trousers, a lime-green Polo shirt with a soft rolled
collar, brown leather Top-Siders. On someone else it might
be a preppy look. Not on Shane. On him it looks like some-
thing an NFL linebacker would wear on his day off.
“Mrs. Garner?” he asks, with a slight, wary smile. Nice,
even teeth.
“Jane, please. Come in, come in. This is very kind of you.”
“We’ll see,” he says, ducking slightly as he eases into the
foyer. “No promises.”
“Understood. I’ll pay for your time, whatever happens.”
He shrugs, as if indifferent to the notion of payment.
Towering over me in the little foyer, smelling faintly of Ivory
soap and something like cedar. Manly cedar, though, not the
perfumed version.
“Show me to her room,” he says.
“This way. Up the stairs and to the left.”
“No calls?”
I shake my head. No calls, no contact. My frantic calls
60
Chris Jordan
are still going directly to voice mail, and my daughter is
still in the wind.
The summer days are long, so there’s plenty of light in the
sky, but early evening has arrived, and as we traipse up the
stairs, the host in me automatically offers this stranger some-
thing to eat.
“Not right now,” he says, pushing open the door to
Kelly’s bedroom. A step inside and he stops, checking out
the walls, furnishings. The place is girly-girl, teenage
girly-girl, but very clean and organized because Kelly is a
neat freak.
“Did you tidy up?” he wants to know.
“She keeps it this way.”
He nods to himself, as if registering a fact to be filed away.
Sets his briefcase on the floor, his laptop on her desk, and
then turns to look at me. More of a quick study than a look.
“You didn’t have supper,” he says. A statement of fact.
“Not hungry.”
“Okay.” He nods to himself, registering another fact. “Do
you drink tea?”
What’s this about? I’m thinking, but admit that some-
times I do, in fact, drink tea.
“Good. Then I suggest you make yourself a mug of strong,
hot tea. Put sugar in it, for energy. Eat two pieces of toast,
you’ll be able to hold that much down.”
“What?” I say, thinking he’s been here less than a minute,
already he’s telling me when and what to eat.
“You look like you’re about to faint, Mrs. Garner. Time
and efficiency are very important at this juncture, and I need
you to be conscious and thinking coherently. In a crisis like
this, many parents tend to fall apart. We don’t have that
Trapped
61
luxury. Tea, toast. Stay downstairs. I’ll let you know if I need
help, or have questions.”
I’m halfway down the stairs before I realize he just ordered
me out of my own daughter’s bedroom.
He may be brusque and bossy, but Randall Shane is right
about my needing to eat. The toast settles my stomach and
the hot, sweet tea gives me energy. Hadn’t realized how de-
pleted I’d been, how close to passing out. Maybe even faint-
ing, as he’d suggested. But “at this juncture”? Is the man a
robot? Nobody says “at this juncture.”
Cops do, I realize. They lapse into cop talk. And FBI
agents are federal cops. They dress better but they have cop
hearts. Not that I’ve ever met an FBI agent, retired or other-
wise. All my thoughts on the subject of FBI agents come
from TV shows, and muttered asides from my late father, so
maybe I’m way off, reading too much into Shane’s formal
manner of speech.
Whatever, I’m not about to remain confined to the kitchen.
With an extra mug of tea as my excuse, I slip upstairs, into
Kelly’s room, and find him at her computer. Making her
prim little swivel chair look small indeed.
“You said tea, so I thought maybe you drank it, too.”
Without looking up from the screen he says, “Thanks.
Leave it on the desk.”
“Any progress?”
“I’ll know in twenty-six minutes,” he says, grunting softly
to himself as he hits a key. “Make it twenty-five.”
There’s a clock on screen, counting down.
Shane
collar, brown leather Top-Siders. On someone else it might
be a preppy look. Not on Shane. On him it looks like some-
thing an NFL linebacker would wear on his day off.
“Mrs. Garner?” he asks, with a slight, wary smile. Nice,
even teeth.
“Jane, please. Come in, come in. This is very kind of you.”
“We’ll see,” he says, ducking slightly as he eases into the
foyer. “No promises.”
“Understood. I’ll pay for your time, whatever happens.”
He shrugs, as if indifferent to the notion of payment.
Towering over me in the little foyer, smelling faintly of Ivory
soap and something like cedar. Manly cedar, though, not the
perfumed version.
“Show me to her room,” he says.
“This way. Up the stairs and to the left.”
“No calls?”
I shake my head. No calls, no contact. My frantic calls
60
Chris Jordan
are still going directly to voice mail, and my daughter is
still in the wind.
The summer days are long, so there’s plenty of light in the
sky, but early evening has arrived, and as we traipse up the
stairs, the host in me automatically offers this stranger some-
thing to eat.
“Not right now,” he says, pushing open the door to
Kelly’s bedroom. A step inside and he stops, checking out
the walls, furnishings. The place is girly-girl, teenage
girly-girl, but very clean and organized because Kelly is a
neat freak.
“Did you tidy up?” he wants to know.
“She keeps it this way.”
He nods to himself, as if registering a fact to be filed away.
Sets his briefcase on the floor, his laptop on her desk, and
then turns to look at me. More of a quick study than a look.
“You didn’t have supper,” he says. A statement of fact.
“Not hungry.”
“Okay.” He nods to himself, registering another fact. “Do
you drink tea?”
What’s this about? I’m thinking, but admit that some-
times I do, in fact, drink tea.
“Good. Then I suggest you make yourself a mug of strong,
hot tea. Put sugar in it, for energy. Eat two pieces of toast,
you’ll be able to hold that much down.”
“What?” I say, thinking he’s been here less than a minute,
already he’s telling me when and what to eat.
“You look like you’re about to faint, Mrs. Garner. Time
and efficiency are very important at this juncture, and I need
you to be conscious and thinking coherently. In a crisis like
this, many parents tend to fall apart. We don’t have that
Trapped
61
luxury. Tea, toast. Stay downstairs. I’ll let you know if I need
help, or have questions.”
I’m halfway down the stairs before I realize he just ordered
me out of my own daughter’s bedroom.
He may be brusque and bossy, but Randall Shane is right
about my needing to eat. The toast settles my stomach and
the hot, sweet tea gives me energy. Hadn’t realized how de-
pleted I’d been, how close to passing out. Maybe even faint-
ing, as he’d suggested. But “at this juncture”? Is the man a
robot? Nobody says “at this juncture.”
Cops do, I realize. They lapse into cop talk. And FBI
agents are federal cops. They dress better but they have cop
hearts. Not that I’ve ever met an FBI agent, retired or other-
wise. All my thoughts on the subject of FBI agents come
from TV shows, and muttered asides from my late father, so
maybe I’m way off, reading too much into Shane’s formal
manner of speech.
Whatever, I’m not about to remain confined to the kitchen.
With an extra mug of tea as my excuse, I slip upstairs, into
Kelly’s room, and find him at her computer. Making her
prim little swivel chair look small indeed.
“You said tea, so I thought maybe you drank it, too.”
Without looking up from the screen he says, “Thanks.
Leave it on the desk.”
“Any progress?”
“I’ll know in twenty-six minutes,” he says, grunting softly
to himself as he hits a key. “Make it twenty-five.”
There’s a clock on screen, counting down.
Shane
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