Can I ask you one more thing?”
“Sure.”
“How are your driving skills?”
The last and only time I’ve ever been in a Town Car was on the way to Newark Airport for a spring break extravaganza. Me and the mall girls heading for a wild weekend in Cancun, or so we thought. Only we never got out of Newark because the chartered flight got canceled. As it turned out, a scammy Internet travel agency had taken our money and promptly gone out of business. So the limo excursion to the airport was a giggle fest, but the bus ride home was very subdued.
Obviously I wasn’t driving the hired car that day, so I had no idea how wide the Town Car is compared to, say, my Subaru wagon, which you can probably fit in the Lincoln’s trunk. Big or not, it still has a steering wheel and a couple of pedals, so I know how to drive it, more or less.
“When in doubt, slow down,” Mr. Shane cautions.
Turns out he’s a nervous passenger, always touching the invisible brake on his side, but assures me I shouldn’t take it personal. It’s not me, it’s him.
“I never allow myself to drive when I haven’t had a good night’s sleep,” he explains. “That’s how accidents happen.”
I didn’t sleep much, either, but decide not to share. Twelve ounces of strong coffee and I’m good to go. Driving has never been one of my problems or anxieties, I’m always happy to take the wheel, and within a few miles the Townie and I have come to an understanding.
First stop is the state police barracks in Montour Falls, just south of the Finger Lakes. An hour on the road, winding through some lovely countryside, and when Randall Shane finally decides I’m not going to run us into a tree he concentrates on his laptop. Funny to see such a large man hunched over such a small machine. He can cover the keypad with either hand, which makes it look awkward or even comical, but he nevertheless has a delicate touch and seems to be very comfortable navigating from site to site. If only he were that comfortable navigating on the open road.
“I saw that!” he exclaims, barely looking up from the screen. “Was that a dog?”
An animal has just shot across in front of us, a furry blur. I barely had time to tap the brakes before it was gone, and am surprised he noticed. Must have great peripheral vision.
“Fox,” I say. “It made it.”
“Bad luck, running over a fox.”
“No doubt. But the fox is fine, she’s hunting mice by now.”
Mr. Shane glances up from the laptop, gives an odd look. “You know what fox prey on? I thought you were a New Jersey girl.”
“Plenty of fox in New Jersey,” I protest. “But you’re right. In my other life I never paid attention. Up here, all you have to do is look out the window. Nature beckons.”
He looks pleased at my explanation. “I like that—nature beckons.”
“So you live in Connecticut, right? I bet they have fox in Connecticut.”
“Yeah, they do. A few.”
“And deer.”
“Lots of deer. Deer have become a problem.”
“Wife, kids?”
“Excuse me?”
“The bio stuff on the Web didn’t mention family, but I’m guessing you have a wife and kids.”
He glances away, looks out the side window. “Once upon a time. No longer.”
He says it in a way that convinces me he didn’t lose his family in a divorce. Something bad happened. Is that why he’s made such a name for himself, recovering missing children, because he lost someone close? My instincts tell me not to press the point, that he’ll tell me about it in his own time.
The GPS advises us to bear to the right, confirming what I already know, and a few minutes later we’re cruising into the village, which isn’t much larger than Humble inpopulation, and Mr. Shane is sucking in his breath and going, “Wow!”
“Pretty impressive, eh?”
I slow to a stop so he can get a gander at the Falls, which come steaming out of Lake Seneca and drop a hundred and sixty-five feet at the end of Main Street.
“So that’s
“Sure.”
“How are your driving skills?”
The last and only time I’ve ever been in a Town Car was on the way to Newark Airport for a spring break extravaganza. Me and the mall girls heading for a wild weekend in Cancun, or so we thought. Only we never got out of Newark because the chartered flight got canceled. As it turned out, a scammy Internet travel agency had taken our money and promptly gone out of business. So the limo excursion to the airport was a giggle fest, but the bus ride home was very subdued.
Obviously I wasn’t driving the hired car that day, so I had no idea how wide the Town Car is compared to, say, my Subaru wagon, which you can probably fit in the Lincoln’s trunk. Big or not, it still has a steering wheel and a couple of pedals, so I know how to drive it, more or less.
“When in doubt, slow down,” Mr. Shane cautions.
Turns out he’s a nervous passenger, always touching the invisible brake on his side, but assures me I shouldn’t take it personal. It’s not me, it’s him.
“I never allow myself to drive when I haven’t had a good night’s sleep,” he explains. “That’s how accidents happen.”
I didn’t sleep much, either, but decide not to share. Twelve ounces of strong coffee and I’m good to go. Driving has never been one of my problems or anxieties, I’m always happy to take the wheel, and within a few miles the Townie and I have come to an understanding.
First stop is the state police barracks in Montour Falls, just south of the Finger Lakes. An hour on the road, winding through some lovely countryside, and when Randall Shane finally decides I’m not going to run us into a tree he concentrates on his laptop. Funny to see such a large man hunched over such a small machine. He can cover the keypad with either hand, which makes it look awkward or even comical, but he nevertheless has a delicate touch and seems to be very comfortable navigating from site to site. If only he were that comfortable navigating on the open road.
“I saw that!” he exclaims, barely looking up from the screen. “Was that a dog?”
An animal has just shot across in front of us, a furry blur. I barely had time to tap the brakes before it was gone, and am surprised he noticed. Must have great peripheral vision.
“Fox,” I say. “It made it.”
“Bad luck, running over a fox.”
“No doubt. But the fox is fine, she’s hunting mice by now.”
Mr. Shane glances up from the laptop, gives an odd look. “You know what fox prey on? I thought you were a New Jersey girl.”
“Plenty of fox in New Jersey,” I protest. “But you’re right. In my other life I never paid attention. Up here, all you have to do is look out the window. Nature beckons.”
He looks pleased at my explanation. “I like that—nature beckons.”
“So you live in Connecticut, right? I bet they have fox in Connecticut.”
“Yeah, they do. A few.”
“And deer.”
“Lots of deer. Deer have become a problem.”
“Wife, kids?”
“Excuse me?”
“The bio stuff on the Web didn’t mention family, but I’m guessing you have a wife and kids.”
He glances away, looks out the side window. “Once upon a time. No longer.”
He says it in a way that convinces me he didn’t lose his family in a divorce. Something bad happened. Is that why he’s made such a name for himself, recovering missing children, because he lost someone close? My instincts tell me not to press the point, that he’ll tell me about it in his own time.
The GPS advises us to bear to the right, confirming what I already know, and a few minutes later we’re cruising into the village, which isn’t much larger than Humble inpopulation, and Mr. Shane is sucking in his breath and going, “Wow!”
“Pretty impressive, eh?”
I slow to a stop so he can get a gander at the Falls, which come steaming out of Lake Seneca and drop a hundred and sixty-five feet at the end of Main Street.
“So that’s
Similar Books
