“Old news,” Dane assures her. “The real killer has just been identified. The D.A. will come around once he’s had time to digest the latest evidence.”

The doctor breathes a sigh of relief. “I knew he couldn’t be guilty after I checked him out on Google. Do you know he’s rescued something like twenty kids?”

“We were aware of that, yeah,” Dane says with a grin.

“They offered him a TV show, Kid Finders USA. The big guy turned it down, told them to leave him alone, let him do his work. Can you imagine?”

Inside the suite we find Randall Shane sitting up in his chair, massaging the thick plastic band of the ankle monitor. Looking, as his doctor implied, pretty darn chipper for a man who had been tortured half to death not so long ago. In addition to radiating health he also looks faintly embarrassed, possibly as a consequence of being gushed over.

“Hey, big guy.”

That’s Dane Porter, popping through the door like a gorgeous little cuckoo expelled from her clock.

“Did you know that’s what they call you, your fans? I mean the medical staff. The Big Guy. I need to be more formal, being an attorney, so I’m thinking maybe of going with The Large Dude.”

“Please don’t.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Dane says, effervescent with good tidings. “Shane you are and Shane you shall be. Did Dr. Gallagher happen to mention Tommy Costello is getting a little antsy? She did? Well, we’re here to put your mind at rest. We just received evidence, physical evidence, that’s going to result in all charges being dropped. Maybe not today, but in the next few, that’s guaranteed.” She makes a sweeping gesture in my direction and says, “Alice? Tell him the wicked good news.”

When I tell Shane about the surveillance video that identifies the shooter he shakes his head and says, “Who the hell is Micky Lee?”

“He may have been an acquaintance of Jonny Bing, the entrepreneur,” I say. “We’re running that down. We’re assuming this was a hired hit, but we don’t yet know who did the hiring or why, exactly.”

Dane says, “The point is, you’re off the hook, or soon will be. Plus there have been some interesting developments. One of whom just happens to be drop-dead gorgeous.”

Over the course of the next ten minutes, the attorney tells him, very succinctly, about the extremely large-caliber bullet fired into the residence, as well as the arrival of Michelle Chen, also known as Ming-Mei, her triad background as the mistress of a dragon head and the real circumstances of Joey’s abduction.

“So that’s what happened,” Shane says when the summation is complete. “That’s why everything changed. The kid was being bounced between the two sides, both trying to get leverage on his father. Chasing the dream of a functioning quantum computer. You say your boss is convinced that Gatling is the one who had the boy lifted from Hong Kong? She’s absolutely sure about that?”

“Ninety-nine percent,” I say. “Naomi Nantz never goes a hundred. Ninety-nine is as good as it gets.”

“And she thinks he’ll do the right thing and have Joey released?”

“If he can find a way not to be implicated, why not? With the father dead, the son is no longer leverage, if ever he really was. Taylor Gatling isn’t overburdened with conscience, but he’s not a psychopath. At least, that’s our thinking.”

“Hope you’re right,” Shane says uneasily. “Gatling may not be a psycho, but he has a few of those on the payroll. Believe me, I know.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. If Kathy Mancero was duped into taking care of Joey, she’ll do everything in her power to keep him safe. I’m clinging to that. She may not look it, but she’s tough,” he says, looking suddenly exhausted.

“Naomi is confident we’ll have a location in the next twenty-four hours,” I promise him.

“Good. Good. You know the one thing that strikes me as odd?” Shane says thoughtfully. “That shot through the window? Sounds to me like someone was testing the system. Probably watching to see who responded and how fast.”

“You think?”

“Tell Nantz if it happens again to be very, very careful.”

“Consider her told. Listen, we have to get back to the ranch,” Dane says, repositioning the strap on her purse. “We’re expecting a stampede of lawmen and that’s going to make our boss very antsy, to say the least. You hang tight, okay?”

“Will do,” he says, yawning. “Thanks for everything.”

The good news having been properly and thoroughly delivered, we head back to the residence. Dane doing her power-walk and me jogging to keep up.

Shane drifts off, dreaming about a good day. Amy is an infant, three months old, the quintessential bundle of joy, and he and Jean have decided to take her to the lake, her very first visit to a body of water bigger than a bath basin, and she’s pointing at the birds, ducks and seagulls, and making cooing noises because apparently she thinks all birds are pigeons, and Jean is happily reading a book and Shane is just sitting there with his big feet in the sand, feeling like the luckiest man in the world, even though he knows how it all will end, he’s still the luckiest guy in the world because he got this much and them, and the happy day will always be there, somewhere in time, even if he can only visit in his dreams.

“Wake up,” someone whispers, shaking his sore shoulder.

He opens his eyes. A nurse leans over the bed, fussing to wake him with her right hand because her left is wrapped in gauze, which strikes him as odd.

“It’s me, Kathy Mancero,” she says, her desperate eyes locking on his. “We haven’t got much time.”

Chapter Fifty-One

A Man Who Would Walk through Fire

Having the residence invaded by felony detectives is hard enough to take once, let alone twice. But that’s exactly what happens. I’m the one who gets the call from the hospital and has the excited caller repeat the message twice before relating the stunning development to Naomi Nantz, who takes it like a slap in the face.

“Randall Shane escaped? That can’t be right.”

She takes the phone from my hand without so much as a please or thank-you and has the caller repeat the story for a third time. Then she drops the phone back in my hand and, muttering darkly, marches down the hall to lock the door to the command center.

“No one gets in there, do you understand? No one. We’ll deal with them in the library. I will not have the command center infiltrated by strangers.”

At least she puts the key in her pocket. For a moment there I thought she might swallow it.

Less than an hour ago the hordes of lawmen—three, actually, two from Cambridge and one liaison officer from Boston—left in possession of the downloaded surveillance tape, promising to share the new evidence with their respective superiors. Now they’re back with reinforcements including a special FBI detail commanded by Assistant Director Monica Bevins, who looks like she’s eaten a bad shrimp. Or maybe a dozen bad shrimp.

“Tell me you didn’t have anything to do with this,” are the first words out of her mouth.

“I’m as surprised as you are,” Naomi counters.

“Really?” the big FBI agent says. “Because I’m not that surprised.”

“No? Elucidate, please,” Naomi urges.

In response Bevins folds her arms and leans back in the chair, remaining more or less silent. As if she’s here because her presence is required, rather than because she has any particular enthusiasm for the interrogation. The questioning comes from the felony detectives, who seem to have taken Shane’s escape personally, and who are more than ready to blame Naomi Nantz, even if they have no particular proof to offer.