These Mortals

by Alan Lee

  It also depended on the shooter. In the past few days, Darren had altered course, hiring Hal New to kill me outright. My rendezvous with Stephanie would be the perfect opportunity for Hal to take his shot—I was counting on it—but I wasn’t telling Stephanie that either.

  “Hey. Mackenzie? How do we do this?” she said.

  “In a few minutes you and I are going to text each other from my iPhone, which he’s monitoring. We’ll arrange to meet tomorrow at a certain time at a certain place. I’ll send you the prearranged script soon.”

  “We’ll be setting the trap,” she said.

  “Precisely.”

  “When you catch him, will you really kill him?”

  “Good question.”

  “You have to,” she said with some oomph.

  “I’m not sure I can gun down a defenseless man. I might resort to delivering Darren to his former co-workers. They aren’t happy with him. The final result will be the same, but worse for him.”

  “You’re a wimp of a cop, Mackenzie. Where are we meeting tomorrow?”

  “We’re not really meeting. It’s a ruse. You won’t be there,” I said.

  “The hell I won’t. I’m seeing this through.”

  “It’ll be violent.”

  “No shit,” she said.

  "If you’re there, you’re in danger.”

  “I told you. Don’t patronize me,” she said.

  “Caution and patronage are quite different.”

  “Ugh. I’m coming, Mackenzie. Where are we laying our trap?”

  “I’m still figuring that out. Needs to be private. But nearby.”

  “Can it be in the woods?”

  “That,” I said, “would be preferable.”

  “Then I have an idea. My husband owns a hunting lodge.”

  “Oh really.”

  Friday, 9:00 pm

  Mackenzie

  I spent the next few minutes with Google maps, zooming around her husband’s forested property, twenty-five minutes outside the city, north on Lee Jackson Highway, near the James River. To firm up some details I’d drive out later tonight.

  But it would work.

  It had to work.

  I wrote out our upcoming faux text conversation by freehand. Scrutinized it. Made a change. Erased the change. Thought some more. Put the change back in.

  My phone rang. The burner phone, a number I didn’t recognize. It was nine at night.

  “Evening,” said a man. “Calling for Mackenzie August.”

  “You got him.”

  “Mr. August, my name’s Roland Owens and I’m calling from the Georgetown Airport. In South Carolina.”

  The hair on my arms raised, the cowards.

  “Georgetown Airport. In South Carolina.”

  “Right. I got your number from the Roanoke City Sheriff’s Office. Are you still looking for an airplane?”

  “In fact,” I said. “I am.”

  “Sorry I didn’t touch base sooner. Apparently a cop came by while I was gone and left me a note that I only just saw. I returned from vacation today, see, and I was going through mail. You wouldn’t believe all the mail. Emails too. And the faxes. Anyway. Yeah that little Cessna you’re hunting for is parked in our hanger. I asked around, and it’s been here a few days.”

  “The heck,” I said, “you say.”

  “We’re not a big strip. We don’t even schedule commercial flights. Lots of guys rent space and planes, rich guys coming and going. But I double checked the N number. N522SJ, exactly like the police notice.”

  “Anyone get a look at the pilot?” I said.

  “Afraid not. No one seems to know him. Or her.”

  “Roland, your airport, is it near the Atlantic?”

  “Sure enough. We’re right across the sound. I can be at Pawley’s Island in twenty-five minutes. Or DeBordieu Beach in fifteen. Is the Cessna really stolen? Should I call the police?”

  “I want you to call me, if that plane goes anywhere.”

  “I can do that. I’ll be back in the morning. If it’s gone, I’ll let you know,” he said.

  “Perfect.”

  “But what about the police?”

  “For this situation, Roland, we need someone even better.”

  Friday, 9:15 pm

  Manny

  Beck’s phone rang.

  “It’s Mackenzie,” she said.

  She and Manny made brief eye contact. Every call carried the potential for heartbreak.

  She answered and Mackenzie said, “The game’s afoot. Darren’s airplane has been located. It’s in Georgetown, South Carolina, on the coast.”

  Beck clicked on her list of addresses and went to the map. Punched in details.

  Manny set the cruise control. For the moment, there were no cars directly ahead on Highway 17.

  Beck’s eyebrows rose. “There are two houses within thirty minutes of Georgetown Airport.”

  “Bingo. Ronnie’s in one of them. How fast can you get there?” said Mackenzie.

  “We’re still in Virginia, near the third house. The first two were busts. We’re…hang on…eight hours from Georgetown, South Carolina.”

  “Seven? Ay dios mio, I’ll do it in six.”

  “Or die trying,” said Beck. “You’re running on little sleep.”

  “Maybe I let you drive an hour.”

  “Me? Drive the Camaro? You’re kidding,” she said.

  “Don’t overthink it, Beck. Point is, migo, we’ll get there before sunrise.”

  Mackenzie said, “Then I’ll arrange the meeting with Darren tomorrow morning. 9 a.m.”

  “Easy. We’ll identify her house and pluck her out then.”

  “Perfect.”

  Manny was happy about using pluck but a little disappointed no one noticed. He clicked off cruise control and the muscular car surged forward.

  Friday, 9:30 pm

  Mackenzie

  >> Is this Mackenzie August?

  Yes it is.

  >> This is Stephanie. Darren’s ex-wife.

  >> I got your note.

  Good.

  Can you meet tomorrow?

  >> I’d prefer we didn’t.

  >> But I would like to see Darren’s letter.

  >> Is he well?

  He is alive and well.

  >> That’s nice to hear.

  >> Can you drop the letter off somewhere?

  I can’t. I need to hand it to you.

  >> Why?

  To ensure you get it.

  We can meet in a public place.

  >> No. I don’t want anyone to see us.

  What about your home?

  >> Absolutely not. My husband is here.

  >> Does Darren want to see me?

  You’d have to ask him that.

  >> I will. I hope so.

  What do you suggest?

  Where can we rendezvous?

  >> We own a hunting lodge in the woods.

  >> You can meet me out front. And then leave.

  That sounds fine. I won’t even get out of my car.

  >> If you aren’t alone, I’m not getting out.

  I’ll be alone. I’ll get there before you.

  I’ll arrive at 8:45am? You show up at 9.

  If you get nervous, just drive away.

  >> Okay.

  >> I’ll text you the address.

  >> Once I work up the courage.

  You can trust me.

  Bring someone, if you need to.

  >> Okay. Let me think about it for an hour.

  I set the phone down.

  I had ninety minutes. She said an hour, but I’d told her to wait an hour and a half. Darren had been watching those texts in real time. Now he’d wait an hour for the address.

  I hoped.

  With an abundance of caution, I checked the peephole, opened the door, and scanned the hotel hallway.

  No Hal New. Not yet.

  I went for my car.

  If I was an inch less stalwart and handsome, I’d be running.
<
br />   Friday, 10 pm

  Mackenzie

  The hunting lodge that Stephanie and her husband owned was set a quarter mile off Lee Jackson Highway. The trenched driveway dipped down into a shallow valley and then up to the lodge at the base of a mountain. They owned the surrounding two hundred acres. He and his buddies hunted regularly during the winter, but the lodge was vacant tonight.

  The thing of it was, no way would Darren show up alone tomorrow. He was bringing someone. He was bringing Hal New. Most likely Darren had already paid the man half a million dollars, with the rest due on my death.

  Hal New was a pro. A decorated military sniper and subsequently a successful headhunter. You get that way by being cautious and principled. He wouldn’t ride in with Darren, sitting in the passenger seat.

  He wouldn’t drive in at all. He’d already be here, waiting, by the time we showed. That’s how I would do it, I was him. So I had to plan accordingly.

  I drove the driveway once. To the house and back, my wheels crunching on gravel. Then again, slower, examining everything in the glare of my headlights. The dip in the valley. The overhanging barren branches. The cabin’s line of sight.

  This would work better than I hoped.

  Probably.

  I got out at the lodge. A little prefab cedar cabin with a wide front porch, not ten years old. Gabled roof with a single dormer. My breath steamed. I walked around the cabin, tripping and cursing in the dark. Small forest creatures in the undergrowth moved away from me, the shivering clumsy behemoth. I found the hidden key where she’d said and I let myself in.

  The interior was elegant in its simplicity—a kitchen, a fireplace room with three couches and a table, two baths, and three bedrooms. The master bedroom contained a locked gun cabinet. Busts of hapless deer hung on every wall in the fireplace room. A bear rug lay between couches. The thermostat was set to sixty.

  The front bedroom had a pulldown attic hatch. I pulled it and climbed the ladder.

  This. This shallow attic was where Hal New would wait. He’d crack open the dormer window and have a clean view with his rifle. That’s what I’d do.

  Old furniture and boxes were set in the back of the attic. A good place to hide. To ambush the ambusher. I smiled at them, the way one does when his plans come together.

  Probably come together.

  I pulled out my burner phone. The castle was ready to be stormed. Text messages needed to be sent. The cavalry to be called.

  Except I had no cell reception. This was a dead zone.

  Jiminy Christmas. A significant setback.

  Mackenzie August, his anxiety at an all-time high.

  I checked my watch. I was running late.

  I raced away in my car, toward the hotel. Time felt like it was in free fall.

  As soon as I had bars, I made a call.

  Sheriff Stackhouse answered.

  “I need you,” I said, “in your car. This second. Drive toward Lynchburg. Don’t wear perfume. Pack a snack. And guns. Lots of guns.

  “Babe, what—”

  “You said you wanted to help. Wanted to shoot someone. Here’s your chance. Oh, and bring Dad.”

  Friday, 10:15 pm

  Manny

  The Hampton Roads beltway crosses the Newport News channel in a four-mile stretch of interstate that is part tunnel and part bridge. Heading south, the first mile of the beltway is underwater, a tunnel diving below the active shipping lanes. Traffic surfaces after the tunnel and travels the next three miles of the channel via a bridge before reaching the northern coast of Norfolk, Virginia.

  Friday night, Marvin Lynch had a heart attack inside his black Audi A6 as he emerged from the tunnel. He gasped and grabbed at his chest, cutting the steering wheel. The Audi made a sharp left turn, slamming into a Chevy pickup. Both cars collided with the tunnel wall, a violent impact that totaled both vehicles but caused no structural damage. Both southbound lanes, however, were effectively sealed off. The vehicles screamed to a halt a mere fifty feet from the open air bridge.

  Behind them, a Mazda CX-5 had been tailgating the pickup, eager to pass as soon as they exited the tunnel. The Mazda hit the pickup and the Audi from behind, crumpling the hood, destroying the engine, venting steam, and spraying the concrete wall with a jet of hot oil.

  Red lights. Squealing brakes. Blaring horns. Several dozen cars were headed south in the tunnel and they slowed to a stop.

  Manny and Beck slowed too. They were instantly snared halfway, dozens of cars pinning them in, both north and south. Manny swore and jumped from the Camaro. Climbed to the roof. Beck opened her door and stood.

  They were trapped in the tunnel, congestion accumulating by the second.

  “Beck,” he said. His voice echoed off the box they were in. “Call Mack. Pronto.”

  Her eyes were wide, her face white. She held up her phone for him to see.

  They were a hundred feet under water. Like Mackenzie, they had no cell reception.

  Friday, 11:30 pm

  Mackenzie

  My iPhone was ringing when I got back to my hotel room. Lesser detectives would be out of breath.

  I entered, my Kimber drawn, ready to punch holes in waiting assassins. I cleared the bathroom. Threw back the curtains and looked under the bed. Empty. No Hal New.

  The call went to voicemail.

  I had two texts from Stephanie.

  Ten minutes ago, she’d agreed to meet me tomorrow at 9 and then she’d texted the hunting cabin’s address, all for Darren’s benefit.

  Within the past four minutes, I’d missed three calls from him. Darren was titillated.

  Everything proceeding as scripted.

  I indulged in a minute of deep breaths and I returned his call.

  “Where the fuck have you been, August? I call, you answer,” he said.

  “I took a shower. And no, I don’t. Obviously.”

  “Time’s up, rookie. I’m on a plane tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be close behind,” I said.

  “There’s still time for you, though. For you and Ron. Update me.”

  “Meh. I’m sleepy.”

  “Cute, August. Real cute. Do you know how tired I am of your mouth?” he said.

  “I’m going to bed. Good night.”

  “Wait. There’s nothing you want to disclose?” he said.

  “Let Ronnie go.”

  “Update me. Maybe I will.”

  “Update you about what?”

  “About Stephanie, you son of a bitch, you fucking no-name rookie. Yesterday you told me you found her, and that you’d be meeting her today. But you didn’t.”

  But you didn’t, he said. Because he knew from my fake texts with Stephanie.

  “Stephanie and I communicated.”

  “Tell me everything. Right now or I’m gone.”

  “I left her a note. She got it. She texted me and agreed to meet.”

  “She’s eager to see me. Right?” he said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Go to her right now, and call me immediately,” he said.

  “No. We’re meeting tomorrow morning.”

  “Where?” he said.

  But he already knew.

  “Near Lynchburg. That’s all you get.”

  “When?” he said.

  But he already knew.

  This was a tedious game.

  “Tomorrow,” I said.

  “You know where she lives, I bet. Go now. Let’s do this.”

  “No. You want to scare her off? I show up at her door and she’ll call the police. She’s not sure she wants to be found.”

  “Fine. Christ. This has taken you too long.”

  “If only people were easy to predict and control, eh Darren?”

  “Meet Steph tomorrow. Call me. Ron goes free. Okay? Ron will be given a phone and set loose. She calls you, you pick her up, and we’re through.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “What, you don’t believe me?” he said.

  “Not about anything.”<
br />
  “You’ll see. Tomorrow. You’ll see,” he said.

  I left the iPhone in my hotel room, stopped at the front desk to leave a package, and I drove to the Walmart superstore off Old Forest. Despite the late hour, it was busy with Friday night college-town energy. Gaggles of girls and quieter couples in the food aisles.

  I bought binoculars, snacks, thermal underwear, gloves, extra socks, and a sleeping bag. I changed into warmer gear in the men’s room and I drove into the woods surrounding Lynchburg.

  I parked at Eagle Eyrie, a baptist conference center two miles from Stephanie’s log cabin. I parked at the main building near the entrance, easily found by Stackhouse or my father.

  I tightened the backpack around my shoulders and stamped my shoes. Hopped a couple hops.

  Good grief it was cold. Why couldn’t Darren abduct Ronnie in July.

  I set off through the trees.

  Friday, 11:45 pm

  Manny

  Manny waited with Beck in the Camaro until word reached them, passed car to car—half a mile ahead, above their line of sight—the driver had a heart attack, causing a three car pileup. Paramedics were using the jaws of life. The wait would last at least another hour.

  Manny got out. “Beck, if traffic starts moving, drive. Come get me.”

  Beck had been napping in the heated passenger seat. She rubbed her eyes. “Where are you going?”

  “To make a call and tell VDOT to stop slacking.”

  Manny buttoned the top button of his sports jacket. He wore designer jeans and tan Chippewa boots—made in America by Huckberry. The boots weren’t ideal for running, but they were good enough and looked great with jeans and a jacket.

  His shoulder was throbbing when he arrived at the scene of the accident. Men talked silently and police lights flashed. The ambulances were already gone. Two flatbeds waited ready to hoist cars.