Moving Target

by R. A. McGee

  In the end, they had nothing.

  When his patience was as gone as his pizza, Porter showered and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. His mind raced with the possibilities. Where was the girl? Who was she with? Why hadn’t the FBI turned anything up? As much as he wanted to stay out of it, there was this small itch in the back of his head. The itch that wouldn’t let him stop thinking about the case. The one that played to his ego and told him he could do something the FBI couldn’t.

  In the end, he wasn’t sure why he’d even pretended he had a choice. Joe Palermo had asked for a favor. It was as simple as that. Besides, he could use a little late-fall air in the mountains. Everything always seemed so peaceful out there; maybe he could have a break. A mini-vacation. He’d been going after so many cases lately he thought he’d never stop. If Pima was hiding at her boyfriend’s house, or had run away with her bestie, it could be a big payday for a small effort. Then he could relax a bit.

  A little downtime would do him good.

  Six

  Waking without an alarm the next morning, Porter trudged his way into the bathroom and abused the North Carolina water table again. When he was done, he packed all his things neatly in his duffle bag, and slipped his pistol into his waistband as he left his upgraded suite for the last time.

  The pretty blonde at the front was gone, replaced by Jim the manager. He looked up, caught Porter’s eye, then quickly looked away. Porter made a beeline for the man. “Pretty nice suite you guys have.”

  “Thank you, sir. We pride ourselves on the rooms.”

  “Sure you do. Where’s my buddy Clarence?”

  “Clarence… didn’t come into work today. I think he took a sick day.”

  “Damn. I wanted to tell him goodbye.”

  “I’ll pass the message on,” Jim said.

  “Good. Mind if I give you a message?”

  Jim raised his eyebrows.

  “Stop being a dick.”

  “I’m sorry?” Jim said.

  “You know what I mean. You have kids, man; find a little respect. Your wife let you put your tiny little dick inside her and knock her up, the least you can do is cool it with your secretary.”

  Jim shrugged. “She’s the accountant.”

  Porter shook his head and turned from the counter, walking through the sliding doors and into the bright sunlight. He shielded his eyes and walked toward his Yukon, becoming aware of a faint scratching noise as he did. He squinted and looked left.

  “Clarence?”

  The young man with the gauged-out earrings had a screwdriver and was going to town on a Cadillac sedan.

  “I thought you were off today.”

  “Off? That asshole fired me. Couldn’t have called me and told me—waited until I came all the way into this piece of shit,” Clarence said.

  “That’s too bad,” Porter said. “Don’t worry. A guy with your customer-service skills, I’ll bet you land on your feet.”

  Porter’s eyes finally adjusted to the outdoors. Clarence stood up, punctuating his words with a shake of the screwdriver. “This is your fault.”

  “Me? What the hell did I do?”

  “You caught him with Cynthia, that’s what pissed him off. Now I got no job. I wish I knew which car was yours. I’d have started in on that one first,” Clarence said.

  “This seems like something you need to work out with your boss.”

  “I don’t have a boss, dickhead. I told you, I got fired. This seems like something I need to work out with you.”

  Porter turned around and looked at the young man. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “I’m serious as cancer.”

  Porter raised his eyebrows. “Look, Clarence, I can appreciate you feeling some kind of way, but you need to use that squishy little ball in between your ears for something besides a pincushion.”

  Clarence took a step toward Porter. “How about I use you as a pincushion?”

  “Unbelievable,” Porter said. “Everybody in Charlotte has lost their mind.”

  Clarence didn’t answer, instead holding the screwdriver out in front of him like a knife.

  “Tell you what, what if I pay you for the day? Will that get me off your shit list?”

  “What?”

  “What did you make—five, six bucks an hour?”

  “Eleven fifty,” Clarence said. “A buck more for overnights.”

  “Okay, so… damn, I’m bad at math. Let’s say you worked an overnight. That’s a hundred bucks, right?”

  “I think so,” Clarence said.

  Porter pulled out his wallet and held up a c-note. He took a couple steps toward the skinny young man, who shuffled back a bit. “Do you want it or not?”

  Clarence stepped forward and reached out for the bill. When he did, Porter caught him by the wrist. Applying a little bit of pressure, Porter made Clarence drop the screwdriver.

  “Listen, I’m going to give you this. But you need to learn a couple lessons. First, don’t mess with a guy who can stomp you into paste. This isn’t high school, there aren’t trophies for the losers. Get your head out of your ass.”

  “Oww, oww, oww,” Clarence whined.

  “Second, go find a trade or something. I can tell you aren’t a college guy, but the world needs electricians, too. That’s noble work, got it?”

  Clarence didn’t answer.

  “I said, ‘got it’?” Porter said, and squeezed a bit tighter.

  “Yes, yes, yes. I got it, man, damn.”

  “Good.” Porter let go and gave the young man the bill. Clarence took it carefully and stepped back a couple of steps.

  Porter got into his Yukon and rolled his window down as he pulled up next to Clarence.

  He was staring at the hundred-dollar bill as Porter spoke up.

  “And Clarence,” Porter said. The young man looked up at him.

  “Don’t spend it all on weed.”

  Seven

  The sights from the highway had been changing as he drove. First, there was the city proper, with its traffic and pedestrians. Then, he hit the urban sprawl. The overflow, people wanting to be near the city, but unwilling to live too close. The strip malls and box stores and drive-throughs.

  Then the urban sprawls gave way to more and more green space, with mountains rising dramatically in the distance. Porter’s mind was running in the background: how would he find Pima? Where would he start?

  His ringing phone pulled him from his thoughts.

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey kid. How’d you sleep?”

  “Great. Wasn’t hard with a belly full of pizza.”

  “I can’t believe you still eat like that,” Joe said. “I’d be four hundred pounds if I did.”

  “It’s catching up to me,” Porter said. While no one would accuse him of being fat, he could tell he was getting soft around the edges. Too much time in hotel rooms and on the road, not enough time in the gym.

  “Sure it is. So… I was wondering if you had a chance to think about our conversation yesterday.”

  “I did, Joe, and I think I’m going to have to pass. It just doesn’t seem like my thing, you know?”

  There was silence on the other end of the phone.

  A smile crept over Porter’s face.

  “Well… okay. If you’d rather pass, I understand. Not fair of me to ask you to get involved.”

  “It’s not that, it’s just… I’m not sure I need the seventy-five grand, you know? I’m already pretty flush with cash.”

  There was another silence on the phone.

  “Seriously, I swim in that shit like Scrooge McDuck. Why work anymore?” Porter said.

  “You’re screwing with me.”

  “Of course I am.”

  “You’re an asshole,” Joe said.

  “Maybe so,” Porter said, staring at the mountains as they grew closer.

  “This is good. This is really good. You get out there and shake things up, maybe see what falls out.”

  “Tell me more a
bout this guy, Newton,” Porter said. “An FBI agent can’t find his own daughter, what’s up with that?”

  “That’s not fair. You know we won’t let him investigate—it’s a conflict of interest. I ordered him to stay out of it no matter what. Not to mention, he’s not anywhere near the headspace to handle that. The guy’s been a mess the last few days. I don’t even recognize him when we talk on the phone,” Joe said.

  “I’m heading out there now,” Porter said. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll give it a shot.”

  “I’ll tell Mike you’re coming.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Why not? Unless… you’re trying to catch him off guard? You think he might have done something?”

  “The only person I know for sure didn’t take Pima is me. That leaves a lot of other people who could have done it.”

  “Fine, but once you meet him, you’ll realize how crazy that sounds. Tell him to call me when you show up. I’ll need to vouch for you.”

  “What the story you’re gonna give him? We’re supposed to keep me under wraps,” Porter said.

  “No story. I told you, Mike is solid. He’s not going to say anything. He just wants his kid to come back. It’ll be quiet.”

  “Okay, as long as you remember your pension is on the line.”

  “I said he’s cool, kid. Stop breaking my balls,” Joe said.

  “I don’t want anything to do with your old balls,” Porter said.

  The speakers in Porter’s car went silent for a few moments. “Thanks for doing this.”

  “I haven’t done anything yet.”

  “Well, I owe you one,” Joe said.

  “Don’t get disappointed if I can’t find the kid, Joe. I don’t want you to think I’m the great white hope or anything.”

  “I’d never call you the great white hope. You’re more of a great brown hope. What’s the word for that? Mulatto? The great mulatto hope?”

  “Not enough people say mulatto anymore. Apparently it’s racist now,” Porter said.

  Joe’s end of the phone went dead quiet for a moment. “Shit, is it racist? I’m sorry, kid, I didn’t mean anything by it. You know me, I’m not like that.”

  Porter laughed. “I know. But I’m going to use your guilt to make sure you think we’re even.”

  “Says you. You don’t get to tell me we’re even. If I owe you, then I owe you. A little guilt won’t stop that,” Joe said.

  Porter thought for a moment. “Want to make it up to me? You could set me up with Amanda,” he said. “I think I’d make a great son-in-law.”

  “I don’t owe you that much,” Joe said, and hung up the phone.

  Porter laughed to himself, turning the Yukon west on I40, leaving Asheville in his rearview mirror.

  It was the largest city in western North Carolina, and Porter had worked there several times. With its college and progressive base, Asheville liked to think of itself as North Carolina’s Austin, or San Francisco east. What that really meant was that in addition to artists and academics, there were plenty of hippies, hipsters, and panhandlers.

  Porter shuddered at the thought.

  Asheville firmly in his rearview mirror, he was deeper into the mountains than he’d ever gone, and had to rely on his GPS to show him the way.

  It wasn’t long until the mountains he’d seen in the distance were all around him, rising beyond his view, sunlight shining over the tops of the peaks.

  The GPS told him it was time to get off the highway and Porter obliged, following the instructions laid out by the machine. The small road he was on dead-ended in a large, gated entryway, with a guard shack in the center of two wrought iron fences.

  Wanting to still surprise the Newtons by showing up unannounced but concerned the man in the glass-walled guardhouse wouldn’t let him in, Porter stopped behind a yellow line and rolled his window down. He thought of a story to spin to the guard, something to say to let him by.

  In the end, it wasn’t necessary. An old man ambled up to the window.

  “Hi. My name’s—”

  The ancient guardsman mashed an out-of-view button and waved Porter on.

  “Guess good help is hard to find,” Porter muttered to himself.

  He pulled in slowly, the entry road turning into an intersection with a golf course beyond. Porter turned right, following the GPS. The homes in the neighborhood were impressive, the architecture and landscaping right at home in their mountain location.

  Expensive cars passed on the other side of the small road, every driver with a wave for him. He wasn’t a car guy, but it was obvious that his Yukon didn’t fit in.

  He wasn’t surprised that the Newtons lived in such a nice neighborhood. The salary for a government job was set by the agency, but there were variances for cost of living. While Mike Newton’s salary might not get him too far in, say, New York or Chicago, it seemed to be taking him plenty far in the mountains of North Carolina.

  Two final turns, past a racquetball court and the neighborhood clubhouse, and Porter saw the house he was looking for on the left. Even without the GPS, he would have known he was in the right spot.

  Underneath the mailbox hung a small flag that read “Newton.” A large sticker with the letter “N” on it had been applied to the garage door. With two cars in the driveway, Porter pulled past the mailbox, half on the grass.

  He walked over to the sidewalk, taking in the two-story structure as he did. The house had a warm-colored stone mortared to the front of it, and the rest was a dark wood. Part of the façade was covered in irregular, wooden shingles. Porter thought they were called shaker, but he wasn’t sure.

  He wasn’t much for design.

  There was a bike in the middle of the sidewalk, a little boy’s, with baseball cards stuck in the spokes of the tires. The smell of new mulch from the flower beds hit Porter’s nose, and he saw several fat bumblebees dancing among the flowers.

  He stood in front of the large double door with its glass insert and pushed the doorbell. From somewhere inside came the rhythmic chiming of the doorbell, continuing for several moments before the door cracked open and a short man with dark hair and bags under his eyes answered.

  “Thanks, but we don’t want any,” he said, then shut the door in Porter’s face.

  Eight

  Porter stared at the door for a few seconds, then rang the bell again. After several more seconds, the man answered again. He looked at Porter with tired eyes. “This isn’t a great time.”

  “Are you Mike?”

  The man looked confused, then scrunched his face up at Porter. “Who… I mean…”

  “Mike, my name’s Porter. Joe Palermo sent me to check in with you. Can I come in for a few minutes?”

  Mike Newton opened the door a bit wider and cocked his head at Porter. “Joe sent you? You here to run the office? I can get you a key. I have it…” The man trailed off and patted his pockets.

  “I’m not FBI. I really think I should come in for a minute,” Porter said.

  Mike stared at Porter, an unblinking thousand-yard stare.

  Porter had made his bones deciding if people were putting him on. Lying, being deceptive—these were all things he was great at sniffing out. There was no subterfuge in Mike Newton. The man was stunned and damn near catatonic. A small hand appeared around the edge of the door. It was pulled wider and there was a woman standing there, smaller than Mike, with black hair and vivid blue eyes. She slid herself under Mike’s arm, pulling it around her shoulders.

  “I’m Terri.”

  “Mrs. Newton? I’m Porter. Joe Pa—”

  “I heard, Mr. Porter. Please come in.” Terri pushed the door the rest of the way open, then gave Mike a tap on the shoulder.

  Her husband looked around, then spoke up. “Yes, yes—please come in.”

  Terri led her husband away. Porter shut the door behind them and locked it.

  He followed the Newtons through the hardwood foyer, past an open kitchen with an island in the middle of the floor
, and into the comfortable living room with its enormous leather sectional.

  “Please,” Terri said, “have a seat, Mr. Porter.”

  “Just Porter is fine,” he said, sitting gently on the edge of the sectional. The Newtons sat opposite him.

  “Okay, Porter, then.”

  Mike sat on the edge, his hands clasped in front of him. Terri looked at him for a few moments, then back to Porter. “You’re here because of Joe?”

  “He’s an old friend. He gave me a bit of insight into what you guys were dealing with out here, and asked if I might be able to help.”

  “Insight?” Terri said. “It sounds clinical when you say it like that.”

  “I mean no disrespect. Can I ask you a few questions?”

  “I… I mean, sure… I’m just not sure what it is you expect to be able to do. We've been looking for Pima for days.”

  “I realize that, but if you’d just humor me, I’d appreciate it.”

  Mike Newton stood to his feet, knocking his wife’s hand from his thigh. “Joe sent you?” he said, as if everything was finally clicking. “I need to call him. I need to call him.”

  With that, Mike disappeared through the living room and slammed the door to a room behind him.

  Terri leaned back and watched her husband as he went.

  “He’s having a tough time,” Porter said.

  Mrs. Newton looked at him, squinting one eye. “His little girl disappeared. Wouldn’t you be struggling?”

  “I imagine so,” Porter said.

  “You don’t have kids?”

  “No.”

  “Never wanted any?” Terri said.

  Porter didn’t answer, unsure what to say. Wanting children and having them were two different things.

  There was a nearly minute-long pause in the conversation before Porter started talking again. “You seem to be holding up well.”

  “It’s amazing what Valium and a good night’s sleep can do for you. I figure somebody needs to keep their shit together.”

  Porter nodded, glancing at the view from the patio window. The sun was topping the peaks now, and further below, the foothills were warmed in bright light.