Three Minutes to Midnight

by A. J Tata

  “Out here?” she asked, placing a hand on her hip, skeptical.

  “I thought I might find a blood trail here, but no joy.”

  She stared at Mahegan a second, and he felt that thrum of connection again. At a different time and under different circumstances, he could visualize them grilling out and knocking back a couple of beers on this nice deck overlooking Nathan’s media empire and the pool. Not wanting to make too much of his fantasy, he said, “Either the victim walked out under her own power or someone carefully wrapped her up and carried her away.”

  She paused, as if to consider whether to reveal something to him, then said, “We didn’t find any brain matter mixed in with the blood. Actually, it was just blood so far.”

  “So it’s quite possible she was rushed somewhere to be taken care of.”

  This time she rolled her large almond eyes at Mahegan and said, “You enjoy the occasional pun, I can see.”

  “Either to a hospital or a lake, I’m thinking.”

  “We’ve called all the emergency care facilities in the area. No joy, as you say.”

  “That leaves the lakes: Shearon Harris and Jordan.”

  “Or perhaps she wasn’t wounded badly enough,” she admitted.

  “Any other kinds of ‘matter’ mixed in with the blood?” Mahegan was looking for clarity regarding the type of wound and whether there might be an entry or exit point on the body, given the report of a gunshot.

  “We’re running all the tests.”

  An awkward silent moment passed before Mahegan said, “Any chance I can give you a call . . . to get the results?”

  She grinned, and her teeth were perfect, framed by full, pouty lips. “What happened to your big, bad team of Army CID agents? Where are Leroy Gibbs and DiNozzo?”

  “That’s television and Navy. Wrong on both counts. I’m the lead guy. When they heard there was no body, they decided to let the situation develop some.”

  She removed her latex gloves, pulled out a pen, grabbed his hand with delicate fingers, and wrote a number on his palm. “Hope you don’t sweat,” she said.

  Mahegan noticed a small tattoo on her wrist: Esse quam videri. “To be rather than to seem,” he said, translating the Latin.

  She turned her eyes upward from his palm and smiled. “State motto. It’s henna. I change it every few months, when it wears out.” Then she nodded over Mahegan’s shoulder and laughed. “Your boy is about to fall out of the tree.”

  As Mahegan turned around, Nathan landed with a thud on his back, fiber-optic cable and the camera wrapped around his body like packing tape. He appeared okay, and when Mahegan turned back to address Grace Kagami, the beautiful mirror, like a specter, she was gone. Mahegan returned to the backyard, helped Nathan out of his fiber-optic web and removed the GoPro camera with the external battery pack.

  “What are you doing?” Nathan asked.

  “I’m guessing this stuff cost you some decent change, so while you go and get me an external drive’s worth of home movies, I’m hanging on to this. If you’re not back in fifteen minutes, I’m ringing your front doorbell.”

  “Not cool, man. I already gave you the thumb drive.”

  Mahegan said nothing.

  “But okay.” Nathan pointed to a window above the fence. “That’s my room. I’ve got my own entrance. I’ll be up there and back down. Don’t squeeze me if it’s twenty minutes. This stuff takes time.”

  “Fifteen. Front door.”

  Demonstrating surprising athleticism, Nathan was over the fence in record time. On the return trip he didn’t bother coming all the way over but simply climbed the fence halfway and chucked Mahegan an external drive.

  “Everything I got. Peace out.”

  Mahegan removed the data card from the GoPro, then stuffed the small external drive, about the size of a wallet, into his back left pocket and made his way through the side gate toward his car.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two men talking near the side of the house, behind a square brick chimney. He recognized one from his Army days and the other from the pictures in the house. Sam Blackmon, retired Army colonel, was talking to Brand Throckmorton, lord of the manor. Blackmon wore a leather coat, a black turtleneck sweater, and black dungarees. The bulge under his coat indicated he was carrying a pistol. Throckmorton was wearing a blazer, an ascot, a button-down shirt, and neatly hemmed dress slacks that fell atop expensive Italian shoes. Evening wear. They had triggered a motion-sensor light, which shone on them like a theater spotlight. It seemed that Blackmon was mostly listening, though, as Throckmorton gesticulated wildly with his hands.

  Mahegan had served with Blackmon on different missions, but the colonel had always been higher up the food chain and had never had more than a passing interest in Mahegan, who respected Blackmon. He had heard Blackmon’s retirement had led to a position as CEO of a private security company. He guessed it was the one owned by Throckmorton. Mahegan could envision Blackmon getting a late-night call to come to the scene of a crime to help sweep up the shattered glass of the evening.

  Mahegan eased through the expansive side yard, using tall holly bushes to block his exit. He registered that Blackmon might be someone he wanted to contact about the case, should he need inside information on Throckmorton. He reached his car without detection, and as he fired up the engine, Nathan Daniels’s face was hovering outside the passenger-side window. Mahegan pressed the button to lower the glass.

  “By the way, dude, I think you’re on the video.”

  Indeed, Mahegan thought, he was.

  “You like living?” he asked Nathan.

  “Yeah, man.”

  “Then keep your mouth shut.”

  He handed the kid back his GoPro. Pulling away in his Cherokee, Mahegan thought about what he had learned inside the Throckmortons’ house on his previous visit. Those memories both fueled his drive to find Gunther and emptied his soul.

  It wasn’t good.

  CHAPTER 7

  ON HIS RETURN FROM THE THROCKMORTON CRIME SCENE IN Raleigh, Mahegan stopped at a grocery store and purchased a burner cell phone. Next, he met with Savage’s gopher in a late-model, four-door sedan at the Wallaby gas station where he had waited for the black pickup truck that morning. He gave this man the blood sample Griffyn had provided him and outlined the high-level details of Cassidy’s disappearance. Afterward, he watched the gopher’s taillights disappear down Route 1, toward Fort Bragg, diminishing red specks in the blackness. Then he drove the wooded back way to his apartment.

  Sitting in his leased above-barn apartment, he plugged in the burner smartphone, let it charge, and then followed the directions to activate it. Rarely did he deviate from standard procedures, which did not allow communications augmentation, but as he drove, he had stared at the phone number Grace Kagami had written on his hand, hoping not to smudge any of the numbers.

  Once he had the phone powered up, he looked at the clock. It was almost midnight. He was tired, but he had a body to find and a nemesis to kill. Lots to do. He shook off his fatigue and followed his instinct, typing out a text and sending it to the number she had given him.

  Good to meet you. Any update? H.

  Within seconds, a reply appeared on his screen.

  Just want info from me, “H”? ;)

  Mahegan studied the phone, almost a foreign object to him. The reply was instant, as if she had been staring at the phone, awaiting his, or someone else’s, text. His months in and out of combat had dulled his social media skills, but he knew how to communicate rapidly in an operational environment. He recalled himself on one knee, body armor hanging on his shoulders, radio handset in his hand, with decisions to make.

  Short timeline. You seemed most competent on location.

  Flattery will get you everywhere.

  So that means there’s something new?

  You’re bad at this, you know?

  I know. Trying.

  Try harder ;)

  Mahegan paused, thinking. What was she asking
for? He visualized her full lips, framing perfect white teeth; her small hand writing her number on his large palm; and the lightness of her touch as she steadied his wrist with her right hand while she wrote with her left. He had felt energy flow like a current. Perhaps she had, also.

  Grab a beer?

  Bingo. Where r u?

  Not in Raleigh.

  That narrows it down. Let’s quit wasting time. Meet at Irish Pub in Cary. I’ll be in the date booth. Not there in twenty minutes, I’m gone. Peace out.

  Roger.

  Whatev.

  Mahegan deleted the conversation, hit the map function on the phone, and located the pub Grace had mentioned. He stopped in front of the mirror and studied himself. Disheveled dark blond hair, a week’s beard, blue eyes shot red from lack of sleep, and preppy clothes. He did a rapid change into dungarees, a worn rugby shirt, and work boots. He was looking like something halfway between where he was this morning and where he was an hour ago. He placed Nathan Daniels’s external drive in the safe in his floor but put the small flash drive in the pocket of his dungarees.

  The phone’s map function told him it was eighteen minutes to his destination. He walked down the steps into the barn, dodged a tractor in the darkened space, and climbed into his Cherokee. He quietly navigated his way past his landlords’ large home, its half-lidded, darkened windows showing no signs of life. Mahegan made every stoplight and pulled into the nearly empty parking lot of the pub with three minutes to spare. He noticed a familiar car from the crime scene, a sporty Nissan with a peace sign and a DFT2 sticker on the bumper, and figured it for Grace’s. While he recognized the COEXIST and PEACE bumper stickers, he had no idea what DFT2 stood for.

  Walking into the pub, he smelled stale beer and cooked meat. He saw the usual green shamrocks that came with every Irish pub he had ever frequented. To his three o’clock were restrooms, to his twelve o’clock was the bar, and to his nine o’clock were booths. He went in the nine o’clock direction and found Grace perched on a small stool inside a three-quarters closed-off booth, like an office cubicle, but with dark, lacquered wood.

  “Hawthorne, my man.” Grace smiled and used quotation marks again.

  Mahegan entered the booth and sat opposite Grace, taking in her lightly scented perfume, something citrusy. They were contrasts. She had showered; he had not. When she changed clothes, she had geared up. He had geared down. She was hyped, and he was reserved. She had three empty beer bottles in front of her; he had none. Staring at her made Mahegan think of a recent friend from the Outer Banks, and for a moment he was fixated. His heart skipped a beat, and then he was back with Grace. He focused on the black top with thin straps hanging off her slender, tanned shoulders.

  “Speechless?”

  “Something like that,” he muttered.

  “I ordered you a big, manly beer,” she said as the waiter brought them two beers. His was something dark. Hers was amber. The waiter reminded them that last call would be in thirty minutes, prompting Grace to order two more in case the waiter was slow on his rounds.

  “Thank you,” Mahegan said.

  “You’re welcome. I was at that frigging crime scene all day, and you’re the most interesting person I’ve met recently. So, cheers.” She lifted her glass and clinked it with Mahegan’s while she stared him directly in the eyes. “Bad luck not to look in the eyes when you toast, you know.”

  “Heard that.”

  “You talk like you text.”

  Mahegan gave a hint of a smile. “Let’s just say I’m still taking in the moment. Studying you. Like art.”

  “Hmm. What do you see?”

  “You’re not unlike me. I’m Native American. You’re Asian American. We both have a permanent tan, shall we say. You’re petite. I’m large. Point being, we’re both uniquely sized. You’re analytical. I think I am, too. And the area where we differ, quite frankly, is that you’re strikingly beautiful.”

  She winked. “Like I said, flattery will get you everywhere.”

  “Everywhere?”

  “Well, maybe not everywhere,” she whispered, looking away. Mahegan interpreted the change in diction as an indication that he had inadvertently touched on a sensitive area, her love life.

  “What makes you think Hawthorne is not legitimate?” He tried changing topics.

  “You’re an Indian. Pardon my directness. Why would someone name you that?”

  “Ever hear of Roy Hawthorne, the code talker from World War II?”

  Grace’s demeanor changed again. She placed her hand over her mouth and gasped. “I’m so sorry.” She dropped her head, placing both of her hands on her forehead, as if to summon a more worthy apology. “I saw that movie. Yes. How insensitive of me. Built-in defense mechanism. I caught so much grief as a kid for being the little ‘oriental’ girl. Sorry.”

  Mahegan reached his hands across and slowly removed hers from her face. “Don’t sweat it. Let’s drink some beer.” This time he toasted her and looked directly into her copper eyes.

  “I get awkward when I’m nervous,” she said.

  “Why are you nervous?”

  “Here you are, practically the Marlboro Man, right in front of me, and I have exactly one thing on my mind, and I just can’t keep myself from talking.”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  Mahegan watched as she placed her beer on the stained coaster, which had seen thousands of glass bottoms. Grace pursed her lips, as if kissing air, flipped her straight black hair off her forehead, took a deep breath, and said, “Slow down, woman.”

  “It’s been a long day.” Mahegan thought about the wait at the Wallaby, Papa Diablo and Manuela, the black pickup truck, Scarface, James Gunther and Sons Construction, the fence posts, the posthole digger, the crime scene, Nathan Daniels, and now Grace Kagami. Busy day, indeed.

  “That it has. And I’m coming out of a bad breakup. So let’s change the topic. Why were you so late getting to the crime scene?” she said. Grace seemed more relaxed now, as if she had reined in whatever emotion she was feeling.

  “Late notice. Our concern is the location of Captain Maeve Cassidy.” Mahegan paused, scanning Grace’s face. “How long have you been here?”

  She leaned back against the wall of the booth and sighed heavily again. “I’ve had a couple. This stuff gets to me, you know?”

  “I know.” Mahegan thought of his best friend, Sergeant Wesley Colgate, blown to bits by a roadside bomb in Afghanistan. He knew better than most. “So what do we think about Cassidy? Does anyone know anything?”

  Grace leaned forward, drained the rest of her beer, and grabbed the next one as the waiter appeared with the second round, like a quarterback handing the football to a running back. Perfect timing.

  “I’ve got a secret,” Grace whispered. “But I can’t tell you. Griffyn said he would ‘crush the nuts of anyone who leaked classified information.’ ”

  “Well, you’re safe, then,” Mahegan said. “Being a woman and all.”

  Grace flipped her eyes up at Mahegan and smiled. He noticed the small gold hoop earrings dangling just off her slender neck. She had long eyelashes, which remained remarkably still as she held his gaze. Her skin was flawless, smooth, and silky.

  “You’re funny, Hawthorne.” Then, “Maybe I can tell you. But there are two things I know for sure.” She drained another half of her beer. Mahegan had drunk barely a third of his.

  “What’s that, Grace Kagami?”

  After another pause, processing, Grace said, “I like that. Grace Kagami. The way you say my name. It’s nice.”

  “Nice name.”

  “The first thing I know is that Griffyn is a first-class douche bag of the highest order,” she said. “A misogynistic, sadistic dickwad. Thinks women are idiots.”

  “You shouldn’t be so obtuse.”

  She stared at him with deadpan eyes.

  “Seriously. I agree. I’m sorry you have to deal with someone like that.”

  “The second thing is that I’m in no con
dition to drive, and douche bag wants me at work at six frigging a.m. Can you believe that?”

  “I can give you a lift. Maybe we should stop drinking?”

  “Again, you’re a funny guy, Hawthorne,” she said. “And I forgot. I know a third thing. Which I think I also forgot.” Grace finished her beer and snatched Mahegan’s from his loose grip. “Since you’re driving, thank you very much.”

  She drank the beer as if it were a thirst-quenching sports drink, slammed the empty glass on the table, and snatched her purse from the back of her chair. She stumbled into Mahegan and then pulled him in her wake, saying, “Let’s go, Marlboro Man.”

  A minute later they were outside, the air cool and fresh, a pleasant change from the musty pub. Grace had both hands wrapped around his left arm.

  “Holy frigging smoke,” she said. “These are some guns, dude.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  “I thought you were driving.”

  “I am. I’ll drive you in your car and then walk back here to mine.”

  She studied him.

  “You’ll need your car early and won’t have any time to waste. I’m not coming in. I’ll get you to your door and then leave.”

  “Damn. Just when it was sounding good.”

  Mahegan nodded. “It will get good at some point, but not tonight. You’ve had too much to drink. But I do want one thing from you.”

  They drifted lazily to her car. He was right. It was the Nissan with the bumper stickers. She dug in her purse and pulled out a jumble of keys that included a pepper spray bottle. Mahegan opened her door and guided her into the small vehicle. He slid into the seat after racking it as far back as it would go. Still a little tight, but he could get her home.

  Grace flipped her head toward Mahegan and said, “Sorry.”

  “About what?”

  “Being a lush. Bad day. Not normally like this.” Then a pause. “Well, I’ve been drinking a lot lately. Stupid boyfriend breakup garbage. This place is close to my apartment, and the date booth is where we met.”