“Doing whatever?”

“I wouldn’t know. Security personnel are not allowed in the council chambers, only members of the council.”

“You know why Manning was in the house?”

Carlos shakes his head. “Why would I? I assume he was here on business. It’s not unusual, him checking in. Happens every month or two. Except he usually comes on his own, without an entourage.”

“Ever bring his son along? Fly down on the corporate aircraft, pop in to check on their investment?”

Carlos decides to get cagey. “I don’t know. Maybe. If so, I was never introduced.”

Shane nods thoughtfully, studying the security chief. “The reason my boss is so upset? The reason he’s asking questions? His boy Seth has been abducted.”

The security chief’s complexion goes from spa tan to fish-belly gray in a heartbeat. “You’re kidding, right?”

“It’s not a joking matter, Mr. Carlos. That’s why I’m here, to help Edwin Manning recover his son, dead or alive. We’d prefer alive.”

The man exhales slowly, seems to shrink a little as beads of sweat the size of small, oily bullets form on his brow. “You know I had nothing to do with this, right?”

“Do I? We have information that the abduction was carried out by a member of the tribe. I believe the description was ‘some crazy big-shot Indian everybody is scared of.’ I’m guessing the crazy part is right on, considering the consequences and, from the panicked way the tribal council is responding, the gentleman really does inspire fear. I’m also guessing, from the little lightbulb that just went on over your head, that a name popped into your mind.”

The security chief nods miserably.

18. Begging Is Good

My first wedding gown was for my friend Fern. Fern’s January wedding to Edgar who was impossibly slim and good-looking at the time. Fern, always gorgeous in her own unique way, had put on fifty pounds in pregnancy but still managed to glow. She had insisted that I not attempt to hide her baby-full belly when draping the gown. As if. There she is on the steps outside the church, posing for the formal photograph, looking like she was having quintuplets at least. But that smile, and her fabulous eyes, and the way she’s looking at Edgar, like she’s ready to eat him in one big bite. I’m there, too, a skinny, nervous, teenage bridesmaid, one of three in identical blue satin gowns. We look like frosting accents on Fern’s fabulous white wedding cake.

That was the idea, that the bridesmaids would echo the colors on the cake. A totally stupid concept, all mine, but somehow it worked because somehow a wedding always seems to work, even if the marriage itself is doomed to end badly, with poor Edgar begging for his favorite recliner and Fern crossing her arms and saying no, like a scene out of a bad sitcom, Men Behaving Pathetically.

All these years later, I’m still not sure what got into me, volunteering to make the gowns. There was more to it than Fern not having the money for a proper bridal shop gown, which even then were outrageous. Maybe it was about me wanting to be involved in the wedding itself, as more than a best friend and bridesmaid. Putting my mark on the event. All I really remember is looking in the shop window with Fern, announcing with great virginal confidence that I could make her a gown like that, no problem. I’d been sewing my own stuff for a year or two at that point, what was the big deal? A pattern, a little nice lace, a few ruffles, nothing to it.

Could I have been that naive? Or maybe I knew what I was getting into, the panic and the endless fittings, all the hand-stitching because the lovely silk kept bunching in the machine. The other two bridesmaids squirming like eels, worried about staining their underarms with flop sweat. Fern’s dad bursting into tears when he saw her, and not of happiness. Her mom dragging him off for a lecture about pregnancy being a gift from God. Fern snorting and rolling her eyes, telling me to ignore her ridiculous parents and make her look beautiful please. Which she did, and yes I helped it happen because the gown really was amazing, and we bridesmaids really did look like perfectly matching, skinny little planets orbiting a wonderfully round sun goddess.

Once upon a time I used to stare at this photo—it remains a precious keepsake, living in my purse—and imagine myself not as the bridesmaid, but as the bride. I could see myself in Fern’s place, in a smaller gown, of course. And not as beautiful as Fern, that goes without saying. But for the life of me I could never picture the groom.

Total blank. An empty space.

Less than a year after the photograph was taken, eight months to be exact, I was pregnant with Kelly. Secretly, deniably pregnant. No wedding for me, not then, not ever. And my father didn’t burst into tears. He said the kind of things that can’t be taken back and walked out the door. He’s gone now, forever gone, as is my mother. Kelly, if she’s alive, is the same age as me when I got pregnant with her. Can the world be so cruel as to let a precious child survive cancer, only to have her die because she’s in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong guy?

The answer, of course, is yes, the world can be that cruel. Check the newspapers if you disagree. Except that in my daughter’s case Shane thinks there may still be a chance. He’s taking risks, pulling out all the stops.

Which doesn’t mean it isn’t already too late.

Unless it isn’t too late.

Unless it is.

All of which is swirling around in my throbbing head when the phone rings. Not my cell, the hotel phone. Takes me a minute to find it, focusing through the blur.

“Any news?” Fern wants to know. She sounds almost jovial.

“I can’t believe it,” I say, rubbing a tissue at my leaky nose. “I was just looking at your picture.”

“This is your psychic hotline,” says Fern, into character instantly. “I predict you’ll tell me what’s happening.”

So Irecount the meeting with Special Agent Healy, checking into the outrageous Europa, spying on Manning’s penthouse from the balcony, following the Hummer to the casino complex. Me in my ridiculous disguise. Then the strange and terrible scene of Edwin Manning breaking down, begging.

“It’s like he knows his son is already gone,” I tell her, clutching the phone to my ear like a lifeline. “Like he knows he’s dead.”

“Janey, stop it!” Fern commands. “You’re obsessing. I don’t know this jerk from a crack in the sidewalk, but if he’s begging for help, then he thinks the boy is alive. Dead he’d be arranging a funeral or seeking revenge, but not begging. Begging is good.”

“Begging is good? You really think?”

“Trust me. What’s Mr. Incredible doing now?”

“Um, checking out a lead, a possible suspect. I’m supposed to be lining up a lawyer, in case he gets arrested.”

“Shane?”

“Yeah. He may have to break a few laws.”

Fern squeals with pleasure. “I love it! Send lawyers, guns and money. Plus he’s worried about you. He wants you in a safe place while he does the dangerous stuff.”

“Or out of the way so I don’t mess things up. I’m useless, Fern. I keep bursting into tears.”

“Panic attacks?”

I think about it. “Um, not since I got here. Not a full-blown attack, no.”

“No? That’s interesting, don’t you think?”

“Not very. I wish you were here, Fern. You’re the strong one.”

Her big laugh is unforced, genuine. “Me? Are you serious? Maybe I could beat you arm-wrestling, but you’re strong where it counts, Janey poo. Doing what you did when Kelly was sick? In and out of the hospital for years? Always, always being strong for her, not letting her see how scared you were? Earning a living with your talent, making a business? Then dealing with your poor mother? Don’t you know what I tell everyone? That my friend Jane Garner may look as sweet as a bowl of Hershey’s Kisses, but you better watch out because she’s made of diamonds and tungsten steel. She’s like that cute guy in Terminator 2, knock her down, blow her up, she keeps on coming.”