Ruin

by Jette Harris

  He stepped behind the counter and thumped a beat-up three-ring binder on the counter. He flicked back to April. “What was the date?”

  “The fourth.”

  “Here it is…” He pushed the binder toward the agent and knelt to poke around under the counter.

  Steyer ran a finger over the list of parts the Phoenix had purchased in addition to the vehicle. “So you sold him a vehicle that had been declared totaled, knowing he was intending to repair it?”

  Albrecht put up his hands. “Hey, as long as he doesn’t explicitly state his intentions, we can sell it. He knew the name of the game.”

  “Did he imply what he was planning?”

  “He didn’t mention anything about killin’ no kids.”

  “Did he mention he had ever repaired a vehicle before?”

  “Oh, yeah, he said he’d gone through a few Jeeps.”

  Steyer nodded. Albrecht’s face fell.

  “You think…”

  Steyer continued to nod, giving him a significant look: Every Jeep had most likely been used to commit murder.

  Albrecht shook his head and stood, a disc in hand. “That’s fuckin’ creepy, man.”

  “That’s the consensus. So, he knew exactly what was needed in order to repair the vehicle? Did he say how he knew?”

  “He said he worked in a garage on weekends when he was in school, and he works on his own vehicles.”

  “Vehicles? Plural?”

  “Yep. Car, motorcycles, Jeep. He even said he was in the market for a 1940’s Caddy, if we had one.”

  “Did you believe him about working in a garage? That would’ve been quite a while ago.”

  “He seemed like a pretty sharp guy.”

  “Did he mention what he does now?”

  “He’s not a mechanic, that’s for damn sure.”

  “Oh?”

  Albrecht held up his hands. They were scarred, pitted, and covered with scabs. “Clean hands. Delicate fingers. Plus, he was loaded.”

  “Loaded?”

  “Oh yeah. He paid cash. I tried to upsell him on a few things, but he didn’t bite.”

  “The tires he purchased, were they in good condition?”

  “No. He said he was gonna turn them into planters or some shit. Tire swing.”

  “A tire swing?”

  “Oh, yeah. He said they were the best thing in the world.”

  Steyer frowned.

  When.

  Heather turned the key and the engine roared to life. She was so startled by her success, she turned the key back as if it had sputtered. She held her breath, waiting for Gearhart, King, or Grandpa to yank the door open. As she waited, the gravity of what she was about to do filled the cabin, crushing her. She froze.

  Officer King opened the door, glanced at her, and returned inside. She exhaled slowly.

  Leaving now, Remington texted back.

  Heather put the Mustang in neutral and climbed out. She threw her weight against the front bumper. Her muscles screamed, but it didn’t budge. Just as she was about to give up, it slowly began to roll and eased out. She had to scurry to keep it from sliding out from under her and running out into the street. She put it in park right at the edge of the driveway.

  Going back inside, she hit the button to close the garage door and rushed out before the door closed.

  ****

  “As long as I don’t stall or get caught behind traffic, the Mustang’ll get me exactly four miles before it breaks down again.”

  Remington had nodded along with the drums on the field. He tried his coffee without spitting it out this time. “So… that’s about half a mile past the coffee shop?”

  “Correct.”

  “So, get it working, drive by the coffee shop. I’ll be waiting to pull out a few car lengths behind you. Hopefully behind him, or far enough ahead so he won’t notice. When you break down, I’ll drive by and turn around. Hopefully he’ll be there. If not, I’ll just call you a tow and take you home. No harm, no foul.”

  “No retries?”

  “No, no retries. Once is dangerous enough.”

  Albrecht popped a disc into a dusty laptop and set it on the counter between them. He selected a date and four feeds appeared. He clicked forward until he found the time on the sign-in sheet.

  A man in a leather jacket and a baseball cap stood at the counter, filling out the waiver. The image was small and grainy. Unless they were able to get it enhanced, it would be useless for getting any details. The man—Steyer was sure it was the Phoenix—chatted easily with the men behind the counter, laughing and making them laugh.

  “Between you and me, I thought he was a faggot,” Albrecht said.

  Steyer cleared his throat. “Did he have any kind of accent?”

  “No, not that I could tell. He wasn’t from around here, but he wasn’t a Yankee or anything.”

  The Phoenix kept pulling the bill of the baseball cap down and adjusting it around his ears, sure sign the hat was new, or he wasn’t accustomed to baseball caps, or both. Steyer recognized the A of the Atlanta Braves.

  In the video, Albrecht stepped out from behind the counter and walked the Phoenix out into the yard. After a moment, they appeared on another feed. The Phoenix knew to keep his face down, but his shoulders didn’t follow.

  “Military man,” Steyer murmured.

  “You think?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He walked like a man not afraid to get his shoes dirty, which contrasted with his appearance of wealth. When they reached the Jeeps, he shed his jacket, hung it on the corner of a hood, and reached around the engine.

  “Did you notice any tattoos?”

  “No, no tattoos. He did have one of those scars.” He gestured a circle on his left shoulder.

  “An inoculation scar?”

  “Yeah, that thing. Is that useful?”

  “It’s consistent with our suspected age range.”

  Steyer watched the video in silence, studying the Phoenix’s body language. He was clearly strong, confident, and undaunted. He was right-handed, but able to swap without any loss of coordination. If he ever grew frustrated or had to make a decision, he would pause and tug at the hair at the back of his head.

  The gesture struck Steyer as familiar.

  After several silent minutes, Albrecht had gone off to make copies of all of their paperwork. He returned and handed over a file containing the originals. “Are you gettin’ anything from this?”

  “Yes.”

  Starting and cutting the engine cost Heather dearly: She hadn’t gotten much farther than a mile and a half when the engine started to go. Dread clenched her heart. Woods lined one side of the street and sleepy suburban houses sat few and far-between on the other. Her breathing sputtered with the engine.

  “No! Fuck! No!”

  The car came to a rest in the middle of the lane. An SUV behind her swerved, horn blazing. The road was clear behind them. Her relief was short-lived. She snatched up her phone.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I stalled!”

  “Where?” He shifted his car into gear.

  “I’m about…” She looked around for a house number, but the nearest mailbox was a little too far. She turned to look behind her and choked. A sand-colored Toyota Tacoma crawled up to her bumper. Avery Rhodes sat behind the wheel.

  “You’re about…?” Remington prompted.

  “Fuck…”

  “Heather?”

  “He’s here.” She grabbed the crank to roll up the window, but the pane didn’t move.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at… I don’t know! I’m on John Ward—” Her voice cracked as Rhodes stepped out. In no rush, he walked around to the passenger side of the truck, pulled the door wide, then made his way toward the driver’s side of the Mustang. Heather unbuckled her seat belt so quickly, she got tangled. The phone clattered to the floorboard. She dove to retrieve it.

  “Car trouble?”

  With a yelp, she hopped
to the opposite seat and pressed herself against the passenger-side door. Rhodes leaned in the window as if he were just a concerned passer-by.

  “Where are you going, Little Rabbit?”

  She struggled to dredge up the lie she and Remington decided upon: “To… I…” She swallowed painfully. “I’m going to see my parents.”

  “Your parents…” His voice was soft, sympathetic. “Hop in the truck. I’ll take you to see your parents.”

  She shook her head.

  “I will. I’ll take you to say good-bye, I promise. I may even bring you back to visit someday, once the dust has settled.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I may be a liar, but I always keep my promises. I don’t want to be any more unreasonable than I have to be.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I haven’t forced you out of the car. In fact, I could probably fix it and we can drive it to the cemetery.”

  A fleeting moment of curiosity proceeded a sudden calm. Remington’s on his way. Keep him talking…

  “What… what’s wrong with it?”

  “I’ll show you. Climb out.”

  She shook her head. “The best mechanic in Georgia couldn’t tell us what was wrong with it.”

  “But not the best mechanic in…” He bit his lip. “…where I’m from.”

  Another car shot by with the driver leaning on his horn. Rhodes leaned up and watched him shrink into the distance.

  “Come on, Heather, it’s time to go.”

  “You go on. I’ll catch up.”

  “I have to leave soon, and I’m taking you with me.”

  “Back to your job, Doctor?”

  He stilled. The expression on his face was unreadable and dangerous. “Come out, love. Let’s go.”

  “I’m not quite feeling up to being raped and tortured, but thanks.”

  “Those days are over.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Another car passed. Rhodes glanced around again. “You’re trying my patience.”

  “I thought you loved that about me?”

  He closed his eyes with a chuckle and shook his head. “I can’t out-wait you, but you know I can out-run you.”

  “Not with your leg all fucked up.”

  Reaching in, he unlocked the door and popped it open. “Let’s race.”

  He didn’t actually pull the door open, but Heather didn’t notice. Panic gripped her. She grabbed the handle of the passenger-side door and threw herself against it. Toppling out, she shrieked as she hit the ground. Her collarbone shifted under the skin. She continued to slide down a shallow muddy slope. Pain paralyzed her when she settled at the bottom.

  “You hurt yourself far more than I do.”

  His voice was still up by the car. Heather gulped a lungful of air and pushed herself to her feet. Clutching her arm, she ran into the woods.

  Rhodes crashed after her.

  ****

  Remington didn’t have a clue where John Ward was. He turned the wrong way onto Dallas Highway, but couldn’t shake the sense he was going the wrong way. He shouted at a boy walking his bicycle, who pointed at the intersection Remington had just left. Groaning, he made a U-turn and gunned his engine, skidding into the turn onto John Ward.

  All the while, he perched his cellphone on his shoulder, catching only snatches of the exchange between Heather and the Phoenix that made his stomach roil.

  Remington tried to catch the numbers on the mailboxes he passed, but saw the broken-down Mustang and a pick-up truck before he could. Swerving, he parked in front of the Mustang and ran to the driver’s-side door. The door was cracked, but the passenger-side door was open a foot or so. Glancing into the cabin of the Tacoma, he found a black doctor’s bag sitting on the passenger-side floorboard and four or so cell phones in the cup holder. The passenger door was wide open.

  “Heather!”

  He rounded the vehicles, studying the ground near the doors. In the mud, he could see the skid where someone hit the ground and slid into the ditch, as well as the footsteps that followed.

  Calling upon skills he hadn’t used since training, Remington jumped over the mud and found a trail leading into the woods. Unlike the woods across from Heather’s house, there wasn’t much underbrush, but there were several downed limbs and jutting rocks. The Phoenix’s track was easier to follow until he came to a shallow stream, where two sets of footprints abruptly disappeared.

  “Fuck.”

  A soft rustle of leaves made him freeze. A metallic click. Remington spun, fists swinging, but a foot hit the back of his knee, sending him to the ground. Something hard dug painfully into his scalp: the muzzle of a gun.

  “Don’t,” a man said.

  The word, short and simple, sent a shudder through Remington’s body. He grew hyper-aware of the mud on his slacks, the sweat running down his back, the weight of the gold ring on his finger. The water before him was cloudy and stagnant.

  Remington closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, raising his hands. “Where’s Heather?”

  “I don’t know.” The voice sounded casual, almost conversational.

  Remington rifled through the sound of it for an accent, a tic, anything identifiable. “She gives you the slip almost as often as you give us.”

  The Phoenix chuckled. Another shudder traveled down Remington’s spine. “She does, but I think I have her this time.”

  Remington glanced around. “It doesn’t look that way to me.”

  The gun pressed harder into the back of his head, forcing Remington still. “Well, Heather may be swift and resourceful, but her strongest quality is also her greatest weakness.”

  “What’s that?”

  The Phoenix angled the gun so it dug into the Remington’s scalp. “Call for help.”

  “What?”

  “Scream. Yell. Call her name.”

  Remington scoffed. “You’re fuckin’ nuts.”

  He twisted to grab the gun, but a vise-like grip grabbed his wrist and something slammed into the back of his shoulder. The joint made a sickening pop! Remington cried out. Clutching his shoulder, he fell forward into the water. The Phoenix grabbed his collar and pulled him back up to his knees.

  “I could just shoot you in the gut and leave you as bait.”

  I’m the bait now? How did this plan get so fucked? “It won’t work,” Remington said through clenched teeth. “She’ll know it’s a trick. She’s not stupid.”

  “Oh, I never question her intelligence. She’s not stupid by any means, but she’s so… fucking… caring.” The gun returned to dig into the back of Remington’s skull. “Call her name.”

  “She knows how important she is and she wants to catch you more than we do. It won’t work.”

  A long silence. Then, “It already has.”

  Remington looked up. Heather stood about forty feet away, clutching her arm to her side. Her shoulder looked odd. She was pale and trembling.

  “Fuck, she’s in shock.” The sincere concern in the Phoenix’s voice made Remington’s stomach twist in a knot. “Heather… come here. Let me take a look at you.”

  She didn’t move. She looked like she wanted to speak, but didn’t. The Phoenix slid his hand over Remington’s back and around his torso. He pulled the gun from the holster on Remington’s vest, took the phone out of his pocket, tossed it in the stream, and checked his ankles for holsters. Remington’s chest was tight, expecting the Phoenix to slide a hand over his ass or grope him, which would reveal the butterfly knife tucked in his trousers. Surprisingly, his search was purely perfunctory.

  “Stand up. On your feet. Don’t turn around.”

  Remington took his time standing, pretending to be unsteady. He calculated how far the Phoenix was behind him, what posture he may have. He tried to keep Heather’s eyes locked with his, but they didn’t seem to focus on anything.

  “You’ll come here and I’ll let him go,” the Phoenix called to her.

  “Heather, don’t.”

  “Hob.”

&n
bsp; “The fuck does that even mean?”

  “Heather, try to focus… You hate me, remember?”

  Her expression darkened.

  “Shit...”

  Heather turned and ran. Remington spun, throwing his elbow behind him. A fist hit his side, just below the ribs, knocking the air out of him. He stepped back, slipping on the pebbles of the streambed. A sharp burst of pain travelled through his skull, and he was sinking in cold water. For an instant, it felt good on his aching head, his throbbing shoulder.

  Then he tried to breathe.

  ****

  Heather had trouble focusing on her path. The sharp, throbbing pain almost blinded her. Someone screamed. She couldn’t tell if it was Remington or Rhodes, but it told her Rhodes was—as of that scream—still occupied. She cut back and made her way back toward the road, fearing she had miscalculated until she saw the flash of orange lights at the top of a slope. A green-uniformed Park Services officer stood a few feet behind the Tacoma, scribbling on a clipboard.

  “Help!” She scrambled to the hill, digging her fingers into the mud with her right hand to steady herself. “Call for backup!”

  The officer started and stared at her. Her foot slipped in the mud and shot out from under her, sending her shoulder-first into the mud. The pain was blinding. She couldn’t even find the breath to scream.

  “Miss? Miss, is this your car?” He stepped down and pulled her up by her good arm. His nametag read DUKE.

  “Call for help,” she rasped.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Yes!” She dissolved into tears of pain and panic. A single officer was not going to save her. He was going to die. She fought her way up to the street.

  “Wait, you probably shouldn’t move.”

  “Call for backup, you fucking idiot!” Her entire body shook uncontrollably. “You’re about to die!”

  The officer stepped back, blinking at her, then scowled. “Have you been drinking?”

  “No.”

  “Drugs?”