Torn

“Sorry. A Sterling diner,” he explains. “Manufactured by the J. B. Judkins Company. I’m kind of a diner fan. They evolved from lunch wagons. I like lunch wagons, too, but there’s not many left.”

“Here you are. Cream or milk?”

“Just black,” he says. “That way I know what I’m getting.”

We smile at each other as he sips the coffee. He’s trying to smile as though it’s every day he drives all the way across the state of New York to chat with a crazy mom. I’m trying to smile as though I’m not actually deranged and therefore he won’t be wasting his time.

“Very good,” he says, tipping the cup.

“I’ve got the check I promised you,” I tell him, fumbling in my purse.

He sets the cup down. “This is a courtesy call,” he says firmly. “No retainer necessary. I thought I made that clear.”

“Take it,” I insist, more or less blurting it out. “Ten thousand dollars if you’ll listen to my story. Really listen.”

I place the envelope on the table between us. He leans forward, ignoring the envelope. “No charge for listening, Mrs. Corbin.”

I take a deep breath. “Just so you know, money isn’t a problem. My husband had a million-dollar rider on his life insurance. Plus what the airline paid after the crash. All of it’s available, if that’s what it takes.”

“We’re not there yet,” he says.

There’s a distinct vibe coming off the big man. I get the impression that money is never Shane’s prime concern.

“You read the media reports?” I ask anxiously. “Clicked on the links I sent you?”

He nods. His eyes are an unusual shade of pale blue. Clear and cool and liquid, the color of melting icicles. According to the brief bio I found on the Web, he’s in his late forties. But broad of shoulder, long of limb, he looks remarkably fit for any age, and I’m pretty sure my first impression was correct: he’s a little shy, physically, maybe overly conscious of his size. A big guy who would by nature prefer to blend in, but can’t. A gentle giant type.

Let’s hope not too gentle. I need a warrior, someone who will stand up and fight against overwhelming odds.

“So,” I ask, “what do you think?”

Now he’s the one to take a deep breath. “It all seems pretty straightforward. Your son was killed in an explosion. His remains have been identified. A DNA analysis from a reputable lab confirms the finding.”

I nod carefully, concentrate on keeping my cool. Knowing that a meltdown will send him packing, taking with him all hope of ever seeing my little boy again. “That’s what it says in the reports. That there’s no doubt.”

“But you have doubts.”

“More than doubts,” I say, adamantly. “Certainties.”

“Sudden death is always difficult for the survivors,” he points out.

“When my husband died, I accepted.”

“The death of a child is different. It goes against all the rules.”

“They never found his body. Did you read the coroner’s report? All they found were a few bits of tissue, a few drops of blood.”

“Bombs are the worst, Mrs. Corbin. Sometimes there’s almost nothing left.”

I know all about nothing left.

“When my husband’s plane crashed it hit the ground at three hundred miles an hour,” I tell him. “That’s what they estimated. Collision with a small plane sheared off one whole wing of an Embraer 190. Spinning down at three hundred miles an hour, can you imagine? The fuel tanks exploded on impact. The wreckage was strewn for half a mile. They had to identify his body through dental records.”

He nods, grim-faced. “That’s pretty standard.”

“Dental records,” I repeat. “So even after a plane falls two miles and explodes into the earth there were still teeth to identify. An intact lower jaw. That’s why they went with the dental records.”

“What a terrible thing,” he says softly, as if he has some idea what it must have been like, making that ID. “I’m so sorry.”

“Teeth, a jaw,” I say, listing the gruesome details. “Enough to identify, enough to convince me. But there was nothing left of Noah. Nothing. Not a hand, not a finger, not a tooth. Not a fingernail, for that matter. The coroner said he must have been right on top of the C-4 when it detonated. He’d never seen anything like it, not in thirty years as a coroner and medical examiner. They found enough of Roland Penny for positive identification. Same for Chief Gannett. But not one identifiable body part that would be linked to Noah. Until the DNA results came back.”

He sighs, grimacing behind his short, salt-and-pepper beard. “DNA analysis is definitive, Mrs. Corbin. The odds are a million to one.”

“More like a billion. Unless they’ve been faked.”

He gives me a searching look. Not dismissively, but as if he really wants to know. “Why would the results be faked?”

“To make it look like my son has been killed, when in fact he’s been abducted.”

To give him credit, Mr. Shane does not break eye contact. He’s not obviously repulsed by what most have judged magical thinking. The grieving mom can’t cope with losing her little boy and so her poor addled brain creates scenarios wherein her child somehow remains alive, against all odds, against all reason.

“Go on,” he says, not needing to add convince me. That’s a given. That’s why he has traveled all those miles. To hear me out. To be convinced he isn’t wasting his time.

“It has to do with my husband,” I begin. “Who he was and what he told me a year or so before he died.”

Shane sits up a little straighter. I already had his attention but now he’s focused. “Go on.”

“Jed lived under an alias since before we married. His real name was Arthur Jedediah Conklin. ‘Corbin’ wasn’t much of a change but it was enough to hide his real identity.”

“And why did your husband feel the need to change his identity?”

“Because his father is Arthur D. Conklin.”

It takes a moment for the name to register, but when it does his eyebrows twitch. “The Arthur D. Conklin?”

I nod.

“Well, that changes everything.”

2. The Promise

Randall Shane stands up, rubs the back of his neck.

“I need to make a call and then I need to stretch my legs and think,” he announces, his manner formal and coolly polite. “I’ll take it outside.”

Arms crossed, I hunker down in my chair, a blacker mood descending. All this hope centered on one person, a person I’ve never even met until minutes ago, and already he’s about to walk out the door. What did I expect? That he’d instantly take my side? That he’d believe me when everyone else thinks I’ve been demented by grief?

Did I really think this man, supposedly a legend in law enforcement, would take up my cause like some knight in shining armor—or in his case khaki slacks and Topsiders? I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, but come to think of it, laughter is not in the cards for me lately. I can’t recall what it actually feels like. As for crying, sorry but I’ve dried myself up. Tears are now a luxury I can’t afford.