by Jette Harris
COLOSSUS
Run Rabbit Run
book 1
Jette Harris
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book would not have been completed without the help of my mentor and coach, Stephen Moran, my editor, Michael Keenan, my proof-reader, Brian Bullard, and my alpha-reader, Samuel Vanegas.
Pen would never have touched paper without the support of my husband, Joe (albeit kicking and screaming).
You can blame these people for the condition of this novel:
My mother, Donna, grandmother, Bobbie, sisters, Brandi & Kate, and brother, Brett.
Maria, Lisa, Adriana, and Jan
Angela D’Onofrio, Kevin Woodall, Joshua Lavender, Kellen Abrams, Matt Ceccatto, McKinley Young, Caley Pollock, Gabriel Ricard, David Hiller, Kyle Suddreth, Beatrice James, Lisa Bryski, Kiarra Taylor, Groover, Doug Ford (apologies to anyone I have forgotten)
Gratitude to those who inspired these characters, for being so easy to work with.
Citations:
(in order of occurrence)
Mercury, Freddie. Death on Two Legs. Queen. Queen, Roy Thomas Baker, 1975.
Jagger, Mick, and Richards, Keith. Under My Thumb. Rolling Stones. Andrew Loog Oldham, 1966.
Lost Man (I Wish You Would) is original to the author, inspired by Elton John’s Rocket Man (I Think It’s Going to Be a Long, Long Time).
Copyright © 2015 Bridgette Harris
Cover by X-Potion Designs
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
http://jetterfly.wordpress.com
March, 2006
Avery Rhodes’s first impression upon entering the house was that it smelled like shit. But he was so accustomed to the vast array of noxious smells released by the human body, he was able to note the scent without it turning his stomach. He had known when he found the house that there was a risk of squatters and vandals. He was not concerned; They would be easy to deal with.
The front door was heavy. He left it open, so that any other intruders could make the wise decision to run before a confrontation. Dropping his backpack from his shoulder, he knelt down and pulled the Atlanta Braves cap from his head. The brisk March air gusted in behind him, chilling his now-uncovered head, and strewing trash, leaves, and dust bunnies across the floor of the great room in front of him. Before he risked unzipping the backpack, he listened carefully and glanced around.
Light filtered in through the windows that lined the ceiling, illuminating the room. The house was not only unkempt, but trashed, as Rhodes had suspected it would be. Competing gang signs and other gibberish were spray-painted across walls and doors. Food wrappers, faded newspapers, and discarded rags of clothing littered the floor. Despite this wasted patina, Rhodes could see the house for what it really was: the interior doors were contemporary to the antebellum manor, the woodwork was intact, and—although the floor plan was unusual—there was more than enough space for his intentions.
Rhodes opened his backpack and shoved the ball cap inside. He had bought it at Hartsfield-Jackson on his first pass through. Although he wore it on his way back through El Prat, as well as the return flight, it was still uncomfortably stiff, and he still hated baseball. He hoped that he would not have occasion during the three months he planned to be in Georgia to pull it out until he flew back to Spain. Sliding his hand deeper into the bag, he pulled out a hunting knife, and clipped the sheath to the back of his belt. Reaching into a side pocket, he fished out a pair of nitrile gloves and pulled them on. He zipped the backpack closed, and concealed it behind the open door.
A muffled cough burst from the depths of the house. Rhodes froze, listening. Nothing moved; The cougher was unaware that anyone else had entered the house. Another cough, followed by a fit of hacking, led Rhodes to a pair of French doors opposite the entrance. Whoever he was, he made no attempt at keeping quiet. Standing to one side, Rhodes peered through the glass panes.
The French doors led into a large study, richly furnished yet just as trashed as the great room. There was a window on each side of the room. Rhodes could make out stacks of books on the floor, and a spiral staircase leading to a second-floor landing. The tops of several doors were barely visible beyond the banister. His heart beat faster: Those must be the bedrooms. He could not wait to explore them, imagine their potential, and bring his plans to life.
Rhodes waited after the coughing died down. Gripping the knife handle behind his back, he pushed open the doors. He moved inside slowly, his eyes adjusting to the changing light. A host of offensive smells assaulted his nose. He fought the urge to hold his breath. Scanning the depths of the study, he found the outline of a man lying across a chaise lounge with a tattered woolen blanket clutched around him. His breathing came out loud and wet, his brown hair wild and wiry.
Standing over the man, Rhodes watched him sleep for a moment before kicking the leg of the chaise lounge. The man jumped up with a cry and cowered against the back of the chair. The motion released a gust of musky fragrance. Rhodes snorted it out.
“Who is it?” the man rasped, swinging his head around blindly until he found the looming figure. “Who are you?” His words broke into violent hacking. Rhodes let go of the knife and covered his nose and mouth with a gloved hand until it passed.
“Who am I?” Rhodes replied. “I own this house! Who the fuck are you?”
The man hacked again. It took Rhodes a moment to realize that he was not coughing this time, but laughing.
“What?”
“You don’t own this house, dude,” the man chuckled wetly. “No one owns this house—the state owns this house!”
Somehow this vagrant had seen straight through his lie. Rhodes would have to do something about that. Irritated, he leaned down to get a better look at this tramp. He was gaunt, unwashed, and he gave off a sweet, sickly smell. The whites of his eyes were yellow, streaked brown from sepsis. Rivulets of mucus ran down either side of his nose. A dirty bandage wrapped one hand, negligently exposing what appeared to be a dog bite. The teeth marks were obscured by dark, rotting skin. Rhodes gave him a few weeks left, perhaps a month, before the infection disposed of him.
“You’re very sick.”
The man shook his head with another chuckle. “Not as sick as you are.” Rhodes tilted his head, hand drifting back to the handle of the knife. “Not as sick as you are, if you bought this house. Who in their right mind would want to live here?” he asked. “It ain’t right. Bein’ here ain’t right, but I don’t have any choice. Like you said, I’m sick.”
Rhodes was not as curious as he should have been. He was too distracted considering ways he might be able to make his story more solid. He would need to create a paper trail, which would take a significant amount of time. Cleaning and repairing the house would take a significant amount of time. He needed to stop wasting it.
Reaching out, Rhodes took the man’s bearded chin into his hand. He turned his face from side to side. The man had been shaking with fear and fever, but relaxed when he saw the nitrile gloves.
He looked up with hope. “You a doctor?”
“Not at the moment.”
Throwing his weight forward, Rhodes covered the man’s nose and mouth with a hand and pressed his knee into the man’s chest. The vagrant flailed, clutching at Rhodes’s jeans and jacket. Even after his grip failed and his hands dropped, Rhodes continued to smother him—knowing all too well that stillness is not an indicator of death.
After a few minutes, Rhodes slid his other hand around the man’s neck. Satisfied that there was no pulse, he released the body. It slumped on
to the floor, knocking over a pile of books and a ratty knapsack.
Rhodes picked up the knapsack and flipped it open. It contained stinking, ragged clothes, a pocket-sized umbrella, and an 8x13 hardcover book. The book and umbrella were the only things this man possessed that were in good condition. Glancing at the book cover, Rhodes was surprised to find a high school year book.
Shoving the book back into the bag, Rhodes glanced down at the body. He needed light. Bag in one hand, he grabbed a corner of the woolen blanket in the other, and used it to drag the body to the front door.
Brought into the light, Rhodes could now see that the vagrant had been far younger than he had guessed, perhaps in his early twenties. Cleaned up, he might have even been attractive. Nevertheless, he had been far too sick to survive much longer. His skin had a yellow, jaundiced tint.
Flipping the knapsack over, Rhodes dumped the contents onto the porch. He picked up the yearbook. Underneath Cheatham Hill Magnet High School 2002, a name had been inscribed, but later scratched out with multiple implements on several occasions. Opening the book, Rhodes perused the heartfelt notes written on the inside cover. The boy had blotted out his name whenever it occurred. This level of self-loathing contrasted curiously with the warm things everyone had to say about him just a few years ago.
Eyeing the body, Rhodes snapped the yearbook shut and pushed aside his growing curiosity. This boy did not matter to him. Rhodes nudged the dirty clothes with his boot, in search of anything he may have missed. A shock of color drew his attention toward the umbrella.
Opening the umbrella, Rhodes was unexpectedly delighted to find the inside painted with brightly-colored rainbow patterns. The edges were lined with lavender, white, and dark green. Over the pattern, a message was painted in streaky white letters:
NEVER STOP RUNNING…
The message was followed by a broad, hypnotic swirl, which ended in CHMHS ’03. Rhodes lifted the umbrella over his head and spun it.
“You should have listened,” he said to the body at his feet.
1
May, 2006
The Benson twins were fighting again. They started in the cafeteria, screaming at one another. The few students who were present when it began were too jaded to respond beyond staring. Every responsible adult in the building was trapped in an end-of-year meeting, oblivious of the altercation. The girls came to blows in the science hall. The varsity football team, shuffling to the locker room from an early-morning practice, glanced at the pink-and-blonde flurry, too sweaty to care.
As the girls threatened to pull each other’s hair out, two seniors broke from the mass. One was tall and lean, with chestnut hair and green eyes. The other was short and broad, strawberry blond with puppy-dog brown eyes. Without discussion, each boy took a twin over a shoulder and carried them in opposite directions.
“Witt!” one shrieked from the redhead’s shoulder. “Get your filthy hands off me!”
“Seriously?” Witt was unruffled, carrying her toward the back door. “Two weeks ’til graduation, and you wanna get suspended? You want Dr. Magee to cancel the senior picnic?”
Her high-pitched reply was unintelligible. He kicked the door open, tossed the girl out, and jerked the door shut again. She slammed her fists against the window, flinging a muffled slew of profanity. She would not be able to open the door from the outside for another half-hour.
Witt returned to find the taller boy with his back against a shuddering classroom door. A familiar shrieking emitted from the room: “Z, move your mother fucking—Oh!”
Z snickered. “Dr. C must be here early.” He peered through the window. The harpy stared at the front of the classroom, stammering an apology. He pulled the door open and she pushed past him, blushing furiously.
“Sorry, Dr. Creighton.” Z called as he leaned into the room. He was surprised to find, not his rotund and silver-maned science teacher, but a lean and dark-featured stranger. The man’s expression shifted from amused to alarmed, staring at the boy with a glimmer of recognition. It faded as quickly as it had appeared. Z had certainly never seen him before. He gave him a dismissive wave. “Sorry,” he repeated.
“What?” Witt asked, peering into the classroom.
“Sub,” Z grunted.
Witt grinned impishly. The substitute smirked back, just as mischievous. Z grabbed Witt’s shoulder pad, jerking him back into the hallway.
Neither of them anticipated the shadow that would fall over their high spirits.
2
When Heather entered the classroom for Anatomy and Physiology, she was not thinking of her frail mortality; She was wondering why they had a substitute. Where was Dr. Creighton? Teachers were not supposed to take any days off within the last two weeks of school, due to the heightened tensions. It had to be something serious. Her concern drifted away when she caught sight of the substitute. He was handsome in a painfully stereotypical way: tall and dark-featured. The sight of him made her stomach flop. He half-smiled as the principal, Dr. Magee, went over substitute plans with him. His eyes flickered over the students who were entering, eyes so dark, they looked black. When his gaze met Heather’s, she realized she was staring. Hiding her flushing face, she hurried to her desk on the far side of the classroom.
A group of girls walked in, wearing the purple and white tops of Cheatham Hill’s cheerleading team. They were the only sleeveless tops allowed in school, and the team exploited that caveat almost daily. Monica Shatterthwaith, despite being the shortest girl in class and surrounded by fairer girls, stood out. Her caramel complexion and wide hazel eyes were magnetic; Even the substitute stared as she crossed the room. She took her assigned seat next to Heather, and her fellow cheerleaders attempted to occupy the seats around her. This was thwarted by students who actually wanted to sit in their own seats. After a moment of protests, Heather’s corner of the world quieted down.
“I’d like a piece of that,” Monica whispered to Heather nodding toward the handsome stranger. Sometimes, when none of her other friends were around, Monica remembered how close she and Heather once were. Heather cherished these moments; She had recognized a long time ago Monica was candid with her in a way she wasn’t with others, probably because they had known one another since before they could walk.
“You should have seen him staring when you walked in.” Monica looked pleased with this response.
Between rumors that Dr. Creighton had a substitute and the fact summer was two weeks away, attendance was unusually low. Only twelve of the twenty-five students enrolled in the course decided to show up. As stragglers shuffled in and took their seats, Dr. Magee took his leave. Heather closed her eyes and prayed Witt would neglect to attend. She hissed between her teeth with disappointment when his freckled face appeared at the door.
“A substitute! Yeah!” He made a show of mock appreciation by shaking the sub’s hand, then promptly took a seat not assigned to him.
Z followed Witt in. A mixture of bitterness and a quickened pulse filled Heather’s chest at the sight of him. She shifted uncomfortably and forced them both away. Z did not mimic Witt’s show of bravado. He avoided the substitute’s gaze. Gripping the broken strap of his tattered book bag, he trudged to his desk, right behind Heather. He looked impatient with Witt’s gimmicks, but said nothing; He had forfeited that privilege long ago.
They settled down surprisingly fast when the substitute called for attention. His voice was not booming, but it was sharp with authority. His tone commanded obedience in most of the students, but for others, it presented a welcome challenge. Witt sucked on his bottom lip as he stared at the sub, waiting for another opportunity to draw attention to himself.
“My name is Avery Rhodes—”
“‘Road’, like you drive on?” Witt asked.
“No, ‘Rhodes’, as in ‘Colossus of’,” he shot back. Monica giggled, taking this out of context. When some of the other students realized why, they made a muffled chorus of amused noises. Rhodes, realizing what they were thinking, smirked. “O
K, calm down,” he said before diving into roll call.
Most substitutes called out the names as if they were asking a question; Rhodes called out the names as if he were commanding them to respond. He had gotten all the way to Monica without incident, but she wanted to become more to him than just another name on his roster. She wanted to give him something to remember her by.
“Monica Shatterthwaith.”
“It’s not ‘Monica’,” she snapped, as if annoyed. “It’s ‘Moné-sha’.”
“Thank you for correcting me.” He retaliated with a smirk and wrote a note on the roll. “Otherwise I would have made a fool of myself by pronouncing it phonetically all day.”
“I know, right?” Monica gushed. “You’re so welcome!”
“And Heather Stokes.” He had noticed the students were supposed to be sitting in alphabetical order, and turned to Heather. “Is it ‘Heather’ Stokes? Not ‘Hater’ or ‘He-ather’ or ‘Hee-ther’ or anything like that?”
“Well, now that you mention it…” She exchanged a glance with Monica, then Witt. Refusing to stoop to his level, she shook her head. “No, it is just Heather.”
“Thank you, Just Heather.” She broke the trend until he reached the end of the alphabet: “Zachariah Vlasov.”
“It’s just ‘Z’.”
Sensing no humor in his voice, Rhodes nodded. “The ‘-achariah’ is silent.”
Z smirked. “Yeah.” He nodded, making a mental note to use that one later.
Rhodes continued on to “Charles Witt.”
“It’s ‘D’.” Witt had leaned far back in his chair and rolled his head, making a great effort to look and sound bored.
“‘D’?” Rhodes double-checked the name on his roll. “‘D’ is short for Charles Francis Witt?”