money?”
Manning shakes his head, clears his throat. “I can’t talk
about it, not to you and not to anyone,” he says, as if reciting
Trapped
95
from a script. “That was made crystal clear. I have to do
exactly what they say or he’ll die.”
Shane sits back, digesting Manning’s strangely laconic
response. So far, almost every sentence ends in “die,” or
contains the word “death” or “kill,” and yet the big guy
doesn’t look the least bit discouraged. To the contrary, he has
the slightly satisfied expression of a man whose assump-
tions have been confirmed.
“Okay,” Shane says. “We’ve established there is an abduc-
tion in progress, and that you believe your son’s life to be in
danger. Have you received proof of life? An indication that
Seth is still alive?”
Manning breaks eye contact, such as it is. His small,
delicate jaw juts forward. “Stay out of this,” he says. “I read
your card. If you’re former FBI you know what can happen.”
“What about Kelly?” I demand. Somehow I’m on my feet,
trembling with anxiety and agitation. “Is she with your son?
Is that what happened? Has she been kidnapped, too?”
Manning rubs his temples, avoids looking at me. “Never
heard of her,” he says. “Seth never mentioned anyone by
that name.”
For the first time I get a strong sense that he’s lying. He
may not have met my daughter—what adult male brings
home an underage girl to meet his daddy?—but he’s heard
of her for sure. Mos def, as Kelly would say.
Shane leans in closer. His whole body seems to come into
sharp focus, as if to demonstrate that he could, if provoked,
crush the smaller man like bug.
“Are you aware that your son originally made contact
with Mrs. Garner’s sixteen-year-old daughter on the Internet?
That he took her skydiving, and apparently gave her flying
lessons, all without her mother’s consent?”
96
Chris Jordan
Manning shakes his head. “I can’t discuss this.”
Shane leans closer still. His voice becomes softer, but
somehow no less forceful. “You are in deep trouble, sir. You
are out of your depth. Let me help.”
“I can’t do that. Leave my house at once, both of you.”
“Tell me what happened,” Shane suggests. “I’ll take it
from there.”
Edwin Manning suddenly erupts, shaking his head so hard
he almost spins out of the seat. “Go away!” he insists. “I don’t
know about your daughter,” he says, turning to me, meeting
my eyes for the first time. “If she’s with Seth, they’ll kill her,
too. Do you understand? You have to let me handle this. You
must. It’s the only way.”
Shane’s hands are suddenly gripping my upper arms,
pulling me away. Anticipating, almost before I quite know it
myself, that I’m about to launch myself at Manning, scratch
out his lying eyes.
“We’re leaving,” Shane announces. “If you change your
mind, call me. I can help.”
Couple miles down the road, heading out of the millionaire
enclave, Shane pulls over so I can throw up. Kneeling in the
darkness by the side of the road, the taste of dirty pennies in
my mouth. Shane keeping back, not tempted to hold my head,
because he knows what’s going on, why this has happened.
It’s not fear that’s makes me sick. It’s anger.
20. In The Bunker
Twelve hundred miles to the south, Ricky Lang heads for
the bunker. A concrete cube, ready-made and then buried under
a load of dirt and gravel long before Ricky was born. Suppos-
edly it dates from the Cuban missile crisis. Some crazy white
Trapped
97
man shit, blow the whole world to pieces. The way he heard, a
Cuban contractor buried the thing, all in a panic, convinced
Fidel was coming to town on a rocket. Kept his family there for
a few weeks, then walked away, never looked back. Whatever,
Ricky’s been familiar with the bunker since he was a kid, when
he used to play hide the weenie with some of the trailer girls
down there. The
Manning shakes his head, clears his throat. “I can’t talk
about it, not to you and not to anyone,” he says, as if reciting
Trapped
95
from a script. “That was made crystal clear. I have to do
exactly what they say or he’ll die.”
Shane sits back, digesting Manning’s strangely laconic
response. So far, almost every sentence ends in “die,” or
contains the word “death” or “kill,” and yet the big guy
doesn’t look the least bit discouraged. To the contrary, he has
the slightly satisfied expression of a man whose assump-
tions have been confirmed.
“Okay,” Shane says. “We’ve established there is an abduc-
tion in progress, and that you believe your son’s life to be in
danger. Have you received proof of life? An indication that
Seth is still alive?”
Manning breaks eye contact, such as it is. His small,
delicate jaw juts forward. “Stay out of this,” he says. “I read
your card. If you’re former FBI you know what can happen.”
“What about Kelly?” I demand. Somehow I’m on my feet,
trembling with anxiety and agitation. “Is she with your son?
Is that what happened? Has she been kidnapped, too?”
Manning rubs his temples, avoids looking at me. “Never
heard of her,” he says. “Seth never mentioned anyone by
that name.”
For the first time I get a strong sense that he’s lying. He
may not have met my daughter—what adult male brings
home an underage girl to meet his daddy?—but he’s heard
of her for sure. Mos def, as Kelly would say.
Shane leans in closer. His whole body seems to come into
sharp focus, as if to demonstrate that he could, if provoked,
crush the smaller man like bug.
“Are you aware that your son originally made contact
with Mrs. Garner’s sixteen-year-old daughter on the Internet?
That he took her skydiving, and apparently gave her flying
lessons, all without her mother’s consent?”
96
Chris Jordan
Manning shakes his head. “I can’t discuss this.”
Shane leans closer still. His voice becomes softer, but
somehow no less forceful. “You are in deep trouble, sir. You
are out of your depth. Let me help.”
“I can’t do that. Leave my house at once, both of you.”
“Tell me what happened,” Shane suggests. “I’ll take it
from there.”
Edwin Manning suddenly erupts, shaking his head so hard
he almost spins out of the seat. “Go away!” he insists. “I don’t
know about your daughter,” he says, turning to me, meeting
my eyes for the first time. “If she’s with Seth, they’ll kill her,
too. Do you understand? You have to let me handle this. You
must. It’s the only way.”
Shane’s hands are suddenly gripping my upper arms,
pulling me away. Anticipating, almost before I quite know it
myself, that I’m about to launch myself at Manning, scratch
out his lying eyes.
“We’re leaving,” Shane announces. “If you change your
mind, call me. I can help.”
Couple miles down the road, heading out of the millionaire
enclave, Shane pulls over so I can throw up. Kneeling in the
darkness by the side of the road, the taste of dirty pennies in
my mouth. Shane keeping back, not tempted to hold my head,
because he knows what’s going on, why this has happened.
It’s not fear that’s makes me sick. It’s anger.
20. In The Bunker
Twelve hundred miles to the south, Ricky Lang heads for
the bunker. A concrete cube, ready-made and then buried under
a load of dirt and gravel long before Ricky was born. Suppos-
edly it dates from the Cuban missile crisis. Some crazy white
Trapped
97
man shit, blow the whole world to pieces. The way he heard, a
Cuban contractor buried the thing, all in a panic, convinced
Fidel was coming to town on a rocket. Kept his family there for
a few weeks, then walked away, never looked back. Whatever,
Ricky’s been familiar with the bunker since he was a kid, when
he used to play hide the weenie with some of the trailer girls
down there. The
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