17 what the pastry chef said

The rental car arrives at 9:30 a.m., delivered by a neatly dressed young man with raven-black hair and soulful, chocolate-brown eyes who introduces himself as Mohammed. He cheerfully presents me with the key and a business card, should there be any problems with the car.

“Ford Taurus very reliable,” he assures me. Then quickly slips into an almost identical sedan that followed him to the motel, driven by another dark young man who could be Mohammed’s brother. A moment later they leave the parking lot without a backward glance. Mission accomplished.

Elapsed time, less than one minute. I’m thinking there are certain things we still do pretty well here in the good old U.S.A., and no-muss-no-fuss car rentals is one of them.

Wheels. I’m feeling a little more in control of myself and my fractured world, and that’s good. Actually got about nine hours’ sleep, which is amazing, considering. The same can’t be said for Mr. Shane, who shared my funky room for the night, having volunteered as bodyguard to alleviate any anxiety I might have about the man in the mask returning. Excuse me—Bruce.

“He won’t be back,” Shane had assured me. “But just in case, I’ll be here.”

With that, he borrowed a pillow, laid his long frame out on the ancient carpeting and proceeded to stare at the ceiling.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, sensing my concern. “Good floor.”

It seems that Randall Shane doesn’t sleep, at least not in a normal way. He confided that he hasn’t slept normally for many years. Some sort of sleep disorder, although he’s been somewhat vague about the specifics.

“Best I can do is achieve a kind of meditative state,” he said, as if describing an affliction as ordinary as tennis elbow or a bad back. “I kind of zone out, but my eyes are usually open.”

“Are you serious? That sounds horrible!”

“It is,” he admitted. “I’ve been hospitalized for it twice. Went through the whole course at a sleep disorder clinic. Flunked it, too. Only way I can achieve a full unconscious state is by taking powerful drugs. Not sleeping pills, the stuff they use on horses. Can’t tolerate the side effects, so I don’t use it. And in any case, the drugged state isn’t refreshing. Because it isn’t a normal sleep.”

“My God.”

“Praying doesn’t work, not for a sleep disorder. Tried it.”

“It must drive you crazy.”

“It does,” he said from the floor. “Humans need to dream—most animals do, apparently—and I can’t, so my brain sometimes produces hallucinations. That’s why I can’t drive. Might see something that isn’t there. Or not see something that is.”

He’s still examining the ceiling, so he can’t be aware that my jaw has dropped. It seems that Ms. Savalo’s description of him as “eccentric” is no exaggeration. If eccentric covers those who suffer from waking hallucinations.

“Don’t worry,” he assured me. “I’m perfectly sane. I don’t see people who aren’t there, or hear voices. Just images. They tell me it’s retinal firing, whatever that is. My brain attempting to sleep when the rest of me is wide-awake. That’s the theory, anyhow. Nobody really knows.”

“But you can work?”

I must have sounded concerned, because something in my tone made him sit up and meet my eyes.

“I can work just fine,” he said. “Just can’t drive. So normally I hire a car service.”

“Not this time. I’m driving.”

“No way to dissuade you?”

“No.”

“Could be dangerous if I stumble on to something,” he points out.

“That’s why I want to be there. In case you do.”

“How about this?” he says. “How about we take it one day at a time.”

“If you find my son, I have to be there. However many days it takes.”

Shane sighs. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll find your son, Mrs. Bickford. Go on, get some z’s.”

“Can’t.”

“Sure you can. Sleep for both of us.”

I remember undressing under the covers, and then nothing until seven in the morning, when a ray of sunshine came through a broken slat of the venetian blinds. With waking came a brief spasm of total panic. Where am I? Where’s Tommy? After sorting that out—yes, it all happened, it wasn’t a bad dream—I notice that Shane is gone.

“Randall?”

Instantly the door opens. Shane tilts his head into the room, a cell phone up to his ear—he’s stepped outside to make or take a call, that’s all—and whatever relief I feel is deflated by the reminder that I find myself in need of a bodyguard-slash-investigator. Not to mention a lawyer.

After a quick shower, I put on the new underwear, jeans and T-shirt. Shane is waiting for me outside, hair still damp from his own shower, and as we walk down to breakfast he explains that he’s just completed a lengthy phone consultation with Maria Savalo. Discussing legal and investigative strategy. A petulant twinge makes me wonder if I’m paying for both ends of the conversation. Of course I am, but what does it matter?

“Maria says she’ll speak to you later today,” Shane tells me, as we walk into the shabby little motel restaurant. “I told her our plan for the day—or at least, my plan—and that we’d keep in touch. I didn’t mention you’d be driving me. She wouldn’t approve, to put it mildly.”

“He’s my son. I’m going to be there.”

Shane nods.

After breakfast—not bad, really, considering what the place looks like—we go back to the room and wait for the rental-car delivery. Making polite conversation but not discussing the situation, as if by unspoken assent agreeing to let our food digest before returning to the grim reality.

Now, finally, we’re on the road.

“I need to stop at work first,” I tell him, accelerating into a gap in the traffic circle.

“Work?”

“My catering business,” I remind him.

“Oh. Right. I thought you ran that out of your house.”

“I take calls there, and have a home office, but the actual food is prepared elsewhere. I’ve got to speak to Connie, my floor manager.”

The warehouse is only a few miles from the motel, and traffic is light, so we’re there in less than ten minutes. Shane suggests I cruise past the place, make sure no media hounds are baying for my blood.

I recognize most of the cars in the lot, in particular Connie’s new lime-green Beetle, with the small bouquet of real cut flowers she always keeps in the vase bolted to the dash. She loves that little car, and it makes me ache with wanting to explain what has happened. God knows what she’s heard on the news, or via local gossip.

“You want me inside?” Shane asks.

I kill the ignition and take a deep breath, heart pounding. “Better do this myself,” I tell him. Not at all sure that I’m capable of explaining Randall Shane to anyone, let alone a group of anxious employees.

Inside the warehouse, I hear a buzz of voices coming from the industrial kitchen down the hall. First person I see upon opening the door is Sherona, our pastry chef, and when she spots me her chubby brown face actually pales. “Oh!” she squeaks. “Oh!”

“Hi, Sherona. Hi, Connie. Hi, everybody.”

“Oh, my God!” says Connie, hands to her mouth. “We heard you were in jail!”

I plop down onto a stool, next to the rack of ovens. Which are not being utilized, I can’t help noticing. The day’s work has not yet commenced. Perfectly understandable, considering that the boss has just been unveiled as a killer mom, or at the very least a suspect in a murder.

“Okay, people, if you’ll listen up, please. I only want to say this once, and hope you’ll understand if I’m not my usual charming self.” That produces a guffaw from Sherona, and suddenly there are a few tentative grins showing on the concerned faces. “I was in jail, but no charges have been filed.”