by Jette Harris
Nodding, Kondorf turned to the passenger side and paused. Byron followed his gaze. Blood fanned up the side of the car. Byron’s throat tightened. He turned to look at the woods around them, but nothing looked back out.
“Heather?” he shouted. “Heather!”
Kondorf opened the passenger door and peered inside the purse. A Cheatham Hill Magnet High School ID smiled at him with curly hair and hazel eyes.
“Monica,” he greeted it.
Byron spun toward him. “Huh?”
“Your mystery passenger was Monica Shatterthwaith.”
“Oh.” That made perfect sense: Heather and Monica lived next door to one another, and Monica was always hitting her up for rides.
Kondorf stared at the ID blankly. His mouth twitched.
“What?”
He shook his head slowly. “We now have two young men and two young ladies—”
“Heather hates Witt.”
“—missing. This is not good.”
Byron’s eyes were wide, his face pale. “We… we need to go back. Tell Tex... And Monica’s parents... Fuck, what’re we gonna tell them?”
Kondorf blinked and took a deep breath. “Stop.” He placed a hand on each of Byron’s shoulders. “You’re getting too far ahead of yourself. Way too far. This may or may not be related to the boys’ disappearance. Or, like you suggested, they might be helping Chuck run away.”
“But there’s blood… there was blood… I was sayin’ all that to… because…”
Kondorf took a deep, deliberate breath. Byron mirrored him.
“The first thing we need to do is find out what they were doing out this late on a school night.”
****
Chief Collins rarely came into the office this early. He stood at the window by his desk, thumbs tucked into his belt. The sun reflected off the clouds, painting everything red, pink, and orange. His jaw moved as if he were chewing on the information Kondorf and Byron had given him.
“Two young men, two young ladies. An unsettling phone call, and two abandoned vehicles…” He turned to them. “I can’t help but hope someone’s playing a game, some kind of senior prank.”
Byron shook his head. “Heather would never—”
“Oh, I know.” Collins looked back outside. “She cleaned up her act P-D-Q when her parents died.”
A heavy silence fell. It grew heavier as Kondorf opened his mouth, but did not speak. Collins turned to him expectantly.
“It sounds familiar,” Kondorf finally said.
“Hm?” Collins raised his brow.
Kondorf looked around the floor and leaned his elbows on his knees with his fists balled in front of his mouth. He closed his eyes and for a second, Byron thought he was praying. Kondorf mumbled something. Byron didn’t catch it, but Collins did.
“Nah!” The chief jerked his head back toward the window.
“What?” Byron looked between them. Collins shifted uneasily.
Kondorf looked at him askance and straightened. “Phoenix,” he repeated. Collins sucked his teeth.
“What? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Arizona,” Kondorf said.
“Nineteen… what? Ninety-two?” Collins scratched his chin.
Kondorf furrowed his brow. “Ninety-four?”
Byron was still lost. “What about it?”
“Phoenix, then Detroit, then… Los Angeles?”
“San Francisco.”
Byron frowned and stilled as he began to understand what they were implying.
“OK.” Collins nodded, turning back to them, but not meeting their eyes. “I’ll call the FBI.”
Kondorf leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees again. He squeezed his eyes shut. This time, there was no doubt he was praying: “Please, Lord. Please let us be wrong.”
4
Washington, DC
Banners, ribbons, and balloons littered the banquet hall: everything was red, white, blue, and gold. Ladies and gentlemen in suits, pencil skirts, and dress uniforms of all kinds sat around tables and stood along the walls. Steyer sat with a small company across the back of the stage, behind a man standing at a podium. Steyer hated events like this, but it was his retirement ceremony, and he was obligated to attend.
The man at the podium called Steyer’s name and held out a hand. All eyes were now on Steyer. Steyer glanced to his right. Johnny gave him a reassuring smile. Steyer forced himself to imitate the smile as he stood and straightened his tie.
“Thank you, Director.” He shook the man’s hand. Steyer had exchanged only a handful of words with him over the thirty-one-year course of his career, but patted his shoulder as if they were close. The Director of the FBI took his seat as Steyer pulled his speech from his pocket and unfolded it. “You know me: I am the Boy Scout; I like to be prepared.”
He glanced over at the piece of paper and folded it again. Death announcements were easier than these social obligations.
“Ladies and gentlemen, agents, officers, esteemed guests of all ranks, thank you for your presence here today as I celebrate the crowning event of my career: my retirement.” Laughter rippled through the audience. At least he had gotten the introduction right.
Samantha Wickes pushed through a door and hurried around the crowd to the edge of the stage. She kept her eyes down and her lips pursed. Steyer tried not to stumble over his words as she beckoned someone behind him. Remington shuffled down to her. The two had a hurried exchanged. When she left, he stared after her, arms akimbo, then looked up at Steyer.
Day and Night, their associates called them. The monikers referred to more than Steyer’s fair features and white hair contrasting Remington’s dark: Steyer always looked cool and placid, while Remington always looked angry or on edge. After four years as partners, Steyer had become skilled at interpreting the nuances of Remington’s scowls. He turned to him with concern.
Remington swallowed hard and held up his hands. Hooking his thumbs, he spread his fingers wide and flapped them, imitating some wicked bird.
Steyer’s voice stuck in his throat. His heart sank. Pausing, he looked out over the audience. They had fallen silent, expectant. He glanced back at Johnny, whose face was pale. He must have recognized the gesture.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for the inconvenience,” Steyer told them. “It appears I have a case.”
Uneasy laughter floated through the crowd. Steyer stepped away from the podium and joined his partner.
“Where is he?”
“Atlanta,” Remington replied.
Also available from Jette Harris:
Creepy Captivity Shorts
Nails
Housebreaking
Tears
Praying
Her