Moving Target

by R. A. McGee

  He realized that he’d hoped there would be some big puzzle piece everyone had overlooked. Something that, when he saw it, would make sense. Now he knew how foolish he’d been.

  Although the deputies were marginally competent, Spaulding didn’t seem too far off the mark. Sure, he wasn’t in any hurry to set the world on fire with his cop skills, but Porter believed he’d at least looked into the matter.

  As he crested the top of the small hill, the wind hit him again. Usually he didn’t mind the cool weather, but something about the mountain air chilled him. When he reached his truck, he dug through the folded laundry, looking for a sweater or hoodie. After a minute or so, he gave up and pulled his Glock from the lockbox, and slammed the tailgate.

  He let the truck idle as he collected his thoughts. With strikeouts at the family’s house and with the locals, he was down to Pima’s friends. Scarlett, the girl Bryce Newton had mentioned, went to a school not far away, but it was a little too early for them to be getting out. A hunger pang rumbled his stomach and Porter decided to fix that problem first.

  He drove in slow circles around the town until he found a place that piqued his interest. The Burger Hut was a small place with a gravel parking lot and no drive-through. It must have been between the lunch and dinner crowds, because there were a scant few cars in the lot.

  Porter walked up to the front door, cursing the gravel that dug through the thin sole of his shoes. The front door swung open on smooth hinges and a cowbell clanged above it to alert the staff to a new customer.

  Leaning on the front counter was a tall brunette with a soft, pretty face.

  “I absolutely think you're wrong,” she said, speaking to someone in the kitchen. “There’s no way the Saints beat the Panthers this weekend.”

  “Ahh, what do you know?” a man’s voice said from the kitchen.

  “You’re sure? Want to bet your paycheck on it?”

  Porter listened to the man grumble off the question and looked around at the booths and tables. He looked back to the front counter, where the woman—Claudette, according to her nametag—had fixed a crooked smile on her face.

  “Hi.”

  “Hello,” Porter said. “Can I ask you a question, Claudette?”

  The woman looked surprised for a second, then looked down at her nametag and laughed. “I’m not even sure why I wear this thing. Everybody in town already knows my name.”

  “It helps when strange men like me show up,” Porter said.

  “I guess it does. You had a question? Shoot.”

  “What’s good?” Porter said, ignoring the menu on the counter in front of him.

  “Hell, how much time do you have? I can say, humbly, that everything’s good here, because I make most of it.” She looked toward the kitchen, then back at Porter, and motioned for him to lean closer. “Except the pot-pie. Herschel makes that, and it’s…” The woman made a back-and-forth motion with her hand.

  “I heard that,” Herschel’s gravelly voice said from the back. “Don’t you shit talk my pot-pie.” Porter watched the older man lean through the passthrough and point his spatula for emphasis.

  Claudette raised her eyebrows, her enormous grin flashing again. “Now I’m in trouble.”

  Porter couldn’t help but smile. “As great as the pot-pie sounds, I should probably go with the burger. I mean, this is Burger Hut.” He pointed to the back. “No offense on the pot-pie, Herschel.”

  The old man grumbled and went back to his griddle.

  “Good choice. What do you want on it?” Claudette said, typing away on an ancient computer.

  “No onions.”

  “I hate those too,” she said. Moments later, Claudette gave Porter a very reasonable total, and it was only then that he saw the sign that said “No Debit Cards.”

  “No plastic?”

  “You’d be amazed at what those companies want to charge for the privilege. We take checks…” she said helpfully.

  Porter patted his pockets, looking for a checkbook he hadn’t seen in years. He was ashamed to admit he never had cash anymore, the convenience of debit having won him over long ago. “I know this seems like a scam, but I don’t have anything. Mind canceling my order?”

  Claudette laughed. “What would I look like, turning a hungry soul away? Besides, Herschel’s already got the meat going, and he gets pissy when he has to stop an order. He doesn’t handle change very well. I’ll tell you what, you go ahead and eat. If you can pay later, pay later. Deal?” She stuck her hand out.

  Porter shook it, his massive hand enveloping her small, soft one. “Deal.”

  “Good. Go ahead and find a place to sit. I’ll bring it out to you when it’s done.”

  Porter walked past the cramped booths that he knew would be instant knee pain and found a small table near the rear of the store. As he looked around, he noticed that everything in the restaurant had the same feel as the computer on the counter: it was old.

  Not dirty or in disrepair; in fact, the opposite. The floors were shiny and the windows clear and streak-free, and somewhere, beneath the scent of cooking meat, Porter could smell cleaning product. No, the place was just older, and in need of updating that probably cost too much for a small business.

  As he listened to the sounds of the meat sizzling, he looked out the window, trying to piece together everything he knew. It didn’t take long for him to realize he still had nothing, that the answer to Pima Newton’s disappearance hadn't magically popped into his head.

  Soon after, Claudette came to his table, tray of food piled high.

  “Damn. Is that the normal portion?”

  “Well, I figured a big guy like you might need a little extra.”

  “I’m supposed to be watching my figure.”

  “Honey, there’s nothing wrong with your figure,” Claudette said, before snapping her mouth shut. Her cheeks and neck turned red. “I mean… is there anything else I can get you?”

  “Ketchup and mayo would be great.”

  “You one of those weirdos?” Claudette said as the blush drained from her face.

  “Afraid so.”

  Claudette reached over to a booth and grabbed a bottle of ketchup, then went back to the counter.

  Porter watched her walk away, impressed with the fit of her jeans. He looked back at his plate before she turned around and saw him.

  She handed him the mayo. “Holler if you need anything.”

  “Will do,” Porter said, before watching her walk away again. His mind firmly on her ass, Porter ate through the tray, stopping halfway to take a breather.

  Porter wasn’t overdramatic, but he could safely say it was the best burger he’d ever eaten. He gave up trying to figure out what made it so good and finished up. He bussed his table, sat the tray on the counter, and walked out, cowbell clanking above him. He was aware that Claudette had just gone into the back and didn’t see him leave.

  He drove around until he found an ATM, pulled out enough cash for a month of Burger Hut burgers, and drove right back to the restaurant. He opened the door and Claudette turned from the counter, facing him with her trademark smile.

  “I thought you left.”

  “I had to get some cash,” Porter said, handing her a bill. “I was feeling so guilty, it might have affected my digestion.”

  “Well, you should feel guilty, leaving without saying goodbye.” She unfolded the bill. “This is too much.”

  “Stuff it in the tip jar,” Porter said. “It’s the best burger I’ve ever had.”

  “Glad to hear it. You in town long…” she said, the lilt in her voice asking for his name.

  “Porter. How do you know I’m not from around here?”

  Claudette laughed. “I told you, Porter, I know everyone in this town. Been here too long. Besides, if you’d moved in somewhere, it would be all over the place. The hens would be talking it up.”

  “The sewing circle is still alive, huh?”

  “Out here it is.”

  “I’m in to
wn for a little while. You work every day?” Porter said.

  “I better. I own the place.”

  “So you’re an entrepreneur?”

  “More like too dumb to give up,” Claudette said with a half-smile. She stuffed the change from Porter’s order into the plastic tip jar by the register.

  “Well, as long as I’m in town, you got my business. Deal?”

  “I’m going to hold you to that,” she said, the big smile returning.

  “Please do.”

  Fourteen

  The cowbell clanked again as he left, and Porter looked down at his smartphone. He’d burned enough time at the Burger Hut that Pima’s school was nearly out. He figured now was a good time to try to chat with Pima’s best friend, Scarlett.

  He was, however, acutely aware of the visual of a guy like him loitering around the school, asking after a thirteen-year-old girl. With his luck, Spaulding’s two doofus deputies would show up and try to arrest him.

  Porter wasn’t a fan of going to jail.

  No, he figured it would be best if he was a little more creative. He had the picture that Terri Newton had given him of the two girls, and he knew from researching Joe’s file that the girl rode her bike home from school every day. It was easy enough to look at a map and figure which way she’d have to go.

  He briefly considered going to her home and waiting for her there, but decided against it. Kids didn’t always like to be honest in front of their parents, and if there was something Scarlett knew, he’d have a better chance if he talked to her alone.

  Provided she didn’t run away when he walked up to her.

  He found an abandoned grocery store midway along the most likely route she’d take home and pulled into the empty lot. Porter rolled the windows down and continued trying to stitch together Pima’s disappearance.

  Moments later the phone rang.

  “Hello, Mother,” Porter said with an affected British accent.

  “How’s South Carolina?”

  “North.”

  “Whatever. You working?”

  “Yeah. I couldn’t tell Joe no,” Porter said.

  “That the only reason?”

  “Pretty big reward,” he said.

  “Right. You’re getting soft in your old age,” his mom said. “Got any leads?”

  Porter gave his mother the rundown, leaving nothing out. He imagined most sixty-year-old women wouldn’t want to hear about a missing child, but most sixty-year-old women weren’t retired federal agents.

  “Sounds like a mess,” she said.

  “It is.”

  “Well, you be careful. You know I worry.”

  “Come on,” Porter said.

  “What? I do. Every time you start digging around in these things, there are always problems. Remember that time you stabbed a guy with a fork? Let’s not have a repeat.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Porter said.

  “Good. When you get back into town, I need help with my DVR.”

  “That’s the whole reason you called, isn’t it?”

  “No,” she said, the tone of her voice betraying her.

  “Hey, I have to go,” Porter said, looking at a kid on a bicycle at the street crossing, then back at the picture Terri had given him.

  “Okay, Son, but no forks,” his mother said as he hung up the phone.

  Scarlett was stopped a block down. The girl wore a helmet, and dutifully got off her bike and walked it across the street when the light turned green for her to cross.

  Porter slid out of the driver’s seat and leaned against the hood of the car, waiting for her to get closer.

  The girl made it through the crosswalk and started to pedal again. When she got close to the Yukon, Porter spoke up. “Scarlett?”

  The girl kept pedaling by, neither slowing down or speeding up. She looked toward Porter. “Maybe. Who are you?”

  “A friend of Pima’s.”

  “No, you’re not,” the girl said, still rolling by.

  He held up the picture of the two of them together. Scarlett put her feet down and stopped the bike. “Where’d you get that?”

  “Pima’s parents gave it to me. I’m a friend of theirs.”

  “You just said you were a friend of Pima’s,” Scarlett said.

  “Same thing.”

  “No, it’s not. I’m not friends with everyone my mom’s friends with.”

  “Damn,” Porter said. “You got me there. I’m just trying to help find her, how about that?”

  Scarlett walked her bike toward Porter and put the kickstand down. She stayed on the far side, the purple ten-speed in between the two of them. Porter didn’t want to spook the girl, so he stayed against the truck.

  She looked at the picture he held up, then at him, then at his Yukon. “You a cop?”

  “No.”

  “You sure?”

  “Pretty sure. Why, you don’t like cops?”

  “I don’t mind them, but they don’t do a great job listening.”

  “I agree with you there,” Porter said.

  “Are you a private investigator?”

  “Not really.”

  “What does that mean?” The girl took her helmet off and her thick red curls flopped out, hanging messily around her face.

  “It means I’m not a private investigator.”

  “So if you aren’t a cop or an investigator, and you don’t even know Pima, how can you help?”

  “You think wearing a shiny little badge makes you good at finding people?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “If that’s true, why haven't you told the cops where Pima is?” Porter said, slipping the picture back in his pocket.

  “I don’t know where Pima is.”

  “I think you know something you haven't told anyone. Right? It’s just the way we are. We don’t always tell the whole truth.”

  “I don’t know, I swear.” The girl started to shift from foot to foot.

  “Listen, I don’t care.”

  “What do you mean? Why are you here if you don’t care?”

  “I care about finding Pima. I don’t care what you know or don’t know, what you told the cops or didn’t.”

  “What makes you think I know something?”

  “Because the best friend always knows something.”

  Scarlett didn’t say anything, instead looking down at her feet.

  Porter looked at the girl for a moment. “When I was in junior high, I went to a tiny school. I’m talking thirty kids in the place, kindergarten to senior year.”

  “Sounds tiny.”

  “Super tiny. In the courtyard of this tiny school was a payphone. I used to—”

  “Payphone?” Scarlett said.

  “Yeah, payphone? You know, phone with a cord hanging on it, you put coins in to use it?”

  Scarlett shook her head slowly, red curls shimmering. “No, wait, I think I have seen one in front of the drugstore. Never used it.”

  “Look, it doesn’t matter, the story isn’t that funny anyway. I used to prank call people from the payphone. I’m talking every day, I would call people and just say dumb stuff to them.”

  “Like what?”

  “You know what, forget it. The point is, my best friend knew I was doing it. He didn’t make any calls, but he laughed when I did. Well, eventually the school found out and they asked everybody who was making the calls.

  “Of course, I lied my ass off and said it wasn’t me; I didn’t want to get into trouble. You know who else lied?” Porter said.

  “Your best friend?”

  “That’s right. Ross lied his ass off, too, so I didn’t get into trouble. Because that’s what best friends do. So I feel like there has to be something, no matter how small, that you haven’t told anybody else.”

  Scarlett chewed her lip.

  “Does Pima have a ‘special friend’ that nobody knows about?”

  “You mean like a boyfriend? Eww. Have you seen the boys at our school?” Scarlett said.

  “
Be nice to them. One day, one of those boys may grow up to be a ruggedly handsome not-private-eye with a terrific beard.”

  Scarlett laughed. “I doubt it.”

  The pair had not moved. Scarlett stood several feet away from Porter, her bicycle a barrier between them, Porter still leaning on the front of his truck.

  Porter saw the girl was thinking; he didn’t push her. Often, when people were on the edge of making a decision, it was best to let them fall on their own.

  His eyes drifted from Scarlett to the passing traffic. Amidst the pickup trucks and modest sedans, a sheriff’s sedan pulled by. Through the lightly tinted windows, Porter say the two deputies from earlier in the day.

  The town was small, and it could have been a coincidence. Maybe they were responding to a call. Maybe Spaulding had told them to hit the road and get some experience.

  Or maybe they were following him.

  He watched as the sedan drove off into the distance, his attention brought back by the girl’s voice.

  “Maybe I don’t know where Pima is, but maybe I know somewhere that we go sometimes, just the two of us. You think that could help?”

  “It can’t hurt. Maybe I can go there and see if she’s there. Maybe she’s just run away for a couple days,” Porter said.

  Scarlett nodded. “It’s in the woods. Sometimes, when we don’t have anything else to do, we go out there and hang out. A secret spot.”

  Porter liked the sound of a secret spot in the woods. It gave him somewhere to go, and he just might find a teenager camping out. He didn’t say anything, so Scarlett would fill the silence with more information.

  “We climb up into the trees and lie around taking pictures and stuff.”

  “Is it hard to find?”

  “Super. It’s a secret, remember? It takes a long time to walk there, a little less if we bike.”

  “Thanks for telling me. Why didn’t you tell anyone about this place? Pima could be there.”

  “She’s not. I went and checked the first day she disappeared. Plus, you know, I was worried. I didn’t want to tell because of the drug men.”