by Jette Harris
“Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow…” echoed through his brain. He didn’t know the rest of the monologue, so that one line replayed like a pop song. When he slowly rose from the bed. When he forced himself to drink a protein shake. When he hobbled to the shower. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow…
(Today and today and today.)
Rhodes stood in front of the motel room door, staring at the handle. He shifted his weight on and off his bad leg. His mind was unclouded for the first time since the fall, and he was about to run out the door without a plan. Thoughts swirled. Usually he had time to plan, years, even. Now he had an hour.
“Chief Collins is planning on holding a press conference.” Byron had lowered his voice to tell him. “So while everyone’s distracted, we’re going to take Heather home.”
“That’s a great idea.” Rhodes tugged at the hair on the back of his head. He had to go. He had to see her, to know she was OK (Well, physically…). Then he had to get her, and get her home. His home.
That would require time and patience, both of which were growing thin. His lie to Nick would only buy him two weeks at most. Otherwise, he risked losing the one thing that mattered to him the most: his job.
One week. If he didn’t have Heather by Monday…
A series of violent, blood-splattered images flashed through his mind. He covered his eyes and pushed them away.
(That will be a thought for later.)
Nodding, Rhodes opened the door and crossed the parking lot. He could not conceal the limp. The throbbing in his knee was blinding by the time he reached the Jeep. He leaned over and took several deep breaths before climbing in. As the pain faded to a dull ache, he glanced into the back seat. Everything from the house was still there. The barrel of his rifle peeked out at him from under the duffle bag. His mouth twitched.
(All I would need is a few seconds, and I could leave Atlanta tomorrow—maybe even tonight—and never think about Heather Stokes again.)
The thought made his throat tighten, much more than the pain had. He had lost everyone else; He was not about to lose her. This Sabbatical was so fucked, he could not envision another, just replay what had gone wrong this this one. Heather, at least, could compensate for that. He just had to get her, to sit and tell her everything, to hear her say his name.
That’s all he needed. He put the Jeep into drive and pulled out of the parking lot.
Rhodes frowned as he caught sight of the Jeep’s reflection in a plate glass storefront. He was going to have to get a new vehicle, and soon. Steyer would be looking for a Jeep. Heather knows it’s red.
(Byron’s call may have even been a trap.)
He shook the thought away. The hospital stood atop a hill. He pulled into a parking lot half a block down the street, climbed out carefully, and gazed up the sidewalk.
(This is a punishment.)
Sighing, he clenched his teeth and began to walk. A siren chirped behind him, making him jump. A police cruiser pulled up to the curb. His heart was in his throat until he saw Byron behind the wheel. He rolled his window down.
“What happened to your leg, man?”
“I told you. Ultimate Frisbee.”
“Hop in.”
Rhodes popped open the passenger door and fell in awkwardly.
“Were you limpin’ like that last time I saw you?” Byron furrowed his brow.
“Yeah, man,” Rhodes replied. “But it keeps getting worse. I’m thinking about going to the doctor. Me. Going to the doctor. Now, that’s somethin’.”
Byron chuckled, although the joke was wasted on him. He drove around the hospital. A large group of camera crews and spectators crowded around one side of the main entrance.
“Where’s Agent Hotpants?”
Byron snorted. “He’s the one actually driving Heather home.”
Rhodes took a deep breath. (Not that I could actually tackle Heather right now.) “I’m surprised you didn’t get that job, being her friend.”
Frowning, Byron shook his head. “Agent Steyer asked me to give her more time.” He pulled the car to the curb just behind the parking attendant’s booth. A beat-up old pickup truck sat in front of it, on the opposite side of the exit lane. Kondorf got out, stretched his legs, and waved.
Rhodes waved back as if his stomach were not churning. Heather would be passing the car. If she saw him, everything could be over. He looked around. A shotgun was mounted between the seats. Byron’s pistol was clipped securely to his duty belt.
Byron caught him looking. “What’s up, man?”
“I hope this show gets on the road soon.”
Byron checked his watch. “Any minute now.”
A patrol car pulled out of the parking lot.
“Here we go.” He threw the car into drive.
After an inconspicuous amount of time, Remington pulled an unmarked sedan out. Tech sat in the passenger seat. A small figure sat in the back, wearing a purple hoodie with the hood over her head. The navy blue strap of a sling rested over her left shoulder.
Rhodes’s heart quickened. He leaned forward. (Look up. Look at me. See me.)
She leaned her head against the window and settled into her seat. The sedan pulled out. Kondorf pulled behind them.
“You’ve seen her. How’s she doin’?”
“She’s a mess. Lauri came to see her yesterday, and they were crying on the floor…” He pulled out to join the mismatched caravan. No one seemed to notice the extraction. “I can’t even imagine how they’re feeling.”
Rhodes frowned. “It’s best not to.”
“Let’s get this show on the road.”
The hospital conference room was small and crowded. Cobb County police officers stood in a disorderly line before the stage, swaying easily and chatting. Chief Collins and Agent Steyer stood by a door in the back, watching the press and other curious attendees shift in their seats and rove the walls for a better vantage point. Steyer found several tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed men, but none of them struck him with a sense of familiarity or dread. None of them stared back at him with a contemptuous smirk.
Not that either of those were valid evidence.
Collins nodded to the officer in charge, who turned to his team.
“It’s go time.”
The officers locked in place and shut their mouths. The audience members who noticed this change settled. Silence rippled through the room. Collins patted Steyer’s shoulder and took the stage. Before following him, Steyer flipped open his phone and hit Send on a text he had already typed out:
Time to go.
“Thank you all for coming this morning. My name is Garry Collins, Chief of Police with the Cheatham Hill Police Department. This is Special Agent Richard Steyer, from the FBI’s Violent Crimes division. Our small department has partnered with the FBI to investigate four kidnappings possibly connected to several similar incidents across the nation, executed by a man many call the Phoenix. Agent Steyer has headed that investigation for… many years.
“As some of you know, shortly after eight o’clock last Tuesday, the thirtieth of May, there was an incident that resulted in the death of a veteran Cobb County deputy, the destruction of the Hospitality House—Cobb County’s oldest residence—and the recovery of one of the hostages, eighteen-year-old Heather Stokes.
“The man responsible for this death and destruction… was not apprehended, having escaped shortly before officers arrived on scene.”
Collins paused as the shuffling of papers and scratching of pens swelled in the silence.
“We have recovered three sets of remains from the ruin of the Hospitality House, and we are not anticipating more. Those remains belong to Cobb County deputy Sergeant Travis Duley; Charles Witt, nineteen years of age; and Zachariah Vlasov, seventeen years of age. A third hostage, eighteen-year-old Monica Shatterthwaith, was slain while attempting to escape.
“We have lost others over the course of this investigation: federal contractor Michael Dovale, of Lawrenceville; Cobb County Deputy Martin
Beaumont; Frank Witt, father of Charles Witt; and Michael Menter, son of Judge Walter Menter. At this time, we believe the Phoenix to be responsible for all of these deaths.”
He paused as the gravity of the situation settled over the room. Steyer’s throat was tight; He wished he were with the caravan, with eyes on his partner and Heather.
Collins cleared his throat to continue. “At this time, Heather Stokes is recovering from several non-life-threatening injuries. She is, understandably, deeply traumatized. She and her grandfather have requested privacy as they cope with this terrible ordeal. The other families—the Witts, the Shatterthwaiths, and Ms. Vlasov—request the same. The Cheatham Hill Police Department is dedicated to enforcing their safety and comfort, and to ensuring these wishes are respected.” He glanced around as if checking to see if anyone else wished to speak, but no one moved.
“We will now answer a few questions.”
The room erupted as the audience stood and everyone shouted questions at once. They were not so bold as to press against the officers lining the stage, but stayed just beyond them. Collins held up his hands and pointed to a reporter at the front.
“Special Agent Steyer, what can you tell us about the killer?” She asked quickly, “Should the public be concerned? Are local children in danger?”
Steyer stepped forward. He opened his mouth to reply, but hesitated, parsing the question out. “To answer your first question: The Phoenix Killer is in his early forties to early fifties. Caucasian, with a tan complexion. Dark eyes and dark hair. Athletic build. He is not local, and may speak with a Northwestern or Canadian accent. He is well-educated, and may be going by the alias Avery Rhodes.”
“Spell that!” someone at the back shouted.
“A-V-E-R-Y R-H-O-D-E-S.” Steyer’s eyes skimmed the feet of the reporters before him. “He may also be exhibiting pain or injuries consistent with a fall, such as limping or clutching his ribs.
“To answer your second question... The public should be cautious. We have no reason to believe the Phoenix is going to remain in the area or go on a killing spree, but he does pose a substantial threat to those he views as a threat, or even an irritant. If you suspect anything, do not approach him. Keep your distance and call 9-1-1.” He cleared his throat. “And as for your third question: No, we do not believe your children are in danger.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Steyer eyed her, but Collins precluded any attempt to answer by stepping forward
“One question per person, please.” He pointed to a man near the middle of the crowd.
“Is there any chance Heather Stokes, who happens to be the only survivor, is responsible for or orchestrated the deaths of her classmates? That she’s making this incident up?”
“Somebody hasn’t been paying attention,” Collins said in an undertone.
There’s always one. Steyer stepped forward again. “That is no longer a possibility we are considering, as there is no…” He stammered as his phone vibrated from his pocket. “There is no evidence to support such a theory. Based on recent events and communications, we know beyond the shadow of a doubt that the man known as the Phoenix is, or until recently, was, in Georgia, and is responsible for these crimes.”
Collins selected a woman on the opposite side of the room.
“What can you tell us about Heather Stokes’s condition? When will she be going home?”
“Miss Stokes is… awake and in full control of her faculties, although she is, as stated before, traumatized and bereaved. She suffered several injuries during her captivity, as well during her… brave and daring escape.” He gave the previous reporter a stern look. “Injuries consistent with her narrative.”
Steyer’s phone vibrated again. He stepped back and pulled it out just enough to glance at the screen.
Queen 2 rook.
Ur codes r stupid.
He breathed a sigh of relief.
The house felt cold, as if it had been unoccupied for a long time. Heather had half-expected to walk in feeling warm and comforted, but also half expected an attack. Neither happened.
Lieutenant Young held the door open, smiling expectantly. “Welcome home, baby girl.”
“Thanks…” Heather didn’t want to step inside. She didn’t want to feel how different it had become—how different she had become.
Tech, waiting patiently behind her, slid a hand over her hair. A shudder ran down her spine. To hide it, she entered the house.
Nothing jumped out at her from the shadows. Nothing was overturned from a struggle or burnt to cinders. Nothing had changed but her. She gazed around numbly.
“Anything to report?” Remington asked in a hushed voice.
“Just some curious neighbors driving by. No one fitting the description,” Young replied.
Dread tightened Heather’s chest as she came to the foot of the stairs and looked up. Slowly, she began to climb. She had taken a pain pill just before leaving the hospital, but it had not yet kicked in enough for stairs to be a comfortable experience.
She went around the landing, counting doors. She could not help but notice the similarity between the arrangement of the rooms here compared to the second floor of the Hospitality House: Grandpa’s room would be the White Room… Her room would be the Camera Room.
A pang of guilt struck her. You should have told them. They need to know. What would be the harm? Monica’s dead anyway.
Shaking the thought away, she pushed open the door to her room. After the white, featureless rooms of the House and the neutrals of the hospital, the walls painted purple and plastered with pictures felt loud and gaudy.
“Why the hell did you choose white?” she recalled demanding one day, challenging Rhodes while he seemed to be in a good mood.
“I like being able to see my progress.”
“It’s literally the worst color to use.”
Rhodes had worn a broad smile. He knelt and wrapped an arm around her, pinning her hands. He grabbed her face. She yelped as her nose cracked. Blood poured over her mouth and chin. She had whimpered as he dipped the tip of two fingers in it, then he reached out and wrote on the wall. He punctuated his work with a smiley face:
Shut the fuck up :)
Heather entered her room and set a large paper bag on her desk. Plastic rattled as it settled. The only thing she had to take home, the bag contained a prescription for any disease, infection, or virus that could be transmitted sexually, as well as her pain pills, muscle relaxers, and mood stabilizers. She pushed it far back, as if she could push the memories away, and pulled the strap of her sling over her head to set it on the desk as well.
With slow, hesitant steps, she circled the room. Although she knew every detail, every secret that room held, it felt alien. It wasn’t hers anymore. She wasn’t a girl who would paint the walls purple. Maybe tan, or gray. Something inconspicuous. The posters were gaudy and immature, and she could feel their eyes following her.
She heard Grandpa’s steps mounting the stairs and hurried toward the door, but paused. Her guitar—her precious guitar, with mother-of-pearl inlay—sat in its stand between the door and her desk. She ran her fingers between the strings down its neck.
“Play for me.”
Her stomach churned.
“Go to Hell.”
“Come again?” Tech leaned on the wall by the door, brow furrowed.
Acid rose in Heather’s throat. Monica wasn’t the only one she was keeping secrets for. What if she had told them that detail? Her face flushed with shame and humiliation. Her chest tightened as she remembered his body falling upon hers, not to attack, but to—
Heat rushed from her stomach to her scalp. Grabbing the guitar neck, she smashed the body against the desk with a shriek.
“Heather!” Her grandfather recoiled, hands up to protect his face. Feet pounded up the stairs. Pain stabbed at her as she hurled the guitar against the desk again.
“Heather!” Remington shot into the room.
The sight of him wa
s so sudden and unexpected she cowered, then grew angry with herself for cowering. She threw the neck of the guitar at him, just a splinter now.
“Get the fuck out!” She stepped forward to shove him, but he backed into the hall, where Young stood with her arms around Tech for support.
“Heather, you need—”
She slammed the door on them and locked it.
****
When Steyer arrived, he could hear Heather clearly from her bedroom. Tech sat on the porch swing, arms crossed over his chest, more like he was hugging himself than angry. He looked breakable, as if one more “Cunt!” from the window above would make him dissolve into tears.
Steyer climbed the porch steps and gazed at his old friend with concern.
“She’s… busy,” Tech said with a sniff.
“I’m just here for you, then.”
Steyer stuck his head through the open front door. Several police officers from the caravan, not all in uniform and not all familiar, milled about in the living room and kitchen. They conversed loudly, drowning out Heather’s voice. Mud had been tracked on the carpet. A loud laugh rose above the chatter.
“OK,” Steyer said. “Everybody out. Dismissed.”
The room fell silent, making the storm from the second floor audible. They stared at the agent before Kondorf slapped the arm of his plain-clothed companion and led him out the door. The others filed after. Officer Byron brought up the rear, shoulder-to-shoulder with Deputy Thrace.
“Officer Byron.” Steyer nodded a greeting. “Have you seen Agent Remington?”
Byron paused at the bottom of the stairs. “He’s up there, sittin’ in the hall.” He gazed up toward the room.
“You’re the last thing she needs right now, sport.”
Byron winced. Thrace put a hand on his back as if to escort him out. His boots were the ones tracking mud.
“Wipe your feet next time, deputy,” Steyer said.
“Ah, shit.” Thrace lifted his boots gingerly. “Yessir. You can have them send me the bill.”