Torn by Chris Jordan Page B

why they call it Montour Falls,” he says.
    “Yep. The Indian name of the waterfall is Chequagua. But the village is named for Catherine Montour, who was a Seneca chief, so I guess it counts.”
    Shane grins at me. “And you know this how?”
    “Wikipedia. Noah did a report on old Catherine, she’s very famous in these parts. Our local Sitting Bull. Plus Helen and I drove out here to see Tommy.”
    “Trooper Thomas Petruchio.”
    “Helen calls him Tommy. So does his mother.”
    “Yeah? What do they call him at the barracks?”
    “They call him Trooper.”
    “Good to know,” says Mr. Shane, satisfied.
    As I’m turning into the Finger Lakes Troopers headquarters, he clears his throat and goes, “We haven’t discussed this, but it’s better if I see Trooper Petruchio on my own.”
    “No problem,” I say with a shrug. “Man talk, eh?”
    Mr. Shane gives me a look. “More like there may be things he’d rather not discuss in the presence of a victim’s mother. Especially one who’s a friend of the family.”
    “Like I said—man talk. Don’t worry about it, Mr. Shane. I’ll do what you need me to do, and you’ll tell me what I need to know, right?”
    “Absolutely,” he says. “And it’s just Shane, please. No mister.”
    8. Answer Me That, Batman
    Shane loves that spit-and-polish smell of the barracks. Reminds him of his own days at the FBI Academy in Quantico, when he was young, desperate to impress, and invigorated by the competition. Unlike a lot of the recruits, that was as close as he ever got to the military. Although an argument could be made that the academy ordeal was every bit as difficult as regular army boot camp. He’d loved the endless running, the obstacle courses, the forensic science labs, the intensive classes, even studying for the exams—everything but the indoor firing ranges. Not because he had anything against guns—he’s always loved the oiled, mechanical satisfaction of a well-made firearm—but because for whatever reason he was a lousy shot and struggled to make a passing grade. Which may have had something to do with the turn his career took, come to think of it. More toward software, gadgets, and technical intelligence gathering than shoe leather on the street.
    He’d been making up for that since leaving the Bureau. More street, less software. And the only gadget he truly relies on these days is his own brain. He still knows his way around a computer, of course, but his most reliable hard drive is between his ears. And that brain is nagging him right at the moment, questioning his judgment, telling him that despite a couple of puzzling coincidences there is really very little chance that Mrs. Corbin’s child is still among the living.
    So why chase ghosts? Better to concentrate on helping her accept reality, and then move on to a case more likely to produce positive results. The mother-and-child reunion is what he’s all about, after all, the satisfaction of makingthings right in a deeply flawed world. One thing he knows for certain: his considerable skills don’t include raising the dead.
     
    Trooper Thomas Petruchio is currently on shift, but after some minutes of back-room discussion, his commanding officer agrees to make him available for a brief interview. Special circumstances, he says. Implying that it’s not Shane’s connection to the Bureau that’s allowing him to get a foot in the door, it’s a local courtesy being extended to a grieving parent.
    “I appreciate it,” he says as he’s led down a corridor so clean it squeaks under his boat shoes.
    The young trooper is running through a gear checklist for his squad—an inventory of assault weapons, various surveillance devices—and pointedly lets Shane know they’ll have to cut it short if the unit is dispatched. “You know how it is,” he says, offering a polite but unenthusiastic shake of the hand.
    The young trooper—it’s hard for Shane not to think of him as a kid—is lean and long of