Chris Jordan - Torn

“I know he’s a coldhearted bastard,” I tell him, and produce the letter Jed saved for all those years.

Mr. Shane carefully unfolds the worn pages and reads. He sighs and shakes his head once or twice and when he’s done he carefully folds it up, hands it back to me. “I’d say your assessment is generous. Plus it fits with what little I know. Egocentric professor writes famous book about how to get rich by being selfish, follows his own advice.”

I put the letter away. “The amazing thing is, even after all that, Jed didn’t really hate him. He needed to cut himself off, but he never really hated him. Said his father couldn’t help being who he was, that something was missing. Believe it or not, he felt sorry for him.”

“So you never met Arthur Conklin?”

I shake my head. “We assumed he didn’t even know I existed. Or about Noah. I thought we succeeded in starting a new life. We both did.”

The big man nods to himself. “Okay. I get it why your husband wouldn’t want anything to do with his father, but why did he feel the need to take a new identity? Why didn’t he just stop going home for Christmas?”

“It wasn’t just his father,” I explain. “It was the people around him. They treat his stupid book almost like the Bible. So to them Jed was sort of like the son of God. Except they don’t believe in God, so that doesn’t really make sense, does it? Whatever the reason, they were always trying to draw Jed back in. As if they could use him somehow. That’s what he was afraid of, why he changed his name, started over. He always said they’d put him in a cage. A golden cage.”

He looks puzzled. “Did he mean an actual cage?”

I shake my head. “More like they’d keep him in luxury, give him everything he wanted, except they’d never let him go. Never let him be himself.”

“And he walked away from all that. Wealth and power.”

“He didn’t walk away, he ran. And I ran with him.”

Mr. Shane clacks away, typing in his notes. “Okay,” he says, looking up. “I’ll see if the FBI cult experts have any helpful insights. But first I want to get a handle on exactly what happened here in Humble. The events leading up to the explosion. You mentioned a state policeman who knew the suspect?”

“Yeah, Trooper Thomas Petruchio, with the ERT. Sweet kid. He’s the nephew of our town librarian, that’s how I know him. He went to school with Roland Penny.”

More notes. Again he looks up. “What’s this about a schoolteacher you haven’t been able to contact?”

“Irene Delancey, Noah’s homeroom teacher. He adores her. I spoke to her briefly a few moments after the explosion. She told me that while they were all being held hostage, Noah slipped down below the seats for a while, but she was sure he was with the rest of his classmates when the smoke started. It was crazy in there, a panic because of the gunman and the smoke, and nobody could see a thing. They all linked hands but somehow Noah got separated. One second he was there, the next he was gone. She was devastated, said she could never go back into the school without thinking of Noah. I think she blamed herself.”

He checks his notes. “So she quit her job and left town, is that correct?”

“Yes. Once I was thinking straight-and that’s up to question, I guess-I tried to contact her but had no luck.”

He folds down the lid of the laptop. “Okay, several leads with potential. That gets us started. Can I ask you one more thing?”

“Sure.”

“How are your driving skills?”

The last and only time I’ve ever been in a Town Car was on the way to Newark Airport for a spring break extravaganza. Me and the mall girls heading for a wild weekend in Cancun, or so we thought. Only we never got out of Newark because the chartered flight got canceled. As it turned out, a scammy Internet travel agency had taken our money and promptly gone out of business. So the limo excursion to the airport was a giggle fest, but the bus ride home was very subdued.

Obviously I wasn’t driving the hired car that day, so I had no idea how wide the Town Car is compared to, say, my Subaru wagon, which you can probably fit in the Lincoln’s trunk. Big or not, it still has a steering wheel and a couple of pedals, so I know how to drive it, more or less.

“When in doubt, slow down,” Mr. Shane cautions.

Turns out he’s a nervous passenger, always touching the invisible brake on his side, but assures me I shouldn’t take it personal. It’s not me, it’s him.

“I never allow myself to drive when I haven’t had a good night’s sleep,” he explains. “That’s how accidents happen.”

I didn’t sleep much, either, but decide not to share. Twelve ounces of strong coffee and I’m good to go. Driving has never been one of my problems or anxieties, I’m always happy to take the wheel, and within a few miles the Townie and I have come to an understanding.

First stop is the state police barracks in Montour Falls, just south of the Finger Lakes. An hour on the road, winding through some lovely countryside, and when Randall Shane finally decides I’m not going to run us into a tree he concentrates on his laptop. Funny to see such a large man hunched over such a small machine. He can cover the keypad with either hand, which makes it look awkward or even comical, but he nevertheless has a delicate touch and seems to be very comfortable navigating from site to site. If only he were that comfortable navigating on the open road.

“I saw that!” he exclaims, barely looking up from the screen. “Was that a dog?”

An animal has just shot across in front of us, a furry blur. I barely had time to tap the brakes before it was gone, and am surprised he noticed. Must have great peripheral vision.

“Fox,” I say. “It made it.”

“Bad luck, running over a fox.”

“No doubt. But the fox is fine, she’s hunting mice by now.”

Mr. Shane glances up from the laptop, gives an odd look. “You know what fox prey on? I thought you were a New Jersey girl.”

“Plenty of fox in New Jersey,” I protest. “But you’re right. In my other life I never paid attention. Up here, all you have to do is look out the window. Nature beckons.”

He looks pleased at my explanation. “I like that-nature beckons.”

“So you live in Connecticut, right? I bet they have fox in Connecticut.”

“Yeah, they do. A few.”

“And deer.”

“Lots of deer. Deer have become a problem.”

“Wife, kids?”

“Excuse me?”

“The bio stuff on the Web didn’t mention family, but I’m guessing you have a wife and kids.”

He glances away, looks out the side window. “Once upon a time. No longer.”

He says it in a way that convinces me he didn’t lose his family in a divorce. Something bad happened. Is that why he’s made such a name for himself, recovering missing children, because he lost someone close? My instincts tell me not to press the point, that he’ll tell me about it in his own time.

The GPS advises us to bear to the right, confirming what I already know, and a few minutes later we’re cruising into the village, which isn’t much larger than Humble in population, and Mr. Shane is sucking in his breath and going, “Wow!”

“Pretty impressive, eh?”

I slow to a stop so he can get a gander at the Falls, which come steaming out of Lake Seneca and drop a hundred and sixty-five feet at the end of Main Street.

“So that’s why they call it Montour Falls,” he says.

“Yep. The Indian name of the waterfall is Chequagua. But the village is named for Catherine Montour, who was a Seneca chief, so I guess it counts.”

Shane grins at me. “And you know this how?”

“Wikipedia. Noah did a report on old Catherine, she’s very famous in these parts. Our local Sitting Bull. Plus Helen and I drove out here to see Tommy.”