by Jette Harris
“That’s so wrong, man,” Byron muttered.
Steyer snorted as if he could smell the sex between them as they passed. At least the young man had that small distraction.
Most of the officers and deputies left. Those who did not, congregated under the shade of the magnolia tree by the porch. Satisfied, Steyer settled into the swing next to Tech.
“How are you holding up?”
“I could use a drink.”
Steyer sighed.
“Is this… normal?”
“Normal?” Steyer grunted. “There is nothing normal about this situation, but this type of response is not… unexpected. Feel fortunate she’s loud, because the alternative…” He licked his lips and lowered his voice. “You should know this feeling: When she was in captivity—just like when we were in combat—that… that was there. It might as well be another dimension. She dreamed of coming back here, of coming home, and it would feel… like home again. She would feel safe. But that didn’t happen, did it?”
Tech shook his head with a frown.
“Part of her may have even believed, despite watching her friends die, that she would pick up right where they left off; She would go to school on Monday and see them laughing in the halls. From what I gather, she never lost the hope that, as long as she got out, they would all be safe. She is just now realizing that is not the case. And she fears she may never feel safe again.”
“I remember that feeling.”
“The difference is, though, that we were safe. Maybe not from ourselves, but from the Enemy. They were… thousands of miles away.”
A silence fell between them. Tech scanned the woods across the street, as if expecting some Viet Cong to appear, or perhaps Avery Rhodes himself. “I remember… I remember coming back stateside and seeing all those uniforms at the airport…” He shook his head. “Baker… DeSoto… Men whose bodies we had to pick up the pieces off the ground and carry them in bags… I still expected to see them there.”
Steyer nodded slowly. “But…” He chuckled. “I expected to see you too, thinking I knew you were dead.”
Tech barked a hollow laugh, and leaned forward to bury his face in his hands. “What do I do, Ritchie? I…” He leaned back up and gazed at the ceiling. His eyes were wet. “I… I arranged for a funeral. I was prepared for that. I wasn’t prepared for… for this.” He pointed up at the sound of Heather banging around her room. “That’s not some teenaged girl with a broken heart or a busted ass. What do I even say to her?”
Steyer shook his head. “Honestly? You’re going to have to ask her that. But you need to keep your gun under lock and key, and you need to get rid of any alcohol left in the house. She will find it.”
Tech laughed. Steyer recoiled at the sound. But then his old friend buried his face in his hands once more, his body shaking with sobs. Steyer rubbed his back, knowing it was little comfort.
****
Rhodes’s skin tingled. At any moment, Heather could look out her window or step out the front door and point him out. He leaned against the trunk of the magnolia, hoping he was out of sight, and played the scenario over in his mind. No matter what he said or did, he always ended up at the bottom of a dogpile with Tech’s loafer on his face.
He turned to Byron. “You eat?”
“Naw, not yet.”
“C’mon. Let’s jet.”
Byron studied him out the corner of his eye, looking more wary than interested. “Blow off some steam?”
Rhodes’s throat tightened. “Whatever you need, man.”
He needed to get away from Steyer. Get a better idea where the investigation is. Then get Heather and get the hell out of Georgia. He would have to forego his cover in Spain and maybe take a few more days off work to make sure she was secure and situated, but Heather Stokes was coming home with him.
No matter what she was screaming in the bedroom.
(Kill her. Just kill her. She’s already escaped once. She is going to get me caught.)
He glanced up at the old men on the porch swing. The front door was still wide open.
(She could come and point me out right now.)
“Yeah, let’s get out of here.” Byron shoved his hands in his pockets and trudged toward his car without a word to the others.
Rhodes gave them a nod. “I’ll see y’all around.”
“Take care of him,” Kondorf said. “He’s been pretty rough the past few days.”
“And I have a feeling things’re gonna get worse before they get better,” Young added.
(Ain’t that the truth.) Rhodes suppressed a snort. “Will do.”
Rhodes treated Byron to IHOP. They ordered strong coffee and decadent pancakes. When the server placed Rhodes’s plate before him, he gazed at it mournfully. Going home meant tightening the reins: shaving daily, suits and ties, gym every morning, strict diet.
Byron’s voice made him jerk his head up. “Did your opportunity fall through?” he asked around a full mouth.
Rhodes speared a strawberry. “I had a set-back. Like I said, I had to go out of town for a few days.”
Byron swallowed. “Rough.”
“It’s just a set-back.” He said it quickly and hunkered over his food to slice through it. “How’ve you been holding up? Kon—” He cleared his throat. “Tommy said you’ve been taking this situation pretty hard.”
Byron shrugged. He put his fork down and leaned back, crossing his arms. “I didn’t know what to expect. I wasn’t prepared.”
“So, tell me the story.” Rhodes shoveled a bite into his mouth.
“What story? How she got out?”
“Mm-hm.” His heart was racing again, but elated: He had figured out his next step. Time to play the game.
“Um…” Byron scratched his chin and neck as he collected his thoughts. “I heard she shoved him down the stairs or something. She fell too, I think—”
“She OK?”
“Fractured ribs, I think. Broken collarbone. Agent Steyer is keeping me pretty closed off.”
“You’re her friend. She needs friends right now.”
Byron rubbed the back of his neck. “I think he knows…”
“Yeah, he’s… He seems pretty sharp.”
“He is.” His eyes widened with emphasis. “But he feels like that would add pressure that Heather doesn’t need right now.”
“Oh, well… He’s right there. That’s a good point. When you know someone loves you, the pressure to reciprocate can be crushing.”
Byron’s face fell. “I know, but it still makes it rough.”
“Rough for you—easier for her.” Rhodes cut another bite. “So, Heather… pushed him down some stairs…”
“Yeah, pushed him down some stairs, grabbed Monica, and jumped in Deputy Duley’s car. How’re you doing, by the way?”
“With what?”
“Losing two brothers.”
Rhodes snorted. “Well, Beaumont was a prick and Duley… wasn’t too personable either. So it’s not so bad.” He raised his bite, then lowered it again. “Just makes me look over my shoulder a bit more.”
“No doubt.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes, until Rhodes leaned back. He slowly furrowed his brow.
“It seems odd that this guy should be so careful and controlling for an entire month… then put himself in a situation where he could be… pushed down some stairs by a half-starved little girl.” He had to resist the urge to laugh every time he repeated this version of events.
“Hm.” Byron didn’t take the bait.
“I bet he did it on purpose.”
“What?”
“I bet he did it on purpose.” A laugh sat heavy in Rhodes’s chest, but he pushed it back down. “I bet he let Heather escape. Like the bodies and all the other junk, she’s just another red herring.”
“And what about Monica?”
“Monica was supposed to die.” He checked himself at Byron’s shocked expression. “I mean, maybe he didn’t expect Heather to grab her. He onl
y wanted one to escape, so he shot the passenger. I guess that means it didn’t matter if it was Heather or Monica, though… As long as there was only one survivor. Just imagine how much information you could have gotten from two.” The thought of what Monica could have told them made a tremor run down his spine; She had to die, no matter what he had been willing to tell Heather.
“That doesn’t make sense.” Byron crossed his arms again and shook his head.
“Think about it: They run. Cops give chase. Phoenix flies off.” Rhodes shoveled more pancake into his mouth. Byron’s face fell as he turned the theory over in his head. Rhodes indulged himself with a smile. “He’s probably in Thailand by now.”
“Daaaaaamn, bro…” Byron breathed. “Why aren’t you a detective?”
“Too much responsibility.”
Byron laughed. Rhodes joined him, releasing the tension in his chest and feeling quite satisfied with himself.
Heather’s ribs were so sore, it was difficult to breathe. She lay on the floor among the debris of posters, clothing, and an assortment of other items she could not bear to look at, or had outgrown suddenly over the course of the past month.
A tap at her window made her heart jump into her throat, first from hope, then fear, then sorrow. She turned to find copper hair and freckles gazing in at her: Sterling Shatterthwaith. Slowly, Heather stood and raised the window.
“Mom said you were home.” Sterling’s eyes were already shining. “Can I—”
Before she could finish asking, Heather put a hand on her shoulder and pulled her in. She could barely breathe, her throat was so tight. A sob tore free as she wrapped her arms around Sterling’s neck. The girl’s shoulders began to shake. She clung to Heather’s shirt and cried into her hair. Heather was so wracked with pain from the sobs, she could not stand anymore. She sank to the ground, pulling Sterling down with her.
After their tears faded, they were able to exchange polite courtesies, but mostly long, uneasy silences passed between them. Sterling helped her clean up, throwing trash into a bag and trying on rejected clothes. Heather folded the clothes neatly and packed them into a bag, along with any books and CDs Sterling expressed an interest in. They ended up with one bag of trash, two bags to donate, and one bag for Sterling to take home.
“Do you want me to carry this down?” Sterling tugged at the trash bag.
Heather gazed around. “No, that’s OK. I’ll probably be adding to it over the next few days.”
Sterling stared at her, eyes wide.
“What?”
“I… I read this book a few weeks ago, and one of the characters said throwing out possessions is a warning sign someone is considering suicide.” She eyed the bandages around Heather’s wrists.
Heather laughed dryly and covered her face. “If I wanted to die, I would have just stayed… where I was.” She wiped a tear away.
Sterling sat in front of her and scooted close. “Heather,” she asked in a low voice, “can I ask you a question?”
Heather dropped her hand and nodded.
“When… when that man raped you, did…” She licked her lips nervously. “Was it… Did you ever like it?”
Heather exhaled slowly. “Sweetie, it’s not… it’s not sex.”
Sterling’s mouth flapped. She furrowed her brow. “I… I thought it was when someone forces you to have sex with them.”
Heather sighed, shaking her head. She sucked in her lips, then held out a hand. Sterling took it.
“It’s like this,” Heather explained. “When the right person is holding your hand, it feels good. You feel safe. You feel loved. But…” She began to squeeze, until Sterling winced and tried to pull away. “When someone grabs your hand, and they’re crushing your fingers, and they’re dragging you—” Heather’s voice cracked. “—dragging you somewhere you don’t want to go… It’s scary. It’s painful. It’s not the same.”
Heather loosened her grip. Sterling jerked her hand away. Her lips trembled and she looked away as tears began to fall.
“Understand?”
Sterling nodded. She took a deep breath and stood. “I have to go.” She headed toward the window. Heather flicked her hand toward the bag they had packed for her. Sterling paused, grabbed the bag, and hurried out the door.
Remington jumped up with a cry.
“When’s the last time you slept, officer?”
Rather than shut himself into the glass walls of their office, Agent Steyer pulled a chair up to Byron’s desk.
“Uh… I slept after my shift last night,” he lied. “Got up just in time to join the caravan.”
Steyer fixed him with a stern gaze. Byron’s cheeks burned. After a moment of silence, the agent leaned back in his seat. “I didn’t mean to sound so harsh when I kicked you out this morning. I apologize.”
Byron let out a breath, relieved at the change of subject. “Before anything else, I’m her friend, and Heather could really use a friend right now.”
“You’re right.”
“Heather could really use some supervision right now.” Remington walked over, sniffing his coffee. “It just keeps getting worse…”
“So… uh… I had a theory.” Byron cleared his throat and asked silently for Deputy Thrace to forgive him. Steyer raised his brow. Remington settled against the edge of the desk across from Byron’s. “What if Heather’s escape was just another red herring, like the boxes and Mi… Menter’s body?”
Steyer’s eyes drifted toward Remington.
“Hear me out: He lets Heather… or even Monica, escape. Kills the passenger, either because it’s part of the plan, or he hadn’t anticipated them both to get out, but as the cops are attending to them, he slips away from the house. Then there’s so much focus on this… this lone survivor, he’s able to get the hell outta dodge. The Phoenix… flies away.” His cheeks burned again as he realized how lame that line sounded.
Steyer settled back into his chair and twisted his wedding band as he considered the theory. “It seems uncharacteristic that he would allow anyone to escape… even more so for him to orchestrate the escape.”
Remington tucked an arm across his chest and worried at the lip of his Styrofoam cup. He took a deep breath. “No one has ever escaped before, though… so it does seem odd that Heather, an injured, very… very young woman, should be able to do so… without help.”
The corner of Byron’s mouth curled up.
“Although Lauri did say the Phoenix would have his hands full with the four of them.”
Byron’s smile disappeared. “But two of them were already dead at that point… and the girls were separated.”
“Not immediately before the escape,” Steyer said. “The Phoenix placed Heather in Monica’s room when Sergeant Duley arrived, to keep her quiet. If Heather really is as quick as everyone says, they may have come up with a plan then, and worked together to execute it.”
The air slowly drained from Byron’s lungs. He nodded. “She really is that quick,” he said softly. “You’re right. It was—”
“It was a good theory, Officer Byron. It will be something to keep in mind as more details come available.” Steyer stood and patted his shoulder.
“You are right in thinking that there must be more to it, though,” Remington said. “We just need to figure out what.”
Heather dumped the dirty clothes from her laundry basket, sorted through them, and separated them. Kicking the basket to spare her aching arm, she picked across her room at the clothes Sterling did not want, then dragged the basket to the laundry room.
“Gettin’ right to work?” Tech mounted the stairs and stood with his hands in his pockets.
“You’re supposed to wash clothes before you donate them.”
He frowned down at the basket. “Just make sure you don’t get rid of anything you might regret.”
Her face heated with irritation. She breathed out slowly through her nose. “I’ll go through them again when I fold them.” She winced preemptively at the thought of folding
clothes with her shoulder aching so much.
Tech stepped forward to pull the detergent down for her. She recoiled from the sudden movement. He pretended he hadn’t noticed. Face burning, she leaned her forehead against his arm, swaying with his movement as he poured for her. He banged the lid down and she flinched violently.
“I’m sorry, sweetie.” He wrapped an arm around her, a little too tight, and cranked the dial. The washer flooded to life. He kissed her forehead. She slumped against him. “You’ve had an intense day. You should head to bed. Get some rest.”
He smiled benevolently. His eyes had always looked watery, but they looked more sad than usual. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him she had just spent an entire month in bed.
“I love you, Grandpa,” she said instead. Her voice sounded odd, like it wasn’t hers.
Tech flinched as if the words were a strike. Or maybe she had imagined it, because he was smiling again.
“I love you, too, sweetheart.”
It was Heather’s turn to flinch. The words Good morning, sweetheart collided with Tech’s in her mind. To hide it, she leaned into him. He held her delicately this time, like he was afraid to break her.
“Do you think…” He cleared his throat. “Do you think you’re gonna be OK? Tonight, I mean. Would you rather sleep in my room?”
Heather laughed. She imagined herself as a little girl, hiding under his pile of quilts during a storm.
But Avery isn’t a storm. He’s a man. And, unlike a storm, he can actually hurt you.
“I’ll be fine,” she lied.
4
03 June 2006
Saturday
Rhodes must have taken too much Percocet. He woke, chest heavy, gasping for air. His back was stiff from sleeping on it for so long when he usually slept on his side. Moving his leg carefully, he rolled and settled onto his side.
His breath caught in his throat. There was a shape under the covers next to him. He reached a shaking hand to tug the blanket down. As she always had, no matter how hot it had gotten, Heather was curled up underneath. She looked pale and soft, her dark hair falling across her face. His breath shuddered.