Low City: Missing Persons (A Tractus Fynn Mystery Book 3)

by Alexander, MK

  “I get it. To the left is eleven, ten, nine o’clock.”

  “You catch on fast.”

  “What about midnight?”

  “Hopefully, I’ll see those before you do.” Ricky flashed me another green smile; it seemed to blend in with the rest of the landscape.

  For the next twenty minutes or so, I called out numbers. “Ten, ten… two… eleven… one, one, one,” I said more frantically each time, until I could hardly keep up. Deer filled the sides of the road. “Midnight, midnight,” I shouted in panic. Ricky eased up on the accelerator and swerved. The headlights returned as a blinding glare, and not so far distant, the sky glowed an intense green. I felt the goggles come off my head.

  “Town up there,” Ricky said and slowed as illuminated logos came into view. Some of the signs seemed a bit unfamiliar.

  “There’s a Burger Knight.”

  “Shouldn’t it be Burger Queen or Burger King?”

  “Huh?” Ricky said and swiveled a glance. “Oh look, a Black Castle, even better.” He swerved and pulled into the entrance.

  “Drive-through?” I asked.

  “Nope… time for a meet and greet.”

  Inside, Poco and Goose were waiting under the harsh fluorescent lights, already chomping on tiny burgers at a formica table. I eased myself into a plastic seat and Ricky introduced his cohorts. They seemed to be about the same age as him, barely in their twenties. Goose had light sandy hair in loose curls and droopy, sad eyes. Poco was shorter and stout, darker, and he had an eagerness about him.

  “Goose, Poco, me… we all have one thing in common, we live to drive,” Ricky said and they laughed. They all spoke English of course, but in a dialect I couldn’t always follow. Be like, what’s good? I’m down with that. They hardly made eye contact and said little to me, their attention devoted to fries and their cell phones. I’m pretty sure they were texting each other, or maybe sending pictures…

  Just the same, I was feeling tired, not conversational at all, and sat back to listen the best I could. Most of their discussion centered around other vehicles, obstacles like deer and detours, miles per hour, distance traveled, and the police laying in wait. The latter had colorful names like whitey, blue-and-gray, a wannabe squad car, or a stealth trooper.

  “… All the traffic on the highway… We be like the herd running scared, and the cop be like the hunter seeking his prey. Only he doesn’t go after the injured, the sick— no, he goes after the fastest one he can find.”

  In the parking lot I was introduced to their vehicles, though we had met before on the road: Poco’s nearly invisible Honda sedan, and the Goose-mobile, some kind of old SUV.

  “It’s got e-windows,” Poco said proudly.

  “What?”

  “Just flip the auto-tint switch,” he explained. “And all the windows go dark.”

  “Way cool, right?” Ricky laughed. “That would be Poco… Likes a little style with his ride.”

  “What’s with the car seat?”

  “Huh?”

  “In Poco’s car.”

  “Oh,” Ricky laughed. “Profiling.”

  “Profiling?”

  “Sure, a state trooper sees that and makes assumptions.”

  “And the stuffed animals?”

  “Good attention to detail, that Poco.”

  Goose was busy rummaging through the back of his truck. He peeled off a magnetic bumper sticker and replaced it with one that read: Washington and Lee. He also changed his window decal.

  “New state, new college,” Goose explained with a chuckle.

  “What’s that in the back?” I asked.

  “Something for the cops to do.”

  “What?”

  “A bag of laundry.”

  “Dirty laundry?”

  “No, clean and folded. It gives the state police something to search through when I’m pulled over.”

  “Does it work?”

  “Usually… I give ’em some story like I just came back from using my mom’s washing machine.”

  I was starting to understand that a complex strategy was at work here. “Not to worry, we’ve got this down to a science…” Ricky told me.

  “No CBs?”

  “Ha, that’s really old school,” Goose said and they all laughed at me. “No, got burner phones… we swap out the chips on a regular basis, and no GPS, so they can’t ping us.”

  I learned they used a front man to check the roads ahead with radar… and a back man, “on our six” to guard against up coming cops. The monkey-in-the-middle usually pulled diversionary detail. Sometimes they ran dark. Rarely did they slow down, all lights on.

  Ricky conferred with his comrades for a couple of minutes, leaning against an invisible sedan. I waited in the passenger seat. He returned and said, “We’re the monkey now.” With that, we were back on the road and making good time.

  ***

  “The worst thing in my life?” Ricky repeated and paused to consider. “Getting gas in Jersey.”

  “Not tollbooths?”

  “No, I really hate getting gas there.”

  “Why?”

  “No self-serve.”

  “Funny how it’s cheapest in Jersey though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Lowest prices that I know… and think of all the jobs that were saved.”

  “What?” He turned to me.

  “Everywhere else, you’re working for the oil companies.”

  “Huh?”

  “Pumping your own gas. You’re doing their work for them— you get paid for that?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “Healthcare benefits?”

  “Funny, Jardel.”

  Flashing blues filled our car. Ricky put on his blinker and pulled over to a safe shoulder before the police could even use the siren.

  “Bad tail light,” he said, and reached into the glovebox for his license and registration.

  “Not speeding?”

  “Nope. I was under the limit on purpose.”

  “Why?”

  “Makes ’em suspicious…” Ricky grinned. “Hey, they might want to see your license too.”

  “Mine?”

  “Just routine.”

  After a few minutes, the officer approached our car, clipboard in hand. A kind of ritual began, one that Ricky was fully proficient at. He eventually asked permission to check the bad light and the officer agreed reluctantly. He tensed a bit, hand on his gun as Ricky got out of the car. “I think I have a spare bulb in the trunk, officer.”

  “Still won’t save you from a citation,” the patrolman replied and watched Ricky rummaging through the back. At approximately that moment, a dark gray sedan came screaming up the highway, racing past at well over a hundred. The result was almost comical. The officer was stunned to say the least, and now faced a difficult choice: write out a ticket or set out in pursuit. He did an unintentional dance of indecision, taking a few steps to his cruiser and then towards Ricky. He thrust back the license and registration, and said with authority, “Okay, consider this a warning. Get that light fixed, pronto.”

  I watched the policeman jog back to his car and set off with squealing tires and an attitude. Up the road, the tail lights winked out into nothing. They just disappeared. I wasn’t sure whether it was the terrain ahead, or Poco going dark.

  Ricky returned to the driver’s seat, laughing. I was too. “How did you know it was a bad tail light?”

  “I got a special switch for that.” He grinned and pointed to the dash. I started to reach over.

  “No, not that button— never touch that one, whatever happens.”

  “What is it?”

  “Goose calls it the flux capacitor.”

  “What’s it do?”

  “For emergencies only. Incapacitates any vehicle that might be tailgating.”

  “How’s that work?”

  “Goose installed it in the back. It sends out like this mini-EMP—messes with a car’s computer… makes ’em stall for
a second or two. Usually gives me enough time.”

  “Enough time for what?”

  Ricky swiveled a glance and grinned. “To get away.”

  “Doesn’t it affect your car?”

  “Nope. One hundred percent analog,” he said proudly. “Except for the after-market stuff…”

  “You know, there’s really no great hurry to get there,” I said.

  “Sure there is,” Ricky replied, and set off again at a good speed.

  ***

  By morning we were close to our destination. “I’m not so sure tearing up the driveway in three vehicles is such a great idea,” I said.

  “Could be right. Let’s take this nice and easy. I’ll hit Poco and Goose, tell ’em to wait at the diner back there.”

  We came upon an old white farmhouse tucked amidst a grove of tall trees. There was a freshly plowed meadow and a dirt driveway paralleled by a split-rail fence. I saw a few horses in the field. In the distance were the high ridges of the Appalachian mountains dressed in green. A long valley, unseen from our vantage, must have spread northwards. The word idyllic came to mind.

  Ricky pulled up slowly, parked some distance from the house and we both got out, stretching. Lorraine greeted us from the porch with a shotgun, though she did not raise the barrel in our direction. She looked more like Za Za Gabor than Granny Clampett; and mostly like her sister Elaine: a tall, elegant woman, probably in her early sixties with natural blonde hair gone to gray.

  “Can I help you, fellas?” she called out.

  “We’re just here for the farm fresh eggs,” I said and nodded over to the faded sign in the driveway.

  Lorraine laughed. “No eggs today. And the sweet corn isn’t ready. You’re more than a month too early.” She caught us glancing uneasily at her shotgun. “Oh this… sorry, boys… It’s just to scare the bears away when they come down from the mountains looking for a handout.” Lorraine took a step from the porch. “You two fellas look parched… maybe I can offer you some cider, eh?” She smiled pleasantly and urged us to sit on the stoop.

  The farmhouse was immaculate, newly painted and well-maintained, indeed the whole place was perfect. I could tell instantly, the occupant wanted for little. Lorraine returned just a moment or two later carrying a jug of cider and a bunch of glasses on a tray. She set them down and sat between us on the step, sizing us up and smiling.

  “So… what can I do you for this morning? I know you’re not here for the eggs.”

  I decided the direct approach would be best: “We’re looking for Tractus Fynn.”

  That made Ricky laugh. “He’s looking for Fynn. I’m just along for the ride.”

  “And you are?”

  “Oh, sorry, I’m Patrick and this is my friend, Ricky.”

  “I’m Lori— that’s what everybody calls me around these parts.” She politely shook our hands in turn, and then poured out three cold glasses. “Want to tell me what this is all about?”

  “Um, like I said, I’m looking for Inspector Tractus Fynn.” I noticed she was still wearing a dolphin ring on her wedding finger.

  “Inspector, eh?” She laughed. “You wouldn’t be the first person…” Lorraine looked over at me. “What’s he to you?”

  “A friend, a really good friend.”

  “How could you possibly know Fynn? You’re not much older than Anika.”

  “Anika?” I asked too quickly.

  She stared at me and arched an eyebrow. “You know her as well, I suppose?”

  I muttered a barely audible, “yes.”

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Patrick.”

  “Patrick,” she repeated. “Funny, my daughter dated a guy named Patrick. Could have looked a little like you…”

  “When was this?”

  “Hmm, seven, eight years ago maybe; met him in LA, I think.”

  “Probably a different Patrick,” I replied quietly.

  Lorraine looked me over in the awkward silence. “So…” she began, “you’re the guy with all the questions. My sister Elaine called me yesterday. Said you were asking about Fynn… Is this about the money?”

  “What money?”

  “My late-husband, Tractus… he left me some money… an annuity or something.” Lorraine paused to sigh. “Is that what this is about— the money?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you’ve come a long way… from Sand City… and a lot quicker than I ever expected, I’ll say that.” Lorraine glanced at us both. “Sorry, I can’t help you. Tractus is gone. Disappeared more than twenty years ago,” she said quietly.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “When did you see him last?”

  “Back in the nineties…” Lorraine fought against something that was stirring. “I’d rather not talk about it, if it’s all the same to you.” She tried to smile again, but it came slowly, and she hid her expression behind a tall glass of cider. “So… tell me… how’s old Sand City?” Lorraine asked in a different voice. “I haven’t been back in years.”

  “About the same,” Ricky said.

  She turned to him. “What’s your name again?”

  “Ricky, Ricky Durbin.”

  “Durbin, Durbin… I know that name… Hey, wasn’t your dad the pharmacist in town?”

  “Grand dad.”

  “Oh, of course, sorry… I’m getting old, I keep forgetting; and I haven’t been back there in a while—”

  “I’m really sorry to press you on this, Mrs Fynn,” I interrupted as gently as I could, “but can you tell me more about how your husband disappeared?”

  “Oh… well, we were living in Amsterdam at the time. He had a case though, called to Philly, of all places. Smugglers maybe, and some policeman was shot… What was the fella’s name? Jamal? Jamal Morris, that’s it.”

  “Jamal was shot?” I asked, not meaning to.

  “You know him too?” Lorraine said and not without a slight bit of sarcasm. “No, he wasn’t shot. He was my husband’s partner on the case… they became fast friends…” her voice died away.

  “What happened then?”

  “Well, I think they solved the case… Tractus was heading back home but never arrived…” Lorraine paused. “It’s very painful to talk about…” She held back some tears. “Tractus just disappeared off the face of the earth… a big investigation. Jamal was very supportive at the time, but… well… they never found him.”

  “And Anika?” I asked.

  “She was just a little girl of course.”

  “I’m not sure how to say this,” I began hesitantly, “But Inspector Fynn was seen in Sand City… about a year ago.”

  “What?” Lorraine seemed astonished. “That’s not possible.”

  “It’s true,” Ricky said, rising to my defense.

  “You talked to him?” Lorraine looked at us both but only Ricky nodded. “What did he look like?” she asked.

  “Um, like an old guy… distinguished, well dressed…”

  Lorraine rose abruptly and started to pace along her porch. “This isn’t possible… it can’t be true…”

  I couldn’t quite tell if she was getting angry or not. Ricky and I also stood, instinctively, I guess; and were a bit concerned for her state of mind. She took a moment to compose herself.

  “Well, just don’t stand there, you two, come on in,” Lorraine finally said and led us inside. We swept through the parlor and living room, and she directed us to a big kitchen table. We both sat while she hovered around the countertop. I saw her hastily put something into a drawer. I also heard a floorboard creak from upstairs.

  “You live alone here?” I asked.

  Lorraine’s eyes shot to the ceiling. “Just me and my old dog— he’s hiding upstairs.” She smiled and asked, “More cider, boys?”

  We both nodded, and both noticed the shotgun was now resting against the pantry door. She followed our gaze as she sat to join us.

  “Oh, sorry about the shotgun and being
so suspicious. Had some trouble with strangers recently… odd characters…”

  “What?”

  “Came around with a bunch of questions about Tractus, just like you…”

  “What did they look like?” I asked.

  “Hmm— well, you’re worse than them.” She laughed. “A tall fella, around your age, a little older maybe. I’d say well over six feet. I didn’t like the look of him.”

  “Why not?”

  “He had a wandering eye.”

  “What?”

  “Like a glass eye, maybe.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “No, he was with a woman— his wife? A pretty girl, very pale complexion, with dark hair and glasses.”

  “What did they want?”

  “Not sure, really,” Lorraine said, but I could see she was clearly upset.

  “I have something to show you,” I announced and drew Inspector Fynn’s letter from my pocket. “Fynn left it for me, but I’d like you to read it.”

  Lorraine took the page and read with great attention, a little resignation, and sorrow. I could see tears in the corners of her eyes as she wiped them away.

  “What does he mean, this particular present?” she asked.

  “Oh, you know how he talks sometimes.”

  She smiled slightly but I could tell she was nearly overwhelmed. I took her hand to comfort her. “When did he write this?” she asked.

  “I don’t know for certain.”

  “The paper looks old,” she observed.

  “Mrs Fynn, Lorraine… I promise I will find him. I’m confident that he’s okay and you two will be together again.”

  She looked up at me. “Do you really think that’s possible after such a long time?”

  “I do.”

  “But he wrote in that letter: it is probably the end of me.”

  “He’s just being dramatic… I saw him last year and so did Ricky… We know he’s alive, somewhere. He must be—”

  “Well, why hasn’t he contacted me then?” she asked rather defiantly and with a bit of anger.

  “I can’t say for sure, but knowing Fynn, it was probably to protect you.”

  “From what?”

  “Bad things.”

  “What bad things?” she scoffed.

  “Bad people then.”

  That gave her pause.