by Jette Harris
After the fourth time, she took half a Narco. Just as she was starting to loosen up, the phone rang. She shot up to answer it.
“Don’t hang up.” The voice wasn’t hard or threatening, but in earnest. Heather’s throat tightened with fear, but anger loosened it. Tech and Young watched her with concern and curiosity. Schooling her expression, Heather casually covered the mouthpiece.
“I’ll be on the back porch.” Her voice wasn’t as steady as she wanted. Her heart hammered painfully, her chest so tight, it was difficult to breathe. She stepped out the kitchen door and sat on the top porch step. After several deep breaths, her chest loosened up.
Rhodes waited patiently. He must have heard her struggling to breathe, because as soon as she regained control, he spoke: “Are you OK?”
He sounded like any other man who had asked her that very question over the past few days.
“What…” Her voice quivered. She swallowed hard. “What did you do to Aneta Vlasov?” Her voice cracked. Fuck.
“What?”
“Aneta Vlasov. Tell me.”
Silence.
“Avery Rhodes, so help me—”
“I didn’t do anything to Aneta Vlasov.”
“Bull. Shit.”
“It’s not. I haven’t seen her.”
“But her door was open and it smelled like…” Her throat grew tight with tears. She clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Heather, she probably killed herself.”
“No—!” she squeezed out. Grabbing a fistful of hair, she pulled it as hard as she could.
“Look, losing a kid is tough. A lot of parents don’t survive it. My dad…” He fell so silent, she was afraid the line had gone dead.
“What about your dad?”
Another long pause. “I can’t.”
She hardened her voice and tried to sound as much like him as possible: “Tell me.”
“Heather…”
“You can pull this shit with me, but you can’t take it yourself?”
He scoffed. “I know who you are, Heather Stokes. You can’t know who I am. Not yet. Not here.”
“I want to know who your dad lost. Who you lost.”
“I’ve lost everyone,” he replied softly.
“You’re a fucking coward.”
“No, I’m careful. I can’t get what I want if I’m not careful.”
“What the fuck do you want, then?” she breathed, already knowing the answer.
“You. I only want you.”
She gave a bitter laugh. “I…” She lowered her voice until it was barely a whisper. “I should follow in Aneta’s footsteps. I’ll deny you the only thing you want. The only thing you want will be the one thing you can never have.”
The door behind her opened and Steyer stepped out. Heather let the phone slip down and held it out to him. He pressed it to his ear for a few seconds before he hung up.
“I wasn’t able to get anything useful out of him,” she said grimly.
“You didn’t bait him, did you?” He set the phone on the railing, tugged his slacks up, and sat on the stair next to her. She tensed up at his closeness, but the way he twisted his wedding band set her at ease.
“No… Maybe… I don’t think so?” Did calling him a coward count as baiting? Did threatening suicide?
Yes, a small voice replied.
Steyer sighed.
“I take it they didn’t catch him… obviously.”
“No. The description of the car fit, and the man, except he was about five-nine.”
Heather shook her head. “Zachariah was five-nine. Avery was taller.”
He nodded, gazing down at his hands. “Why do you call him ‘Zachariah’?”
“He introduced himself as Zachariah…” She ran her fingers over the peeling scabs of the inside of her wrist. “It felt good, at least for… a little while… to have something that was just mine. No one else called him that.”
“I can understand that.”
They sat in silence, until Heather took a deep breath.
“What happened at the house?” she asked in a soft voice.
“Aneta Vlasov… it appears… broke into her late neighbor’s unit and used the neighbor’s gun to end her own life.”
After the shock of the day and Rhodes’s conjecture, she just felt numb. She slumped against Steyer’s arm. He blinked down at her.
“Are you going to be alright?”
“I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
“Do what?”
“Endure.”
Steyer was silent for a moment, then, “Did you remember to take your medication this morning?”
Heather opened her mouth to answer in the affirmative, but paused. Did she? “I think so. Every morning seems the same. I think I took it this morning… but I could be remembering yesterday or the day before.”
“Could you take it now?”
“I’m not supposed to take my meds too close together.”
“Alright.”
“Could you tell me about some of your other cases?”
“Tonight? Oh, no. The last thing either of us need is another downer. No, tonight you’re going out.”
She straightened up. “What?”
“I’ve asked Officer Byron to wear plainclothes and take you out to a movie or a game or something.”
“Only Officer Byron?”
“Well, I’ve made it clear it shouldn’t be anything too isolated or private, but—”
“I mean, we’re not going to have a tail or anything?”
“Not unless you’d like one.”
“What’s the catch?”
“The catch?” Steyer shook his head and gave her a soft smile. “No catch. Have fun. Be safe. Recharge.”
Despite herself, a slow smile crept across her face. “When?”
“He’s here now; He arrived shortly after me.”
Her smile faltered. “Is someone going to stay here with Grandpa?”
“Officer Kondorf is sitting with him now.”
She released a long, low breath, and nodded.
“Fun,” Steyer said. “Relax.”
“I can do that.”
****
Byron didn’t have his own car, so Kondorf let him borrow the truck. Heather, only slightly stoned, laughed painfully every time he popped the clutch or ground the gears.
They didn’t drive far; He pulled into the main parking lot for Kennesaw Mountain State Park and wound his way up to the top parking lot. The world was swallowed up by the molten gold of the sky, broken by trees and indigo clouds. The park wasn’t crowded, but several people were returning to their cars, driven away from the trails by the setting sun.
Heather climbed out of the truck, fuzzy-brained from her medication and struck dumb by the sunset. She felt like she hadn’t seen the sun in months.
“Do you want to go up?” Byron shook himself out and stood by her side.
“Uh…” The concept of making a decision felt impossible. She turned slowly until she found the distant silhouette of the city, the same view she had from the roof of the hospital. “No… I think… I like it here…”
She walked slowly, feeling pulled. The light filled her, along with the overwhelming feeling that this sunset was somehow personal. It wasn’t just setting, but it was setting for her. It was setting for Monica, Zachariah, his mother, and Witt.
Her breath caught in her throat. This would be the perfect place…
“Hey, Jamal!”
They turned toward the voice. A group of muscle-bound young men descended the stairs to the parking lot. The one who had spoken was ghostly pale and blonde, but as he came closer, his African features grew clearer. Heather scraped his name from her memory: Ryan Logue. The other boys were familiar, but she didn’t recall their names. They had all played football with Byron.
Logue’s smile faltered when he saw her. She tugged at her shirt to make sure it was still covering her properly.
“Hey, Heather.”
; “Hey.” She smiled weakly. None of the others were smiling, but regarded her with narrowed eyes.
“How you doin’, man?” Byron held out his hand and they slapped palms.
“I’m alright. Staying busy.”
They crowded around to chat, about five or six of them. She searched her memory for their names and faces. A few of them were still students at Cheatham Hill.
Why isn’t Witt with them?
Just as it had when she saw Sydney the other day, the answer hit her so hard, she closed her eyes.
Because Witt’s dead. Duh.
She edged away toward the railing between the parking lot and the steep side of the mountain. The ground fell away for about forty feet. The drop was covered in brambles and kudzu.
Forty feet is enough…
“The fuck is she doing here?”
She flinched at the bitter voice, but she had been expecting it. Maybe they would feel better if they looked over, and she were just… gone. She pulled herself closer to the bars. She would have to be fast, otherwise this could turn embarrassing.
“HEATHER STOKES!”
Her brow furrowed. It wasn’t Avery’s voice. How dare someone else speak to you in that tone?
She twisted toward the voice to find one of the men being shoved away by Dean Witt. He continued to barrel toward her. His skin glistened with sweat, and his shirt was plastered to his body, clinging to his muscles. She pressed herself back against the railing.
“Is it true?” The others grabbed at him, but their hands slid off his slick skin. “Is it true my brother died because of you?”
All the confidence and surety she had in the face of the mountainside fled, leaving her to tremble against the bars.
“Dean, don’t touch her!” Byron stepped between them, but Dean shoved him down.
Dean grabbed her shirt and yanked her off the ground as he pulled her toward him. “Answer me, you fucking bitch!”
“Yes!”
His jaw dropped. He released her. Everyone else froze, gaping. Even Byron, half-off the ground. She looked at their astonished faces and the tears rose in her throat. Her lip trembled.
Don’t. Don’t cry.
“Don’t you… fucking… dare…” Dean shook his head. “Don’t you fucking cry—”
She opened her mouth to explain, but a sob broke forth instead. He grabbed her shirt and shook her, screaming.
“Stop it!” Tears streamed down his face as well. “Stop—fucking—crying!”
Several pairs of hands wrapped around his arms, pulling him back. Byron jumped between them, shoving them apart. Heather stumbled, suspended for an instant by Dean’s hands on her shirt. She continued falling with the sound of ripping fabric. She hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the breath from her body. Fresh air breezed over her bare scars and exposed breasts. She jerked her arms up to cover her chest, but had to choose between shielding her nakedness or covering the bright red letters carved into her chest:
R A B B I T
She shifted slowly to her knees and folding herself double.
“Oh my God…”
“What…?”
“The fuck did that say?”
They all stood and stared, mouths hanging open. Everyone except Dean, who knelt down, pale and trembling.
“I’m… I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Heather. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” He lifted the torn edges of her shirt like it was some delicate thing and draped it over her shoulders.
“Get the fuck away from her, man.” Byron shoved him. Dean toppled back and ended up sitting a few feet in front of her. He raised his arms and dropped them like he didn’t know what else to do.
“He was my brother, man.”
“He… He…” Heather had trouble breathing, her throat was so tight. “I didn’t… didn’t want to do what he told us to do. I thought… I wanted him to kill me. I thought he would kill me.”
Dean stared at her, bewildered.
“But… he didn’t. He killed Witt instead. He shot him to punish me.”
“Heather, you don’t have to tell him this.” Byron pulled off his shirt, exposing the gun and badge he had strapped around his torso.
She shook her head. “He shot Witt and he told me… he made me go tell the others. To tell them it was all my fault.”
“It’s not your fault.” Byron slipped the shirt over her head and pulled it over her body. “C’mon.” He tried to pull her up, but she shook her head.
“I just should’ve listened to him.”
“No…” Dean ran a hand over his face and shook his head. His voice was calm now. “No, it’s not your fault.”
Heather lowered her face with a strangled noise. Byron sighed. He pulled her up and lifted her into his arms. The others parted for him to carry her away, but Dean remained on the ground.
Byron waited for Kondorf to nod off in front of the TV, then ascended the stairs and sat against the banister. Heather’s door stood ajar just wide enough for him to discern the lump under the blanket that must be her head. At least, that’s where the whimpering and sniffling came from.
Most nights, she either quieted or simpered until the sun paled the room. A couple of nights, she shot up with a gasp. Tonight, she woke with a cry.
“Stop!” She jerked upright, then murmured, “Stop it!” as if she did not realize she was awake.
“Heather, you’re home.” Byron stood in the doorway.
Her breathing came heavy and ragged. “Jamal?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
The heavy breathing slowed and quieted. “I need you.”
“Anything, just name it.” His heart pounded as he crossed the room. She uncovered her pale, bare legs and swung them off the edge of the bed. He made to sit by her side, but she reached out and grabbed the buckle of his belt. “Woah–wait!” He grabbed her hands.
She huffed. “But I thought you—”
“I do! Oh, God, I do, but you… you’re not…”
“I trust you, Jamal.” Her voice was just a breath. “I trust you, and this is what I need right now.” She continued to unbuckle his duty belt.
Byron’s throat was tight, heart racing, penis throbbing. Years… you’ve waited years for this… “Heather, I…”
Her hands stilled, but he was hyper-aware of her brushing against his bulging trousers. She sniffled. Her breathing grew ragged again.
Byron exhaled slowly. Shaking his head, he unbuckled his duty belt and lowered it to the floor.
Heather didn’t cry again when she finally fell asleep.
Dean Witt swayed as he stood and staggered away from the bonfire. His teammates heckled him, but he waved them off. Pausing at the edge of the woods, he drained the can hanging from his hand and tossed it aside before stepping under the cover of the trees. He stumbled a few times over roots and shrubs until he found a suitable tree. He patted it a few times before squaring up and unzipping his jeans.
As he urinated among its roots, he tipped forward and leaned his head against the bark. His sigh sounded like a sob.
“That’s a great way to get ticks.”
Dean started. Darkness obscured the man standing a few yards behind him—an acceptable distance. Zipping his jeans, Dean turned, but stumbled and almost fell ass-first into the puddle he just made. Avery Rhodes took a few steps closer. Dean glanced at his buddies around the bonfire.
“What…?”
“I’ve been looking for you.”
Dean took a few steps, but stopped. His gaze grew distant and he put a hand to his belly. Rhodes took a step back. After a moment, Dean lowered his hand and looked back up. Rhodes gestured toward a fallen tree. The young man sat down heavily and leaned forward, taking several deep breaths.
“It’s better just to get sick.” Rhodes straddled the trunk about a foot from him.
“Yeah?”
“Trust me, I’m a pro.”
Dean held up a hand as if asking him to wait, then pitched forward and hurled. Rhodes turned away, wrinkling his nose,
until the retching stopped.
“You need water.”
“Uh-huh.” Dean dry heaved and spit. He lifted his shirttail to wipe his mouth, then gazed at the yellow streak with regret. Spitting again, he leaned back up. “You were right.”
“I know.”
He cleared his throat. “Do I know you? You look a bit… familiar…”
“Nope.”
“Did Heather or Jamal send you? Are they pissed?”
“No, and I don’t know. Probably. I know I am.”
“I just…” Dean shook his head. “I dunno. I don’t know how to feel.”
“That’s normal. You don’t have to know. You don’t have to feel just one thing.”
“Thanks.” He fell quiet and pulled his limbs closer to his body. He gave Rhodes a furtive glance.
“What?”
“Whaddya mean, what?”
“Seems to me, when someone gets so fucked up, they usually have a reason.”
Dean shook his head slowly. “I think… I think my brother was gay.”
“There’s nothin’ wrong with that. I’m gay.”
“You are?”
“Queer as a three-dollar bill. Your brother was too.”
“Are you a sinner?” Dean asked it quickly, like he wanted to pretend he hadn’t heard Rhodes’s answer.
“Oh, yes. Very much so. But not because I’m gay. I have many, much better reasons. Your brother, he wasn’t a sinner. Not really.”
“No?”
“No. He just needed someone to accept him. He needed me.”
“You?” Dean straightened, finally sensing something amiss.
“Yes, me.” Rhodes grabbed Dean by the back of his neck and slammed their foreheads together, holding him there. Dean swung his fist, but Rhodes caught his wrist. His other hand was holding himself upright.
“You—”
“Me! I fucked your brother, and I let him fuck me. He loved it, and I killed him, shot him in the chest. Don’t you mistake it.” He stood, yanking Dean down. The boy’s forehead hit the trunk and he fell off, splattering vomit across the ground. The boy groaned. “If you ever touch my Rabbit again, I’ll fuck you, too, right after I cut your dick off.”