22. Small Miracles

Lang insists that Shane disembark by going over the side of the boat.

“You want me to dent this fine machine by tying up to the pilings in this chop? No way, man. You want to be a hero, you can jump the last couple of yards. You gotta ask yourself, What Would Superman Do?”

“It looks abandoned,” Shane says, looking up at the boarded-up shack.

Rick Lang shrugs. “That’s because it is abandoned. Park took over, kicked the people out. Back in the day, this is where they gambled and whored. Put a boat aground on a sandbar two miles from shore and open for business, the law couldn’t touch you. Water’s only three feet deep, you could get out and walk.”

Shane, pretending to tend to his smashed-up nose, calculates his odds. What he’d prefer is to subdue the suspect and then conduct the search, in case the shack is a ruse or a trap, as seems likely. But his adversary is pumped and hyper and despite being a head shorter looks about as easy to subdue as a charging rhino on amphetamines.

Everything about Ricky Lang screams go on, make your move, like he’s been practicing his quick-draw techniques and wants to try them out. Plus there’s the fact that he may be clinically insane, talking to invisible children and muttering about, of all things, Superman. What that signifies, Shane hasn’t a clue. Other than a conviction, born of experience, that psychotic suspects are infinitely more difficult to subdue.

“They’re in the shack,” Shane says, watching Lang’s hands. “Kelly and Seth. Alive?”

Ricky Lang grins. “Only one way to find out, man. Because you ain’t got X-ray vision, that’s obvious. You had X-ray like me, you’d already know.”

Shane makes his decision, slips over the side. Ready to duck under the hull if Lang reaches for the Glock. Instead he slams the gear into reverse, leaving Shane standing, as promised, in waist-deep water.

By the time Shane wades over the soft, mucky bottom to the stilts beneath the shack, the big racing machine is nothing but a white rooster tail fading into the hazy distance. He’s pulling himself up a rusty iron ladder when he remembers that the cell phone is in his pants pocket, and therefore has been submersed in salt water.

Great, perfect. And maybe that’s what Ricky Lang intended all along. Neutralize the larger man with promises, put him off balance with feigned insanity, then dump him in the water a couple of miles offshore and make an escape.

Crawling up the ladder, Shane shakes his head. Still doesn’t make sense. No need to play games when Lang had the Glock. One bullet does it, either to disable or kill. No need for mind games or boat rides or stories about superheroes.

Unless his captives are really stashed in the shack. Alive or dead.

At floor level Shane hauls himself up through an opening in what remains of a narrow porch that runs around the entire building. The seagulls have fled, but unless the birds are big beer drinkers, the shack has a history as a party destination. Empty cans and bottles strewn everywhere. The windows and doors have been securely boarded with heavy plywood by Biscayne National Park, which has stenciled warnings all over the plywood.

No Trespassing

Condemned Property

Criminal Penalties Apply

This Means You!

Shane, dripping and no longer hopeful, bangs a fist on the plywood. “Kelly! Seth! Anybody there?”

He puts his ear to the plywood. Hears a moaning. Not human, but wind whistling through the building. Which means there must be an opening. He lopes around the deck, scuffling through the party debris, searching. Finds, on the side facing the sea, a section where the plywood has been unfastened along the bottom edge. Leaving a gap of an inch or so, more than enough for the wind.

Shane braces himself, heaves against the heavy plywood. Not quite enough leverage. He repositions his feet against the base of the wall, leans back, using his legs.

With a mighty screech the sheet of plywood comes loose, yanking screws and through-bolts through the softened wood frame. Shane lands on his ass with his hands full of splinters and the plywood in his lap.

Catches his breath, shoves the plywood aside, and crawls through the dark opening.

Shane stands up.

The floor is spongy underfoot. There’s a stink he associates with nesting birds. A few slashes of sunlight penetrate through the galvanized metal roof and under the eaves. As his eyes adjust he’s able to determine that the shack is basically one big room, bare to the wood frame walls, stripped of anything that’s not nailed down.

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.