earful—anxiety
makes me vent—Fern has agreed that the computer files are
vitally important.
“It’ll all be there,” she assures me. “These kids, they keep
everything in their e-mail and blogs, or on MySpace.”
“Kelly’s not on MySpace” is my instant retort.
“Really? How do you know?”
“She promised. We agreed it was too dangerous. All that
stuff in the news about perverts.”
Fern sighs, thinks I’m being ridiculous. Teens lie about ev-
erything, get over it. “Okay, fine, she’s the only girl in Valley
Trapped
55
Stream without a page on MySpace, whatever. What about
her e-mail? Her address book files? Whatever whippy snippy
thing the girls have going this week. You need to get in there.”
“I need help, Fern. And it has to be fast. Today.”
“Agreed. So call the consultant, see if he can recommend
an expert.”
“Consultant?”
“You said the cop gave you a card. So call. What can it
hurt? Takes you three minutes. Worst case, he can’t help. Best
case, he looks like Johnny Depp.”
“Fern!”
“Admit it, when Johnny D’s on the screen you are stuck
to the seat like a sticky bun.”
Swear on a Bible, if I was lying in the wreckage of a major
vehicular accident, gasoline leaking, wires sparking, Fern
could still make me laugh. After decades, all the way from
that first day in first grade, she knows where the laugh button
is, and when to push it. Plus she’s right, I have to stop letting
anxiety and panic get the best of me. I have to get my little
house in order for my daughter’s sake. Get on the horn, Jane,
start making some noise, get things rolling. The world is full
of computer geeks, I just have to find one who can get started
right now, no excuse, no delay. And if the old retired fogy
from the FBI can’t help with that, then he gets crossed off
the list of helpers, on to the next.
Randall Shane
Former Special Agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation
Consultant, Special Cases
Special cases, what does that mean, exactly? Only one way
to find out. Punching in the number, I rehearse my opening
56
Chris Jordan
gambit. Try to sound cool, calm and collected. All of which
vanishes the instant a thick male voice comes on the line.
“Shane.”
“Um, I need, ah, to speak to, ah, Randall, um, Shane?”
“This is he.” Sounding more than a little gruff. Like, get
on with it lady, what’s your problem?
“It’s about my daughter,” I blurt out. “She’s gone. Missing.”
His tone is no longer impatient. “Go ahead, I’m listening.”
“They gave me your card,” I tell him in a rush, clutching
the phone with both hands so it doesn’t slip out of my fingers.
“I don’t know the boy, isn’t that stupid? I mean I do know
his first name, it’s Seth. But not his last name, or where he
lives. Nothing! I never heard of him until yesterday and by
then it was too late. They can’t, the police, they need some-
where to start, I understand that, really I do, but I don’t know
anything and now she’s gone and she was supposed to call
and she did and she said she needed help and then the phone
got cut off and something really bad has happened I can feel
it in my bones a mother knows you know?”
“Okay,” says the voice. “Take a deep breath. Hold it for a
count of ten and then let it out slowly. Okay?”
“’Kay,” I manage.
“I’ll count. One. Two. Three…”
As he counts I can feel my heart slowing, and I’m thinking
he may be an old fogy, he might be a scam artist, but he’s got
a great voice and would be calming and reassuring even if he
was reading from the phone book. Or counting, for that
matter.
“Okay,” he says. “Good. Now, if you could tell me your
name.”
I tell him.
“Jane Garner, fine. Here’s how it works, Mrs. Garner. I’m
Trapped
57
going to ask you a few questions and then we’ll decide if I
can be of assistance, okay? We’ll start with the note your
daughter left. What
makes me vent—Fern has agreed that the computer files are
vitally important.
“It’ll all be there,” she assures me. “These kids, they keep
everything in their e-mail and blogs, or on MySpace.”
“Kelly’s not on MySpace” is my instant retort.
“Really? How do you know?”
“She promised. We agreed it was too dangerous. All that
stuff in the news about perverts.”
Fern sighs, thinks I’m being ridiculous. Teens lie about ev-
erything, get over it. “Okay, fine, she’s the only girl in Valley
Trapped
55
Stream without a page on MySpace, whatever. What about
her e-mail? Her address book files? Whatever whippy snippy
thing the girls have going this week. You need to get in there.”
“I need help, Fern. And it has to be fast. Today.”
“Agreed. So call the consultant, see if he can recommend
an expert.”
“Consultant?”
“You said the cop gave you a card. So call. What can it
hurt? Takes you three minutes. Worst case, he can’t help. Best
case, he looks like Johnny Depp.”
“Fern!”
“Admit it, when Johnny D’s on the screen you are stuck
to the seat like a sticky bun.”
Swear on a Bible, if I was lying in the wreckage of a major
vehicular accident, gasoline leaking, wires sparking, Fern
could still make me laugh. After decades, all the way from
that first day in first grade, she knows where the laugh button
is, and when to push it. Plus she’s right, I have to stop letting
anxiety and panic get the best of me. I have to get my little
house in order for my daughter’s sake. Get on the horn, Jane,
start making some noise, get things rolling. The world is full
of computer geeks, I just have to find one who can get started
right now, no excuse, no delay. And if the old retired fogy
from the FBI can’t help with that, then he gets crossed off
the list of helpers, on to the next.
Randall Shane
Former Special Agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation
Consultant, Special Cases
Special cases, what does that mean, exactly? Only one way
to find out. Punching in the number, I rehearse my opening
56
Chris Jordan
gambit. Try to sound cool, calm and collected. All of which
vanishes the instant a thick male voice comes on the line.
“Shane.”
“Um, I need, ah, to speak to, ah, Randall, um, Shane?”
“This is he.” Sounding more than a little gruff. Like, get
on with it lady, what’s your problem?
“It’s about my daughter,” I blurt out. “She’s gone. Missing.”
His tone is no longer impatient. “Go ahead, I’m listening.”
“They gave me your card,” I tell him in a rush, clutching
the phone with both hands so it doesn’t slip out of my fingers.
“I don’t know the boy, isn’t that stupid? I mean I do know
his first name, it’s Seth. But not his last name, or where he
lives. Nothing! I never heard of him until yesterday and by
then it was too late. They can’t, the police, they need some-
where to start, I understand that, really I do, but I don’t know
anything and now she’s gone and she was supposed to call
and she did and she said she needed help and then the phone
got cut off and something really bad has happened I can feel
it in my bones a mother knows you know?”
“Okay,” says the voice. “Take a deep breath. Hold it for a
count of ten and then let it out slowly. Okay?”
“’Kay,” I manage.
“I’ll count. One. Two. Three…”
As he counts I can feel my heart slowing, and I’m thinking
he may be an old fogy, he might be a scam artist, but he’s got
a great voice and would be calming and reassuring even if he
was reading from the phone book. Or counting, for that
matter.
“Okay,” he says. “Good. Now, if you could tell me your
name.”
I tell him.
“Jane Garner, fine. Here’s how it works, Mrs. Garner. I’m
Trapped
57
going to ask you a few questions and then we’ll decide if I
can be of assistance, okay? We’ll start with the note your
daughter left. What
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