Measure of Darkness

Hong Kong? She’s absolutely sure about that?”

“Ninety-nine percent,” I say. “Naomi Nantz never goes a hundred. Ninety-nine is as good as it gets.”

“And she thinks he’ll do the right thing and have Joey released?”

“If he can find a way not to be implicated, why not? With the father dead, the son is no longer leverage, if ever he really was. Taylor Gatling isn’t overburdened with conscience, but he’s not a psychopath. At least, that’s our thinking.”

“Hope you’re right,” Shane says uneasily. “Gatling may not be a psycho, but he has a few of those on the payroll. Believe me, I know.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. If Kathy Mancero was duped into taking care of Joey, she’ll do everything in her power to keep him safe. I’m clinging to that. She may not look it, but she’s tough,” he says, looking suddenly exhausted.

“Naomi is confident we’ll have a location in the next twenty-four hours,” I promise him.

“Good. Good. You know the one thing that strikes me as odd?” Shane says thoughtfully. “That shot through the window? Sounds to me like someone was testing the system. Probably watching to see who responded and how fast.”

“You think?”

“Tell Nantz if it happens again to be very, very careful.”

“Consider her told. Listen, we have to get back to the ranch,” Dane says, repositioning the strap on her purse. “We’re expecting a stampede of lawmen and that’s going to make our boss very antsy, to say the least. You hang tight, okay?”

“Will do,” he says, yawning. “Thanks for everything.”

The good news having been properly and thoroughly delivered, we head back to the residence. Dane doing her power-walk and me jogging to keep up.

Shane drifts off, dreaming about a good day. Amy is an infant, three months old, the quintessential bundle of joy, and he and Jean have decided to take her to the lake, her very first visit to a body of water bigger than a bath basin, and she’s pointing at the birds, ducks and seagulls, and making cooing noises because apparently she thinks all birds are pigeons, and Jean is happily reading a book and Shane is just sitting there with his big feet in the sand, feeling like the luckiest man in the world, even though he knows how it all will end, he’s still the luckiest guy in the world because he got this much and them, and the happy day will always be there, somewhere in time, even if he can only visit in his dreams.

“Wake up,” someone whispers, shaking his sore shoulder.

He opens his eyes. A nurse leans over the bed, fussing to wake him with her right hand because her left is wrapped in gauze, which strikes him as odd.

“It’s me, Kathy Mancero,” she says, her desperate eyes locking on his. “We haven’t got much time.”

Chapter Fifty-One A Man Who Would Walk through Fire

Having the residence invaded by felony detectives is hard enough to take once, let alone twice. But that’s exactly what happens. I’m the one who gets the call from the hospital and has the excited caller repeat the message twice before relating the stunning development to Naomi Nantz, who takes it like a slap in the face.

“Randall Shane escaped? That can’t be right.”

She takes the phone from my hand without so much as a please or thank-you and has the caller repeat the story for a third time. Then she drops the phone back in my hand and, muttering darkly, marches down the hall to lock the door to the command center.

“No one gets in there, do you understand? No one. We’ll deal with them in the library. I will not have the command center infiltrated by strangers.”

At least she puts the key in her pocket. For a moment there I thought she might swallow it.

Less than an hour ago the hordes of lawmen-three, actually, two from Cambridge and one liaison officer from Boston-left in possession of the downloaded surveillance tape, promising to share the new evidence with their respective superiors. Now they’re back with reinforcements including a special FBI detail commanded by Assistant Director Monica Bevins, who looks like she’s eaten a bad shrimp. Or maybe a dozen bad shrimp.

“Tell me you didn’t have anything to do with this,” are the first words out of her mouth.

“I’m as surprised as you are,” Naomi counters.

“Really?” the big FBI agent says. “Because I’m not that surprised.”

“No? Elucidate, please,” Naomi urges.

In response Bevins folds her arms and leans back in the chair, remaining more or less silent. As if she’s here because her presence is required, rather than because she has any particular enthusiasm for the interrogation. The questioning comes from the felony detectives, who seem to have taken Shane’s escape personally, and who are more than ready to blame Naomi Nantz, even if they have no particular proof to offer.

“You’re wasting your time and, even more important, my time,” she says. “I’ve told you that we had nothing to do with Shane escaping. That’s all you need to know. And even if he did leave the hospital without notification, so what? The charges against him were about to be dropped.”

“The charges haven’t been dropped and maybe now they won’t be,” the Cambridge detective reminds her, not even trying to keep the smirk from his voice. “Besides, this is a separate matter. If a man escapes from prison and proves his innocence he’s still guilty of escaping.”

Naomi gives him a dismissive look. “Is that the best you can do, threaten us with a movie?”

“Excuse me?”

“You just described The Shawshank Redemption. I sincerely hope your investigations are not being informed by fiction.”

Embarrassed, he retorts, “Yeah, well, the surety bond you posted has been forfeited. You’re on the hook for a million bucks and a charge of aiding and abetting, if we have anything to do with it.”

“We’ll see about that.” Naomi turns to Dane. “Hold them off. Do whatever it is that lawyers do.”

“I’m not a miracle worker,” Dane says, sounding slightly abashed.

“Yes, you are. I can think of at least four examples.”

Which leaves Dane speechless, a kind of miracle in itself.

For the next twenty minutes the cops harangue us from a number of directions, none unexpected, given the circumstances, before grudgingly admitting they have no proof of our complicity in Randall Shane’s escape.

“The man tore off his ankle monitor. Do you have any idea the kind of strength that takes?” one of the Boston detectives notes. He sounds awestruck. Awestruck and at the same time aggrieved because his men were responsible for keeping the prisoner in custody. “Obviously he can kill with his bare hands.”

Naomi says, “As I understand it, the guard at the door wasn’t killed. Is the injury serious?”

“Choke holds can kill.”

“I seriously doubt it was a choke hold. My guess is Shane pressed the guard’s vagus nerve,” she says, touching the nape of her neck instructively. “If done correctly pressure on the vagus nerve will induce a brief blackout.”

“You’re making excuses for him?”

“Not at all. Be assured that if Shane contacts us, we will contact you.”

“Damned right you will. If you don’t, it’s a felony violation and you can be sure the D.A. will prosecute.”

“Jack? If you have any theories about where Shane might have fled, please share them with these gentlemen.”

Jack has been fidgeting silently-he’s no doubt anxious to get into action mode-but he knows how to play the game and does so, lying like a pro. “No theories,” he mutters. “Shane lives in upstate New York. Maybe he went home.”