Torn

Perhaps sensing my frustration, the big man pauses at the door and says, “I don’t mean to sound like the Terminator, but I’ll be back. Promise.”

“After you make your call,” I retort through gritted teeth.

He shrugs. “I need to consult with someone I trust.”

“Because you’re afraid of Arthur Conklin and the Rulers.”

Shane doesn’t exactly deny it. Instead he carefully explains, “More wary than afraid. All I know about Arthur Conklin and the Rulers and the Conklin Institute is whatever makes it into the media—that whole reclusive billionaire thing—like it’s public knowledge that his followers treat him like some sort of god or prophet. I’m aware he employs a huge team of attorneys and is famous for suing just about anybody at the drop of a hat. Anyone who isn’t wary of a litigious, wealthy cult leader isn’t thinking clearly. I need to think clearly or I can’t be of help. Also, I really need to stretch my legs—I get cramps from sitting too long in the car. Give me ten minutes, Mrs. Corbin.”

“Fine,” I say. “But take this with you.”

I open my purse and hand him a picture of Noah. A cheerful school photo taken at the beginning of the semester. I’ve printed up hundreds, handed them out in every village, town, and city within a five-hour driving radius, my name and cell number on back. Which so far has proved about as useful as those pictures of lost kids you see on milk cartons.

He looks at the photo thoughtfully and carries it with him, out the door.

I watch from the kitchen window, willing him to believe. It must be my heightened mothering instincts kicking in, because despite my frustration and anger—I saw the doubt in his eyes!—my first thought is that he’s not appropriately dressed for the weather. No coat or hat, and a thin flannel shirt that barely cuts the wind. And we get a wicked wind in the North Country at this time of year. The dark days of December, when the sun rises late and begins to fade like a dimmed-out lightbulb by midafternoon. You need insulated boots, not deck shoes. You need to cover your ears. At the very least you need an insulated vest.

At least most of us do. The big man’s breath steams as he talks into his little phone, but other than that he doesn’t seem aware of the cold air. Not so much as a shiver. Nearly noon, the warmest part of the day, and it’s barely thirty-one degrees.

He’s aware I’m watching and raises a friendly hand, smiles at me while he talks.

Yeah, I got a sad case here. Crazy as a bedbug. Thinksthere’s been some big conspiracy because she can’t findenough of her kid to bury.

Some variation of that. He won’t be the first law enforcement guy to try and let me down easy. Usually they suggest I ‘see someone.’ Meaning get yourself fitted for a straitjacket, honey. Take some pills, zone yourself out. One of the New York State Police investigators who came around at my insistence put it bluntly: Sorry, ma’am, but blown-upisn’t the same as missing. Missing means there’s a chancethe victim is still alive, however remote. Blown-up withpositive DNA match means you need to talk to God, not me.

I did talk to God, you bet I did, but God didn’t respond, being too busy directing typhoons, earthquakes, epidemics, and ethnic cleansing. So currently I’m no longer speaking to Supreme Beings, and I refuse to take comfort in pretty notions like heaven. Not when I know in my soul that my little boy is alive somewhere. Alive and missing me almost as much as I miss him.

That’s what I believe.

After pocketing his phone, Randall Shane circumnavigates the house. Eating up yards with his long legs, swinging his long arms. Ignoring the dusting of snow on the partially frozen ground. Might as well be walking a warm beach in the sunshine instead of this cold, soggy reality. As he comes by each window he smiles and waves as if to say, look at me, I’m stretching my legs, just like I said.

Trying to figure out how to make his excuses, beat a hasty retreat.

I have the front door open as he comes around the house for the third time.

“Enough,” I say, and he enters, somewhat sheepish.

“The air is good up here. Gives you a real clean feeling in the lungs.”

“I’m not crazy or delusional,” I announce, marching around the leaf table the way he marched around my house. Hugging myself to force calm as I make my argument. “I know children can die. It may go against nature but it happens all the time. Disease, accidents, even murder. It happens. But it didn’t happen to Noah. It just didn’t.”

“Mind if I get some water?”

“Help yourself,” I say, gesturing at the glass-fronted cupboard.

He pours a glass from the tap. Drinks it, every drop. “Good water, too. I can see why folks live up here, this close to the North Pole.”

“Say what you’ve got to say,” I urge him. “I can’t stand this. Not knowing if you’ll help.”

He leans against the sink. “Help is a big word,” he says, very carefully. “I’m going to look into something but it may not help. You should know that.”

“Look into what?”

From his hesitation I pick up that he’s not sure whether or not he should be specific, to safeguard my feelings. Finally he nods to himself and goes, “The lab. I made a call. Confirmed that the DNA lab the State Police used has an excellent reputation. State-of-the-art facility, supposedly. Very unlikely they’ve been compromised or somehow got it wrong.”

“But possible,” I insist. “If Noah is alive they could plant a sample of his blood, right?”

Shane looks skeptical. “We’ll see. If I’m satisfied the lab work is correct, and your son was killed in the explosion, that’s the end of it.”

“It will never be the end.”

“Let me ask you this, Mrs. Corbin. If your son was hit by a car crossing the street, would you blame the grandfather or his cult followers? Bad things happen sometimes, regardless of wealth or connections.”

“You don’t have to tell me that! I know that! But if Noah was hit by a car his body would still be here!” I point out, aware that my voice has gone high and loud. “Noah wasn’tkilled in that explosion. Nobody believes me, but I know he wasn’t.”

“Okay,” he says.

“You want to know how I know?”

He nods.

“Because of what Jed said. Months before the plane went down he said if he ever disappeared, ever vanished without an explanation, it would be because of his father. Because he’d been taken.”

“Your late husband knew your son was in danger?” he asks, looking startled.

“No. No. Jed meant if he disappeared. Jed himself. Then he laughed, because it was such a crazy idea, that he’d be abducted because of his own father. That the Rulers would want him, of all people—a man who disinherited his own father, cut all ties. What would they want with him? But it wasn’t crazy, was it? Jed died and they took Noah instead—Arthur Conklin’s only living descendent. And they did it in a way that means nobody will look for him. Nobody but me. I know it sounds like a fantastic conspiracy, sending a madman into a school to blow it up so they can steal a child. But it happened. They did it.”

Oh yes, I’m aware of how it must all seem, the paranoid rant of a mother driven mad by loss. But give him credit: Randall Shane didn’t flash me that look. The look I’d seen on the faces of so many cops and detectives. The look that said, best get away, leave this one to her misery.

Instead he nods and says, “I’ll look into it, Mrs. Corbin. Whatever I find, I won’t lie to you. Good, bad, or terrible, I won’t lie to you. That’s all I can promise.”

3. Letter Of Proof

A few minutes later he’s driving away in his black Lincoln Town Car. A big boat of a vehicle that tacks slowly out of my long, unpaved driveway, bumping carefully over the frost heaves before finally turning onto the main road and vanishing around a long curve.

Anybody else, I’d figure he’s gone for good. But Shane looked me in the eye and promised that whatever he decided he would return and tell me in person.

Which gives me something to cling to. He said it would take a day or so to check out the lab. So I’ve got one more day’s worth of hope. Hope that he’ll find something, maybe just a hint that maybe the crazy mom is onto something.

He did say an odd thing before folding himself into the big car. “You sure your husband told you the truth? That Arthur Conklin really was his father?”

My first reaction, knowing Jed, was to blurt, “Why would he lie?”

The big guy shrugged. “People have their reasons. Rich, famous people, it’s not exactly unusual when someone makes a claim to be related. They may even believe it. It happened with Howard Hughes, James Brown, JFK. Lots of famous and powerful people. I’ll bet, you go back far enough, it happened with the pharaohs.”

“Jed didn’t want to be related to that horrible man. He was trying to get away.”

“Have you ever been contacted by Conklin or his organization? Any of his so-called Rulers?”