“You’re wasting your time and, even more important, my time,” she says. “I’ve told you that we had nothing to do with Shane escaping. That’s all you need to know. And even if he did leave the hospital without notification, so what? The charges against him were about to be dropped.”

“The charges haven’t been dropped and maybe now they won’t be,” the Cambridge detective reminds her, not even trying to keep the smirk from his voice. “Besides, this is a separate matter. If a man escapes from prison and proves his innocence he’s still guilty of escaping.”

Naomi gives him a dismissive look. “Is that the best you can do, threaten us with a movie?”

“Excuse me?”

“You just described The Shawshank Redemption. I sincerely hope your investigations are not being informed by fiction.”

Embarrassed, he retorts, “Yeah, well, the surety bond you posted has been forfeited. You’re on the hook for a million bucks and a charge of aiding and abetting, if we have anything to do with it.”

“We’ll see about that.” Naomi turns to Dane. “Hold them off. Do whatever it is that lawyers do.”

“I’m not a miracle worker,” Dane says, sounding slightly abashed.

“Yes, you are. I can think of at least four examples.”

Which leaves Dane speechless, a kind of miracle in itself.

For the next twenty minutes the cops harangue us from a number of directions, none unexpected, given the circumstances, before grudgingly admitting they have no proof of our complicity in Randall Shane’s escape.

“The man tore off his ankle monitor. Do you have any idea the kind of strength that takes?” one of the Boston detectives notes. He sounds awestruck. Awestruck and at the same time aggrieved because his men were responsible for keeping the prisoner in custody. “Obviously he can kill with his bare hands.”

Naomi says, “As I understand it, the guard at the door wasn’t killed. Is the injury serious?”

“Choke holds can kill.”

“I seriously doubt it was a choke hold. My guess is Shane pressed the guard’s vagus nerve,” she says, touching the nape of her neck instructively. “If done correctly pressure on the vagus nerve will induce a brief blackout.”

“You’re making excuses for him?”

“Not at all. Be assured that if Shane contacts us, we will contact you.”

“Damned right you will. If you don’t, it’s a felony violation and you can be sure the D.A. will prosecute.”

“Jack? If you have any theories about where Shane might have fled, please share them with these gentlemen.”

Jack has been fidgeting silently—he’s no doubt anxious to get into action mode—but he knows how to play the game and does so, lying like a pro. “No theories,” he mutters. “Shane lives in upstate New York. Maybe he went home.”

In all of this Monica Bevins remains strangely reticent. Confronted with Naomi’s conclusion that Taylor Gatling is somehow deeply involved, she merely grunts. More of a snort, really. As if she has knowledge she can’t share, or doesn’t fully understand herself. “Obviously he’ll be attempting to find the missing child,” she says. “That’s what Shane does. My question is, why now?”

“We got pictures of a female leaving the hospital in his company,” the Boston detective points out.

Bevins stirs herself to ask, “Have you identified her?”

“Not yet, but we will.”

The fact that the FBI assistant director doesn’t spill the beans—she has to suspect, as we do, that the female in question is Kathleen Mancero—is telling. Whatever Bevins is up to, it doesn’t involve sharing with Boston or Cambridge police, both of whom are keenly interested in apprehending Randall Shane, the sooner the better. But when the moment comes, when they all get up to leave and she could make an excuse to stay behind, she doesn’t. All she does is give Naomi a loaded glance and say, “It’s out of my hands, do you understand?”

When the group of angry law enforcement types are finally out the door, I bolt it behind them and hurry back to the command center, where the door has been unlocked and activities have already resumed. “What did she mean by that?” I demand of boss lady. “That you would understand?”

Naomi shrugs. “I think I do. Voices have spoken, orders have been given or alluded to, and the result is that she can’t touch Mr. Gatling. As we already knew, he has friends in very high places.”

“Friends who’ll let him get away with kidnapping a child?”

She shrugs, as if to say that is the way of the world. “Friends who have made fortunes hitching themselves to his star. Friends who must be aware that as a civilian he made decisions to target and kill suspects in Afghanistan. At least one of those targets turned out to be a school, for children most likely, and yet the investigation was squelched and his contract was not terminated.”

“This child is an American citizen.”

“Obviously the life of one particular child has not made a difference, in respect to those covering for Gatling and his enterprise. They have already established themselves as men lacking in conscience or they wouldn’t have allied themselves with him. That much must be obvious by now to you. Shall we all get back to work?”

There’s something in her manner that warns me off from any further discussion. Naomi Nantz is truly angry, and when that happens I’ve found from past experience that it’s best to bury the wisecracks and let her concentrate on the case. She takes her seat, but does not turn immediately to the screens where Teddy is already hard at work, fingers flying over the keyboards like some mad composer. “Jack? Your impressions?”

Jack Delancey has slumped into a seat looking thoroughly discouraged. “The shit has hit the fan. If Mancero has taken the risk of approaching Shane in the hospital, something must have gone badly wrong.”

“Do we know it’s her?”

“Not yet. They’ve confiscated the data from the hospital surveillance cameras. But who else could it be?”

“No other confederates leap to mind?”

“No. And why would he call in someone? It’s not like he needed help overpowering the guard. No, the only thing that makes sense is that something happened, she got separated from the kid or whatever and she went to Shane for help.”

“And in your estimation he would render assistance, even if it put him at legal peril?”

“Are you kidding? The guy would walk through fire.”

She nods, satisfied. “Then we agree. He’ll be going after Mr. Gatling.”

Jack says, “Absolutely. I should head back up to Cow Hampshire, stake out this scumbag Gatling. See if Shane has the same idea.”

“Not tonight,” Naomi says, very firmly. “Need I remind you that we are, all of us, under deep surveillance? They expect you to lead them to Shane. We must confound that expectation, however much we might want to assist our friend. He will contact us when he sees fit. Until then, I suggest we stand down and let him do his thing. With the exception of Teddy, who will maintain vigil in the event Shane makes contact, I advise you all to get some sleep. I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a big day.”

Chapter Fifty-Two

All They Need

“I’m worried about the gun,” Kathy Mancero says, staring at the motel room door. “Not having one, I mean.”

Shane, his sore and swollen ankle wrapped in hot towels, considers the problem. “Guns can be useful,” he says. “If we need one, we’ll get one.”

“How?”

“Leave that to me. First things first.”

There’s no need to be more specific than that. They both know that their first and only task is finding Joey. Shane notes that Kathy Mancero’s need is so deep in this regard that it radiates from her body like a fever. She has described the circumstances of her separation from the boy in very nearly the same terms that she used when speaking about her missing daughter, as if some vital part of her soul has been freshly amputated. Recounting how she had fled the basement with Joey and had then been knocked down by a massive electrical shock that had left flash-point burns in her left arm. She describes the sensation of falling into unconsciousness as dying, and how when she came back to life, hours later, she was somehow under a thick, bushy hedge at the corner of the property, with no memory of how she got there. If she had crawled to the hiding place, she has no memory of it.