These Mortals

by Alan Lee

  “Might be others, but that’s what my guys found.” She stood in my kitchen, wearing official sheriff garb and very little makeup, unusual for her. All of us were less concerned with ourselves the past few days. It was seven in the morning. Timothy August read the national news on his iPad and watched us over his reading spectacles—he wasn’t sleeping well and bags hung under his eyes. Kix hadn’t woken. Stackhouse said, “What’s the plan?”

  “Manny’s still in Washington, chasing down leads on Darren. I’m buying Ronnie time, inching closer to Darren’s ex-wife.”

  “It’s a three-headed operation,” said Stackhouse. “Chasing Darren, chasing the ex-wife, and chasing Ronnie.”

  “All of it done with tact and timing.”

  “Don’t forget the professional hitman,” said Timothy.

  “That’s right. Are you worried about the contract on your life?” she asked me.

  “Yes,” said my father, “In fact I am.”

  “No. Only so many things I can worry about at once.”

  “What are we doing about the airports?” she said.

  “Can your office communicate with the FAA? Convince them to put out an APB for a stolen airplane?”

  “Stolen?”

  “Stolen. A harmless untruth.”

  She went to the coffee pot and poured herself a mug. Drank it black, like George Washington and all true Americans since. She thought a moment.

  “It wouldn’t work. At least not quickly. The FAA isn’t a law enforcement agency. Even if I demanded they issue an alert for a stolen plane, which I’m not sure they do, those little airstrips might not get it. Some of them are private. Besides, babe, the plane isn’t stolen that we know of. You want me humiliated? Or worse?” she said.

  “You got a better idea?” I said.

  And I was not pouting and defensive about my idea.

  She shrugged. “Sure. I’ll get offices local to the airstrips to drive a car out and check.”

  “Sheriff offices?”

  “Sure. Or state police, or county, or whoever’s nearby. Plenty of bored patrolmen get excited about a stolen airplane.”

  I looked at the list some more.

  I’d never heard of most places. First Flight Airport. Currituck Regional. Garrish Farm. Whitfield East.

  “You think you can find enough manpower?” I said.

  “You mean, unspecified-gender power?”

  “You just said patrolmen, you sexist.”

  “I’m a woman. This is our brave new world. We get to be hypocrites,” she said. “Sure, plenty of manpower but they might not get to the airports as quick as we’d like.”

  “Because they’re men?”

  “Primarily,” she said.

  “I wish I could handle it, but I don’t see how.”

  “Let me do this, Mack. I need to be doing something. Tell him, handsome,” she said.

  Timothy August smiled at me. It was weary and without humor. “Those of us who love you want to help, son.”

  “Okay.” I handed the list back. “When you communicate with the offices local to the airstrips, convey the need for caution and discretion. If he or she happens upon the right airport, it’s vital we learn of it without the pilot hearing the plane’s being hunted.”

  “Convey the need for caution and discretion? Your faith in the professionalism of these small-town offices is cute, babe,” she said.

  “It’s all I got, right now. Faith.”

  She took my face in both her hands, still warm from holding the coffee mug. “You’re not cracking as many jokes as normal. Stay positive, babe. We need optimism. Ronnie’s coming home.”

  “Ronnie’s coming home.”

  “That’s right.” She kissed my forehead and went to the front door. “She is.”

  She left and my phone rang. Manny calling.

  I sat at the table with my father and put it on speaker.

  “Hola, señor Martinez,” I said.

  It was not, in fact, Manny. “Good morning, Mackenzie. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “Good morning, Noelle. You’re calling from Manny’s phone. I assume he’s shot himself to death?” I said.

  She laughed through a yawn. “No, but he did get shot last night. An unlucky ricochet. He’s fine, but sleeping. I’ll let him fill you in when he wakes.”

  “That dummy. Are you at a hospital?”

  “No, the Willard Hotel. He refused to stay in the ER after getting sewn up. A doctor tried to restrain him and got dragged to the exit for his efforts. Sinatra fell asleep in the car, overcome by medicine and exhaustion.”

  “You’re not hurt?” I said.

  She said, “I’m fine. Never in harm’s way. Do you have an update? Sinatra will demand one, when he wakes.”

  Timothy August muttered quietly, “I like Noelle Beck. A lot.”

  I said, “I’m close to Darren’s ex-wife. I hope. There’s a strong chance she’s in Lynchburg, an hour from here. I’ll head that way soon.”

  “Have you spoken with Veronica?”

  “I call her each morning. Video chat,” I said.

  “Do you have a phone number for her? I might work some magic with it. Probably not, but it wouldn’t hurt to try.”

  “No. Darren sent me a link. It takes me to a website that routes me to her.”

  A pause on her end.

  She asked, “How did he send you the link?”

  “He texted my phone. I click on the link, a website opens, I click on the other link, and voila. I can see her. The website keeps me from tracking her location,” I said.

  “Huhm,” she said.

  “How’d Manny get shot?”

  “Long story. Okay, Mackenzie, I gotta go. Talk to you soon.” Noelle Beck hung up.

  Timothy August sniffed. “She disconnected quickly.”

  “She did. The fast and adventurous life of being Manny’s partner.” I set the phone down. Checked my baby monitor—Kix was still asleep. I missed him, but it was ideal not being yelled at right now.

  I stood to refresh my coffee.

  Timothy August’s phone rang. His eyebrow arched and he held the phone so I could see the screen.

  Manny Martinez.

  “Fascinating,” said Timothy.

  “Quite.”

  “I thought Manny was asleep.”

  “He still is, I bet.”

  Timothy answered on speaker. “This is Timothy August.”

  “Hello Mr. August, it’s Noelle Beck. I’m sorry for calling so early. I got your number from Sinatra’s contacts. Are you near your son?”

  “I’m here,” I said.

  “I think your phone might be hacked, Mackenzie. That’s why I hung up and dialed your father.”

  Timothy and I made eye contact across the table. He was stunned. I was stoic and stunned but mildly so. Good detectives only get stunned mildly.

  I glared at my iPhone, on the table, like it might bite me.

  “How do you know?” I said.

  Her voice sounded hollow and urgent through the little speaker. “It’s hard to hack an iPhone. The easiest way is to trick the user into clicking malicious links. There’s no reason Darren couldn’t give you a phone number to call, a number that would be secure and scrambled. But he got you to click on two links instead. I can’t see the benefit, other than installing malware into your device.”

  “Oh,” I said. Sheepish. “Shucks.”

  “I bet he or someone is monitoring your texts, your location, your internet browsing…”

  “Listening to my phone calls?” I said.

  “Doubtful. A phone virus interacts with the information stored on your phone, like passwords. A phone call is not stored. Unless Darren has hired the most expensive hackers on the market, the best way to listen to you would be intercepting the cell signal, which is unlikely. But he could have access to everything else, including a live shot of your screen.”

  “I wish I could murder Darren twice.”

  Timothy August said, “Didn’t
you get your phone scanned?”

  “Before Darren gave me the link, though.”

  “Ah.”

  “I’ll buy a burner phone. And shove this one,” I said, flicking the infected device, “up the anus of Darren Robbins.”

  “Gross,” said Noelle Beck. “Since the moment you clicked on the link, what sensitive information has Darren been privy to?”

  I thought backwards in time a few days.

  If Darren was tracking my location, he would know I’d visited the little airport near the Appalachian Palace, but he would’ve expected that, and he would assume there was nothing to learn there.

  I thought over my texts from Manny. He’d revealed nothing about his plans in Washington. In fact, I didn’t totally know what he was doing up there.

  The sheriff and I hadn’t texted about the stolen airplane or the little airports.

  “Yesterday, I called Darren,” I said, processing out loud. “I told him I had a photo of Stephanie and that her face had been surgically altered. Before I could send him the photo, however, he mentioned he didn’t even recognize her. Which meant he’d already seen the photo on my phone. I didn’t catch his mistake.”

  “Damn,” said Timothy August. “That’s unsettling.”

  “I’m unsettled as heck. About a great many things.”

  “What else is compromised?” asked Noelle.

  “I think,” I said slowly, “there isn’t much else. He doesn’t know we have the ID of the plane. He doesn’t know you and Manny are already working with the Kings.”

  “That’s a relief. I’ll call someone from the NSA to clean your device.”

  “Or,” I said and I drummed my fingers on my phone. “I use it for counter-intelligence. Now that I know…”

  She did a gasp. “We use it against him.”

  “For the spread of misinformation.”

  “I’m a cyber security specialist. Why didn’t that occur to me first?” she said.

  “You’re salaried. It atrophies the mind.”

  “No it doesn’t!”

  “I only eat what I kill. Keeps me on my toes, knowing I could lose my house any month.”

  “That’s comforting,” Timothy August mumbled.

  “Relax. My wife’s rich.”

  “I’ll call you again later, Mackenzie, when I have more news. We bought a favor with the Kings last night and Sinatra intends to call it in later today.”

  “Good luck,” I said.

  “You too.”

  I stood. Freshened my coffee and went upstairs to wake my son.

  I had to drop him off at his sitter’s, I had to buy a burner phone, I had to drive to Lynchburg, find a missing woman, figure out what the hell to do with her, bring Ronnie home, and live happily ever after.

  Sounded impossible. But not for I, Clark Kent.

  Thursday Morning

  Ronnie

  Ronnie was sitting on her mattress when Mackenzie called for their morning chat. Hugo held the Android phone so they could talk. The cracks in the screen gave Mackenzie a warped appearance.

  She assured him she was fine.

  He assured her she’d be home soon. He used the word heaven, which was a comfort—he’d caught her clue.

  They both held their emotions in check, until the line disconnected.

  The screen went dark and Ronnie made a groaning sound and lowered her head into her hands.

  Absence made the heart grow fonder. She was so fond of Mackenzie right then she wanted to claw Darren to death.

  “Señora,” said Hugo in a whisper.

  Ronnie didn’t look up.

  “Señora?”

  “Yes?” she whispered back.

  She knew what he wanted. She’d already guessed the situation, but at the moment she felt empty and lifeless.

  His voice shook with anxiety. “Puedes ayudarme?

  Can you help me?

  In Spanish, Ronnie said, “Help you with what?”

  “Help me stay in America. Help us.”

  “You and Elena,” said Ronnie. She forced a smile at him. She’d noticed the looks between the two.

  Hugo stood in the door. He was listening for eavesdroppers. His Levis were new, and so were his white Nikes. “Yes. I love her.”

  “You are the father?”

  Hugo ducked his head in a nod. “Yes. Her baby is mine. And she said…"

  “I can help her. And I will.”

  “You will?”

  “Yes,” said Ronnie. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “You’re too old to qualify for a special immigrant juvenile status. But—”

  He held up his hands. “Please, talk quiet.”

  She lowered her voice to almost nothing. “How long have you been in America?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Guess.”

  “Five years?”

  Not long enough.

  “Have you been arrested?”

  “Two times. But it was nothing,” he said.

  She closed her eyes and thought and scrubbed at her scalp. Absently brushed tangles out of her hair. It might be time for a dreaded cold shower.

  She said, “Staying in America legally will be hard, Hugo. You are not a minor. You have a criminal history. Your young girlfriend is pregnant. A judge won’t believe you have good moral character.”

  He nodded. “I understand. Elena and the baby, you will help them?”

  “I will. They will become Americans.”

  A smile. His teeth and eyes were bright. “You are sure? Americans?”

  “Yes. But did you hear me?”

  “Yes. I cannot stay.”

  “You can’t stay legally. Not yet. You’re already here illegally. I can help you in five years.”

  “Five?” he said.

  “Yes, but you must get a good job. You must stay out of trouble. You must stay with Elena and be a good father.”

  He lost his strength and knelt on the filthy wooden floor. He put a hand on the doorframe and chocked a sob.

  “I want to. But…”

  “But MS-13.”

  “Yes. Mara Salvatrucha. I cannot escape them,” he said.

  “Yes Hugo. You can.”

  “I do not know how.”

  “If you want to start a new life, you have to.”

  “How?”

  “Help me, Hugo.”

  “Help you?” he said.

  Ronnie was shaking, her teeth were trying to chatter. She laced her fingers and squeezed. Had to remain calm. “Get us out of here, Hugo. Help us escape and I will do the rest.”

  “How?”

  “Give me the phone.”

  “Give you my phone?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “It doesn’t make calls.”

  “Give me my phone.”

  “I don’t…I don’t know where it is.”

  “Hugo, you must—”

  “If they find out, they will kill me. And they will kill Elena. I have to go.” He stood in a rush and wiped his eyes. “Before they come. We will talk again.”

  “Hugo!” she whispered but he was gone.

  She was alone again.

  Thursday Morning

  Mackenzie

  Someone else was holding the phone for Ronnie as we talked. She was sitting on an old mattress in an old room and trying to remain calm. Most importantly, she was alive.

  We hung up and I was struck by such an intense pang of love and desire that I momentarily forgave Darren. Because it wasn’t just the absence of Ronnie churning my gut, it was also the nearness and inclusion and the being wanted that I missed. Was Darren up at night struggling with the same mania? Missing Ronnie or missing someone, needing the community and the belonging that I’d wrenched away from him?

  Did Darren have anyone? Or was everyone in his life constantly trying for distance away from him?

  How much rejection and hurt can a lonely man take before he’s no longer a man? Before he becomes a monster.


  I visited Centra Medical Plastic Surgery and also Dr. Sherwood Moore, associate of plastic surgery. At both offices, I was politely tossed out on my ass.

  HIPAA regulations were a foe over which there could be no victory. Even if I knew the office at which Stephanie had booked her surgical enhancements, they would reveal nothing, not even her address.

  What I should have done was make calls from inside the hospital, see if I could trick the offices into giving me the information. That wouldn’t work either, but I’d have gotten closer.

  I might try the surgery angle again later.

  But first I pulled into the parking lot at the BMW of Lynchburg. The dealership was set on the cozy northern edge of town, across from Billy Craft Honda and next to a Chrysler dealership. Why do automobile competitors always bunch up like this?

  Gleaming BMW sports cars, sedans, and SUVs inspected my Honda with undue haughtiness as I motored through. I parked next to a glittering M850 that looked like it could fly. The price tag displayed $95,000 and I got a little woozy.

  Who had that much money to spend on a car? Where did they get it? Why were they so stupid? Why didn’t they spend that much on the talents of the local private detective?

  Focus, August.

  This was a long shot.

  Stephanie Cole, or whatever last name she’d assumed, had been seen getting into a dark BMW convertible. How many of those were in Lynchburg? A bunch, I bet. Had it been sold from this dealership? Maybe. Maybe not.

  I needed to get a salesman or a manager into his office, or her office, and explain the situation—I required the name of the driver of a specific car. If he or she balked, I would get Sheriff Stackhouse on the phone to apply pressure; this was a criminal matter after all, and compliance with law enforcement was expected. The manager or salesperson wouldn’t know which specific dark BMW convertible I was referencing, but they could provide a list of recent sales matching that description.

  The nice looking brunette at the glass reception desk didn’t get up when I approached, which was hurtful. But she did smile.

  “Welcome to BMW of Lynchburg. How can I help?”

  “I’d like to speak with someone about a car sold here recently,” I said.

  “Oh.”

  I nodded wisely.