These Mortals

by Alan Lee

  “Wayne Cross,” I guessed.

  He grinned. “That’s him.”

  “That’s him.”

  “Didn’t think nobody would ever get the best of ol’ Wayne. He was kicking his old man’s ass by the time he was fifteen,” said the security guard. The security child. The security infant.

  He made a call with the house phone and waved me back. We walked down a stark hallway and he said, “Wayne got a lot nicer after you popped him.”

  “I told him to leave the state.”

  “You told Wayne to leave the state? Got’damn, Mr. August.”

  “He didn’t, I take it.”

  “Naw, he’s around. Works on the Schultz farm and mixes shine.”

  “Tell him I said to leave the state pronto.”

  “Really? You want me to tell Wayne that?” he said.

  “Sure.”

  “What’ll you do when he don’t?”

  “Nothing. I don’t care about Wayne. But it makes me happy, thinking of him scared,” I said.

  “Got’damn, Mister."

  “Indeed.”

  He left me in a common area with some tables and chairs, and a floor that no amount of mopping would ever shine. Another security guard was here, watching television. He didn’t care about me. Which, I thought, was hurtful.

  Abigale Holloway sauntered in two minutes later. She was younger than me. Maybe my age, but not older. Thin, sharp angles. Her long hair had once been dyed blonde but now was two-tone with dark roots. Her orange jumpsuit was half off, unzipped to the navel, and the empty arms wrapped around her waist like a belt. With the right makeup, it was clear, she would turn a lot of Bedford County heads. She wore a plain t-shirt, sometimes called a wife-beater, and no bra, a fact in which she displayed angry pride.

  Tight ship being run here.

  “First visitor I get in a month and I don’t even know him.” She said it with a sniff. A contemptuous one.

  “I’m here to deposit money into your commissary account.”

  She softened a little at the edges. “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Doubt that.”

  I took two twenties out and slid them to her.

  She lowered herself into the chair opposite me. “In exchange for…?” She gave me a look. “I ain’t never been pregnant, and I didn’t get that way by exchanging favors.”

  “I need a favor. But not that kind,” I said.

  “Just like a man. Only comes around when he wants a favor.”

  “Just like a woman. Already rejecting me.”

  She smiled at that. Her teeth were good. That was nice for her—she hadn’t been using the meth.

  “That’s funny,” she said.

  I set my phone on the table, with Stephanie and John displayed.

  She looked. “Yeah?”

  “You know Stephanie Douglas?”

  “I knew her. Been a while. She dead?”

  “Hope not. But I can’t find her,” I said.

  She took the twenties, quick, like she thought I might detract the offer. Shoved them down the front of her jumpsuit. Not in a pocket, but into her pant leg.

  “I can’t help you find her, big guy. Steph and I weren’t tight. Not like we email or anything.”

  “I hear she was a loner,” I said. “Didn’t like people?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why’d Stephanie like you more than she liked most people?”

  “Does it matter?” she asked.

  “It might.”

  “Who’s looking for her?”

  I jerked a thumb at myself. “Me. Tell me about her.”

  “Steph and I saw life the same way, I guess. That was all. We’re both pissed off at everyone. Her opinion of the moms at that school was snake-belly low. I don’t know, maybe I was the only girl she respected.”

  “She left Bedford?” I said.

  Abigale nodded. “Moved to Lynchburg. I think.”

  Lynchburg.

  “Lynchburg? How do you know?” I said.

  “Ran into her.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Year and a half ago. She worked at…someplace.”

  “Do better than someplace,” I said. “If you can.”

  “Why’re you looking for her? Who are you, anyway?”

  I badged her.

  That’s not true. I didn’t badge her. That would imply I had a badge, which I didn’t. Private detectives don’t carry them. But I missed using badge as a verb, like I did when I was a cop.

  Instead, I credentialed her.

  See? Doesn’t work. But that’s what I did—I showed her my credentials.

  “You’re a cop,” she said.

  “Private.”

  “You don’t look like a cop.”

  “Keep talking sweet. I might give you another twenty.”

  “I don’t help cops.”

  “Help Stephanie.”

  “Why’re you looking for her?” she said again.

  “She’s missing. I’m chasing leads. The last I knew, she was in Bedford and John was at Bedford Elementary.”

  Abigale clamped her mouth closed and glared at the television. Despite her best efforts, her eyes took on a shine.

  “John was friends with my Liam.”

  “Liam is your son?” I said.

  “No. I told you. I ain’t never been pregnant. He’s my nephew. I’m helping…I was helping raise him.” A tear rolled down her face and she didn’t bother with it. “And I will, when I get out of this fucking place.”

  I put two more twenties on the table. Mackenzie August, a soft sissy.

  “Send him a gift,” I said.

  She nodded. Sniffed.

  I said, “Where was Stephanie Douglas working when you ran into her?”

  “I can’t remember. It’s over a year ago.”

  “Try.”

  “Applebees. Chilis. Ruby Tuesday, some place like that. She was tending bar,” Abigale said.

  “You two talk that night you ran into her?”

  “Not really. I tried. I forgot about that. Said she was busy. Steph was always okay, except for that night. She acted a bitch.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, big guy. Sometimes girls are bitchy.”

  I stood. “Thank you. You might be saving someone’s life.”

  “Where you going?”

  “Applebees. Chilis. Ruby Tuesday, some place like that,” I said.

  “Hey. Don’t tell her about me. I ain’t no snitch. And…thanks for the cash.”

  “For you, Abigale, anything.”

  Wednesday Afternoon

  Ronnie

  Elena padded barefoot to Ronnie’s room. She made a slight follow-me motion.

  In Spanish, she said, “Watch television with us.”

  It was a little after lunch. Ronnie had been expecting the visit—she’d laid the ground work yesterday, and the three girls had openly watched her that morning outside.

  “I must stay in my room,” Ronnie said. She sat on the bed crisscross. Bored, she was reading the Fifty Shades of Grey paperback given to her—she found the prose mediocre and the sex scenes lacking in verisimilitude. “Or I get in trouble.”

  “Hugo says you can watch television with us,” Elena said. “But we can’t talk.”

  Hugo was the name of the nice man. Ronnie had picked that up by paying attention. He was younger than the other, less angry.

  Ronnie stood and followed Elena to the first room in the upstairs hallway. Rats or mice were squeaking behind a wall. The scent of something dead was strong in the air—maybe rodents dying from poison.

  Luciana, a young girl with circles under her eyes, sat on a mat in her room and she wore sweatpants and a sweatshirt. She was too thin, and obviously pregnant. The room belonged to her.

  Elena sat on the bed next to her roommate, Mariana. Mariana was not obviously pregnant, but she was more plump than the other two.

  All three were beautiful Latinas, though exhausted and scared and morning sick.

&nb
sp; Ronnie sat on the mat next to Luciana. The television received channels through a broadcast antenna. Walker Texas Ranger was on.

  Elena spoke softly. “Please tell them what you told me.”

  “The green card?” Ronnie spoke even softer, in Spanish.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. If you want to remain in America, you can. You have three…choices. Or options. You qualify for a…” Ronnie paused to get her Spanish correct. “You qualify for a T visa, if you testify, because you were trafficked. You qualify for a U visa, because you were attacked. And because you’re under twenty-one, and I can prove it’s not in your best interest to return to your home country, you qualify for a green card. Probably.”

  Luciana watched her feet but didn’t say anything. Her rapid pulse was visible in her neck.

  “I don’t believe you,” said Mariana.

  “Why not?”

  “We are pregnant.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” said Ronnie. “It might help.”

  “We see the news.”

  “Ignore the news channels. All of them. They are…only to entertain angry Americans.”

  “Are they angry at us?”

  “No. The Americans are angry at each other.”

  “What if someone is over twenty-one?” asked Elena.

  “Are you over twenty-one?”

  Elena shook her head. “No. But what about people who are? Can they stay?”

  “Maybe. It’s complicated. If they have been here for ten years and they are not in trouble with the police, it’s easier. I could try,” said Ronnie.

  “You could try?” Mariana leaned forward. Her eyes were wide. “You?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “I'm a lawyer. An attorney,” said Ronnie. She was whispering, almost inaudible.

  “It is expensive.”

  “It is.” Ronnie nodded. “It takes many hours.”

  “We cannot pay you.”

  “Girls. Listen to me.” Ronnie patted Luciana on the hand, and the girl flinched. “People are coming for me. And when we are free, I will buy each of you a glass of champagne. Or… maybe soda. I don’t know how much you can drink when you are pregnant. But I will pay for the drinks. And then I will pay for your visas.”

  Luciana still didn’t say anything. But she started to cry a little. She wrapped her hands around her knees and rocked.

  “Lucy, hush now.”

  “Why would you pay?” asked Mariana.

  Ronnie took a deep breath. She made eye contact with each. “Because I want to help.”

  “Visas are paper that means we can stay?” said Elena.

  “Yes. Permission to remain in America.”

  “And not stay with these men.”

  “No. These men will go to jail. Or maybe they will be shot by my friends,” said Ronnie.

  Mariana’s eyes were still wide, her mouth slightly open. Like listening to her favorite story. She said, “They are coming for you?”

  “Yes. They are. Yes he is.”

  “He?” she asked.

  “My husband.”

  “What if he cannot find you?”

  Ronnie shrugged. “Then maybe we should save ourselves.”

  Wednesday Evening

  Mackenzie

  Stephanie Douglas never worked at Ruby Tuesday. I showed her photo around and got nothing but blank stares.

  I drove to Chili’s next. Lynchburg was a city dominated by Liberty University, whose students weren’t allowed to drink at bars during the day. Or maybe ever, I didn’t know. It was mid-afternoon and the crowd was sparse.

  The bartender was cutting limes behind the counter. He smiled and said, “Welcome to Chili’s. What can I get you?”

  I held up the photo of Stephanie and John.

  “I’m looking for this lady. She’s missing. Last I heard, she went by—”

  “That’s Steph! She quit working here over a year ago.” The guy’s eager-to-please face fell a little as he thought through what I’d said. He set down the knife. “Hold on. You say she’s missing?”

  “She’s a friend of a friend, and we can’t find her.”

  “Oh man,” said the guy.

  “My thoughts too.”

  “Missing missing? Like, maybe dead?”

  “Hope not. What can you tell me?”

  “I’m not sure. Very little.”

  “Try?” I said it with some encouragement.

  “I wish I could help. She was always nice to work with. She quit here and started working at Grey’s, that’s all I know.”

  “Grey’s?”

  “Yeah, over on Fifth. A nicer bar than this, but we’re more fun.” He indicated his establishment with a thumb and a wry grin.

  I liked him. He struck me as inherently content.

  “Why’d she move to Grey’s?”

  “Better tips, probably. Gotta pay for the plastic surgery, right?” He chuckled. “Jeez, I hope she’s okay.”

  “Plastic surgery?”

  “Do you… You don’t know much about her, do you.”

  “Nothing much in the last eighteen months.”

  “She got her nose done. Didn’t need it, in my opinion, and I told her so. Maybe some other stuff, too? Her face looked different.”

  “Would I recognize her now?” I said.

  “Gosh, I don’t know. Maybe? Hang on.” He turned to examine a wall pinned with photos. Searched a moment and plucked one. “Here she is. That’s her, on the end.”

  It was a group photo of smiling bar tenders. If he hadn’t told me, I wouldn’t know it was her. Stephanie’s blonde hair was darker and cut shorter. Her face looked different. The guy was correct—she’d had a nose job and maybe other stuff? I didn’t know enough about plastic surgery.

  With my phone, I took a photo of the photo, zoomed in on her. With this, I had leverage over Darren. With this, I could buy time. I had oxygen.

  I said, “Did she have other friends here I could talk to?”

  “To be honest, I was her closest pal. And we weren’t that close. I tried to call after she left, see how she was doing, you know? But her number didn’t work. Can you believe that? She didn’t even say goodbye, not really.”

  “What name was she using?”

  “Cole.” He had a moment of doubt then. “You didn’t know that?”

  “I haven’t seen her in a while. I was curious if she’d gotten married. Stephanie Cole,” I said.

  “Right. Stephanie Cole. I hope you find her.”

  The manager at Grey’s was less friendly. He asked me to come back to his office, which looked like he had intentionally made a mess to mirror the state of his soul. There was no place for me to sit so we both stood and it was awkward.

  “I can’t tell you much, bud. Stephanie worked here two months and vanished. She didn’t show up for work one Friday night, left me high and dry. You know what it’s like to suddenly not have someone behind the bar on a busy Friday? It’s hell on everyone. I called her but it was disconnected. The address she’d given was to a post office box. No one knew a thing. She wasn’t well liked. Good riddance,” said the manager. His hair, like his office and his waistline, needed some TLC.

  “Why wasn’t she liked?”

  “She wasn’t disliked. But she kept her distance. Had no friends. No enemies, you understand, but no friends. One of the girls said she saw Steph getting into a black BMW convertible twice after work, so maybe she ran away with some rich guy. I kept my eye out for a black BMW convertible, but no luck,” he said.

  Black BMW convertible. Rich guy.

  I said, “Was she going by Stephanie Cole?”

  “Yep. Cole.”

  “What about her social security number?”

  “Oh yeah. I did payroll in January and her number came back as a fraud. What the hell, you know?” He glanced at his watch. Dinner crowd was arriving soon. “Listen, anything else? I got a lot.”

  “Not right now. Thanks.”

  “If you find he
r, tell her I didn’t appreciate the vanishing act. My job’s hard enough without her running out.”

  So was mine, actually. He and I were in the same savage boat.

  I texted Darren on the way home. Should I text and drive? No. Did I do it anyway? Yes.

  The private detective is a brave creature.

  Getting close. Call me.

  Ten minutes later, he did.

  His voice came over the speaker. “Getting close, champ? Tell me everything.”

  “The marshals placed Stephanie in Bedford, just outside Roanoke. She had few friends and I have reason to believe she didn’t enjoy it there. Two years ago, approximately, she relocated to Lynchburg. While there she tended bar and got plastic surgery.”

  “Plastic surgery, huh.”

  I was driving west on 460 through thick traffic. “I’ll text you a photo of her new face. The photo was taken at a bar.”

  “New face. Wouldn’t even recognize her.”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “What about John?”

  “She withdrew John from school and presumably took him with her when she left Bedford. Is she a good mother?”

  “She wouldn’t abandon John, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Then once I find her, I’ll find him too,” I said.

  “You’re good at this, you know that? Like a veteran. I thought our girl Ronnie was dead, for sure. An absolute pro. A shame you’re such a prick.”

  “Ronnie dies, you die.”

  “Yeah, yeah, we’ve been through this,” he said.

  “I’ll call Ronnie tomorrow morning. If she’s alive and unharmed, I’ll keep looking. I could easily find Stephanie within the next forty-eight hours.”

  “You think so, huh?”

  “Got a feeling.”

  “Your time’s up. I got a flight tomorrow,” he said.

  “I’d follow you to the ends of the earth, Darren.”

  “Calm down. You’re too dramatic, champ. But you’ve done admirably. I’ll stick around a couple days. Which means Ronnie lives, for the moment.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m around,” he said.

  “Tell me where.”

  “You should trace my call. It’ll say I’m in Arizona. But I’m not in Arizona, August, I’ll tell you that.”