Chris Jordan - Torn

“What does that mean?”

Weems looks up at the ceiling, steeples his long fingers as if in prayer. “That’s part of our present difficulty, I’m afraid. Our community is controlled by the institute that Arthur founded. We own the county, the village, the campus-everything. We are therefore a political entity as well as a business and real-estate entity. There is no civil police force in Conklin, at least none answerable to the state of Colorado. Security is provided by a private security firm, and that firm is controlled by one of Evangeline’s most rabid followers: BK Security, owned by Bagrat Kavashi. Mr. Kavashi is an exceedingly dangerous man. Smart, brutal, and utterly without remorse. According to our sources, Kavashi has been given orders to make you disappear. That’s why we took such elaborate measures to bring you all the way to Colorado undercover, and why we must keep your precise location a secret.”

“So call the FBI,” I suggest, cheeks heating up. “Kidnapping is a federal crime. Being a gated community with some nasty rent-a-cop in charge won’t protect them from the FBI, not when a child has been taken!”

Weems glances at my so-called hosts, who both look stricken by my outburst. He sighs deeply and with a palpable sense of melancholy. “We considered that option, Mrs. Corbin. But I’m afraid that Conklin is much more than a gated community, and Mr. Kavashi is much more than a mere rent-a-cop. If we’re correct, Evangeline has your son hidden somewhere in the Pinnacle.”

“Am I supposed to know what that is?”

He shrugs, as if in apology. “I thought you might. Apparently your husband never mentioned it. No matter. The Pinnacle is a very large and very secure enclave-it could be described as a kind of fortress-located high in the mountains. Virtually inaccessible to outsiders.”

“I don’t care where it is. Take me there. Let me see him.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. If Evangeline suspects that some legal entity like the Colorado State Police or the FBI is about to put her in jeopardy, she will destroy the evidence of her crimes. My understanding is that such a contingency plan is already in place.”

“Destroy the evidence?”

“Without hesitation.”

“You’re saying she’ll kill my son if the cops get too close.”

“Unfortunately, yes,” he concedes. “If she gives the word, if she believes the integrity of the Pinnacle is about to be violated, your son will be made to disappear. No trace of him will ever be found. She’s a fanatic, Mrs. Corbin. Those who threaten her have a tendency to disappear, utterly and completely.”

I stand up from the table, my whole face hot, eyes wet with anger. “You know what I think? You’re all a bunch of crazy psychos! Why should I believe anything you say? You’re the ones keeping me prisoner!”

In the face of my outburst Weems remains utterly calm. “You may be correct about Evangeline. She may indeed be a psychopath. But if we truly didn’t care about what happens to your son-to my dear friend Arthur’s only grandchild-then I’d make that call to the FBI myself. In the end, after the raid and the inevitable battle and the eventual investigation, Evangeline would at the very least no longer have the boy as leverage, whatever happened. She might or might not be prosecuted or convicted-she has an army of lawyers to defend her-but one way or another our position would be improved. So despite what you think of me-of us-I do have a conscience. If I didn’t, you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t even know for sure that your son is alive.”

“I know,” I tell him bitterly. “I always knew.”

Weems reaches into a pocket, hands Missy a shiny silver disc. “Put that in the machine, would you, dear? Thanks.”

Missy obediently trots over to a flat-screen TV, happily punches buttons on a slender DVD player as she feeds in the glittering disc.

“In the end the choice has to be yours,” Weems is saying. “If you decide to call in the FBI, and manage to convince them that your son is being held somewhere in Conklin, and they stage a raid to try and recover him, we will not stand in your way. We will not impede you or the FBI. But first you better take a look at this.”

Weems points the remote and Noah appears on the screen, big as life.

Shane can’t help it, he keeps looking up. Not because he thinks the sky is falling-not at the moment, anyhow-but because there’s something about the wild roof that draws his attention. The architects who designed Denver International Airport call it a “tension fabric construction,” intended to echo the peaks of the Rocky Mountains, but to Shane it looks like the inside of a mad white circus tent.

As airport designs go, DIA is crazy and kind of cool, but he decides he wouldn’t want to be standing under that roof when a blizzard dumps a few million tons of snow on top, filling the gaps between the swooping peaks. If the fabric fails it would be like being trapped in a man-made avalanche.

“You’ll hurt your neck, big boy.”

He looks down to find Maggie Drew smiling up at him. That’s the first thing he notices, the warmth of her smile. The second thing he notices is the cane.

Today she’s using her cane.

“Little flare-up,” she explains, making light of it. “It happens. Touch of the old rheumatiz in my wee little ankles. Nothing to fret about.”

“You made it.” He bends to kiss her cheek. “All the way from D.C. as a favor for a friend. Thank you, thank you.”

“You said something about buying me a cup of coffee,” she says airily, nudging him with the knob of her cane.

He’d already picked out a relatively quiet little café on the mezzanine level of the concourse, overlooking the fountains, but now is worried she’ll have trouble on the escalators. “I’m fine, lead on. View’s better up there-closer to heaven.”

He pretends not to notice the twinges of pain that flicker across her face as she limps toward the escalator. It’s slow going, but eventually they’re seated in an out-of-the-way spot he scouted while awaiting her flight. The ambient noise of the fountain will make it hard to be overheard, supposing he’s been followed, which he’s certain is unlikely.

Old habits die hard.

Shane hands Maggie a menu-it’s self-serve-but she waves it off. “I ate on the flight, believe it or not.”

They both know that chronic pain kills the appetite, and she doesn’t want to talk about the relapse of her rheumatoid arthritis. Maggie is clearly determined to be brave, and Shane prays that it really is, as she claims, just a flare-up.

He drinks strong coffee, not having slept in two days, and she sips delicately at a club soda with lime, as if the fizz might burn her lips.

“Any luck?” she wants to know.

“Not really,” he admits. “They could have landed here-plenty of private charter jets use DIA-but I haven’t been able to confirm an incoming flight from Rochester, New York, within the time frame. They could have come into one of the other commercial airports, of which there are at least five within fifty miles of Denver. They could have landed at a private airstrip, of which there are scores, possibly hundreds. There are thousands of private flights into Colorado in any given time period. Rich folk come for the sights or the skiing or to tailgate the Broncos.”

“Tailgating on a fifty-million-dollar Gulfstream?”

“Hey, flaunt it if you’ve got it,” Shane says with a shrug. “Bottom line, the plane is a dead end. No way to walk it back. I have to assume my informant wasn’t fibbing and he really did overhear the perps say their destination was Denver. Which makes sense if the abduction was done by the Rulers.”