Chris Jordan - Torn

Shane leans forward, his hands folded on the table. “So given what we know about the players, Haley Corbin might not be a paranoid delusional? She might be right? That’s your professional opinion?”

Maggie looks him in the eye. No flirting, no fooling, just the facts. “Absolutely,” she says. “And if I’m correct, she’s in danger, too.”

Route 31 isn’t exactly a superhighway. Heading west it adds and subtracts lanes at a whim, stops for the occasional traffic light, winds through small towns like Palmyra, Macedon, and Egypt. Farm country, peppered with a few commuter developments, but as far as I’m concerned, on this particular evening it might as well be the yellow brick road to the Emerald City.

After six weeks of pure hell, things are finally clicking, moving faster and yet spinning less. Mad mom has got it going on. Suddenly I’m operating on two fronts. My big guy is in D.C., consulting with experts, and I’m on my way to meet up with the nervous, prefers-to-be-nameless dude who claims to know something about my son’s disappearance.

Not that he would tell me much over the phone. Just that he “saw something go down” at the Rochester International Airport the day after Noah’s school exploded. What, exactly, he won’t say because “they might be listening.” I get the impression he works at the airport but he won’t give me any particulars, not over the phone.

Mr. Paranoid. A face-to-face, that’s the only thing that will make him feel safe enough to speak. I’m more than willing to oblige. A thirty-mile trek is no problem-I’ll drive to the ends of the earth, if that’s what it takes. Besides it gives me something to do-something with a purpose-while I wait for Shane to return.

On a section of the road that runs parallel to the old Erie Canal, my cell chirps. I snap it open without looking-sorry, I don’t do headsets-thinking it might be Mr. Paranoid with more nervous instructions.

“Mrs. Corbin? Is that you?”

“Shane!”

“Are you at home?” he wants to know.

“On the road.”

He insists on me pulling over. And not just the side of the road, a proper parking lot, to avoid getting rear-ended. Considering what happened to his family, I give him this one. So I pull in at a feed-and-grain store, closed, and leave the headlights on, illuminating the empty, snow-strewn parking lot.

“Okay,” I tell him. “All safe and sound. So what’s the verdict?”

Making it sound cheery, like how’s the weather, but well aware that his decision may change my life forever.

“You know how I said I’d come back and tell you, no matter what I found out? I’ll still be doing that. I’m waiting to board as we speak. But I thought why not let you know, that’s what phones are for.”

“So you’re taking the case,” I insist, having decided not to take no for an answer.

“Oh absolutely,” he agrees. “Didn’t I say that?”

“Not exactly.” The blood seems to drain from my head in a pleasant way, leaving me happy and a little light-headed. “But thank you, Shane. Thank you, thank you.”

“Sorry, doing two things at once here. Laptop and phone. The thing is, Mrs. Corbin, an associate has entrusted me with some very interesting data. Everything the FBI has accumulated on the Rulers, including a list of their current members, which is supposed to be a closely guarded secret. Anyhow, first thing I ran a couple of names. Guess who comes up?”

“Roland Penny.”

“No, actually, Roland isn’t on the list. But get this, a Michael Delancey has been a regular contributor to the Conklin Institute for the last seven years, and his wife, Irene, is on the books for the last five years.”

It takes a moment for the names to register.

“Mrs. Corbin?”

“Oh my god,” I say in a small voice. “His homeroom teacher!”

“Yeah. That pretty much decided me, right there. One coincidence too many. Following your lead about Mr. Delancey working on Wall Street, I did a little more checking, and last year at this time both of the Delanceys were working on Wall Street.”

“Both?”

“She worked under her maiden name. So yes, they were employed as investment bankers, managing currency portfolios. A power couple making, one assumes, the big bucks. Next thing, they’re in Humble and she’s suddenly the kindly schoolmarm, taking a special interest in your son.”

“The bitch,” I hiss. “I can’t believe it! She seemed so nice!”

Shane makes sympathetic noises. “She probably is nice, on some level. But she was in on it, the whole scene, she had to be. That seems clear. Every compass is pointing to the Rulers.”

“I knew it.”

“You did, you did,” he agrees. Then his voice thickens with concern, and he sounds a teeny bit hesitant, as if not wanting to impart bad news. “Listen, Mrs. Corbin. I’ve, ah, been consulting with the Bureau’s expert on cults and cult behavior, okay? I won’t go into the details now, but in her expert opinion there’s reason to believe that you may be in danger from these people. Not just your son, you personally.”

“They already did their worst,” I say. “What more can they do to me?”

“I’ll explain it all when I get there,” Shane says, speaking quicker. Noises in the background make it sound like he’s on the move. “For now I want you to go home, lock the doors, and don’t open for anyone but me. Not even for folks you think are friends. If the Rulers planted a member in the school system, they might have somebody else in a position of power or influence. I’ll need to run names against the list, see if anyone else pops.” He waits a beat, wanting my reaction. “Mrs. Corbin?”

“Soon as I get back, I’ll lock the door, promise,” I tell him and then explain how someone has finally responded to my find-this-missing-child flyers, and that, as it happens, I’m already on my way to the airport to meet Mr. Paranoid.

Before I can give him the details, he interrupts forcefully. “No! Absolutely not! Turn around, Mrs. Corbin, go home. Please! I’ll check the guy out when I get there.”

“I don’t even know his name,” I protest. “His phone number was blocked. How could you possibly find him?”

“You say he works at the airport? I’ll find him.”

“No, no. That was just my impression, that he works there, okay? He never actually said whether it was the airport proper or in the vicinity. All I know for sure, he has something he wants to tell me about Noah and he’s scared to do it over the phone. So I’m meeting him at the car-rental lot.”

“He implied he witnessed something?”

“That’s what he said. All I know for sure, he’s nervous and worried and if I don’t show up, I doubt he’ll ever call again.”

“Do not do this alone,” he says, pleading. “Go home. Lock the door.”

“It’s a rental-car agency,” I remind him. “There will be people around. There will be lights, surveillance cameras, airport security. Plus I’ve got my pepper spray. First sign of anything scary, I’ll blast away, promise.”

Shane sighs, obviously exasperated by my response. “You’re a very stubborn woman, Mrs. Corbin. If you’re determined to go ahead with this, do me a favor, okay? After you meet with this guy, whoever he is, don’t leave the airport. Find the most public place, a cafeteria or a ticket counter, waiting lounge, whatever is open. Someplace where people congregate. Wait for me there. I’ll find you. I’ll be on the ground in less than two hours.”

“So now you don’t want me to go home? What changed?”

“Thinking it through. This could be nothing, just a guy who thinks he saw something, but it could be a ploy to get you out of the house. So find a safe, public place and stay there until I find you. Promise me you’ll do that?”