Trapped

Roy follows Ricky to his BMW, parked nearby. Dirt adheres to the lower panels, fouling the hubs, probably messing up the brakes, too. Waste of a good car, Roy thinks, not meant for the backcountry. And then Ricky Lang, his scary new boss, Ricky the crazy damn injun who is going to change Roy’s life, he pops open the BMW trunk, produces an oversize, odd-looking rifle. Almost a crossbow look to it, fitted out with some sort of dartlike powerhead.

“What’s that?” Roy wants to know.

“Animal tranquilizers,” Ricky explains. Showing his white teeth in a killer grin. “Works on people, too.”

8. Jumping Into The Bare Blue Sky

There are some things your eyes refuse to see. Sights unimaginable, or so out of context your brain can’t make sense of them. That’s how it is with Kelly’s secret photo album. I’m looking right at the pictures and still it doesn’t make any sense. What would my daughter be doing on a runway, near a small airplane? Why is she grinning so mischievously? What is she holding up to the camera, some sort of backpack?

I know what it is but find it hard to even think the word, let alone speak it aloud.

Parachute.

Must be a joke. She’s kidding around. Like those old trick photos on Coney Island, where you stick your head through a hole in the canvas and pretend to be a cowboy on a painted horse. Like that.

More photos. Kelly climbing into the little airplane, wearing a baggy jumpsuit and what looks like a crash helmet. Kelly crouching inside the plane, giving a thumbs-up. Kelly buddied-up with a handsome pilot, a young man with dark, soulful eyes, gorgeous hair and white, white teeth. I didn’t really get a good look at the guy on the motorcycle, but something about the way this young man holds himself erect, good posture even sitting down, something makes me think this might be Seth.

If so, he’s way too old for a girl of sixteen. Old enough to be a pilot—how old is that? Has to be at least twenty-one, right? Or is it younger? Hard to say—they both look so pleased with themselves, and happiness makes you look younger. Whatever his age, no way is he in high school with my daughter. He’s not a school kid. No droopy drawers and skateboards for him. He’s into airplanes, motorcycles, high-speed machines.

Have him arrested, that’s my first dark impulse. Send this handsome, grinning man to jail. How dare he take my daughter up in a small plane without my permission? How could he let her jump into the bare blue sky. What was he thinking?

Because I know what comes next, even before I flip the page. A shot of Kelly waving bye-bye from the open door. Pale sky all around her. A wobbly, slightly blurred shot of an open parachute, a slim figure dangling beneath it. Then the reunion on the ground, with Kelly looking triumphant as she folds up her colorful parachute. A parachute that looks about as substantial as the silk scarves displayed next to her counter at Macy’s.

It feels like I’ve been kicked by a mule. At the same time, in some weird way, everything has gone numb. How could I have been so stupid, not to have had an inkling of what was going on with this boy? Never knew he existed until yesterday, and yet he and my daughter have, obviously, been executing a series of death-defying stunts. No doubt there’s more going on than motorcycles and parachute jumps.

Suddenly, whether or not Kelly has decided to have sex is a lot less important than the fact that she’s risking her life to impress an older, thrill-seeking boyfriend. Save that hogwash about skydiving being as safe as going to the supermarket. If my purse doesn’t open, I don’t end up embedded in the concrete, okay? When I make a mistake parallel parking, do I drift into the high-tension wires? No. Skydiving is about certain death being averted at the last possible moment, that’s what makes it exciting. I may be a stick-in-the-mud, the type who always fastens her seat belt, but I know that much.

When Kelly calls with whatever lame excuse she’s cooked up, what should I do? What can I say that won’t make it worse? Fern’s idea of chaining her to the radiator is starting to sound reasonable. I’m at a complete loss here, but whatever I decide to do, it means clearing my calendar for today. No way can I meet with clients, or deal with Alex over lunch.

First call is to Alex. Unfortunately, I get him, not the machine. “Janey doll,” he says, chipper as ever. “I have you down for Cholo’s at one.”

“I’ve got to cancel,” I tell him. “My daughter.”

“The divine Miss Kelly? Is she okay?”

Just like that I spill the beans. Everything, more or less. Alex makes all the usual sympathetic noises, but he sounds slightly impatient. “So your daughter has a boyfriend, Jane. It’s not the end of the world.”

“She ran away! She’s jumping out of airplanes!”

“She left a note,” he reminds me. “She’ll call. And by the way, more people get struck by lightning than die while skydiving.”

“She’s a child!”

“No,” Alex says firmly. “Kelly is no longer a child.”

I could strangle him. How dare he?

“She’s a totally amazing woman,” Alex concludes. “Very much like you.”

It’s a great relief when my accountant doesn’t pick up and I’m able to leave a message about the quarterlies. Ditto for my contact person at East Coast Wedding Wholesalers, imploring them to put a trace on the Norbert and Spinelli orders. Both calls seem to take a tremendous effort on my part, as if merely thinking about work is exhausting. Luckily Tracy has her schedule and can take care of herself, workwise, because I can’t bear the thought of another phone call. What’s wrong with me? Why do I feel so hollow and shaky?

Food. Haven’t eaten since I got up and discovered Kelly gone. And I’m one of those people who simply must have something in her stomach in the morning—must be a blood-sugar thing.

That’s probably why my hands are shaking when my cell phone rings. I’m thinking it can’t be Kelly—it’s not quite noon and she never calls early—but that’s her name glowing on the little screen.

“Kelly honey? Where are you?”

There’s a delay, a pause, long enough so I’m almost convinced the connection has been broken. Then her voice comes through. Not her bright, confident chatty voice. Her whispering voice, as if she doesn’t want to be overheard. As if she might be afraid.

“Mom, I need your help. Please call—”

That’s it. The call cuts off in mid-sentence. No static, no nothing. Just a final, overwhelming silence.

9. Watching The Detectives

Kelly and I watch a lot of movies. Started out with kiddy stuff, of course. When she was hospitalized or enduring chemo, movies were an escape, a way to avoid the harsh reality of our situation. Early on I stopped worrying about how a violent or racy scene might affect her. When an eight-year-old stares death in the face every day, can you tell her she can’t watch a car chase, or cartoonish villains firing automatic weapons at infallible heroes, or someone saying a bad word?

Some parents did. Not me. Kelly wouldn’t let me. If a movie had a kid with cancer in it—not many did, actually—she always insisted on seeing it. Even if the child died. As she told me, her face screwed up with righteous indignation, she knew plenty of real children who had really died. Okay, four or five at least, which is way more than the average kid. So a character dying in a movie was no big thing to her. It was pretend. Sometimes she’d cry, but that was because it was a sad story, not because she thought the actor really died.

Movies were movies and life was life, and they were connected, but not in a scary way. Not for my Kel. And we’ve continued our habit of watching films together. Lately I’ve had to keep my comments to myself, so as not to endure her “please, Mom, give it a rest” reactions, but we still screen two or three movies a week, more if she’s in the mood.

One of her favorites is The Usual Suspects. That comes to mind because I’m waiting in a Nassau County Police Department office, at the Fifth Precinct, in the Village of Valley Stream. My very first visit, although I’ve often driven past the building. From the outside it’s a blocky, innocuous kind of place, plain as a potato. Inside it’s all cop, purposeful and a bit macho—a banner declares “The Fighting Fifth”—though it’s a lot less frantic than what you see on TV.

Detective Jay Berg has a cork bulletin board behind his desk and that’s what reminds me of The Usual Suspects. Kevin Spacey staring at the stuff on the bulletin board, using it to make up a story. Not that Detective Berg thinks I’m making up a story about a girl, a boy and a motorcycle.

“We treat every missing minor report seriously,” he intones, tenting his fingers together as if in prayer. He’s a pleasant-looking guy, very earnest, with a thinning widow’s peak and jowls that make him look just a tiny bit like Kevin Spacey, which is probably what got me started, come to think of it. “Even when the minor may have left of her own accord, we take it seriously,” he says. “Runaways are still missing, however it started.”

Not for the first time I remind him, “She didn’t run away. Something’s wrong.”

“It’s always wrong when a minor leaves parental custody.”

“She called. Said she needed my help. But when I called back her phone was off and I got her voice mail. That’s not like Kelly. She never shuts her cell off.”

He nods sympathetically. Giving the impression that he’s counseled many an upset parent out here in the not-so-peaceful suburbs. “Very troubling,” he says. “Naturally you’re upset. I would be, too. As I said, that’s why we’re issuing a Be On The Lookout. Your daughter’s photograph and description will be circulated throughout the tri-state area. Local police, county police, state police, within the hour they’ll know to be on the lookout for Kelly Garner.”

“What about TV news?”

He leans back in his chair, touching his prayerful fingers to his plump and dimpled chin. “We can’t compel the media to run the story, but they will get the BOLO, and then it’s up to them. Absent any indication that she’s been abducted, they may or may not use it.”

“What about an AMBER Alert?”

Berg sighs. He’s been waiting for that question, and he’s ready with an answer. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Garner, the AMBER system has been effective precisely because it’s reserved for child abduction cases. Your daughter left home on her own accord. There’s no indication of abduction. I really do expect she’ll call you as soon as the excitement wears off.”

“She did call!” I say, exasperated. “She’s in trouble, I could hear it in her voice. I’m sorry I don’t know the boyfriend’s last name—I feel really stupid about that, okay?—but that doesn’t mean this isn’t an emergency.”

More sympathetic nods from the detective. “Of course it doesn’t. The fact is, we are treating this as an emergency. Believe me, all police officers take this kind of thing seriously. Many have daughters of their own. They know what you’re going through, Mrs. Garner. You can be sure they’ll study the BOLO and they will in fact be very much on the lookout. As I said before, if you had a probable destination, or a point of origin, or a make and model of a motor vehicle or motorcycle, we could start from there.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I feel so stupid.” No matter how hard I try, another spasm of weeping comes along every few minutes. Detective Berg has thoughtfully provided a box of tissues and my lap is full of wadded-up Kleenex.

“You’re not stupid, Mrs. Garner,” he assures me. “Believe me, the parent is often the last to know. And if this guy your daughter is seeing is over eighteen, as you suspect, he might even face charges.”

“I don’t care about that. I just want her back, safe and sound.” “Of course. But there are legal ramifications. Let me read you the statute,” he says, picking up a card from the desk. “If the victim is under fifteen and the perpetrator is at least eighteen, this constitutes a second degree sexual offense. However, if the defendant is less than four years older than the victim, this may constitute an affirmative defense.’”

“What’s an ‘affirmative defense’?”

Berg reads from the back of the card. “‘Affirmative defenses are those in which the defendant introduces evidence which negates criminal liability.’”

“Meaning he gets away with it? Taking advantage?”

The detective shrugs. “The legal age of consent in the state of New York is seventeen. Your daughter is sixteen, so it depends on how much older he is. If he’s thirty, he can and probably will be prosecuted. If he’s twenty or under, probably not, unless your daughter testifies that he forced himself on her.”

“Oh God.” The whole thing feels like it’s spinning out of control. All this talk about criminal liability and prosecutable offenses, all I want is for Kelly to be okay. And I want every cop in the known universe out looking for my daughter. I want them a lot more proactive than Be On The Lookout.

“I told you the boy is a pilot. Can’t he be traced that way? Can’t I look at pictures, pick him out?”

“You already have a photo of the guy,” he reminds me. “We’ll post it with the BOLO.”

“A picture but no name. Can’t you like run it through a computer or something?”

Berg chuckles. “Like on TV? Face-recognition software isn’t that precise, not in the real world. Plus, you’d have to get access to the right database. But there might be someone who can help.” He rummages around in a desk drawer, hands me a card. “Never met this guy, but he comes highly recommended.”

I check out the business card. Just a name, title and phone number. Nothing fancy. “Says here he’s retired,” I say, feeling stunned.

The friendly, sympathetic detective is passing me off to some geezer.

“He’s not a real cop,” I point out.

“Don’t let him hear that, these retired guys get very offended.” Berg stands up. The interview is over. He’s palming me off, passing me along. “Get me a name, Mrs. Garner. A last name for this bad boy who ran off with your daughter. Give us a place to start and we’ll do the rest.”

He shows me the door.

10. Girl Talk

First thing I do when I get home is call Kelly’s best friend, Sierra Wavell. I’m thinking I should have called her first, before reporting Kelly missing. Call the girlfriend, that should have been obvious. If I’d been thinking straight. Which, admittedly, I’m not.

I’m instantly bumped to her voice mail, which means her cell is already engaged, no surprise.

“Sierra? This is Jane Garner, Kelly’s mom. Please call me when you get this. It’s an emergency, Sierra. Please?”

I leave my number, enunciating slowly.

Next task is Kelly’s computer. Seth will be on there somewhere. Name or number. Something to work with. Something to give the cops.

My computer skills are, by the standards of your average ten-year-old, modest. I know how to work my spreadsheet software, how to send and receive e-mails, even, with Kelly’s coaching, how to download digital photographs from my little Nikon, which comes in handy for taking pictures of first fittings. I know how to search for stuff on Google, all of it business related—fabrics, suppliers, manufacturers and so on. I have a pretty good understanding of how computerized cutting and sewing machines operate, how the information is fed in one end and the complete item comes out the other.

That’s pretty much it. A recreational computer person I am not. I don’t game or chat or role-play. If I have an hour to myself I’d rather read a book, or, if my brain is really stressed, veg out watching one of my shows.

So I don’t know how to write code or mess with the hardware or hack into encrypted programs. Which means I’m able to open Kelly’s e-mail program, but I can’t get into the files where she actually keeps her saved mail. Files marked with enticing names like Girltalk, Junk-o-la, Facers, S-man.

Girltalk. Very clever, my daughter. This will be where she keeps all the gossipy stuff. And every time I click on the file it comes up File locked, enter code. Which I would gladly do if I knew the code.

I try Kelly’s birthday.

Log-in did not complete for the following reason(s):

Log-in Information Is Missing Or Invalid

I try her never-to-be-mentioned middle name. (Edith, my mother’s name—there I said it. Kelly Edith Garner. Live with it.)

Log-in did not complete for the following reason(s):

Log-in Information Is Missing Or Invalid

I try the date when she got the all-clear from her cancer. Hit return, fingers mentally crossed.

Log-in did not complete for the following reason(s):

Log In Information Is Missing Or Invalid

I try, what the hell, SETH. Banging hard on the keys, S-E-T-H, take that!

Log-in has timed out. Please exit program.

Three strikes, I’m out, and it’s all I can do not to push the insolent little computer off her desk, thinking there ought to be an emergency button for mothers.

Maybe it’s not being able to make the computer give up its secrets; maybe it’s having been more or less dismissed by the Nassau County cop. Whatever the reason, suddenly I’m having my first major meltdown.

Heart racing, lungs gulping far too much air.

Panic attack.

It’s been years. Okay, weeks. Part of me able to make the diagnosis, the rest of me huffing like a fish pulled out of water.

Paper bag. I’m supposed to get a paper bag, breathe into it so I don’t pass out. But the bags are in the kitchen, a million miles away. Can’t possibly make it down the stairs. Finally I put my head between my knees, and that helps. Constricting the diaphragm.

Whoa, that’s better. Big sigh.

I’m in the kitchen, uncapping a spring water, when my cell goes off.

I flip it open, hoping it’s Kelly. No such luck.

“Hi, Sierra. Thanks for calling back.” My heart instantly tripping again, hands so slick it’s hard to hold the phone.

“You said it was an emergency,” Sierra says, adopting a tone of whiny accusation.

“It is an emergency. Kelly is missing and I think she’s in trouble. I need to call Seth, do you know how I can do that?”

After a pause she says, “Seth? Seth who?”

“Her boyfriend, Sierra. She must have mentioned him.”

“Uh-uh. Nope. There’s a Seth in my math class but he’s like fourteen. A freshman. Him?”

The very idea of a freshman boy offends her.

“This Seth is older,” I tell her. “He might be nineteen or twenty. Maybe even older.”

“No way!”

“Way,” I insist. “I can’t believe she wouldn’t mention a new boyfriend. You’re still best friends, right?”

Another long pause, I can sense her fidgeting, imagine the face she’s making. “Not exactly?”

“Not exactly? What does that mean?”

“We’re, like, still friends and everything.”

“You’re not sharing?”

“Not exactly.”

Not exactly. The adolescent equivalent of “that’s for me to know and you never to find out.”

“Please, Sierra, I need your help. Kelly took off in the middle of the night. I assume with Seth. I’ve reported her missing but the police need somewhere to start. Like with the boyfriend.”

Big gasp. “You’re going to have her arrested? Your own daughter?”

“No, of course not. I’m trying to find her. She called me and said she needed help, but her cell phone got cut off before she could tell me where she is.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. I wouldn’t bother you otherwise.”

“Mmm, okay, sure,” Sierra hems and haws for a while. “It’s like, Mrs. Garner, it’s like you’re not bothering me exactly. I just don’t know anything. Sorry.”

I tell her about the photo album, the images of Kelly skydiving. “You don’t know anything about that, Sierra? She never mentioned skydiving?”

“No way!” she squeals, excited again. “She really jumped out of a plane?”

“I think her friend Seth was flying the plane.”

“Oh. My. God.” And then, to whomever she’s with, a shout to the side. “It’s Kelly Garner! She jumped out of a plane! That’s so cool!”

And so it goes. There’s probably no way to know for sure, not without hooking Sierra up to a lie detector—and maybe not even then—but I’m starting to believe she really doesn’t know anything. Not that she’d tell me if she did. At least not directly.

We chat for another few minutes. According to Sierra, Kelly has been like out of the group, you know? An older guy makes like so much sense, because she never wants to hang with them anymore even though she’s been like superficial friendly and everything and one time Sierra went to Kelly, she went, what’s up with you lately? and Kelly gave her this like Mona Lisa smile thing that, I’m sorry, Mrs. Garner, but it really pissed me off.

I know that silent smile, how infuriating it can be.

“Sierra, can you do me a big favor? Can you ask around?”

“I guess.” Sounding like she’d rather extract one of her own wisdom teeth with a pair of rusty pliers.

“It’s very important. Please?”

“Yeah, okay, whatever.”

Then she breaks the connection. Not goodbyes, just a hang-up. Not that she means to be rude, or even knows what rude is. And I’m left with basically nothing, not a clue, or even a sense of where to go next. Kelly, Kelly, Kelly. Where are you, baby?

11. When The Scream Stays Inside Your Mind

Kelly Garner wakes up dead. Dead and floating.

That’s the feeling. Her body isn’t there; she’s left it behind. All that remains are a few dim thoughts flickering in the dark nothing. The sensation of flying, of falling through the air. His face, his voice holds her attention briefly, earnestly, then fades. Can’t think of his name. Name on the tip of her tongue, if only she had a tongue. Then gone, leaving nothing behind.

It’s just herself alone now, the part of her that lives inside her mind, the dark, knotted core of her innermost self.

Warm.

There, she actually feels something, a physical sensation. Where is it coming from? Is death warm? No, no, she’s feeling the warm on her skin, on her forehead and scalp. That’s where the warm message is coming from.

Beads of perspiration on her scalp. Sweat in her eyes. She blinks instinctively, feels her eyelids respond.

How very strange. Her eyes are open but she sees nothing. And although she’s starting to detect the numbing tingle of a body beyond her face, it’s very distant, as if her limbs have been hidden over the next horizon. Not that she can see the horizon in the dark.

Dark.

That’s why she can’t see! It’s dark. The absence of light.

With that realization—she’s alive, in the dark, and something is terribly wrong with her body—comes a wave of sheer terror. A flood of icy adrenaline that freezes her brain like an arctic blast.

Why can’t she feel her hands, her feet, what’s wrong with her? Was there an accident?

The memory floats up like a bubble through honey: she didn’t have an accident. There was an attack. Just as she and Seth are disembarking the aircraft. She has the cell to her ear, telling her mother something important. Something about trouble, about calling the cops. Before she can finish asking her mom for help, a man on the runway is pointing something at them—a gun, a weapon?—and there’s a sharp, needlelike pain in her abdomen, then darkness.

Not a bullet, something else. A powerful drug. Was that the needle slamming into her abdomen? Is that what happened? Does that explain the vast numb tingling? The thickness of her thoughts? The sensation that her mind has been wrapped in a fluffy blanket?

Kelly’s experience with drugs is somewhat limited. Beer and chronic at parties, and that one time she and Sierra dropped Ecstasy at a warehouse rave in Long Beach. The X was fun—she danced for hours and hours—but at the same time a little scary because part of her kept chanting, “Three! Four! MDMA, methylenedioxymethamphetamine!” She’d made the mistake of looking up the drug’s chemical name on the web, read what it did to the brain, the neurotransmitters, and couldn’t quite shake the uneasy feeling that little bits of her mind were frying like that stupid ad from the last century, your brain on drugs, sizzling like an egg in a pan.