Healy perks up. “Are you saying this was a revenge abduction? That Ricky Lang took your son to get even?”

“No, no,” says Manning. “That’s what makes this whole thing so crazy. Ricky had no reason to punish me. We, my staff, we helped his tribe get full recognition. Our relationship was always cordial, very businesslike. On a personal level I liked the guy. He was bright, engaging, and very ambitious for his people.”

“In what way did you help the tribe get full recognition?” Salazar wants to know.

“The same thing we’ve done for other small tribes who want to cash in on gaming opportunities. I arranged to have them represented in Washington by a top lobbying firm.”

“Sounds expensive.”

“Five million and change. Cheap when you consider what they got out of it. The sovereign right to form their own government, their own police force, and of course their own casino.”

“Which made them all wealthy.”

Manning leans forward, making eye contact with the agents. “Last year’s net profit for the casino and resort was over four hundred million dollars. Ricky always said he wanted every member of the tribe to be a millionaire. They are now, no question.”

Healy and Salazar scribble busily in their notebooks.

“Are we correct that your hedge fund provides financing but does not actually run the day-to-day operation?” Salazar wants to know.

Manning nods. “The casino is run by an independent management company. No connection to Merrill Manning Capital. My fund has a small investment in the company that manages the hotel and resort, but we stay out of the gaming operation.”

“You provide the money to get this all started and yet when you went to them for help the tribal council threw you out?”

He nods miserably. “They’re afraid of Ricky. He’s out of control and they know it. He wants to be reinstated as president and chief of the Nakosha. They refuse. Claim he’s no longer a member of the tribe.”

“Are you aware of any speculation as to why?”

“No. Like I said, the Nakosha are a small tribe and they’re very secretive. It’s essentially a large family, a clan. Less than two hundred adult members. All I know is, one day Ricky Lang is the chief, the next day his cousin Joe takes over.”

“And this occurred about six months ago, is that correct?”

“In January, yes.”

“Where you in communication with Ricky Lang after he was deposed as chief?”

Manning shakes his head. “I had no reason to be. The fund doesn’t even deal directly with the tribe, we deal with the accountants who manage the money.”

Salazar gives him a tight smile, closes her notebook. “Thank you, Mr. Manning. We know what a horrible experience this must be for you. The resources of the agency is being deployed to attempt recovery of Kelly and Seth. We will keep you informed.”

The two agents stand up, meeting over.

“That’s it?” Manning looks totally befuddled, lost in a fog of anxious concern.

“Yeah, there’s one other thing,” says Special Agent Healy. “We’ll need the finger.”

2. The News From Valley Stream

To be honest, Shane’s silence is freaking me out. Has the big guy given up? Even with the FBI finally on the case, I still want him on my side, searching for Kelly.

“Randall?” I ask. “Are you okay? Do you need to go to the E.R.?”

Healy and Manning have departed. Leaving us with Agent Salazar, who seems to share my concern for Shane’s well-being.

“Place like this probably has a doctor on call,” she suggests.

“I’m fine,” he says gruffly, waving us off. “Just a broken nose, no big deal. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last.”

Somehow I couldn’t square the image of Shane getting beaten to the punch by another man. Which is ridiculous, especially if the other guy had a gun. Except the egg man had a gun and Shane had taken it away in the blink of an eye, no problem. So I’m confused. What happened?

Speaking of superheroes, how did mine fall to earth?

“I’m sorry, Jane,” he says, a world of hurt in his eyes. “What can I say? I blew it.”

“But you found out who took Kelly,” I remind him. “He confessed to you. We finally know who did it.”

“It was an error in judgment on my part,” says Shane, as if obliged to make his own confession. “I never should have gone onto his property, or into his house. I should have waited for backup, done it by the book.”

“The book?” Salazar rolls her eyes. “That would have taken hours. And based on what—your gut saying Lang might be involved? Because his name had been mentioned by a casino security cop? It was a good hunch, but it was thin. Sean would have slow-played it. You did the right thing.”

“Sometimes observation is more effective than action,” Shane says miserably. “I went in there so quick, I never noticed the suspect was on the property.”

“In a boat,” I remind him.

“Yeah, but there all the same. Once he saw me enter that house, he knew that we knew. It set him off.”

“So he punched you.”

“No, no,” says Shane, shaking his head. “That’s not what I mean. Taking a punch is no big deal. What concerns me is that my careless actions may have put your daughter into more peril. Once I showed up, Ricky Lang went over the edge. I set him off. He’s in end-game mode, and that’s on me.”

I’d like to slap some sense into the big guy, but don’t want to reinjure his poor swollen nose. “So it’s your fault, what he did to Kelly? What he intends to do to her? You going to sit here feeling sorry for yourself, is that your plan?”

“I’m really sorry.”

“Get up, you big lug,” I tell him, hands on my hips. “I know you’re not Superman, even if this crazy bastard thinks he is. But you’re the best I’ve got, and that will have to do.”

Thirty minutes later we’re checked out of Europa—thank God for plastic—and on the road again. Even better, Randall Shane has finally quit apologizing. Possibly because driving requires all of his considerable concentration.

Honestly, you’d think he was piloting the space shuttle, not a rental sedan.

The plan is, agents Healy and Salazar and the rest of the FBI will be doing their thing while we do ours. The tribal police have been informed of a suspected violation of federal statute—kidnapping, abduction by force—and are expected to cooperate in a reservation-wide manhunt for Ricky Lang and his victims.

The arrangement is that FBI helicopters will search by air, coordinating with the Nakosha cops below. One of the choppers will carry a tactical assault team, who will be landed and deployed the moment the FBI has a clear lead as to the location.

The hunt for Kelly that started out with me alone, and then Shane, has at long last expanded to more than two hundred law enforcement agents, all of them focused on recovering the captives alive.

It’s happening. The big guns are out. Part of me is jubilant, part terrified. Bottom line, it’s a great relief to have all these people searching for her, even if the search itself might make the perpetrator do something drastic. Waiting has never been a viable option, and now that we know Ricky Lang is taking trophies, it’s even less so.

Taking trophies.

Don’t think about that. Think about Kelly, how much you want to find her safe and sound. How good it will be when it happens, when I have her back. Which reminds me of a line from a song my own mother used to love, about a mother and child reunion. Beach Boys? Joni Mitchell? I cycle through Mom’s favorite bands, trying to think of the song. Helps the “taking trophy” thing recede to where it’s manageable.

We’re about fifteen minutes from the hotel, heading for a place called Glade City, on the far end of the Everglades. Shane wants to “run down a person of interest”—not literally, he promises—check out the owner of the truck who was messing with the Beechcraft. He says in Glade City I can rent an entire motel for the price of a suite at Europa. Plus we’ll be closer to the search area, good to go when the search teams locate my baby.