alive.”
“Maybe not,” I tell him, unable to focus through tear-blurred eyes. “But it proves I’m not crazy.”
7. Driving Mr. Shane
The new Randall Shane—the energized version fueling himself on caffeine—waits for me to mop up my tears, get myself together, and then opens up his laptop and starts to take notes, typing rapidly. He wants to know everything, all of my suspicions, all the things that convince me Noah somehow survived.
But first he wants me to share what I know about Arthur Conklin.
“I know he’s a coldhearted bastard,” I tell him, and produce the letter Jed saved for all those years.
Mr. Shane carefully unfolds the worn pages and reads. He sighs and shakes his head once or twice and when he’s done he carefully folds it up, hands it back to me. “I’d say your assessment is generous. Plus it fits with what little I know. Egocentric professor writes famous book about how to get rich by being selfish, follows his own advice.”
I put the letter away. “The amazing thing is, even after all that, Jed didn’t really hate him. He needed to cut himself off, but he never really hated him. Said his father couldn’t help being who he was, that something was missing. Believe it or not, he felt sorry for him.”
“So you never met Arthur Conklin?”
I shake my head. “We assumed he didn’t even know Iexisted. Or about Noah. I thought we succeeded in starting a new life. We both did.”
The big man nods to himself. “Okay. I get it why your husband wouldn’t want anything to do with his father, but why did he feel the need to take a new identity? Why didn’t he just stop going home for Christmas?”
“It wasn’t just his father,” I explain. “It was the people around him. They treat his stupid book almost like the Bible. So to them Jed was sort of like the son of God. Except they don’t believe in God, so that doesn’t really make sense, does it? Whatever the reason, they were always trying to draw Jed back in. As if they could use him somehow. That’s what he was afraid of, why he changed his name, started over. He always said they’d put him in a cage. A golden cage.”
He looks puzzled. “Did he mean an actual cage?”
I shake my head. “More like they’d keep him in luxury, give him everything he wanted, except they’d never let him go. Never let him be himself.”
“And he walked away from all that. Wealth and power.”
“He didn’t walk away, he ran. And I ran with him.”
Mr. Shane clacks away, typing in his notes. “Okay,” he says, looking up. “I’ll see if the FBI cult experts have any helpful insights. But first I want to get a handle on exactly what happened here in Humble. The events leading up to the explosion. You mentioned a state policeman who knew the suspect?”
“Yeah, Trooper Thomas Petruchio, with the ERT. Sweet kid. He’s the nephew of our town librarian, that’s how I know him. He went to school with Roland Penny.”
More notes. Again he looks up. “What’s this about a schoolteacher you haven’t been able to contact?”
“Irene Delancey, Noah’s homeroom teacher. He adores her. I spoke to her briefly a few moments after the explosion. She told me that while they were all being held hostage, Noah slipped down below the seats for a while, but she was sure he was with the rest of his classmates when the smoke started. It was crazy in there, a panic because of the gunman and the smoke, and nobody could see a thing. They all linked hands but somehow Noah got separated. One second he was there, the next he was gone. She was devastated, said she could never go back into the school without thinking of Noah. I think she blamed herself.”
He checks his notes. “So she quit her job and left town, is that correct?”
“Yes. Once I was thinking straight—and that’s up to question, I guess—I tried to contact her but had no luck.”
He folds down the lid of the laptop. “Okay, several leads with potential. That gets us started.
“Maybe not,” I tell him, unable to focus through tear-blurred eyes. “But it proves I’m not crazy.”
7. Driving Mr. Shane
The new Randall Shane—the energized version fueling himself on caffeine—waits for me to mop up my tears, get myself together, and then opens up his laptop and starts to take notes, typing rapidly. He wants to know everything, all of my suspicions, all the things that convince me Noah somehow survived.
But first he wants me to share what I know about Arthur Conklin.
“I know he’s a coldhearted bastard,” I tell him, and produce the letter Jed saved for all those years.
Mr. Shane carefully unfolds the worn pages and reads. He sighs and shakes his head once or twice and when he’s done he carefully folds it up, hands it back to me. “I’d say your assessment is generous. Plus it fits with what little I know. Egocentric professor writes famous book about how to get rich by being selfish, follows his own advice.”
I put the letter away. “The amazing thing is, even after all that, Jed didn’t really hate him. He needed to cut himself off, but he never really hated him. Said his father couldn’t help being who he was, that something was missing. Believe it or not, he felt sorry for him.”
“So you never met Arthur Conklin?”
I shake my head. “We assumed he didn’t even know Iexisted. Or about Noah. I thought we succeeded in starting a new life. We both did.”
The big man nods to himself. “Okay. I get it why your husband wouldn’t want anything to do with his father, but why did he feel the need to take a new identity? Why didn’t he just stop going home for Christmas?”
“It wasn’t just his father,” I explain. “It was the people around him. They treat his stupid book almost like the Bible. So to them Jed was sort of like the son of God. Except they don’t believe in God, so that doesn’t really make sense, does it? Whatever the reason, they were always trying to draw Jed back in. As if they could use him somehow. That’s what he was afraid of, why he changed his name, started over. He always said they’d put him in a cage. A golden cage.”
He looks puzzled. “Did he mean an actual cage?”
I shake my head. “More like they’d keep him in luxury, give him everything he wanted, except they’d never let him go. Never let him be himself.”
“And he walked away from all that. Wealth and power.”
“He didn’t walk away, he ran. And I ran with him.”
Mr. Shane clacks away, typing in his notes. “Okay,” he says, looking up. “I’ll see if the FBI cult experts have any helpful insights. But first I want to get a handle on exactly what happened here in Humble. The events leading up to the explosion. You mentioned a state policeman who knew the suspect?”
“Yeah, Trooper Thomas Petruchio, with the ERT. Sweet kid. He’s the nephew of our town librarian, that’s how I know him. He went to school with Roland Penny.”
More notes. Again he looks up. “What’s this about a schoolteacher you haven’t been able to contact?”
“Irene Delancey, Noah’s homeroom teacher. He adores her. I spoke to her briefly a few moments after the explosion. She told me that while they were all being held hostage, Noah slipped down below the seats for a while, but she was sure he was with the rest of his classmates when the smoke started. It was crazy in there, a panic because of the gunman and the smoke, and nobody could see a thing. They all linked hands but somehow Noah got separated. One second he was there, the next he was gone. She was devastated, said she could never go back into the school without thinking of Noah. I think she blamed herself.”
He checks his notes. “So she quit her job and left town, is that correct?”
“Yes. Once I was thinking straight—and that’s up to question, I guess—I tried to contact her but had no luck.”
He folds down the lid of the laptop. “Okay, several leads with potential. That gets us started.
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