by Jette Harris
“Your hedonist is gone, Ritchie, and now I’m going after what I want. Tell me, what the fuck do you want?”
Steyer pulled in a deep breath. “I want you, Avery, strapped to a table with a needle in your arm.”
Remington’s eyes went wide.
“That’s too fucking bad,” Rhodes said. The phone cracked and the line went dead. Steyer leaned against the car, covering his mouth. I need to call Johnny. I need to tell him to get out of town.
“Thanks,” Remington said into his phone and hung up. He placed a hand on Steyer’s shoulder. “It was Sydney Lancaster’s phone.”
Steyer patted Remington’s arm, straightening. He took another deep breath. “We need to get Sam out of here. It’s not safe here for her.”
****
Rhodes threw the pieces of the phone and roared. Heather had told him. He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe he had been so careless in the first place, to trust her, to let her escape, to speak to her the way he had.
(End it. Just kill her. Kill her and go home.)
With a growl, he sank onto the edge of the bed. Steyer was right: he had gotten sappy.
But he wasn’t about to let Heather go.
May 2006
Rhodes entered the Bedroom to hear the squeaking of knobs and the shower coming to life. Heather flinched away as he leaned past her to close the drain and re-route the shower to run a bath. Her eyes flickered over him, then away, but she said nothing. She perched on the edge of the vanity to wait for the tub to fill. She stared at her swinging feet. Her silence made the muscles in the back of his neck tense.
“Are you a shower girl or a bath girl?” He placed a hand on either side of her. Her feet stopped swinging, her body became rigid.
“I’m sure you’ve seen my bathtub,” she replied, shaking her head. “It’s the size of a matchbox.”
He tilted his head. “The one in the guest room is huge.”
Heather’s eyes hardened. “That is not a guest room.”
“Ah…” It had been her mother’s room; He should have seen that. She slid off the counter, but he didn’t move his hands. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“I only take baths when I’m sore,” she said curtly.
“Sore…” He murmured, brushing the hair from her face. “I bet you’re very sore now.”
Her eyelids fluttered and she looked away as she resisted rolling her eyes. “Yes, that happens when you’re almost beaten to death.”
Rhodes chuckled. Kissing her, he tugged the robe from her shoulders. When his fingers failed to decipher the knot of her belt, he set his teeth and glared down at it.
“If you keep doing this,” he growled, “I’m going to cut the belt and throw the robe in the trash.”
“Along with the rest of my life?”
His hand shot up, but he stopped himself before slapping her. He stroked her face instead. “I will prove your fears wrong.” He returned his hands and attention to the knot. The heat drained from his face as he tugged it loose. Her robe fell to the floor.
Nodding toward the tub, he stepped in and winced. He lowered himself into the water slowly.
“It’s hot,” he warned.
Heather stepped in anyway, her face impassive, and crouched between his knees. Sliding a hand around her hip, he pulled her back against his body. Her hair reached just past her shoulders. He combed his fingers through it, parting it on either side. She had started to develop thick, downy hair along her spine. He ran his fingers over it. Lanugo. Common among newborns and anorexics. He had seen it in person once, on an eleven-year-old who had been found alive two weeks after falling into a well.
“I noticed…” He ran his thumb down her spine. “…You didn’t eat all of your lunch.”
“You starved us for three weeks,” she snapped. He dropped his hand. “My stomach is the size of a pecan; I was full after three bites.”
Rhodes dipped his fingers in the steaming water, then worked at the tense muscles of her neck. After momentary resistance, she leaned into his hand. He pulled her against his chest, leaned back, and wrapped his arms around his shoulders.
“Tell me about your mother.”
“No.”
“Your father, then.”
“You already know about my parents,” she sighed. “Tell me about your mother.”
Rhodes’s mouth twitched. He exhaled slowly through his nose. “I loved my mother.”
“Too much?”
“Maybe.” He shook his head. “Not… Norman Bates or anything like that.” He closed his eyes and distracted himself from the emotional with the physical. “She was tall. All the women in her family were tall: My grandmother, aunts. I lucked out; My father was short, about like your grandpa. When we have children, they’re probably going to be short.”
His eyes cracked open and his heart jumped. He hadn’t been thinking when he said the words, just rambling. Heather’s response was more palpable: She grew still, holding her breath. She let it out with a long exhale, then stood and stepped out of the tub. Pulling a towel from the bar, she left the bathroom.
(Why the fuck would I say something like that?)
His hand slid down and he fingered the half-inch scar on his scrotum. It used to pain him occasionally, but it hadn’t for years. He sank down, submerging himself.
Heather bundled herself deep down into her blankets, with barely a hole for her nose. She lay in a state of loopiness for what felt like hours, but was probably just a few minutes.
When she half-woke, it was with the sense she had been sleeping deeply for a long time. She had been drifting back asleep when her mind snapped away, muscles locking.
The covers shifted, then slid. They moved slowly, inch-by-inch, as if someone were pulling a handful of blanket away from her. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream. The blanket fell to the floor, leaving her with a thin sheet that didn’t protect her against the chill of the air conditioning.
The bed sank under the weight of a man. A fragrance buffeted her: earthy, sweaty. Panic clawed at her mind. She pressed the sheet against her face with tight fists, as if that could hide her.
She flinched as she felt a hand on her shoulder. It rested there, unbelievably heavy, before sliding down her arm. He found her hand, his fingers feathering over hers. A high-pitched whine escaped her throat.
What the hell is his obsession with your hands? He always used to toy with her hands and fingers, always raised them to—
He tugged her arm, pulling her fist toward him. She wrenched her arm away, groaning as her shoulder protested, and clutched it against her chest. Her breathing grew fast and ragged. Tears poured freely down her face.
“Heather?”
It wasn’t Rhodes’s voice.
“No, get away!” she screamed.
The weight disappeared. A second later, the bed sank and bounced, springs squeaking.
“It’s OK. Everything’s OK, sweetie, it was just a nightmare.” Large, strong arms pulled her against a solid, familiar body. “It’s just you and me, you and me. You’re safe now.”
Her grandfather, his scent unmistakable, bundled her into his lap. She cried into his shoulder like a child.
6
05 June
Monday
A gentle breeze ruffled Heather’s baggy t-shirt. She stood with a hand on the car door, like she was afraid she would fall if she released it.
“Is this OK?” Steyer asked.
“Yes.” Her voice was small and distant.
“You said you wanted to be more actively involved.”
“I did.”
“Have you changed your mind?”
“No.”
“You’ll have to put these on.” He held a HEPA face mask and shoe covers out to her. She accepted them, looking the face mask over carefully before pulling the strap over her head.
“Do I have to turn it on somehow?”
“No, just secure it and breathe normally.”
She pulled the mask down
and pressed it over her nose and mouth. Her shoulders heaved. Before a minute could pass, she seemed to recoil and pulled the mask up. “It’s hard to breathe.”
“That’s usually just your mind playing tricks on you.”
With a bashful look, she pulled the mask back down and pressed it over her face. Her shoulders heaved again. She wore a dark expression, but did not remove it again.
Steyer pulled on his own mask and bent to snap on his shoe covers. Heather attempted to bend to pull her shoe covers on, but straightened with a grimace. Steyer took hers and knelt, holding them open for her to step into.
Now wearing the bare minimum protection, they turned toward the ruin of the Hospitality House.
Heather’s shoulders heaved again. Her brow furrowed and she looked back toward the gate. Two police cruisers blocked the drive, the officers sitting in the comfort of the air conditioning, chatting through their windows.
“Where’s Remington?”
Steyer smirked. “He had some business to attend to.”
Heather stood just inside where the front door had been, hands in her jeans pockets. She followed what had been the walls, gazing at the center of the floor, where flags indicated where Sergeant Duley’s remains had been.
Steyer watched her carefully, ready to pull her out if she started to show any signs of distress. For now, she appeared composed, looking around with critical eyes.
She’s investigating.
Heather paused and retraced her steps. She hunted along the wall at the base of what had been a stoop. Stopping, she said something. Steyer came closer and turned his ear toward her.
“There was a room here. Small, like a laundry room.”
He nodded.
“He took us there when we were injured, worse than usual.” She pressed a hand to her shoulder. “I woke up in there after he broke my clavicle. There was, like… a metal table.”
“I do believe it is at the lab.”
She continued to where the next door had been and stepped carefully over the remains of the wall. “I never saw this door open.”
The remains of a large desk—property of the original homeowner and about two hundred years old—had been removed to the lab. It contained scraps of forged mortgage and auction paperwork, proof that the Phoenix had put a great amount of time and effort into making his occupation appear legitimate.
She bent rigidly, almost a bow, to peer into a crumbling fireplace, then returned to the great room. Steyer followed her. She paused where a set of French doors had stood and looked up. A metal spiral staircase was the only part of the house still standing as it originally had. Yellow caution tape roped it off. The entire second floor was gone.
Heather pointed. “It went… Bedroom, Camera Room… closed door, closet, closed door, bathroom, then… the White Room. The last… the last day, I saw stacks of tires, about five or six high, all around. They looked old, worn in places. I didn’t get it.”
“Tires… vulcanized rubber… burn incredibly hot.”
“He also used kerosene. He had splashed it all over the place before…” She closed her eyes, wincing at the memory. “Before we fell over the railing.” She turned to Steyer and eyed him suspiciously. “But you should already know all that. I drew diagrams.”
“Yes, we do.”
“So what do you need me for?”
Steyer cleared his throat. “We have so far been unable to locate… where everyone died.”
Heather exhaled low and loud. She held up a hand, but her eyes didn’t leave his face. “Witt died in the Camera Room, on the floor beside the bed.” She twisted back toward the front of the house and said something Steyer couldn’t understand.
“Say again?”
“Let’s go for a walk.”
She tramped through the ruin, looking like a child stepping through a toy city and avoiding the middle of the room. They exited the fire ground and circled the house slowly, until Heather’s steps became halting. She looked between the house and the fence, about a hundred feet away.
“He was fast.” She pulled off her mask. “He was so fast.”
“I know.”
Heather took an unsure step forward and rocked, lifting her arms slightly.
“Heather, don’t—”
She shot a few feet, staggered, clutching her ribs, then continued her sprint toward the fence.
“Stop!” Yanking off his mask, Steyer ran after her. She twisted around, looking beyond him, back toward the house, and veered slightly to the right. When she looked back again, she stumbled and hit the ground. She slammed her fists into the ground with an angry cry.
To Steyer’s great relief, she stood slowly. Clutching her side, she continued toward the fence.
“Stop!” Steyer gasped as he reached her. “Stop.”
Tears streamed down her face and she gritted her teeth. Grasping the chain links, she leaned her head against the fence. He took a few seconds to catch his breath, then patted her shoulder.
“It should’ve been me,” she sobbed.
“Don’t say that.”
“No, it doesn’t make sense. He liked Zachariah better. He spent more time with him, joked around with him more. I don’t… I don’t understand.” She sagged against the fence and sank to the ground.
“Heather, you may never understand. We don’t have the entire picture, and even when we do—even if we catch this man and he tries to explain it—it still may not make sense.” As he spoke, Steyer scrutinized the grass nearby, looking for any indication of a struggle. “All we can do is accept that what happened, happened, and do everything within our power to keep it from happening to someone else.”
He pulled a neon strip from his pocket and tied it to the fence. Heather’s crying faded into shuddering breaths.
“Can you stand? I’m going to take you to the hospital.”
Her hand stiffened against her rib cage. “We can’t go yet.”
“Pardon?”
She swallowed hard and patted the fence. “We… We had made it. We made it to the fence. Together. But he was right behind us—he was so fast—and he had the Taser… and a knife. He shot me, and I fell…” She looked around. “Right around here. Right by this tree. I looked up, and he was jumping on Zachariah. He jumped up on him, pulled him down, and… and cut his throat.”
Her voice wavered. She took a deep breath and continued, “I didn’t know… it didn’t look real. Then there was… blood everywhere. Zachariah was bleeding, Avery was bleeding, and just…” She shook her head. “I tried… I tried to stop the bleeding, tried to hold him, but Avery… Avery dragged me away. He threw me over his shoulder and carried me back to the front door.”
She gripped the fence and pulled herself up. Steyer held out a hand to steady her. She started back to the car, swaying unsteadily. She paused and bent double. Steyer put his hand on her back, thinking she was about to be sick, but she reached down and touched the grass.
There were still deep ridges in the dirt, softened by the weather, but still visible to a scrutinizing eye. Steyer imagined Heather’s fingers gouging the dirt as the Phoenix pulled her away from the boy she once loved. The grass had grown back up, but it was newer than the lawn around it. Steyer could understand why the techs hadn’t found it.
She leaned up and pointed to another spot behind them. The grass was brittle and browned. The Phoenix had used chemicals over it.
“Sharp eye,” he said, patting her back. “I’ll call a team to come out here, then it’s to the hospital with you.”
****
“I seem to recall saying something about running…” Dr. Scarrott said as he filled out some paperwork.
“It would hurt and could put too much strain on the fracture,” Heather muttered.
“Yes, but my main point was don’t.”
She crossed her arms and sank into her chair. “It could have been an emergency.”
“It wasn’t,” Steyer said.
“Traitor.”
“Fortunately for you
,” Dr. Scarrott continued, “the fractures do not appear to have worsened. Everything else looks good as well: You’re gaining weight at a healthy pace. According to what you told the receiving staff, you’re not responding negatively to your medications. Have you been experiencing any unexpected mood swings or urges?”
“I’ve been a bit more stabby, but I think that’s normal, given the circumstances.”
Dr. Scarrott stared at her, then glanced at Steyer. Steyer nodded. The doctor buried his nose back in his paperwork.
“No signs of infection. No nausea… right?”
“Right.”
“You’re not pregnant.”
Heather’s placid expression disappeared. She seemed to shrink into herself and swallowed hard. “How… How long…” Her lips trembled.
“Assuming your last se… last contact was the day you escaped…” He shook his head. “Not more than a week. These tests are accurate up to two weeks of… of conception. They also gave you a… basically a morning-after pill when you arrived.”
She exhaled slowly, but didn’t look relieved. She turned to Steyer with a hard look in her eyes. “If I were pregnant, could you use… use that to find him?”
Steyer turned his wedding ring a few times. “If his DNA is in a database, yes. If not, we wouldn’t be able to find him, but we would be able to convict him if he were caught.”
She stewed in silence for a moment.
“But Heather,” he said, shaking his head, “do not wish that upon yourself.”
“Who was the father of Monica’s baby?”
Steyer’s eyes went wide before he could school his expression. “You know I can’t answer that.”
“But it wasn’t Avery?”
“It was not the Phoenix.”
She fell silent again. Dr. Scarrott set the clipboard down with a clatter. Heather flinched, then pressed a hand to her side with a wince.
“Sorry,” Dr. Scarrott said. “I’m going to have you back on the fifteenth. We’ll go over your bloodwork then, remove your stitches, and make sure nothing looks amiss. Sound good?”
“Peachy,” she muttered.
As Steyer walked Heather out to the car, his phone vibrated against his chest. Please don’t be— The screen read REMINGTON. He accepted the call with a sigh of relief.