Ruin

by Jette Harris

  Gently, he brushed the lock away and tucked it behind an ear. She didn’t move, not even as his fingertips brushed her ear.

  (Oh, no.)

  The trembling intensified. He brushed his knuckles along her chin. Heather didn’t twitch; Her eyelids didn’t even flutter.

  (Please, no. No, not again.)

  He opened his hand and pressed his palm over her cheek. Her skin was cold, muscles stiff.

  “Dad!”

  He shot up, breathing hard. Soft morning light filtered through the curtains. He jerked the blankets off the bed, although he knew it would be empty. His face burned. He ran his hands over it. His nose was still tender from where Heather had broken it. He pressed on it, breathing deep, basking in the pain, then ran his fingers through his hair, tugging at the back.

  As the shock of the nightmare faded, he started to feel foolish for calling for his father. It had been reflexive, as if his own experience and training hadn’t far surpassed his father’s. As if either of them could have done anything to heal cold skin or stiff muscles. The image of Heather’s pale, peaceful face haunted him until his chest felt too tight to breathe.

  Rhodes pulled his burner phone out, slipped the battery into place, and found Heather’s number.

  “Mm…” Heather groaned as she answered. “Hello?” Her voice was heavy with sleep or drugs. Maybe both.

  Rhodes sighed and pulled the phone away to reassure himself it was her phone he had called. When he returned it to his hear, her breathing had grown deep and even; She had fallen back asleep.

  He imagined her pale, peaceful face, and those coffee-brown eyes fluttering open at his touch on her cheek.

  (Soon…)

  Tech was still asleep, but the neighborhood was buzzing with activity. Some kids played down the street. Dogs barked. Cars occasionally drove by. One honked at the kids or the dogs, and Heather’s eyes snapped open. She had been laying in a stupor, still groggy from the Flexural and Narco. It had taken her a moment to orient herself, but the activity outside lulled her into a sense of safety.

  The Hospitality House had been silent. No voices, no cars, not even birds singing.

  Heather leaned up slowly, assessing her pain, just as Dr. Scarrott had advised her. As soon as she had stopped running, her muscles had gone sore, like the entire month of May had been one constant marathon she hadn’t conditioned for. She wasn’t sure if her pain was finally fading, or if it was the drugs.

  Four bottles sat on her bedside table: Narco, Flexural, Klonopin, and Amoxicillin. The rest were still in the bag, as if she could hide from them. She tipped out the Klonopin and the Amoxicillin, saving the others for bedtime, or if she needed them later, and carried them downstairs.

  As ravenous as Heather felt, she had learned over the past few days only a few bites of anything made her feel full—at least for an hour or so. She put the coffee on and made herself some toast. She ate while wandering around the living room as if she had never seen it before. She felt the same odd sense of displacement she had felt when she first moved in. Back then, she spent the majority of her days in bed—the nights, too, but she had Z to keep her company.

  Heather closed her eyes, a lump forming in her throat. You did Z wrong. You took him for granted, and he died for you.

  She had only taken two bites of her toast, but had suddenly found she was no longer hungry. Hoping that was enough to take her medication, she dumped the rest of the toast on a plate, hastily poured herself a glass of orange juice, and swallowed the pills.

  “Don’t expect a miracle,” Dr. Scarrott had warned her. “They’re not happy pills; They’re just to help you get through the trauma.”

  I could really use some happy pills right now, though.

  She waited a few minutes before moving, waiting to get sick. When she didn’t, she gazed around the kitchen. Someone had come in to clean. It was much cleaner than she trusted her grandfather to keep it. Everything was in order, but not where she kept it.

  Her eyes landed on the key holder mounted on the wall separating the kitchen from the living room. She frowned. The spare set for her Honda dangled without a car to use them in. As far as she knew, it was in pieces in some lab.

  Pulling out her cell phone, Heather sent a text to Agents Remington and Steyer:

  Hey, it’s Heather. Do y’all know what’s going on with my car? Will I be able to get it back?

  She chewed her lip and stared at the keys as she waited for a reply. They hung next to the old, worn key to Tech’s 1972 Mustang. He jokingly called it his “spoil of war.” The keychain was a Vietnam service bar.

  Her phone chirped with a message from Agent Steyer: I’ll check.

  Heather sighed. She took the Mustang key, crossed through the living room, and opened the door to the garage. Someone had pulled the car inside. She suspected Kondorf, as he had always coveted it, and she was under the impression he and Byron had spent quite a bit of time at the house while she was in captivity.

  She hit the garage door opener and the door cranked loudly. As the light flooded in, Heather shrank, feeling exposed. She edged along the wall to peer outside.

  Same street. Same woods across the street. Same manicured lawns. Kids were still playing and shrieking with glee nearby, but out of sight. No cars. No killers.

  She sighed and went around to the driver’s side. She didn’t know why, but she never sat inside to try to start the car. It was like some kind of superstition, like it was more likely to start if she leaned inside the open window to turn the ignition. She gritted her teeth as leaning caused her pain to radiate around her torso, and turned the key.

  It clicked, but didn’t start. The engine didn’t even attempt to turn over. The car hadn’t worked properly for as long as she could remember. The reason had something to do with her mother stealing it when she was thirteen or fourteen, but no one could ever get the story straight. Heather had managed to get the car to run a few times, but it always petered out after a few miles.

  Sighing, she popped the hood.

  ****

  Flat on her back, Heather reached up into the undercarriage to tug at a tube. As usual, everything looked and felt fine. The oil was clean and topped-off, the battery still had water, the fuses were in-tact. She had slid underneath the car with a wrench to make sure all connections were flush.

  A car drove by slowly. The engine cut off and a door opened. Heather twisted her head, gritting her teeth when her collarbone protested. A red vehicle had pulled up to the curb in front of her house.

  Oh, God, what now?

  She squirmed toward the back of the car. She could only see the lower half of a lone male: heavy black boots, khaki slacks. He closed the door and crossed the yard with a slight limp.

  Heather’s muscles seized before her mind understood why. She shrank back under the Mustang, clutching the wrench to her chest. The legs disappeared with soft steps up the front porch. The storm door hissed open and the doorknob jiggled, but the front door did not open. The footsteps descended from the porch and followed the front walk to the driveway.

  Heather clapped her hand over her mouth. The boots paused a few feet from her head, turning slightly as the intruder investigated the surroundings. They made their way toward the door leading into the living room and paused again.

  As the door scraped open, Heather dared to inhale. She froze again as the boots remained on the threshold. Her lungs screamed for air. Hot tears began to run down her face. After what felt like forever, the boots stepped inside and left the door cracked behind them.

  Grandpa’s still in there! Heather gasped for air. As quietly as possible, she shifted to the far side of the Mustang and snatched her cell phone from where she had left it in the tool box. Sliding back under the shelter of the car, she opened the text from Steyer and tapped out

  HES HERE

  Phone in one hand, wrench in the other, she held them close to her chest and fought to regain control of her breathing. She could hear the boots moving faintly through the
house: around the kitchen, up the stairs. Heather’s heart throbbed painfully as a door creaked open, then closed. Another door opened, followed by silence.

  No loud noises. No sounds of a struggle. No shouting.

  She exhaled slowly as the boots returned downstairs. She lifted her phone to see if someone replied without the chime going off, but the screen was blank.

  Maybe I should just call—

  She flinched as plastic clacked. The phone in the living room beeped a few times. She furrowed her brow. After a pause, the phone beeped one more time.

  Heather gasped violently. The phone clutched to her chest buzzed loudly. She fumbled to hit Reject as Flight of the Valkyries began to play and HOME flashed across her screen. Three notes escaped before it rejected the call. She jammed down the button until the screen went dark and the power cut off. Sobbing, she clapped a hand over her mouth.

  Inside the house, it was as silent as death until the door leading to the living room creaked.

  Heather’s composure was breaking down. Her shoulders shook with silent, painful sobs. The boots stepped back into the garage. After a pause, they moved almost soundlessly across the cement floor. They stopped in front of the Mustang and shifted as he leaned forward to look around the other side. The boots settled with a clop and scraped as they turned toward the front. Heather’s eyes went wide.

  She could hear sirens in the distance.

  A soft swear. The boots tore out of the garage door and across the yard in a stiff-legged run. The car door opened and closed. The engine revved, and the vehicle sped off.

  Heather closed her eyes and sobbed.

  Just a moment passed before an unmarked sedan screeched to a halt before the house. Two suits jumped out, gray and brown, leaving doors open and engine running. The man in the gray suit ran up the porch stairs. The brown suit shot into the garage and into the house. The gray suit returned from the porch and entered the garage cautiously.

  Heather couldn’t move. Her breathing was ragged. The man paused and knelt at the end of the car. Steyer’s face appeared. Heather released another sob.

  “Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head.

  They heard a brief commotion inside. Two sets of feet thundered down the stairs.

  “Clear!” Remington’s voice rang out.

  “I have Heather!” Steyer leaned lower, holstering his gun before beckoning her out. “Heather, we’re here. It’s safe now.”

  Pushing and squirming, she worked her way out. She stood, still clutching the phone and the wrench to her chest, but her legs were too shaky. Steyer caught her as she sank to the ground. He wrapped an arm around her. She pressed her face into his shoulder and bawled.

  ****

  “You never saw his face?”

  It was, perhaps, the third time Steyer asked. Heather was curled on the couch in her living room, leaning against Tech’s side. She shook her head.

  “Did you recognize his boots?”

  She shook her head again. “I… don’t remember ever seeing him wear shoes.”

  “Perhaps you recognized his gait? Was he limping before you escaped?”

  She shrank into herself before giving yet another negative response.

  “You just knew it was him?”

  She looked away, chewing on her lip.

  “I don’t doubt you, Heather, and you shouldn’t doubt yourself. Always trust your gut. We just need to determine what to put in the official report.” He looked down at his notes. “I was hoping we could verify, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the Phoenix has not left Georgia. So far, that’s not verified.”

  “He is still here. It was him. He won’t leave without—” She cut herself off by clenching her teeth and releasing a low hiss.

  “I believe so as well.”

  Heather extracted herself from her grandfather and hugged her arms with a distant, bitter expression. Tech followed her with concerned eyes.

  “So, what can we do?” he asked. “Just wait ’til he comes back?”

  “We can assign officers—Cheatham Hill PD, not Cobb County—to watch the house. Now, this could mean drive-bys every hour or so, a car stationed near or in front of the house, or police presence within the house itself.”

  “I don’t see any of those ending very well,” Heather muttered.

  When Steyer and Remington entered the Cobb County Medical Examiner’s office, it was empty and dead quiet. The cold was a relief from the muggy heat outside for only a few minutes before the air conditioning began to feel excessive. They stood in the lobby until a door opening onto a back hall opened and a woman wearing a rubber apron glanced over them.

  “FBI?” Her tone was not as suspicious as it was challenging.

  “Dr. Veal?” Steyer held up his badge. “I’m Agent Steyer, I spoke with you on the phone. This is my partner, Agent Remington.”

  Her lip quirked up as she studied the younger agent. She nodded down the hall. “She’s this way.”

  Steyer followed her into the hall, where it was even colder. Remington walked a few steps behind, but Steyer could still hear him grinding his teeth. Dr. Veal stepped through a doorway. Steyer paused.

  “We better catch this guy soon, or you’re going to need dentures.”

  Remington scoffed, more at the fact that Steyer had cracked a joke than the joke itself. They gazed through the door, into a lab. Dr. Veal stood by a metal examination table and pulled on a pair of blue Nitrile gloves. On the table, a small form lay under a crisp white sheet.

  Steyer dipped his head and straightened his tie. Remington cleared his throat and buttoned his jacket. Nothing they could do ever made them feel prepared for these meetings. They entered the lab.

  “Before we begin, Dr. Veal, I want to thank you for accommodating us on a Saturday and I apologize for missing our appointment this morning. We had an emergency.”

  The medical examiner’s challenging expression slipped. “I hope everyone is alright.”

  “No one was harmed, thank you.”

  Dr. Veal looked down at the covered form and cleared her throat. Her manner became business-like as she folded the sheet down to reveal the pale, small form of Monica Shatterthwaith. Except for the hole in her throat and the line of a scab across her nose, she looked peaceful.

  “Gentlemen, this is certainly an interesting case you’ve sent me.”

  Steyer avoided looking at the young woman’s body at first, opting for the extremities. Faded bruises glared from her arms and wrists, the result of forceful, grabbing hands. Her knees were scraped—Steyer shifted his focus quickly to avoid the image in his head. When his gaze landed on her hands, he furrowed his brow.

  “Tox results will take about another week, but I can give you a rundown on her physical state and initial findings.”

  “May I?” Steyer pointed to the box of gloves. Dr. Veal glanced him over once more, then held out the box for him.

  “Monica Dionne Shatterthwaith, eighteen years of age,” she introduced them. “Cause of death is a single gunshot wound from a medium-caliber rifle, most likely a .270. The bullet entered the right side of the neck through the trapezius, severed the internal jugular, nicked the windpipe, and exited at a forward angle on the left side. She would have died in a matter of seconds.”

  Steyer nodded gravely.

  “Other than the bullet wound, all her other injuries are superficial. And—with the exception of a severely fractured nose—they’re all old.”

  “Old?” Remington repeated.

  “Comparatively. All of these scrapes and bruises have had time to heal.” She pointed to Monica’s arms and knees. “She has a minor contusion on the back of the skull that appears to be from around the time of her abduction; There’s particles of asphalt embedded in the skin. She has bruises, specifically hickeys, on her neck, breasts, thighs, and genitals, but they’re all faded. Vaginal lesions have healed. In my professional opinion, she has not had any sex or sexual contact for several days prior to her death, possibly a week
.”

  Remington snapped his hanging jaw shut.

  “The most recent injury—about three days prior to time of death—is her fractured nose. Someone slapped her around a bit. Given the visible yet superficial nature of the damage, her attacker was most likely making a show of dominance.”

  “Do you think it may have been to punish her?” Steyer asked.

  Dr. Veal raised her brow and glanced over the body. “I doubt it. That would be more prominent but less visible. This… was most likely a reminder, and probably not just for her.”

  Steyer jerked his head up. “You say Miss Shatterthwaith hasn’t been touched for several days? Any indication as to why?”

  “I have a theory.” She handed Steyer a piece of paper. “Little Miss Shatterthwaith was about three weeks pregnant.”

  Steyer’s brow went up. Remington choked and coughed.

  “Three weeks doesn’t usually mean a thing, but her breasts were already swelling, belly is distended, and there are acid burns at the back of her throat.”

  “Three weeks?” Remington cringed. “That’s… really early.”

  “Yes, it is. But it’s enough to put two and two together. She may have already known or suspected, which means her attacker may have already known.”

  Steyer read the results and exhaled slowly. He handed the paper to Remington.

  “Damn,” Remington huffed. “DNA matches Charles Witt…” He furrowed his brow. “Charles Witt? She had sex with both of them?”

  “I’ve suspected for some time the Phoenix is a bit of a voyeur,” Steyer replied in a low voice.

  “Did Heather’s report support that?”

  “It did not.”

  “And her injuries don’t just… stop like Monica’s.”

  “No, they do not.” Steyer’s eyes drifted back over the body, from each bruise and scrape to another. They finally met Dr. Veal’s steady gaze. “Is there… any indication these injuries may have been inflicted by more than one person?”