by Jette Harris
It was almost eight already. Steyer turned his face up, looking for whatever enabled the older man to make these divinations. As Steyer searched the sky, Feingold searched the ground. He took a few steps into the yard.
“Do you have a bag?” He squatted to get a closer look at something in the toasted grass. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and picked up what appeared to be a twig. “Eh…” He turned it in the light. “Cigarette butt.”
“Local PD?”
He shot Steyer a wry smile. “Would you really want to make that assumption?”
“I’ll get a bag,” Steyer replied. As he went to the trunk of the car, Feingold followed, still inspecting his find.
“Eh… American Spirit.”
“That’s strong stuff.” Steyer ducked into the truck. “Johnny used to smoke American Spirits.” He sifted through the assorted sizes of evidence bags and muttered as he pulled one out, “Small.”
As he closed the trunk, he heard the shuffle of running feet. A man in a black hooded sweatshirt and jeans was running down the sidewalk, away from them.
“Hey—” Steyer stepped back onto the sidewalk. The sight of Feingold on the ground gagged him. “Gold!”
Feingold slumped against the car, struggling to breathe. As Steyer pulled out his cell phone and dialed 9-1-1, Feingold raised a shaking hand to point after the running man, then held up his empty palms. The man was already too far for pursuit: He was two blocks down and turned a corner. The speed with which he had made his move was dizzying.
So quick! Too quick!
“FBI Agent Richard Steyer,” he said the moment the dispatcher spoke, “I have an agent down.” He knelt at Feingold’s side as he gave them the address. Feingold opened his mouth to speak, but only his rattling breath and flecks of blood escaped.
“He’s gone,” Steyer told him. “But I’m here… help is on the way.”
He eased Feingold forward to inspect his back. Blood saturated his blazer. There was a hole in the fabric. The blade had been small, but effective. Lifting the blazer, Steyer found an incision just to the right of the spine, slipped up under the ribcage. By the sounds Feingold was making, it had gone straight through the diaphragm and into his right lung.
“It’s OK,” Steyer lied. Even if an ambulance had already been on its way, Feingold was unlikely to survive the distance between the scene and the hospital. He slapped the evidence bag over the wound to preventing it from sucking air. “It’s nothing at all… just a scratch. Just breathe. Just stay calm.”
The man’s shoulders began to shake. He was pale. Blood had filled his mouth, but he gave Steyer a bloody grin. He was laughing at his feeble lie. Despite the tightness in his throat and the tears forcing their way into his eyes, Steyer could not resist chuckling back.
Still grinning, Feingold huffed a couple of times, then slumped back against the car. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Steyer sat heavily on the ground. He covered his face and fought the urge to despair.
9
May, 2006
Atlanta
Byron’s stomach lurched as if he had consumed too much caffeine. He leaned against the edge of his desk, stared at Chief Collins’s office door, and wrung his hands until they were ashy. Kondorf must have noticed, because he broke out the bottle of Huskers usually reserved for biting winter nights. Byron accepted the lotion, rubbed it in, and continued wringing his hands until they were dry again.
Kondorf chuckled. Unlike Byron, the lieutenant managed to look unruffled as he leaned on the desk across from him. “Don’t be so nervous. I used to work with feds all the time in Macon. They’re here for a few days, maybe a couple of weeks. They’ll holler orders, interrogate people, keep mostly to themselves, then disappear.”
Byron nodded absently. “People call ’em ‘spooks,’ right?”
Kondorf buried his face in his coffee. “No, not down in Macon. Not feds.”
Byron barked a laugh—the first in two days—then pulled his face back under control as the chief’s door opened. The day-shift detective, Sergeant Young, stepped out. She tugged at her ponytail and tossed it back over her shoulder with uncharacteristic girliness. Byron craned his neck to peer around her as she approached. He caught a glimpse of a man with blond, almost white hair, sitting in front of Collins’s desk. Another man stood behind his chair, handsome, with dark hair. He glanced out as he closed the door on his way to claim the now-empty second chair.
Byron’s heart pounded faster. No wonder Young had pulled the hair flip.
“What’s the word?” Kondorf asked.
“Bird is the word, Tommy.” Young leaned against the wall in the mouth of the hallway. She sucked her teeth before shrugging. “The bird is a Phoenix, but the connections they’re making are pretty hinky.”
Kondorf raised his chin and narrowed his eyes. “Hinky how?”
Young mock-glared at them. “As y’all discussed with Boss-man—behind my back, I might add—the Phoenix, like most serial killers, follows a pattern: Four hostages, two male, two female; Abductions within a short window of time; and taunting of authorities.”
“Taunting?” Byron furrowed his brow.
“The 9-1-1 call,” Kondorf explained. “In San Francisco, the Phoenix Killer called 9-1-1 while he was abducting one of the female vics.”
“While?” Byron’s mouth went dry. He had done some internet research on the Phoenix Killer, but reliable sources were scarce, and the results did more to stir the panic rising in his chest than provide any useful information.
“Yes, while.” Young’s gaze turned serious. “And it’s worse: He also killed two officers in San Francisco, and a fed in Detroit.” She looked Byron in the eye. “You’re one-hundred-percent sure it wasn’t Chuck’s voice on the 9-1-1 call?”
“Positive. His… his parents verified.”
“What about the Vlasov kid?”
“Jersey boy,” Kondorf said. “Had a real strong accent. You’ve ordered coffee from him; You’ve heard it. Does the FBI have a physical description of the guy?”
Young scoffed. “Yeah: Between 5’10 and 6-foot, 160 to 180 pounds, dark hair, brown eyes; Tall, dark, and handsome.”
Kondorf raised his chin and eyed Byron, sizing him up. Byron narrowed his eyes up at Kondorf.
“Caucasian.”
“Ha!” Byron pointed at Kondorf, then frowned. “That describes about five people in this office, including the guy sitting in there.” He pointed to the office, indicating the dark-haired agent.
Young rubbed her forehead and sighed. “I’m not convinced. But I guess I’d rather be right with them here than wrong without them. They seem nice enough.”
Byron lowered his voice. “I’m just excited to be working with the FBI. I loved watching X-Files as a kid.”
The detectives exchanged a glance and burst out laughing. Byron snapped his mouth shut, face burning.
“They’re nothin’ special, Jamal!” Young clapped a hand on his shoulder. “They just got longer arms.”
The door to the chief’s office opened.
“And nicer suits,” Byron added.
Their white-maned chief stepped out, followed closely by the agents. Byron’s heart raced again, but it had nothing to do with X-Files.
Collins did not resemble a rooster in appearance, but he had the air of chanticleer pride whenever he said anything. He could announce swapping instant coffee brands, sweep his hand, stick his face out, and smile as if it were a Herculean task he had accomplished for them all. He wasn’t being petty; That was just his way. He assumed this posture to present the well-dressed strangers.
“Lieutenant,” Collins announced, “Officer, these are Special Agents Steyer and Remington, on loan from the FBI’s Violent Crimes division.”
Kondorf’s mouth twitched as he heard their names. Byron snorted, but covered it with a cough. Agent Remington stared at him flatly. Steyer succumbed to a wry smirk.
Byron cleared his throat. “Sorry.”
“We’re used to it,�
�� Steyer replied.
“The rookie—” Collins clapped a hand on Byron’s shoulder. “—is Jamal Byron. And this—” He gestured toward Kondorf. “—is our late-shift detective, Lieutenant Tom Kondorf, my most veteran officer.”
The agents shook hands with firm, sure grips. Steyer’s hand was cool, but Remington’s was hot and dry. Touching the handsome agent’s hand and looking into his light brown eyes made Byron’s belly squirm. He smothered the stirring, as he had learned to do whenever a man inspired it.
Remington flipped open a small notebook and shifted his weight from one foot to another, shifting the conversation to the reason they were there: “You two found the Stokes girl’s car?” He pointed to Byron and Kondorf. His accent smacked of Brooklyn.
“Yessir,” Byron said. Kondorf nodded.
Remington glanced at his notes. “And you responded to the 9-1-1 call?”
“Yeah.”
Remington raised his brow and scratched it with the cap of his pen. He studied Byron briefly, but studied Kondorf longer.
“How many officers are on your battalion?” Steyer’s accent was also distinctly Northern, with the Boston not quite polished out. He did not seem interested that Kondorf was between 5’10 and 6-foot, over 160 pounds, and had dark hair and brown eyes.
“Four,” the lieutenant replied, “but depending on the swing shift, there can be up to eleven officers in the office around ten o’clock who can be considered on-duty.”
“We have twenty officers altogether,” Collins added, “and we pull from Cobb County or Marietta when we need assistance.”
Steyer nodded. “What time was the 9-1-1 call?”
“About ten-fifteen, ten-twenty,” Byron replied. “Swing shift had already cleared out.”
Steyer pulled out a stack of manila folders tucked under his arm. He selected the thinnest one and flipped it open. The tab read ATL, and it contained the police reports for the disappearances. He skimmed the top report and made a few notes. “What was your response time?”
“Maybe five minutes,” Kondorf replied.
“Maybe five minutes to incapacitate and abduct two able-bodied high school athletes…” Steyer raised his eyes to Remington, who wore a dark expression.
The air escaped Byron’s lungs. He scraped for possible discrepancies in the time line, but found none. “Look, I know how it looks—”
“How does it look, officer?” Steyer asked coolly.
“Like… a prank, or like they orchestrated this themselves…” He shook his head. “I know three of these kids pretty well. I went to school with them; They wouldn’t do something like this. Heather would never put her grandfather through something like this.”
“How long have you known them?” Remington asked.
“I only know Z from the coffee shop—”
“That’s Zachariah Vlasov,” Young explained. The agents nodded and made their respective notes.
“But Chuck, Heather, and Monica were all freshmen when I was a senior. Chuck and I played football together, Monica is a cheerleader, and Heather runs track. I’ve known them all for four years.” He paused, then gestured at Collins, Kondorf, and Young. “They know Heather, too.”
“Heather Stokes?” Steyer glanced at the file to confirm the name. “How does everyone know Heather Stokes?”
“Small town,” Young said. “Her parents died in a car accident a few years back. We all, you know, came together to help her and her grandpa out, help them cope and get back on their feet.”
“Are they connected at all beyond going to the same school and athletics?”
“They’re in the same AP class,” Young replied.
“Heather Stokes lives next door to Monica Shatterthwaith,” Kondorf said.
Byron rubbed the back of his neck. “They’re all… pretty much friends. Except Heather hates Witt…”
Young watched Byron out of the corner of her eye, waiting for him to continue. When he didn’t, she said, “Heather and Z were… an item the summer before last. After her parents died.”
“An item?” Remington raised a brow.
Byron exhaled slowly through his nose. “They were sleeping together. She was using him to blow off some steam.”
“Ah.” He jotted down a note.
“They’re OK now, but they don’t talk about it,” Young added.
“It’s just another reason we know they didn’t just run off together,” Byron said. “There’s a lot of tension there.”
Steyer searched each of their faces, then dropped his eyes back to the report.
“Five minutes is more than enough time,” Remington said, quiet but firm.
“I agree.” Steyer nodded.
“What?” Byron’s eyes were wide as he looked from one agent to another.
“Five minutes,” Steyer explained with a sigh, “is more than enough time for the Phoenix to beat a man unconscious, toss him in a vehicle, and escape. Two men isn’t much of a stretch.”
Remington took a deep breath. “We’ve seen how he works.”
10
2002
San Francisco (“Lark Alexander”)
“I’m so fucking scared,” Brandy said into her phone. She pulled the chef’s knife from the butcher block on her counter halfway out, then let it slide back in. “I mean, this job is perfect for me. I’m perfect for the job. But, what if I choke?”
She walked into the dining room to look at herself in the mirror one more time. She had an hour before she had to leave for her interview, and she had been ready for just as long. She had already changed her suit, then changed back, and re-styled her hair twice.
“Brandy, sit down,” her sister ordered on the other end of the line.
Sighing, Brandy sat on the nearest surface that could be sat upon, a coffee table. “I’m just… I mean—”
But her sister never got to learn what Brady just or meant. There was a series of sharp knocks on the door. “Oh, hold on, there’s someone at the door. It better not be Mormons…”
She was surprised to open the door to a man. He was tall, attractive, and sweaty, still panting as if he had been running. His too-tight t-shirt and jaunty stance implied that he was not Mormon by any extent of the imagination.
“Is that your white car?” he huffed.
Brandy pressed the phone into her shoulder. “Uh—yeah, do I need to move it?”
“No. The window’s broken. I think someone broke into it.”
“What?” Her tone was harsher than she intended. As the man walked with her down the front path, she filled her sister in. “My car’s been broken into! This is literally the last thing I need right now…”
The driver’s side window lay in tiny pieces on the ground. The driver’s door was ajar.
“Oh, my God!” She covered her mouth. She had been hoping there had been a mistake, or this stranger was playing some kind of cruel prank.
“I’ll call the cops.” Pulling out a phone, he dialed 9-1-1.
Brandy nodded dumbly. As he gave her address to the dispatcher, she opened the door and looked around inside.
“It doesn’t look like anything’s missing… Let them know everything’s OK. Nothing’s missing.”
He held up a finger. “Yeah, the guy just shoved her into the car and took off.”
“What?”
Dropping the phone in his hand, he shoved Brandy into the car. She screamed and kicked, but her pencil skirt did not allow for much movement. He pushed her into the passenger seat and slammed her head against the window until the screaming stopped.
Brandy’s phone had fallen to the floorboard. Her sister shouted for her, asking her if she was OK, demanding to know what was going on. He picked up the phone. The name on the screen said “Pum’kin.”
“Sorry, Pum’kin,” he said. “Brandy won’t be able to call you back.”
He tossed the phone over his shoulder, and it clattered onto the road. He made himself as comfortable as he could sitting on glass and tugged at the wires he had pulled o
ut from under the dash earlier, bringing the car to life.
Sirens wailed in the distance as he pulled away.
11
May, 2006
Atlanta
While Chief Collins pulled Agent Steyer aside to discuss office space and acquisitions, Agent Remington crossed to the front of the office. An ancient wooden desk had been pushed against the front wall to act as a coffee station. The marred surface was sticky and coffee-stained, baring the chips and dents from rowdy detainees and mischievous officers. The coffee-maker was comparatively new, but it didn’t improve the quality of the coffee itself.
Byron rubbed his hands a bit longer, cracked his knuckles, then followed Remington to the front. He caught the agent grimacing after his first sip.
“We usually don’t drink the sludge unless we have to.” Byron gave an apologetic smile.
“I should be used to this by now.” Remington smirked. Byron was shocked at how dramatically the small gesture changed his appearance.
“We usually get our coffee from the coffee shop—the one Witt and Z disappeared from. Free, if we go inside to get it.” Byron pursed his lips; He was talking too much.
Remington eyed him. “Something on your mind, Office Byron?”
Shit. Caught staring. “I—um—the Phoenix Killer… If it is him, what… what kind of timeline are we working with?”
Remington sighed, looking away. “Maybe a month. But it could be two, three weeks. In Detroit, back in ’97, it was a little under two weeks.”
“That’s when he killed the fed, right?” The question slipped from Byron’s mouth before he considered his wording. A shadow flit across Remington’s face, and Byron shook his head. “Sorry. I’m just… there’s a lot going on.”
Remington nodded, but the shadow remained.
“I couldn’t find a reliable report of what happened.”
They turned to watch Steyer, who had his hands folded in his pockets, looking around one of the small glass-walled conference rooms.
“It was his partner, not mine,” Remington said in a low voice. “Feingold. Don’t ask Ritchie, though. He won’t respond, but the look he’ll give you will make you feel two foot small.” He took another sip of coffee, accompanied by another grimace.