The Ogre's Tale - Chapter 1[Patron's Only Bonus Chapter]

Chapter One

In which we meet Maxwell Mackenzie.

Maxwell Mackenzie sat in Dina’s Diner, glaring at his cell phone, accompanied only by a cooling cup of coffee.  Morgan was late. Morgan was never late. Family Sunday breakfast at Judy’s had been a tradition for all of Morgan’s life, and barring a few times when Morgan’s mother, Marianne, was in chemotherapy, the entire Mackenzie family had never missed this. 

And yet, it was 25 minutes past noon, and Max was alone. The boys—having followed in their father’s footsteps—were deployed in Afghanistan, so they got a pass, but it wasn’t like Morgan at all to pull a no-show. 

Nor was it like her to not call, or text, or even this “PM” thing. Max gave his coffee a hard look, as if expecting it to explain itself. The coffee remained silent.

The click of the waitress’s shoes on the tile caught Max’s attention, and his head swivelled around to look at her. Max’s face was well worn. A short jarhead cut, still clean shaven, even after being retired almost ten years. All the scars of a life lived hard, and with few regrets. 

“She’s not here? That’s not like her, Max.”

“I know.“ Max’s voice was a rough rasp, courtesy of 20 some-odd years of yelling at shitbird Marines. He stood up, dropping a ten on the table, and headed for the door. “If she shows up, tell her to call me. If you see her, call me. “

“Will do, hon.”

Max levered his 6’2” frame into his car, and turned the ignition. The old Thunderbird rumbled to life. Max smiled briefly, enjoying a memory of rebuilding the car with the boys, with Morgan supervising. 

Easing the car into drive, Max threaded through traffic, heading for Morgan’s apartment. “She probably just overslept, or let her phone die and missed her alarm. She’s been working late a lot recently…” Even as Max told himself these things, he knew he was bullshitting himself. He recognized bullshit vibes, even coming from his own mind.

That the radio was playing CCR’s “Bad Moon Rising” didn’t make him feel any better, either.

Mac pulled into a parking space in front of Morgan’s apartment and put the T-bird in park. Out of habit, he drew his carry piece, a 1911 he’d owned for almost 30 years, and checked it. He’d been given it as a gift from his father, when Max had graduated from Parris Island. His father in turn had received it from Max’s grandfather, much the same way. It had seen service everywhere the Marines had ever gone, from 1917 to 2009, He would have given it to one of the boys, but it never seemed fair to choose between the two. So he’d had a pair of custom 1911’s built, with consecutive serial numbers, and gifted them to the boys, in order of their birth.  Smiling at the memory, he tucked the pistol back into its holster, and stepped out of the Thunderbird and locked it. 

The neighborhood wasn’t great, but he was known here. The last time someone had tried to touch his car, he’d jumped out of Morgan’s second story window, grabbed the would-be car thief by the neck, and beat his face on the curb next to the car, bellowing rage.  

Marianne had bought that car as a project for him and the kids. It had arrived on a flatbed, looking like death warmed over. Max and the kids had spent half a decade of weekends rebuilding it. When he’d tried to sell it to pay for the cancer treatments, Marianne  had made him promise to keep it. He’d given in to her insistence, and he’d kept his promise.

He grinned at the memory of the window jump, even though he’d limped for weeks afterward. “Worth it,” Max said to himself.

Max noted the presence of Morgan’s little beater, a hard working little Toyota with a zillion miles on it that refused to die. Morgan had dubbed it ‘zombie’, and swore she’d only part with it “if or when it ever dies.”. She’d kept good care of it, so who knows how long that would take.  He walked past the car, placing a palm on the hood to note it’s temperature. Stone cold. That car had not moved in a while. “Must have just overslept” Max said to himself as he walked up the steps and hit the buzzer next to Morgan’s name. Max waited, but the door didn’t open.

Max  hit the buzzer again. Still no answer. He growled, pulled out his wallet, and dug into the back of it, under his license, and pulled out a spare key. When he’d co-signed Morgan’s lease, he’d promised her he’d never use it. 

He’d kept that promise till now.

The door opened easily. Max glanced around the tiled foyer, and took the stairs two at a time. Despite being almost 50, Max stayed in shape, so he wasn’t even out of breath when he hit the second floor. He came off the staircase and moved to Morgan’s door. 

He stopped for a moment, listening. The building sounded normal, the usual moans and groans of a small brownstone full of people living their lives. No unusual smells, just the odd yet familiar mix of mexican from the third floor and punjab cooking from the second. “They oughta open a restaurant together.” 

Max knocked on Morgan’s door. 

“Morgan? It’s your father. Answer the door, please.” Max tried to make it sound like something other than an authoritarian bark, with some success.

Silence. 

“Honey? I need you to come to the door.”

For some reason, Max found himself gripping his pistol, still in its holster. Strange, how even old men do rookie shit when they’re scared, he thought. 

“I’m coming in, Morgan.”

Max opened the door, still keeping one hand on his holstered pistol. He had no proof, but every instinct he had was screaming that something was horribly wrong.

Closing the door behind him, he stood stock still for a long moment in the small apartment. He listened to his senses.

No sounds. The air feels still. It’s cool in here, nobody’s been moving around making heat, cooking, or running equipment. The coffee smells stale.

He frowned and began checking the apartment. The bed had clearly not been slept in for at least a day, maybe two. The coffee in the kitchen was old and nasty, and the takeout boxes were at least two days old. 

“How long has she been gone?” Max asked the empty apartment. He found partial answers in the bathroom.

Very strange answers.

For starters, the tub was missing. Max frowned. “How the hell…” Max remembered the tub. Damn thing was huge, fully seven feet long, at least three and a half feet wide, with big old claw feet. A magnificent antique, and one of the reasons Morgan had wheedled him into co-signing the lease.

The doorway was only 30 inches wide. No way it would fit through  the door, and no signs that either the tub or the walls had been damaged. The two water taps hung forlornly over empty space…

The second answer was Morgan’s phone. Max picked it up off the floor—noting the shattered display—and, taking a second look, noted the dent in the wall. His face darkened.

“Who took you, baby girl?”

Max cradled the broken phone in one hand while gripping his pistol so tightly with his free hand, the wood grips squeaked against the steel frame in protest.

“I’m coming, baby…”

Max closed the apartment door and locked it, the broken phone in his pocket, his free hand dialing 911. “Hello, I’d like to make a missing persons report?”

A hour later, Max sat in the Thunderbird and stared out the windscreen. The police had come, given their plethora of excuses, barely took down any notes, sneeringly asked how much CSI he watched, and suggested that he get a hobby instead of stalking his own daughter. When he pictured that smug little fatbody’s face, he could hear his own heartbeat. The older patrol officer’s common sense had belatedly kicked in, and he’d dragged his younger partner out of Max’s sight before something bad had happened. They’d left, leaving him feeling alone. And very, very angry.

He touched the faded photograph on the dash and forced a smile. “Don’t worry, honey, I’m gonna go get her.”

He started the car and headed out for a phone repair shop.

The radio growled out  Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “On the Hunt” as he drove.. 

The store was a national chain, just like thousands of others. Annoying pop muzak, annoying advertisements, and clerks who hated their jobs.

Don’t let them see what you’re thinking, you’re just a bored, somewhat annoyed father, replacing a phone broken by an inconsiderate child...Max schooled his face and walked in.

One of the clerks approached him with the usual, “Welcome to PhoneCo, how can I help you today?”

“Hey there, my kid dropped her phone, and I need to get it replaced; can you help me with that?”

“Sure thing! Are you the account holder?”

“Yes. Here’s my number.”

“Thank you!” 

Twenty minutes later, Max had a working phone with all of Morgan’s data on it. He sat in the Thunderbird, took a deep breath, and turned it on. “I’m sorry, honey, I gotta know.”

Max hit paydirt almost immediately. The photo of the vaguely remembered ‘boyfriend’, with a lapful of someone who clearly wasn’t Morgan was the first thing to come up. “Now who might you be, little girl?”

Max smiled. It wasn’t a pretty smile, but it had lots of teeth. “Time to take your daddy to work, daughter.” 

Max put the Thunderbird in park in front of the chain restaurant Morgan worked at. He’d made a point of not coming to her place of work, because, dammit, he was not going to helicopter if he could help it. Well...any more than he already had. A twinge of guilt crossed his face at that thought.

Skinny Puppies’ “Going Down” snarled to a halt on the radio as Max shut the Thunderbird off and stepped out of the car. 

Max walked inside, a cloud of suppressed rage billowing around him. The place was sort of a Red Lobster rip-off; the food wasn’t bad, though somewhat overpriced. He gave something approximating a smile to the hostess. “Hi there, I’d like to speak with your manager? It’s about Morgan Mackenzie.”

She gave a deer-in-the-headlights smile, nodded, and fled for the back. A few minutes later, a somewhat portly man in his 30s came out, scowling. “We don’t talk about our employees, Mister. I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave.”

Max… paused for a second, counting to ten mentally. “I understand that; I’m her father, and she’s missing.”

“Then call the cops. We’re done here.” The man barely came up to Max’s shoulder.

“I did call them. They don’t seem too interested. Look, she’s been gone almost two da-”

The manager interrupted him. 

“So she split for a couple of days. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Something in Max…gave. Morgan being missing, nobody giving a shit, and people actively giving him static… Old habits came rushing to the fore…

Max moved. 

The manager never saw the kick to the groin coming, he simply folded on impact, his face coming down to meet Max’s knee coming up. Max’s left hand gripped the greasy hair on the back of the manager’s head, speeding the manager’s face along to its meeting with Max’s denim clad knee. His right hand, not wanting to be left out, drew the 1911 in a blur…

Max yanked the manager upright from his abrupt faceplant into Max’s knee and stuck the 1911 in his face and, looking him in the eye, slowly and deliberately flicked the safety off with his thumb, pointer finger parallel to the slide…

“What’s your name, maggot.” 

“Buh, wah, you hit me!” the manager blubbered.

“I’m going to do worse than hit you if you don’t tell me what you know about my daughter’s whereabouts.”

Max snarled and smeared the bore of the pistol across the manager’s lips. “I will kill you right now if you don’t tell me what I want to know.” He cringed internally and promised to clean the pistol as soon as he was done here.

“YES, YES, whatever you want!” 

Max holstered the pistol. “I’m going to let go of you and show you a picture. You’re going to tell me what you know, and then I’m going to leave and never come back. Deal?”

“Anything you want!”

Max pulled out the new phone and showed the picture to the manager. “Do you know these people? And if so, who are they, and what do you know about them?”

“I…I’ve seen the man before, with Morgan. The girl works here. Her name is Sara Smith.”

“Where can I find her?”

“I…” The manager hesitated. 

“I promise not to harm a hair on her head.”

The manager caved and gave him the address.

“See, that wasn’t hard. You could have started there and saved yourself from a broken nose and needing new pants.” 

Max patted the man on the back and turned, the fake smile falling off his face before he’d even fully turned around, stalking out the door.

Max slid behind the wheel of the Thunderbird and hit the ignition. “See? We’re making progress already...”

The radio played Midnight Riders’ “One Bad Man” in response.

Max pulled up in front of a tiny house in a grubby, but not-quite-shitty, neighborhood and parked the Thunderbird. 

Stepping out of the car, he locked the doors and looked at the house. “Better hurry, before that fat fuck finds his balls.”

Max speed-walked up to the house, and without slowing, slammed a booted heel into the lock plate of the door, kicking the door wide and moving in fast.

It was a small house, and Max was at the bedside before anyone in the house had a chance to get up. 

Max’s lips pulled back in a snarl. Laying there, like a gift-wrapped package, were the two people he wanted to talk to most.

He helped Dylan finish waking up by driving a fist into his gut. Dylan cried out and rolled out of the bed to land face first on the floor, vomiting.

“GOOD MORNING, SCUMBAGS!” Max was in full D.I. mode. “TIME TO FACE THE DAY, CHILDREN!”

Sara yanked the covers around her neck and managed a shrill “What the fuck?!”

Max showed his teeth. “Hello there, little girl. I’m Morgan’s daddy, and Morgan is missing. The last thing on her phone before someone smashed it was a picture of you and fuckboy here getting it on in a bar. Anything you want to tell me?”

“Get the fuck out of my house, you freak!” Sara shreaked.

“Sure thing. I’ll just be taking fuckboy with me; he’s got some explaining to do.” Max grabbed Dylan by the ankle and began dragging him out of the room. He paused at the door. “If you have anything to tell me about Morgan’s disappearance, now would be the time. If I have to come back here and find you… It won’t matter that you’re a woman.”

“I didn’t do anything.” Real fear began to register in Sara’s mind as she grasped that Max meant what he said.

“Then you’ve nothing to worry about.” Max resumed dragging a naked, gagging, and hung over Dylan out of the room by the ankle.

“I’ll pay for the door.”

Dylan struggled and yelped at being dragged to the car. Max resolved this by punching Dylan into submission, zip-tying his hands and feet, and dumping Dylan in the trunk like a struggling bag of groceries.

Max slid behind the wheel and smiled. He was making progress. The radio played Megadeth’s ‘Angry Again’... 

Max stopped by his house to grab a few things, and then drove the Thunderbird to the countryside, not following any particular path, and changing roads often. Once he was deep in the middle of nowhere, he pulled over into a side road and drove another mile, before pulling the car into a barely-used dirt track in front of a very old and raggedy-looking cabin.

Dylan’s first view when the trunk opened was Max’s unsmiling face. “Son, the hour of your judgement is at hand. I hope you are prepared.”

Max roughly grabbed Dylan by the head and wrestled him out of the trunk, directing Dylan’s body out and into the gravel. Dylan hit the ground with a thud.

Max flicked a knife out of his pocket and cut the tape around Dylan’s ankles. “Get up.”

“Dude, what the fuck is wro-AUUUUUGH!” Max interrupted Dylan by jamming a high-powered stun gun into his ribs, giving him a good five-second jolt. 

“Get up, or I’ll really hurt you.” Max stepped back and gave him room to stand. 

Dylan complied. “Why are you...” Max raised the stun gun, and Dylan shut up.

“First reasonable person I’ve run into all day. Thank you.” Max picked up a bulky-looking duffle and pointed at the cabin. “Walk.”

Dylan walked. “Look, man, we were breaking up anyhow, I just got an early star—”

Max cut him off. “Walk.” The rest of the short trip was very quiet. “Go inside.” The pair entered the small cabin. Max pointed to the kitchen table. “Sit.” Dylan sat.

Max dropped the duffle bag on the counter and pulled out a tool roll. He dropped it on the table in front of Dylan and unrolled it, like a Vegas dealer fanning cards. The tool roll contained a disturbing variety of cutting implements, pliers, and other…things.

Dylan moved to bolt. Max moved faster.

The shot rang out in the tiny room, just missing Dylan. “Sit. The. Fuck. Down.” The full force of Max’s rage pushed like a physical presence, putting Dylan back in the chair by sheer force of will.

Dylan babbled. Excuses and justifications poured from his lips as he tried to talk his way out of his apparent certain doom. Max let him talk, listening carefully.

After a while, Dylan’s fear subsided, and his voice trailed to a halt. “Aren’t you gonna say anything?”

Max looked Dylan in the eyes until Dylan broke the gaze first. “You really don’t know shit, do you? I’ll fill you in. Morgan was taken sometime Friday night. You were my prime suspect.” Max sat down in the opposite chair and ran a hand over his short-cropped head.“...fuck.”

“You...you’re a goddamn psycho, you know that?” Dylan seemed to have found his courage, realizing that Max was now focused elsewhere.

“What, you’re just now figuring that out, kid?” Max barked a laugh and showed his teeth, grinning. “My daughter is the most important thing in the world, and I’d feed you to a woodchipper a slice at a time just to make her smile. I never liked you, because you didn’t love her. She was just…convenient. But you never crossed the line, so I tolerated you. Fucking her coworker…crossed that line.“

“Jesus, you really are crazy. Morgan warned me you were protective, but this?” Dylan gestured around with his bound hands. “This is fucking insane. You are fucking insane.” 

Dylan got an offended look on his face. “I’m going to press charges.”

“Oh, are you now. A piece of advice?”

“Huh?”

“Make sure I go to prison, and make sure I die in there. Because there will be no place on this earth to hide from me when I get out. And everything you’ve experienced so far will feel like a lover’s kiss by comparison. Take your lumps for being a cheating shit, and be glad you got off with nothing but a couple of bandaids. Push it, and I’ll put you in the ground.”

“Um…”

“I’m leaving now. If you follow the roads, you’ll reach civilization in a couple of hours. You’ll be fine. In the meantime, I have to find my daughter.”

Max stood up, packed his duffle, and left the cabin..

Dylan just stared at him as he left.

Max drove back to Morgan’s apartment. He must have missed something. The Thunderbird’s radio crooned Megadeth’s “In My Darkest Hour.” It was raining when he got there. He’d need to find another car soon, the police were probably searching for him now.

“Stupid.” Max grunted at himself. “What were you thinking, Cowboy? What, you’re somehow gonna help Morgan from inside a cell?” Max was not pleased as he let himself back into the apartment and closed the door behind him. He returned to the bathroom, dropped his duffle, and took a knee. “Dammit Morgan, where are you?” 

If Max hadn’t been so focused on berating himself for giving in to his anger, he’d have noticed an unmarked car with two men in it just down the street. “That’s him.” One of them made to get out of the car. The second man stopped him. “Wait till he’s inside the apartment; we try to arrest him on the street, he’ll have room to run. He’s a 20 year Marine infantryman, a dangerous piece of work with a concealed carry permit, and we know he’s armed. I think he won’t be as dangerous in his daughter’s space.”

The first man shrugged. “Whatever you say, professor.” The second man rolled his eyes and tossed his cigarette butt out the window gap into the rain. “Let’s go.”

For the first time in Maxwell Makenzie’s life, he didn’t know what to do. Morgan was gone; he had no leads, no witnesses—nothing but a missing bathtub and a broken cellphone.

And a laundry list of violent felonies, you idiot, He thought to himself

As if summoned by that thought…there was a knock on the apartment door. “Mister Mackenzie? This is the Police. We know you’re in there. We’d like you to come quietly, please.”

Max froze. “Fuck,” he whispered. Everything was ruined. He needed to find Morgan, to save Morgan, and he’d fucked it all up. He was going to prison, Morgan’s kidnapper would go free, and Morgan…

“No,” he said softly. “No, I have to find her. I have to...”

Max grasped the duffle as if to steady himself. He felt like he was falling.

It took him a couple of seconds to realize he really was falling…

Eventually, when the police entered the apartment, they found nothing but the perfectly severed tip of a duffle strap, cut so cleanly it shone like metal until it was touched.

“Where the hell did he go?”

“Out the fire escape?”

“All the windows are intact and locked from the inside…”

“So how the fuck did he get out?”

“I have no idea…”

Both plainclothes detectives stood in the empty bathroom, staring at the cut strap.

“What happened to the bathtub?”