These Mortals

by Alan Lee

  So perhaps Darren’s family hadn’t moved. Perhaps she and the boy were still in the greater Roanoke area, near the marshal’s office, a source of help if needed.

  That would be ideal. Ideal as heck.

  I pulled up Roanoke County’s online recorder’s database to look at deed transfers from the year she moved. Goodness. That wouldn’t work. Too many, not to mention deed transfers from counties outside Roanoke.

  And that was assuming she'd bought a place. She could’ve rented.

  It would take me weeks to narrow down possible persons of interest based on deed transfers, and then weeks more to chase them down. But I only had days.

  The key, then, would be her son, John. There were fewer elementary schools than houses. A lot fewer, and each one was guarded by an all-knowing receptionist, who knew the kids by name and face.

  I needed a photo of Darren’s ex-wife and son to display at the school. If they lived in or near Roanoke, I’d find them that way.

  And then…

  And then I didn’t know. I wasn’t going to hand them over to Darren Robbins. There was too much fog in it. Too much mystery, too many questions.

  Why exactly had Darren faked his death?

  Did the Kings know it was fake?

  Was he telling the truth about his divorce?

  Why did he want to communicate with her now?

  Where was Ronnie? How would I get her back?

  How did I eliminate Darren without Hal New popping me?

  That night I sat on the floor in Kix’s room. He was on his back in his crib, talking to the ceiling and letting his eyelids get heavy in the dim room. An air freshener hummed in the corner to help with the smell of diapers.

  Beside me—the laptop, my phone, and Darren’s note to his ex-wife.

  The note was simple.

  Steph, my life is going through some changes. Google my name, see what comes up, but don’t believe it. I’d like to speak to you on the phone. Please. Call this number and I’ll answer. I have the best interest of you and John in mind. Trust me. -Darren

  At the bottom was a phone number to call.

  I’d done a search for Steph Robbins and found too many women to narrow down. I tried focusing on news out of DC related to Stephanie Robbins. I looked for John Robbins. I checked social media. Nothing grabbed me.

  The marshals had effectively erased them. I could find Steph Robbins if I went to DC and asked around enough. But I wasn’t after Steph Robbins. I was after whoever she was now.

  Manny called. I listened as he talked. He said the Kings condoned Darren’s pseudocide. Noelle Beck’s contact was alarmed and angered to hear of Darren’s current operation and there was another and more important meeting arranged tomorrow.

  We hung up. I hadn’t said much, lacking my customary vim.

  The Kings were angry. I liked that.

  If they weren’t sympathetic to my plight, at least they shared my animosity toward Darren Robbins.

  Speaking of the asshat, my phone buzzed with an incoming text from him.

  >> Meet me tomorrow morning, 10am. I’ll text the location after I arrive. You can talk to Ron then. If you make any rookie moves, Mario kills Ron after having some fun with her. Be cool about this and we all get what we want.

  I replied, Okay, and didn’t break my phone. I stood with sudden stress and rage. I did pushups until muscle failure, took some sleeping pills, drank bourbon, prayed, and returned to stare at the ceiling of Kix’s bedroom, like I’d find a source of peace frescoed there, until three in the morning, thinking about Ronnie and feeling all of life and history crushing us both under the weight of accumulating sin.

  Monday Morning

  Mackenzie

  Darren texted at 9:50, said we’d meet at Scrambled downtown, a breakfast eatery. He chose well—a public place with covered outdoor seating, kept warm in the winter. I couldn’t kill him there. Plus the eggs were scrambled with extra Colby-Jack cheese.

  I parked on Campbell, three blocks removed from my office. A cold drizzle glazed the Center in the Square intersection but I didn’t put up the hood of my black North Face rain jacket.

  I pushed into the covered outdoor area, kind of like a tent. Darren was the only one waiting and he stood. No Hal New, no Mario. He had Ronnie and that was protection enough.

  Still though, he was nervous. “It’s ten, August. If I don’t contact Mario by eleven, he’ll know you did something stupid. He’ll kill her and disappear. Can you follow that?”

  Give him credit. His voice only shook a little.

  I put a hard right into his stomach. Darren was tall and broad, like he could’ve played basketball in college. Still, he made a whooshing groan and doubled over. I stuck the fist in good, navel to spine, and moved behind him.

  I pulled his right arm around his back. Straightened it and pushed up on his forearm. His face pressed into the table, his torso bending forward to keep his shoulder in place. I kept going, using his humerus as a lever, his shoulder as a fulcrum. He cried out.

  Scrambled’s waitress came in with waters. A cute brunette. She saw us and tripped.

  “Come back in sixty seconds, Stasi. We’ll have our orders ready.”

  “Oh,” she said, leaving, wide-eyed. “Yes sir, Mr. Mackenzie.”

  “I’ll kill her, August.” Darren’s face was smashed into the menu and he whimpered from the corner of his mouth. “Let go!”

  I pressed harder. His humerus was close to popping out of socket. The glenoid cavity vacated, the rotator cuff tendons would tear.

  “The reason you’re alive,” I said. Calm. None of the rage I felt. “Is that you have something I want. It’s important you see this situation for what it is. It’s crucial you understand Ronnie is your shield. As soon as the shield is gone, I can safely fire.”

  “Christ, August, let go!” He groped for the shoulder with his free hand.

  “It’s in your best interest to take good care of the shield. Tell me you follow.”

  “I follow. I follow.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “I follow, August, damn it!”

  I released pressure. Let go of his wrist.

  He sat hard into the chair. His face was pale and his neck was splotchy and he groaned.

  I sat across from him. Didn’t open my menu.

  “The star city scramble is excellent if you like eggs,” I said. My pulse hadn’t raised much. “Otherwise I recommend the vanilla french toast.”

  Stasi watched through the glass door. She held her pen and pad close to her chest, breathing deep. Behind Stasi, a cook held his cellphone, unsure if he should call 911.

  I beckoned. She stepped in but kept her distance.

  “Stasi, you know my wife, Ronnie,” I said.

  She nodded. “Yes sir.”

  “This gentleman is being mean to her. So I had to let him know I’m stronger than he is, and pain is an excellent teacher.”

  “Yes sir.” She nodded.

  “We’re ready to order.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I’ll take the scramble with bacon. Darren, yourself?"

  He had a little drool on his lip. Eyes closed. “Fuck off, August.”

  “He’ll have,” I said, “the same. Coffee and water too. Thanks.”

  “Yes sir.” She fled, stumbling on the doorstep. The cook kept peeking.

  “I want to speak to Ronnie,” I said.

  “Maybe I’ll have Ron’s shoulder broken.”

  “Maybe I break your nose, Darren. Hit you until you’re unconscious. Stuff you into my car, take you home, tie your wrists to a winch in my basement and tighten it until your joints are ripped apart.”

  “You can talk to Ron, you fucker. You pull this again, she’s dead and I’m long gone.”

  “Call her,” I said.

  His eyes still closed, he worked his shoulder. “First, tell me what you know.”

  Stasi brought water, then mugs and a carafe. She set them down trembling.

  Darren and
I could have a pissing contest about who went first, but that wouldn’t solve much. Besides, I already half-dislocated his shoulder. Pushing harder might be counter productive.

  “I talked to Manny. He said it’s very likely your ex-wife moved here, given the postal marking. He said the marshals used to service relocations in Roanoke, but the witness inspector died. With him gone, it’s less active. The files are impossible to get, so we need to do it the old-fashioned way.”

  “Impossible to get? He’s a marshal.”

  “It could potentially be done, but not without alerting half the government,” I said.

  “That’s a deal breaker, obviously. What’s the old-fashioned way?”

  “Hustle. Visiting elementary schools with a photo of your family. Which I require.”

  “Elementary schools?” he said.

  “I need to narrow my search. Your kid had to attend a school. We can’t search by name, so we’ll search by face. It’ll take days instead of weeks.”

  “Damn. That’s clever. Yeah, I’ll give you a photo. As soon as my got’damn arm is working again.”

  “Call Ronnie,” I said.

  “We’re going to call her. Right now I can’t feel my fingers so shut the fuck up.”

  I poured us both coffee. Only poured him half a mug. Small victories.

  “How long will it take?”

  “At least a few days,” I said. “If she hasn’t moved again. What do you want with her?”

  “That’s not your business, rookie.”

  “Yeah it is, Darren.”

  “You know Ron’s going back to it. Right?” he said. “The whoring. All whores do. They can’t quit. Look it up. Even if they don’t need to, they do anyway.”

  “I know the statistics. Reformed prostitutes feel something called repetition compulsion. Comes from trauma and a lot of abused women have it. Doesn’t make sense, but their brain is trying to restore order to a chaotic world.”

  “You did your homework, yeah?”

  “Not just anyone has permission to enter my family.”

  “Makes you a hero, huh, August. Look how great you are, saving the whore. Champ, I could tell you stories about the guys in DC who want to save Ronnie. They all want to be the hero, rescue the hot blonde.”

  “What fools we mortals be,” I said.

  “What they don’t get, what you don’t get, is that desire is really about them. Not about her. Pathetic.”

  Stasi returned with plates of eggs. Gave one to each of us and left quick.

  We didn’t touch the food.

  I said, “I understand what her former clients feel. They want to control her. They want to marvel in their own largesse. Wouldn’t it be perfect if Veronica Summers felt indebted to them forever. Plus being close to her beautiful depravity, perceived or otherwise, makes them feel better about themselves. They’re still intoxicated by brief encounters.”

  He grinned and flexed his fingers. “So you know it and still can’t help yourself. God she’s good.”

  “I can’t and she is. But I am dissimilar to her former clients in important ways.”

  He drank water. Set the glass down. “Such as?”

  “I didn’t know what you and her father were forcing her to do when we met. Our relationship began organically and without sex. I refused her for a year. She pursued me, not the other way ‘round.”

  “Because she’s using you for rescue, you stupid bastard.”

  “I told her,” I said, “that I won’t rescue her. Can’t and won’t.”

  “Then you’re as dumb as you look. You know the stuff she’s been forced to do. Want a recap? Christ, that makes me a little sad.”

  “Because you don’t think highly enough of her.”

  “Oh…” Another grin. I gripped the handle of my chair, otherwise he would’ve lost some teeth. He said, “Oh my opinion is plenty high. Don’t forget I had her for over a year, champ. The girl’s a damn phenom. The men lost their minds.”

  I drank some coffee. Let it burn my tongue. The pain was a release, had a grounding effect.

  “You’re in your head too much, August.” He winced and reached into his pocket. Came out with his phone. “Quit putting on airs. You see her, you see an ass you want.”

  “That’s not it.”

  “Then—“

  “Ronnie reminds me of my inconsolable secret,” I said.

  “August, what the hell.”

  “I’m as human as the next man. I use the same crutches, I feel the same weight of life. The same longing. Ronnie’s not the thing itself. She’s only the scent of a flower I haven’t found. She’s news of a country I haven’t visited yet. But she makes the wait sweeter.”

  His gaze shifted back and forth between my eyes. Didn’t know how to respond. “The inconsolable secret. You’re quoting someone?”

  “Lewis.”

  “Scent of a flower you haven’t found. That’s pretty good. You’re describing sehnsucht.”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, good luck with that. The rest of the world, we aren’t happy, so why should you be.” Darren shook his head. He pushed a button on his cell. Someone on the other side answered and Darren said, “Put her on.”

  He handed me the phone.

  The screen jostled and settled on Ronnie. I forgot to breathe. She sat in a wooden chair near a dirty window. Outside looked like a thin forest but I couldn’t tell much.

  She smiled. Sad, brave, fierce, determined, scared.

  “Ronnie,” I said.

  “Good morning, Mackenzie.”

  “You’re safe?”

  “And unharmed."

  “You’ll be home soon,” I said. “I promise."

  “I believe you.”

  “You’re at the Palace?”

  “No. A short ride on a small plane somewhere.”

  Darren snatched the phone before I was ready.

  “Enough,” he said and pushed end. “She’s alive. You’ve seen it.”

  I forced myself to let go of the chair. I’d bent the metal rail handle.

  Good morning, she’d said. She gave me as much as she could. It was morning there. Short ride. Small plane. Probably still on the East Coast.

  “I’m texting you a link, August,” said Darren. My phone dinged. “There. You can talk to her once a day. Follow the link I sent and push the call button on the website. Each morning. It’ll scramble an untraceable call to Mario. You get thirty seconds. I’m being as fair as I can about this.”

  “Mario knows not to hurt her."

  “Mario knows. He’s playing ball. Trust me, August. She can walk away. And I’ll be gone. As good as dead.”

  “Not quite as,” I said. “Send me the photo of your ex-wife and son.”

  “Not quite,” he mumbled, playing with his cell. “What a wise ass you are. There.”

  My phone dinged again. I received three photos: an attractive blonde, mid-thirties, was holding a three-year-old on her hip at a birthday party; next, a boy was smiling for a class photo, maybe kindergarten; last, the blonde again, she was smiling on a beach wearing a white coverup.

  “The boy is about ten now?” I said.

  “John turns eleven in April. John Aaron Robbins.”

  “What year was Stephanie born?”

  “1977. No…1976.”

  “Her maiden name?” I said.

  “Griffin. Stephanie Jane Griffin. She was born in Rochester, New York, and attended George Washington University. Her father died when she was twelve. Her mother’s alive, I assume, but I didn’t attempt contacting her. The bitch always hated me. No siblings.”

  “Any close friends?”

  He blinked. “No.”

  “Stephanie had no close friends? C’mon, Darren. You want her found or you want to play hopscotch?”

  “I’m not lying to you. Steph didn’t go out much. She was a homebody.”

  “What about before you two married? What about in college, any close friends?”

  �
�Hell, I don’t know, August. That was twenty years ago.” He sipped his coffee. Winced. Poured two sugar packets in, flicking to get every grain.

  “Think.”

  “Nobody comes to mind. If I’m stuck with sudden inspiration, I’ll text. Honestly, August, she liked to stay in and read. She wanted to be a CPA. Who dreams about that as a little girl? She was a recluse.”

  “She graduate with a degree in math from George Washington?”

  “She never finished. John was born and she didn’t go back. I told her to, but…”

  “Did she work outside the home?” I said.

  “No.”

  “Not even part time or—”

  “No,” he said.

  “Why are you trying to reconnect now?”

  “I told you already. None of your got’damn business.”

  “It might help me if I knew,” I said.

  “Just find her. Find her, August. I want you to meet her, that’s part of the deal. Look her in the eye, shake her hand, make sure it’s my ex-wife, talk to her. Hand her the letter. Then you leave. Call me with an update. Your part is done and Mario will drive Ron to a drop off and leave her with a burner phone.”

  “Darren, you thundering asshat, you’ll kill Ronnie as soon as you don’t need her.”

  “No I won’t.” He shook his head. Gave me his best ‘You can trust me, I’m not like the other lawyers’ stare. “Believe me, August. Even with Hal New and Mario, I don’t know that I can outdraw you. If I kill Ron, I’m in for a shootout, one I’d prefer to avoid. She’ll live, I guarantee it.”

  I didn’t believe him.

  Trouble was, I didn’t have a lot of options. Yet.

  Monday Morning

  Ronnie

  The video feed cut.

  One second Mackenzie’s face was on the phone screen, the next he was gone. Holding the phone, Ronnie’s fingers shook.

  “Mackenzie?” Her voice echoed in the quiet room.

  Mario jerked the phone away and dropped it into his front pocket.

  “Terminado. Vienes conmigo,” he said.

  Come with me.

  Ronnie was sitting on an ancient ladder-back wooden chair with wobbling legs. The cheap subfloor was exposed and in places she could see dirt beneath slats, holes that let in the chill. And the rats. She sat near a dirty window, and a front door that locked to keep people in. A cockroach crawled on the windowsill. The walls were cracked plaster. Down the hall, noises came from two men playing a video game. The place stank of mold and urine.