m always meeting and greeting potential customers, I’m careful to avoid language that might be offensive.

“Come on, Mrs. Bickford. Give it a try. Fuck Bruce.”

I take a deep breath and go for it. “Fuck Bruce.”

“Good. Now say it like you mean it.”

“Fuck Bruce!”

He grins again. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Bruce is not a monster, he’s a man. Therefore he makes mistakes. We don’t know exactly what mistakes yet, but I’ll find out, starting first thing tomorrow morning. The mistakes will lead us to Bruce, and from Bruce to your son.”

“Why can’t we start right now?” I want to know.

“I’m afraid it can’t be ‘we,’ Mrs. Bickford. I’ll handle this on my own, in my own way.”

“You said you don’t drive.”

He shrugs. “True. I’ll hire a driver.”

“I’d be paying for the driver, correct?”

Another shrug. “I suppose so. Eventually you’d recompense Maria’s office and she’d recompense me.”

“Then I’m hiring a driver. Me.”

He studies me, sees that I’m serious. “We’ll discuss this in the morning.”

“Why wait until morning? Why not start right now?”

“Because we start with a lawyer, and his office won’t be open at this hour.”

“The guy in Queens?”

“The guy in Queens, exactly right.” Randall Shane stands up and stretches his long, lanky frame.

I really like the fact that his knuckles brush the ceiling.