These Mortals

by Alan Lee

  A cop raised his hand. “Excuse me, sir, you need to return to your car.”

  Manny badged him. “Federal marshal. Get your ass in gear, migo. I need these roads cleared.”

  “Um—”

  “No talking. Put those cars on the trucks, patrolman, or I’ll get angry. I need to be sixty miles south, thirty minutes ago. Lives are in danger. Vamos!” Manny spoke with such ease of authority, and he cut such a striking figure, that every VDOT and police officer had stopped to listen, and now they hurried. They wanted Manny to spot them personally working harder.

  Manny had cell phone reception. He called Mackenzie six times. Each one went straight to voice mail. He tried the iPhone—no answer.

  He sent texts and waited for a reply.

  When traffic resumed and Beck paused to pick him up, over an hour later, he was still waiting. They’d lost two hours. Reaching the safe houses on time was no guarantee.

  An unfamiliar sensation ran down Manny’s spine like a drop of ice.

  It was fear.

  Friday, 11:59 pm

  Ronnie

  That night. That eternal dark night when one’s soul clenches itself to death.

  Rodents scratched at the walls. Cockroaches skittered and sparkled in stray bits of moonlight getting through the covered windows.

  Ronnie’s hips hurt from her legs being forced apart, her ankles cuffed to different parts of the bed frame. It wasn’t agony; she shifted every few minutes to ease the pressure but sleep was difficult.

  She spent her time thinking over Darren’s words. Thinking through and beyond them.

  Her time was up, she knew—instinct and his tone and the finality of his goodbye. Darren was leaving and she was a loose end. Whatever arrangement he’d made with Mackenzie, it was concluded.

  She was sitting up, her knees bent, leaning into them to stretch her back, when Elena tiptoed into her room. Elena saw Hugo and covered her mouth. Hugo was still tied up awkwardly on the floor near the foot of her bed.

  She’d intuited Elena would come. Mario had made a mistake leaving Hugo here. Elena had extra reason to visit tonight.

  “Él está dormido,” whispered Ronnie. He is asleep. She’d thrown him her pillow when he woke earlier. He pressed his head into it to stop the bleeding, and now he slept on it. Fat lot of help he’d been. She said, “I gave him my pillow. He won’t die.”

  Elena nodded. She lowered to her knees, covered her mouth, and nodded more.

  “Elena. The women, we do this ourselves. We have to escape.” Ronnie said it so quietly she barely heard her own words.

  The woman shaking silently in the doorway made no indication she heard. Her free hand clutched the doorframe.

  “Do you hear me? Elena?”

  The woman nodded now.

  “When they come for me, Elena, do you know what to do?”

  Elena shook her head. “I do not know.”

  “Tomorrow,” said Ronnie in Spanish. “We are free. So is Hugo. And I get you a visa to remain in America.”

  Elena took her hand from her mouth and absently placed it on top of her pregnant belly. “A visa. So I can stay. We can stay.”

  “Yes. You help me, I help you, we all live.”

  “How? Tell me.”

  “We help each other.”

  “I will. But how?”

  Quietly, in the darkness, Ronnie explained what to do when the men came to rape and kill her in the morning.

  Saturday, 2:00 am

  Mackenzie

  I sat inside my new Ozark sleeping bag in the leaves near the hunting cabin’s gravel driveway. A hundred yards behind and above me, intermittent trucks growled by like angry bears. After they passed, the world was silent.

  In retrospect I should’ve opted for the sleeping bag with extra lining. As punishment for my parsimony, my butt was freezing.

  I passed the time with my eyes pressed to the binoculars. It was a clear night and the moon was three quarters full. Cold light lay in ghostly sheets on the forest, perforated by poplar and oak. The trees were barren and provided a good view of Stephanie’s cabin and the mountain beyond.

  I expected Hal New from the east. I glassed the western woods too, and the slope above the cabin, but most of my attention was to the east.

  If he was in Lynchburg.

  If he came during the night.

  If Darren had really been monitoring my texts.

  If I’d done any of this right.

  If I wasn’t a total failure, an idiot alone in the woods.

  I couldn’t outshoot Hal New. I wouldn’t even try, the odds were so entirely in his favor. He was a sniper. Sometimes I hit people.

  A notable absence of equivalency.

  I was accustomed to stakeouts. I possessed patience in spades. I’d laid traps before. Nothing unique happened here. Despite that, tonight felt starkly absurd, me in my sleeping bag with binoculars.

  This seemed, however, like the organic terminus of my search for Stephanie, Manny’s hunt for Ronnie, and the game with Darren and Hal. Deceit upon deceit, snare upon snare.

  Gotta rise early to stay one step ahead of ol’ Mackenzie.

  Or maybe not go to sleep at all.

  A little after two in the morning, as I opened another IWG B-12 energy packet, a car slowed on Lee Jackson. I didn’t move. But I harkened.

  The car braked. A door opened and closed. The car revved its engine and drove away.

  A person walked quietly down the driveway. The person stayed off the gravel, preferring soft footfalls in leaves and dirt. My Kimber came out of the bag, ready.

  It was not my foe, however.

  As Stackhouse came level with me, I whistled. She was ten feet away, holding a shotgun.

  I heard a soft chuckle. She whispered, “Hey there babe,” and didn’t break gait. She continued her march on the log cabin.

  She would’ve stopped if I told her to, but I didn’t. Because I’d been watching. And the coast was clear.

  Hal hadn’t arrived yet.

  Saturday, 2:05 am

  Stackhouse

  Stackhouse walked straight to the front door, which Mackenzie had left unlocked. She took off her muddy boots before the porch, and went inside wearing socks, locking the door behind.

  The shooter, a guy named Hal New according to Mackenzie, shouldn’t be inside yet. Mackenzie had checked and then kept vigilant watch. But she still searched each room, feeling like an intruder inside a haunted house. An intruder holding a twelve-gauge pump action shotgun.

  The log cabin was empty.

  She pulled the attic ladder down and climbed. Two of the wooden steps groaned. She slowly raised it again, with her above. She clicked on a flashlight and tiptoed behind the wall of cardboard boxes and old paint cans and unopened bags of cement mix, and she set down her shotgun. Slipped out of the backpack. Took the revolver off her hip.

  The house heated itself through a central unit, and the air handler was in the attic with her. The thing rattled and hummed and obliterated other background noise.

  Mackenzie was correct—this was a cellular dead zone, hidden within the folds of the mountain. Not a single bar.

  It’d been years since she personally assisted with an operation like this, and she’d forgotten everything. She’d forgotten her flask of wine. She’d forgotten a good paperback novel. She’d forgotten a cushion to sit on. Could be a long night. Good thing she loved Veronica Summers and loved Mackenzie August even more.

  Her orders were simple. If Hal New came into the house, take him out and do it as proximate to 9 a.m. as possible. Mackenzie expected him to arrive during the night and set up a makeshift sniper’s nest in the attic. She was hidden by the little wall of clutter and her sounds would be masked by the air handler. If Hal New inspected her hiding spot she’d remove his face immediately with a shotgun, and she wouldn’t feel an ounce of remorse. If he didn’t check, she’d wait him out.

  She’d never actually shot a person before. Through twenty-five years of law enforceme
nt, she’d come close. Ready to pull the trigger. But each time, the situation hadn’t required it. Every so often one of her deputies would tease her about this.

  Maybe tonight was her night. Or morning.

  It was a harebrained idea. But she couldn’t remember the last time Mackenzie had been wrong within his career. She trusted him.

  The air handler clicked off every so often, but not for long. Keeping out the night chill was a task that required it to run ninety percent of the time. Bored, she watched the glowing hands on her watch, timing the heater. Eleven minutes on, three minutes off. Twelve minutes on, five minutes off. Fourteen minutes on, two minutes off.

  During one such silent lull, Stackhouse heard movement. A quiet rattling at the rear door. Followed by silence. She didn’t move, other than to lay her hand on the shotgun’s wooden stock. She barely breathed.

  Ten long minutes passed, during which the heater cycled on, ran for eight minutes, and then off again.

  Hal New was so quiet and so careful that she didn’t realize he was in the attic with her until a step on the ladder groaned with his weight. He’d searched the house and pulled down the ladder and she’d heard nothing.

  She tilted her head this way and that, moving nothing but neck muscles, searching the tiny gaps in her wall of clutter. She caught glimpses of him beyond, discernible mostly as a silhouette, a different texture of darkness highlighted by moonlight from the dormer. He was still on the ladder, only his shoulders and head in the attic.

  Her fingers tightened around the shotgun. Her eyelids made clicks when she blinked, impossibly loud.

  Why had he paused? Could he see her? Smell a shampoo or perfume that she’d washed off?

  He swiveled to look at the dormer window, the ladder protesting. He was thin, his head shaved.

  No way she could wait with him for hours. She was ready to scream already. Better to stand now and fire. He had no cell reception so it wasn’t like Darren was waiting for his shooter to check in. Get this over with, she thought. He was looking in the opposite direction.

  And yet she didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

  The heater churned to life again, a sudden sound so loud she nearly jumped.

  Hal New didn’t like the air handler. Too much noise. It obliterated his sensorium.

  He descended the stairs and raised the ladder.

  Dammit. That wasn’t part of the plan. Where would he go?

  Keeping her weight in the same spot, she stood, holding the shotgun at her waist. Her head nearly hit the low roof, but she was just short enough.

  The ladder hatch was closed but not entirely. She could see through the sliver of aperture and peer into the front of the bedroom. Moonlight poured through the window. She couldn’t see Hal, but she could see the window being opened upward.

  To shoot him, she’d have to move around the wall of clutter and lower the ladder. She knew from experience that the thin attic floor would creak each time her weight transferred to a new spot. By the time she opened the ladder, he would be prepared or maybe already firing into the roof.

  She sat down again, while the air handler was still cranking, masking any faint noise she made.

  She was trapped.

  With no way to warn Mackenzie.

  Saturday, 8:40 am

  Stephanie

  Stephanie parked her husband’s BMW at the front doors of the Holiday Inn Express on the outskirts of Lynchburg. She strode with purpose inside to the reception counter.

  The waiting clerk smiled. “Welcome to the Holiday Inn Express. Just arriving?”

  “No. There should be a package waiting for me, left by a guest.”

  “Oh.” The man scanned the counter. “I don’t see it. Who was the guest?”

  “Mackenzie August. He stayed here last night, and left it for Stephanie. Check in the back, please.” Her fingers trembled on the counter. They had been since she woke up.

  “Here!” He came back immediately. “Sorry, it was on the back counter and I didn’t notice.”

  She accepted the small box and left without a word, back into the cold.

  In the BMW, she ripped off the tape. Inside the little box sat Mackenzie’s iPhone. Darren was tracking it, supposedly. As she drove to the log cabin, Darren would watch on his map, believing it was Mackenzie running late.

  She picked it up and dropped it, her fingers were shaking so much.

  Saturday, 8:45 am

  Mackenzie

  My own Honda Accord slowed on Lee Jackson and turned into the gravel driveway. I wasn’t driving it, but that’s what it did.

  Now that the moment of truth had arrived, I hated my plan. Hated every part of it.

  Timothy August was at the wheel. He wore sunglasses and a ball cap. He’d absolutely demanded the role, raising his voice, telling me it was selfish to not let others help Ronnie.

  Besides. He looked like me.

  He drove briskly to the cabin and made a U-turn in the roundabout. Hal New, who I’d watched enter the house, had gotten a decent glimpse of him. Enough to be fooled, I hoped. He knew the color, make, and model of my car. Dad drove back down and parked on the side of the driveway in the valley. A hundred yards away from the house, and well below it. Hal New didn’t have a good shot.

  From my vantage, ten yards away, I could see Dad hunker down in his seat.

  Dear Lord. Get us through this.

  Saturday 8:45 am

  Ronnie

  Mario and the cruel man walked into Ronnie’s room. Mario held the phone up. On screen, Darren grinned at her. He was driving a car and holding the phone at the top of the steering wheel.

  Ronnie had been awake for an hour after a short fitful sleep. Her eyes burned and so did her hips.

  “Morning, doll. How’s my favorite prostitute?”

  Ronnie set her cheek into her hand, her elbow propped up on a knee, and she watched him.

  “Christ, Ron. You look like hell,” he said.

  He was right, she knew. She didn’t reply. Darren had gotten all the words he’d ever get out of her.

  “So listen. Never say I am unjust or unduly harsh. I’m leaving today, Ron. Today. If you’d like to tag along, I’ll still accept. Mario will drive you to the airport in Atlanta. I’m booking a private jet to paradise for this evening. Last chance.”

  Ronnie closed her eyes and rubbed at them with her thumb and forefinger.

  “Mario, can she hear me?”

  “Sí,” said the giant.

  “Ron? If I hang up, you become the property of Mario. Big mean Mario. He has to kill you later this morning. But in the meantime? Good hell, Ron, it’d be so much better for you to come to Atlanta. Whaddaya say?”

  Ronnie waved at him. A patronizing wiggle of her fingers.

  “Fuck you, Ron. I tried.” The screen went dark.

  The cruel man kicked Hugo, who’d been silent on the floor. Hugo groaned. The cruel man made eye contact with Ronnie. He smiled and kicked Hugo again.

  Mario moved heavily to the door, pushed it closed, and locked it.

  Saturday 8:55 am

  Manny

  Manny and Beck parked on Crane Drive, just outside Pawley’s Island.

  After getting a late start, and detouring and backtracking through the hellish North Carolina highways, all of which seemed to be under halted construction, they made the drive in six hours. The Camaro had spent long stretches traveling over 150 mph.

  Mackenzie still hadn’t responded to texts or calls.

  For a house within walking distance of the ocean, it was cheap looking and small. But so were others on this street. The bottom level was mostly a two-car garage, open and used for storage. The inhabitants stayed on the top floor, common for a beach rental. But this wasn’t a rental.

  Manny ascended the wooden side stairs two at a time. His body was stiff and tired. Beck moved to the lawn, covering the garage and back door.

  The door had cheap glass panels. Through it was visible a fat man watching television and two women eating ce
real. They saw Manny at the same time he saw them.

  He tried the door. Locked.

  “Police! Open this door.”

  The women didn’t move, spoons frozen over cereal bowls.

  The man shouted and tried to get up. It took him two tries and he ran for the hallway.

  Manny punched the panel nearest the doorknob. The glass shattered and he cut open the top of his forearm reaching in to toggle the lock.

  The door flung open and he chased the fat man down the hall. A cheetah after a panda.

  The fat man looked Mexican rather than El Salvadoran, a distinction Hispanics noticed more readily than white people. Manny caught him about to flush baggies of narcotics down the toilet.

  This was a whorehouse. A brothel. Not a dirty one, either. Manny’d seen plenty, and this one was okay. Men on vacation at the beach made appointments and stopped by.

  Manny kicked the man at the toilet. The guy fell over and hit his head on the porcelain. He opened his mouth to shout but Manny inserted the barrel of his Glock between his lips.

  “Speak English?”

  The man nodded, his teeth clicking on the barrel.

  “Where’s the blonde?”

  Manny withdrew his pistol.

  “The blonde?” said the guy.

  Manny guessed it immediately. The fat man didn’t need to respond, because it was all over his face.

  “The blonde, amigo? Right now, sir, there is no blonde. Please. We are a happy family here. Nothing we do is wrong or illegal. Please sir,” said the man.

  There is no blonde right now.