by Alan Lee
“But you know it. Right?”
She stood at his car door, shivering. “Please unlock your car. I’m freezing!”
“Do you read my email?”
“No! I promise I don’t.”
“Okay,” he said. Suspiciously.
“Okay.”
“I’ll change my password. Soon as I can.”
She nodded. “Probably a good idea.”
“Just so you know, miguita, Jennifer Lopez was very popular among us young ethnic men twenty years ago.”
“I’m not judging! She’s lovely. Please open your car!”
Tuesday Afternoon
Mackenzie
I caught Glen Cove Elementary School’s receptionist as she was leaving for the day.
I’d already visited Back Creek, Penn Forest, Cave Spring, North Cross, Roanoke Catholic, Bonsack, Mountain View, Burlington, Roanoke Valley Christian, Oak Grove, Green Valley, Masons Cove, Glenvar, and Fort Lewis elementary schools that day. Fifteen in one day didn’t sound like much. Or it didn’t before I tried it before 3:30 in the afternoon. But at each school I had to wait my turn, showing the photos to both the receptionist and the principal, who, it turned out, were frequently busy.
Now I was tired and grouchy. But not as tired and grouchy as school administrators had every right to be. Turns out my old man wasn’t faking it.
Tomorrow and the next day, I needed to tour the city schools, plus Floyd, Botetourt, Franklin, Bedford, Craig…too many. If I didn’t get a hit tomorrow, I’d be forced to take risks.
This hinged on the assumption that Darren’s ex-wife actually had lived here. The potential for failure was maddening.
The receptionist, a woman in her fifties who had a perm and fake pearl earrings, adjusted her purse at the door. “Well, you’re certainly a big man.”
“I’m not even flexing.”
“Don’t waste your time. I’m too worn out to appreciate your muscles. Do you have photographs for me to look at?” she said.
“You knew I was coming.”
“I heard through the grapevine.”
Dammit. Exactly what I wanted to avoid, word getting out. If Darren’s ex-wife heard, she was already gone.
I handed over my phone, along with the note from the sheriff. I could tell, being an astute investigator, that she already knew what it said.
“I’m looking for this woman. And her boy. They moved here five years ago and vanished.”
The receptionist held the phone close to her face. She magnified the photo with her fingers. Slid to the next one. Zoomed in on the boy and wrinkled her nose.
“I’ve worked at this school for fifteen years.” She shook her head and returned my phone. “I can promise you that boy has never attended Glen Cove. And I don’t recognize the woman either.”
Though I’d gotten used to it, the news still stung.
“Sorry I’m no help. You’re upset about it, that’s plain as can be,” she said.
“It’s been a long day.”
“Is there a hurry? To find the little boy?”
“There is,” I said.
“What happens if you don’t?”
“That’s not an option.”
The thing driving me nuts was, I was playing by Darren’s rules. I was driving all over Roanoke, looking for his kid because he told me to. All the while, my wife sat in a disgusting house, Darren’s gun pointed at her head.
He demanded I jump through a hoop. And I was.
It made me angry enough I couldn’t see straight.
I didn’t know what else to do. He was a desperate man and he was leaving Thursday, never to return. I needed to stall him, needed to delay his departure while I found Ronnie.
If he really was leaving. He could be lying.
So many things I didn’t know.
I turned south on Interstate 81 and set the cruise control to ninety. The trip to Lonesome Pine Airport took me deep into western Virginia, into farm country, with the Blue Ridge Mountains on my right. The land was brown with winter and bare trees. I passed Wytheville and Marion. There were no true cities on my route, only depressed towns struggling to get by on dairy farming, on dwindling tobacco buyers, on closing coal mines, and government assistance. The opioid crisis was especially bad down here, where callous doctors overprescribed drugs to addicts with nothing better to do than get high.
I was not in an optimistic frame of mind.
At Abingdon, I turned northwest into the mountains and motored into Wise two and a half hours after leaving Roanoke. Still tired and grouchy.
Lonesome Pine Airport was situated in a massive patch of cleared land, as airports usually are. The sudden flatness, the absolute rigidity of the earth’s straight line, is always arresting, I think. There was one runway for both arrivals and departures, and the terminal looked like a big modern house.
Was I in a better mood, I would’ve found it quaint.
Mackenzie August, missing his wife.
A few pickup trucks were parked at the terminal, which looked dark. I peered through the window and tried the door. Empty and locked. I turned for a nearby hangar, out of which light and noise spilled.
Three guys were inside, paying attention to a little prop plane. A radiant heater burned bright red in the corner, turned toward the plane. Country music played on a radio with big round speakers—the sound was thin and metallic, bouncing off the walls. One of the guys was sitting on the wing, his boots crossed, a beer in his hands. The other two worked on the engine.
The man on the wing raised his beer can and called, “Airport’s closed.”
“I noticed.”
“Want a beer?”
I did. A lot.
I said, “Thanks, no. I need information. And I’ll pay for your next case of beer to get it.”
One of the guys with his arms in the engine glanced up. I remained calm.
Guy on the wing said, “Damn good deal. You a cop?”
“Private.” I displayed my credentials. “Here on a personal matter. Nothing official.”
“What kind of information you after, Bubba?”
Bubba?
The hell was Bubba?
I said, “About a plane that may or may not have taken off early Monday morning.”
The guy in the engine pulled his arms out. Took a red rag from his back pocket and wiped his hands.
“Monday morning,” he said.
“That’s right.”
“Huh.”
“You work here?”
“Part time.” He wasn’t looking at me. He was worrying over oil under his nails. His country anchor goatee was magnificent.
“A lot of private planes use the runway?” I said.
“Some. Can be hard to keep track.”
“Is there a flight log I can look at?” I said.
He tilted his head toward the door. Universal sign language for follow me.
I did.
Was I a little nervous? Could this be some sort of ambush? Unlikely, but possible. Was I an undaunted hero? For Ronnie I would be. I was bigger than him but I respected a man who had to clean oil out from his nails.
Outside in the cold night, he kept looking at his hands and the rag. I stayed a little distant. We were alone with the bright stars and whispering wind.
He said, “I was told you might show up.”
“You know me?”
“No. Was told either a big guy or a good looking Mexican. Thought that odd, a good looking Mexican.”
“You and me going to have trouble?” I said.
“Naw, no trouble. Was told I could help.”
“Someone said you could help me. Who told you this?”
“Somebody. Somebody who has a high opinion of the Mexican and a low opinion of the person you’re after.”
Manny was from Puerto Rico or Argentina or Los Angeles, depending on which day you asked him, but not Mexico. I played it cool, though. I bet the guy working on his hands with a rag was the airport’s connection to that nearby mafia
stronghold in the mountains. And someone there didn’t like Darren.
I said, “Do you know who I’m after?”
“No idea. But whoever he is, it’s got something to do with that little Skyhawk.”
“Little Skyhawk.”
“A Cessna 172 left Monday morning. Usually I’m supposed to say nothing. But I was specifically told I could tell you that.”
My pulse, the villain, had quickened. My first hit.
“A Cessna 172.”
“That’s the one,” he said.
“You see the passengers?”
“I did. The blonde woman.”
“That’s right. The blonde woman.” My voice wobbled. If he noticed, he didn’t let on.
“And the big Mexican. But he wasn’t good looking.”
“His name’s Mario, the big one. Where was the Cessna 172 flying?”
“I don’t know. No one here does, I expect. Little plane like that goes anywhere.”
“It didn’t come back,” I said.
“No.”
“How far can those little planes go?”
“Pilot’ll keep it under five hundred miles, usually.”
“You don’t know the pilot.”
“No. But I got the N number,” he said.
“The N number?”
“The plane’s registration, stamped on the empennage.”
“Like a license plate,” I said.
“Sure. Want it?”
“I do.”
“N522SJ.”
I made a note in my phone with trembling thumbs.
“I can find it with that number,” I said. More of a question.
“Maybe. The thing had to land somewhere.”
Fair point.
“This was worth the trip. Thanks,” I said.
“Don’t thank me. Thank the good looking Mexican, whoever that is. Or thank the guy who made a bad impression.”
“Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll thank them both.”
Tuesday Night
Ronnie
Ronnie was on her knees beside her mattress. She’d just finished praying. She didn’t know how to pray but she’d done her best, whispering, apologizing and begging for help until she ran out of words.
It was near midnight of her second day. Soon she’d need to crawl under the cover for sleep and hope no roaches joined.
She didn’t have the strength to move yet.
The room kept getting smaller. The helplessness felt like falling. Like she couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t figure out which way was up, couldn’t stop the plummet.
In the back of her mind, on the edge of awareness, was the insistence that she take control. The screaming need to manipulate the men so she’d have some say in her fate. She still had her body. She had the skills to get what she wanted. She’d done it plenty of times.
And yet.
This was only the second day. How crazy and desperate would she be at the end of her third? The boredom and panic drove her mind to places she didn’t want to be. To places she refused to go.
She had her body, but she also had her brain. Surely she could outsmart these thugs.
Behind her, a girl moved down the hall to the restroom. They weren’t allowed to communicate.
So far, Ronnie had played by the rules. She hadn’t spoken to the girls. She hadn’t left her room. She hadn’t…
Why? Why was she playing nice? They were going to kill her, and she sat there waiting. Polite. Obedient.
Pathetic.
Ronnie stood stiffly and rubbed her knees.
The girl in the bathroom vomited. Quiet and controlled, but still audible. Ronnie was in the room closest to the bathroom and she heard.
She decided to risk it. She had a little water left in her bottle. She stepped into the hallway.
The girl sitting beside the toilet was so young. Probably seventeen, but with her eyes closed and green complexion, exhaustion in her face, she looked eleven.
Ronnie lowered onto the side of the bathtub. She set the bottle next to the girl’s hand and slowly gathered the girl's hair and pulled it back.
The girl opened her eyes. Smiled weakly and closed them again.
“Gracias.”
“What’s your name?” said Ronnie.
“Elena.”
“Are you sick?”
The girl smiled again and threw up in the toilet.
A man clomped up the stairs. The mean one. Lean and tattooed. Right now he was barefoot and stepping on his baggy jeans. He paused at the landing to shoo a rat.
In Spanish, he said, “You should be in your room.”
“She’s sick,” said Ronnie.
“She’s always sick.”
“I’m staying to help."
“Get in your room, little girl, or I’ll hit you.”
“Come in here with the sick and do it.” It took the remainder of her courage to defy him. Her hands went cold.
The man didn’t move. He looked with distaste at the girl, who threw up again. She wiped her mouth and groaned a little.
“Go to your room when she’s finished,” said the man.
“I will.”
He left, creaking on the staircase. Ronnie hoped Mackenzie would punch him soon.
Overhead one of the bulbs buzzed. Something on the other side of the wall skittered.
“Gracias,” the girl said again.
“Are you pregnant?” asked Ronnie.
Elena nodded. “All the girls are pregnant.”
“Is this a house for pregnant women?”
“When we get pregnant, we come here. Then they make us move drugs. We transport drugs until America catches us or kills us.”
Ronnie took her time decoding the Spanish. It wasn’t her first language and Elena spoke a dialect unfamiliar to Ronnie, and she was speaking in a nauseated groan.
“America won’t kill you, sweetie.”
“We hope not. The men make us move the drugs, because sometimes America has pity on pregnant women. Even if we’re immigrants. Maybe they won’t kill us.”
“America doesn’t kill immigrants,” said Ronnie.
“Yes they do. Or put us in a little cage.”
“Who told you this?”
“Everyone knows. They lock us up. They will take away my baby. We see the news. They hate us,” said the girl.
Ronnie rubbed at her eyes. Mackenzie was always harping on the evils of twenty-four-hour news channels. Here was evidence of the damage.
She said, “You were told wrong. America won’t kill you. Trust me. I’m a lawyer.” Ronnie used the word jurista.
“Laywer?”
“Yes.”
“El abogada?
“Yes, abogada, that is right. An attorney. America will treat you better because you’re pregnant. They won’t kill you.”
Skeptical, the girl made eye contact with Ronnie.
“How do you know?”
“America’s lawyers…prosecutors, err, acusador? They don’t want you to sue America if something bad happens to the baby while you are in jail. Custody. Sorry, my Spanish is not good.”
“They will deport us?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. You need a good attorney. If you have a good attorney, you will stay in America forever.”
The girl asked, “You are a good attorney?”
“I am.”
“What would you do?”
“If I was your attorney? Get you a visa. Or maybe a green card.”
Elena made a little gasp. “A green card,” she said in English.
“Yes.”
“But America hates us.”
“That’s not true. I promise,” said Ronnie. “You’re a young pregnant girl. America doesn’t hate pregnant women.”
“Can you help me?”
Ronnie smiled. Her heart was thundering.
“I am trapped here. The men are mad at me. They will kill me.”
“Could you help us all?” asked Elena.
“I am trapped.”
&nb
sp; “If you were free?”
“Yes, I would help you all if I was free.”
“But it is expensive.”
“It takes time and money, yes. If I was free—”
The man was back. Ronnie hadn’t noticed.
“Silence! No more! You. Go to your room. Now,” said the man. He would come into the bathroom and drag Ronnie out by her hair now, if she didn’t obey.
Ronnie stood. “Drink the water.”
“Okay.” Elena picked up the bottle.
Ronnie went into her room.
The man threw handcuffs at her. She shielded herself but the heavy metal cuff hit her in the face, above the eyebrow.
“Put those on. Sit on the mattress. Put those on you and the bed. Or I will hit you.”
Ronnie picked them up. She clamped a cuff around her left wrist, and the other to the metal bedrail at the head.
“Tighter.”
Ronnie did, one click. She kept her eyes on the man’s boots.
Behind him, Elena returned to her room. Ronnie thought maybe her steps were lighter.
Hope could be a powerful thing.
Tuesday Night
Mackenzie
Georgina Princess August met me at the door when I got home late. I hadn’t eaten. I wanted a drink.
I wanted my wife back.
And also definitely a drink.
I scrubbed GPA between the ears.
The baby is awake and he is sad and I am sad, but I am happy you are home now and I miss the woman, and the old man did not feed me but I love him anyway but not as much as I love you.
I dumped food into GPA’s bowl and Kix made a cry above.
Rats.
I poured a glass of bourbon, dropped in two cubes, and trudged upstairs. If I were one ounce a less a man, the trudging would’ve been weary.
Timothy August held Kix in the rocking chair. The room was dark. My boy saw me and his face turned down in a sob he’d been holding in.
“I’m not doing a good job,” said my old man. “My purview doesn’t begin until kindergarten.”
I set my drink on top of the dresser and took Kix from him and I began pacing.
“Not your fault. It is the fault of Darren S. Robbins, Esquire. We’re all frazzled. Even the dog.”