These Mortals

by Alan Lee

  “You still think you can buy love, Darren, holy shit. You’re irredeemably broken.”

  “I am? You know what I first thought when you came around the Mercedes? I thought, wow, I bet I could get five grand an hour for her. That’s what I thought. Because you’re a got’damn whore. And I’m taking John.”

  “No, Darren. You aren’t.”

  Her pocket exploded. We all flinched, even her, even me and I’d been expecting it. Darren buckled over. Surprise on his face like a mask.

  A little hole had punctured the cloth of her pocket, singed at the edges. Another little hole had punctured the shirt over his stomach, above the zipper. She withdrew the revolver, the revolver she’d once pointed at me inside my car, and aimed higher. She shot his chest and he jolted back. She aimed higher still, another shot, but this one missed because he was falling.

  “You bastard.” She turned the gun on me. “You son of a bitch, you bastard.”

  Saturday, 9:05 am

  Ronnie

  Mario and the cruel man were sharing pot, getting high and arranging the order of their morning. Ronnie listened to them, decoding the rapid Spanish, leaning forward on the mattress, leaning against her knees, the cuffs tugging skin off her ankles.

  She was sick of this mattress, so so so sick of it.

  Sex, the cruel man declared, was first. They talked about it as if Ronnie wasn’t there.

  Joder a la prostituta.

  Hugo could wait. Hugo could watch.

  Darren wanted Ronnie killed immediately, said Mario. A problem for them, because it was early in the day. Bodies were usually moved under the cover of night.

  Kill Ronnie and Hugo after sex? Then tonight move their bodies to the truck? Or move them to the truck in broad daylight, at lunch? Or forget Darren’s wishes and let Ronnie live until the evening?

  The cruel man said they should keep her indefinitely, the dumb white whore.

  Mario said no. He was clearly in charge, though he spoke less often. When he said no, the cruel man didn’t push it.

  Ronnie’s thoughts were no longer on Mackenzie. Or Manny. Those were men, and men were human. Humans made mistakes. They made promises they couldn’t keep. They could be trusted, but even the trustworthy were fallible.

  Instead her eyes were locked on the door.

  She couldn’t trust the pregnant women either. But she still hoped. She’d done everything she could to galvanize them, to force their hand. And the women were already in the same house.

  She needed them.

  She needed them now.

  Over the past five days she hadn’t used her body. She’d used her brain, her powers of persuasion, her history with Spanish, her knowledge of law, her promise of help, her courage, even her prayers to a God who had no reason to love her, everything she could…

  And now…

  Please, God.

  And now…

  And now…smoke.

  There. The first dark wisp curled under the door. She’d been waiting her whole life for it.

  Relief poured like cool water into her arteries.

  Mario smelled it first. He was high, leaning against the wall, placidly listening to the cruel man chatter. He watched the marijuana burn in his fist, frowning.

  Ronnie remained still. Let them find it. Let the smoke build.

  The cruel man spotted the smoke, more tendrils floating up from the door.

  “Oye. Que es eso? Ese humo?”

  Is that smoke?

  He grabbed the knob and pulled. The door was locked, unmoving, and the knob burned him.

  “Hace calor! La puerta está en llamas!”

  It’s hot! The door’s on fire!

  Mario flicked the locked and opened the door with a quick hand.

  Heat poured in. Black smoke roiled like a wave.

  On the floor, still trussed like a pig, Hugo shouted in panic.

  Fire! Fire!

  In the hall, the women screamed too. Like they’d been waiting for the door to open.

  Mario said, “Fuera. Salir afuera.” Go outside. He pushed the cruel man ahead of him into the smoke, into the hallway. The smaller man came back, gagging. He’d sucked in ash.

  Ronnie couldn’t see the men from the shoulders up. The ceiling was gone, lost in black, a haunting sight.

  Mario went out. Arrogant, invincible.

  The cruel man was still bent, coughing, when Elena crept into the room. She moved in a crouch. She raised the crowbar, the same crowbar from last night, and hit the cruel man. A glancing blow, the teeth ripping away part of his ear. She hit him again, making better contact. He fell and she knelt beside him, swinging again. And again and again until the man quit moving. Tears leaked from her eyes.

  “Elena!” shouted Ronnie, kicking futile against the cuffs. “Elena! Él está herido! He’s out! You’re okay!”

  The pregnant woman dropped the crowbar and crawled to Hugo. She pulled at the rope and the duct tape, but her hands were shaking and she was coughing.

  Ronnie raised into a crouch on the mattress, her ankles scrapping raw. “Elena! A knife, you need…ahh…knife…cuchillo!” Knife!

  The second girl, Luciana, the quiet one, entered the room in a crawl. “Mario se cayó,” she said.

  Mario fell.

  The hallway was taking a hellish glint.

  The girl held up something. Something small that Ronnie had trouble seeing. Her eyes had begun to stream. She wiped them.

  Luciana was holding a handcuff key.

  “Atta girl!” Ronnie cried. She took the key and inserted it into the cuff around her right ankle. “Help Hugo! We’re getting out, girls. Drinks are on me. Or…maybe sodas are on me. I don’t know how that works in your condition. For God’s sake, don’t breathe the smoke.”

  Saturday 9:06 am

  Mackenzie

  Stephanie wasn’t going to shoot me. At least not on purpose. But she was shaking the barrel at me like an accusing finger.

  “You bastard. You couldn’t do it. You made me. You made me kill my son’s father,” she said. “You planned this.”

  I held up my hands. “I’m sorry, Stephanie.”

  “Did you know I would?”

  “I didn’t. But I wondered.”

  “If I didn’t, what the hell were you going to do?”

  “Hit him. That’s my modus operandi.”

  “You…you coward.”

  My father came around the SUV. His face was white and he was taking little shallow breaths.

  “You told me to stay in the car. And I did, for a long time. But then I heard the pistol…and you’re bleeding.” He held up his hands too, like he was under arrest. “If you kill my son, Miss, you’ll have to kill me too.”

  “You’re his dad?” she said.

  Timothy August nodded and gulped.

  “You brought your dad? You really are a weird cop.”

  “You might have a point,” I said.

  “And a sheriff. A sheriff. I’m going to jail,” she said. “Aren’t I.”

  “You’re not. I promise.”

  “You promise? I just killed an assistant US attorney,” she said.

  “I don’t think he’s dead yet.” Timothy nodded at Darren, and he covered his mouth and turned green.

  “Dad, Stackhouse needs some help in the house,” I said. “Check on her?”

  “But what if this young lady shoots you?”

  “She won’t.” I began the slow process of getting to my feet.

  “Ugh. Don’t be so sure,” she said. A little snippy.

  “Dad. Go. Stackhouse is banged up.”

  “Dammit, son, why didn’t you say so earlier.” He vanished beyond the SUV.

  I grunted, regaining a vertical position. My feet hurt and so did my face. All the windows of the Mercedes SUV were gone, so I examined my reflection in the side mirror.

  “Yuck.”

  “It’s not so bad, you ass.” Stephanie slid the revolver into her pocket and helped me remove the larger glass shards. Sh
e was not gentle and her fingers still shook. “This didn’t go as you said it would.”

  “If often doesn’t. Surprising, I know, with this hair.”

  “What is it with you and your hair?”

  “My wife tells me it’s great,” I said.

  “You’re married to a whore?”

  “A former whore. Yes.”

  “She quit?”

  “So far, so good.”

  She wore a scarf under the camel overcoat. She unwound it from her neck and handed it to me. “The blood’s about to reach your jacket.”

  “Thanks. I owe you one.”

  “Nah. I guess we’re about even, Mackenzie.” She turned to lean against the SUV. Darren was no longer breathing, and she nodded at him. “Am I screwed? There’s a sheriff in the house, and I killed him.”

  “No you didn’t. Remember? He died a couple weeks ago in a plane crash,” I said.

  “It was a scam. Does that matter, in my case?”

  “Sure. We won’t tell anyone otherwise.”

  “Ugh. Feels too good to be true.”

  “I’ll put you in touch with his attorney. His biological son might be a beneficiary from his estate,” I said.

  “Really?”

  “A substantial estate, too.”

  “Really.”

  From the house we heard the sound of Sheriff Stackhouse’s laughter. I bet Timothy August was not reacting to the dead body of Hal New with much grace. By the sound, the man had died in a mess.

  I grinned.

  “You’re here because of Ronnie,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “She and I are similar, sounds like.”

  “I can see it. Like you, she forced her way out of Darren’s grasping neediness. You’re both attractive, resilient, and strong,” I said.

  “She’s alive?”

  “I think so.” My spirit gave a shiver. “I hope so."

  “You love her.”

  “I do,” I said.

  Her eyes were far off. Beyond our current veil. “My whole life would be different if someone had loved me. Instead of wanted me.”

  “That’s a big difference.”

  “That’s all the difference,” she said.

  “What about your husband?”

  “Jury’s still out.” She sniffed. “With men, you gotta wait until the hormones wear off to know for sure. Now that Darren’s dead…I like my husband, but…when we married, it was for security.”

  “He’s a good guy?” I said.

  “He is. He’s steady. I quit turning tricks, for him.”

  “Admirable recidivism.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Means I think you’re doing great in a hard situation.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “But if you’re like most, you kept a couple of your best clients.”

  “That’s…not your business.”

  “Quit them too. Trust me. Your new life’s worth it. Life itself is worth it.”

  I helped get Stackhouse into the Honda, the back seat. Her ankle was out of place, and her chin was open to the bone.

  “What about Darren?” asked Stephanie.

  “I’ll handle him,” I said. “Burying his body will be therapeutic. And, despite myself, I feel bad for him.”

  “I knew it,” said Stackhouse. Her face was splotched with white and green. And blood. “I knew you’d go soft on him.”

  “One of his best traits,” said my dad, getting behind the wheel.

  “By the way, I’m taking credit for the mess in your master bedroom, Steph. Personally taking down a professional hitman? I’ll be so popular, I’ll win the next election without contest. Wait for my call and act like you weren’t here.”

  “You got it.” Steph turned for her BMW. “Not being here sounds great.”

  I pulled out my phone. Still no bars.

  “But before anything else,” I said. “I need to make some important phone calls.”

  Saturday, 9:15 am

  Ronnie

  Ronnie led her little party east, toward the sun, through the loam and roots and brush, not easy in heels, her only shoes. The liberty of movement felt disorienting. They walked a quarter mile before reaching open sand.

  Pure bliss and freedom.

  Hugo had been staggering along with help from Elena. He sank onto the beach and leaned back against a stubby pine, panting.

  It was a warm day for March, the sun streaming golden life, and Ronnie felt she might fly. She stepped out of her shoes and into the cool sand and she closed her eyes. She would experience the chilly wind soon, but not yet.

  Elena and Luciana and Mariana and Hugo were less unencumbered in their relief, having no money and no possessions in a land where they had little legal recourse.

  Inside the scrubby forest, the awful house was distilling down to ash and black smoke uncoiled above the trees. A fisherman was on the phone, gesturing at the smoke. He stood near his poles set in the sand. His blue Toyota Tundra was near the surf. He saw the women and he hurried toward them, bewildered and uncertain.

  “Are you women…?” He stopped. The sight of Ronnie and the pregnant women and the injured man left him grasping for words. “Are…”

  “We’re alive,” said Ronnie. “Thank you. But I don’t know where we are.”

  “What do you mean?” He scrubbed awkwardly at the scruff under his chin. The phone was forgotten in his left hand.

  “What state is this?”

  “What state?” he said. He wore warm waders and a fishing cap. “You don’t know where you are?”

  “Humor me, please.”

  “Well, this is Debidue Beach, ma’am. South Carolina.”

  “South Carolina.” Ronnie smiled to herself. “Ah hah.”

  “Is the preserve on fire?” he said.

  “The preserve?”

  “The nature preserve.” He nodded at the rising smoke. “Ain’t that where…?”

  “It was an old house within the woods that’s burning,” she said. With a few men inside. She’d taken particular relish in stepping on an unconscious Mario, who’d sucked in smoke like he hated himself. “Which way to the nearest restaurant? We are women in need of a mimosa.”

  “A mimosa?” he said.

  “Multiple mimosas, yes. Orange juice and champagne. Or…maybe just the orange juice, for the others. We’ll see.”

  He pointed to his left, south. “That way. See the town, at the edge of the woods? Maybe a mile. That’s DeBordieu. A little town. The Beach Club, your best bet.”

  “Perfect, thank you.”

  “Oh, but I forgot, it’s private. Gotta be a member,” he said.

  “They’ll make an exception.”

  “Yes ma’am. Are… Can I… What’s happened? Do you women need help? Need a ride?”

  “That man might,” said Ronnie, nodding at Hugo. “The women, clearly, do not.”

  “Oh. Well…”

  “But it would be kind to ask the pregnant women, and they might accept. I prefer to walk.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  And she did.

  Half an hour later, Ronnie strolled out of the sand barefoot, passed the massive beachfront houses, and emerged onto Ocean Park Loop where a crowd had gathered. They watched her like she was an alien. An alien whose blonde hair needed a good hot shower and whose ankles were red, but nonetheless still a striking visitor.

  The women and Hugo had accepted the truck ride but became hysterical at the thought of leaving Ronnie, so the Toyota had slowly trailed her.

  She was ready to ask the stupefied crowd for directions when a familiar supercharged Camaro roared into view. The crowd made room, less they be flattened. The big machine parked and Manny leapt out, engine still running.

  The onlookers gaped further at him. More evidence something highly unusual was going on. Who were these two beautiful people? And why did they look exhausted?

  Manny’s eyes locked onto Ronnie. Each tried to smile but cried instead.
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  He picked her up and spun in a circle until Beck reached them and they all three sniffed and laughed.

  “I’m sorry,” said Manny over and over, speaking into her shoulder. “Lo siento, mi chica favorita. I’m sorry. I’m sorry we’re late.”

  Still being held aloft, Ronnie kissed Manny’s forehead. She wrapped one arm around Manny’s head and one around Noelle’s shoulders. “I love you both. Oodles. And you’re not late.”

  “We are. And it’s Beck’s fault,” he said.

  “It is not.”

  “You stink, señorita.”

  Ronnie smiled. “So you do. But we earned it, I think. Look at your arm! You’re staining my shirt with blood.”

  Manny set her down and all three wiped their eyes, watched by a fascinated crowd. And by the pregnant women, hoping they wouldn’t be forgotten.

  “I’m getting a drink,” said Ronnie. “We’re getting a drink. But first, may I borrow your phone? I’d like to call my favorite person on earth and tell him I love him and that I’m coming home.”

  Manny produced his phone and said, “Tell him, same goes for me.”

  She took the device, and as she walked away it began to ring.

  The End

  Epilogue

  Wednesday. Late morning.

  And a glorious one. Because we were living.

  Kix, the most perfect of all cherubs, sat on my lap, eating Cheerios out of a plastic cup and watching a movie.

  Ronnie lounged on my love seat with me. My arm was laid along the back of her cushion and she leaned against my shoulder, her knees drawn up, an article about immigration law in her hands.

  Georgina Princess was curled around a heating vent. Dogs couldn’t smile, but maybe.

  The room was crowded in a respectful silence.

  We remained thusly poised in perfect contentment for a while. Until…

  “Mackenzie.”

  “Yes Ronnie.”

  “I don’t want to do this,” she said.

  “Me either.”

  “But we should.”