Two Guns

by Jette Harris

  “They’ll pull us, or you’ll pull us?” Remington’s voice had a bitter edge.

  Wickes exhaled slowly. “Get more.”

  “Wait, Sam, don’t hang—” Remington was interrupted by a click and dead air. He curled his hand into a fist.

  “Whatever it is sour between you two,” Steyer said, “fix it, or this case isn’t getting solved.”

  Shaking his head, Remington picked up his own cell and shut himself in the bathroom.

  22

  Byron envied how awake Steyer looked when the agents walked into the precinct just before six o’clock the next morning. Remington not so much, but he was in the process of chugging an energy drink. Despite the hour and that they had travelled over eight hundred miles to get there, they still looked well put-together: Their suits were pressed and creased in all the right places. Their shoes shined.

  Byron looked down at his wrinkled uniform and scuffed boots and sighed. It can’t be helped. He gave his hair a few quick swipes with a brush and smiled as if he didn’t feel like the walking dead.

  “Mornin’, Agent Steyer, Agent Remington.”

  “Officer Byron,” Steyer greeted him. He even sounded awake.

  “We didn’t expect y’all back ’til nine or ten!” Kondorf said, emerging from the men’s room. He balled-up the paper towel in his hands and shot it into the toy basketball hoop over the trashcan. It hit the rim and bounced off. He grunted as he scooped it up and tossed it in properly.

  Byron’s face tinged, wondering what level of unprofessional the feds would consider that spectacle. Steyer watched, unperturbed.

  “Time is precious, Lieutenant,” he said.

  “Come in early, go home late,” Remington added. He tossed his can at the hoop. Nothin’ but net.

  Kondorf cleared his throat and nodded at the Recycling bin. Remington pursed his lips and retrieved the can.

  “Mornin’, all.” Young walked in, also looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. She nodded, tapping the bill of her ball cap. Byron envied her ability to wake up in the dark of the morning, walk her dogs, hit the gym, and show up to work wide-awake. All without coffee.

  “Good morning, detective,” Steyer greeted her.

  “What’s on the menu today?”

  As they spoke, Remington wandered over to the glass-walled conference room, which had been cleared the night before. Byron followed and glanced inside the door with him. Two desks and two chairs now occupied the middle of the room, accompanied but two trash bins and a coat rack.

  “So, this is HQ?” Byron asked.

  “Usually they just sit us at a desk.” Remington didn’t quite smile, but he looked satisfied. “In San Fran, it was a large storage closet.”

  “Wow.” Byron eyed the desks. “Want some help setting up?”

  Remington studied him. “Aren’t you off shift in…” He checked his watch. “Three minutes ago?”

  Byron shrugged. Remington shrugged back and stepped inside. He rubbed his face, looking from the desks to the window in the back corner. He lifted the coat rack and placed it to the right of the door. He pulled his suit jacket off and hung it with care. His shirt, tailored as perfectly as his suit, pulled taut over the hard muscles of his back and shoulders.

  Byron recalled the conversation with the stranger the previous day and nodded toward the jacket. “Who made your suit?”

  “I did.” Remington rolled up his sleeves.

  Byron gaped.

  “My people are tailors, going back four or five generations.”

  “Wow. Convenient.”

  Remington shrugged. “It keeps my mind off work when I’m home.” He positioned himself at the end of one of the desks and pointed to where it should go near the far wall. Byron took the other end and lifted.

  “That’s gotta be tough, given the types of cases you have.”

  “You think kidnapping and murder is tough? I used to be Organized Crime.”

  “Shit.”

  Remington glanced between the two chairs, and rolled the newer-looking one between the desk and the wall. They moved the second desk perpendicular to it, with a gap in-between wide enough for a man to walk through.

  “We’re going to need a whiteboard or something, unless they want holes in that wall…” Remington leaned against the front of the desk and nodded at the wall opposite. He stared, then turned to Byron. “Hey, thanks for the help.” He offered the officer his hand.

  “Anytime,” Byron said, shaking it. “What’re your plans for the day? Get settled in?”

  Remington chuckled dryly. “I wish. No, we have to hit the ground running. We’re going to try to cement the connection between these disappearances and the Phoenix, eliminate any possibility this might be a financially-motivated kidnapping—”

  Byron scoffed. Remington glared at him flatly.

  “Sorry, man. Just… the thought of them running away or being held for ransom… it’s…” Byron shook his head. “It would make for a pretty funny movie.”

  Remington nodded. “Well, that funny movie is preferable to the theory we’re pursuing, so I hope that’s the case.”

  Byron sighed. “Yeah, man, I’m sorry. It’s just… unreal.”

  “You don’t wanta imagine your friends in pain, I understand, and I hope they’re not. But…” Remington looked away, nodding slowly. “The circumstances—the vehicles, the call—they send shivers down my spine; They’re that familiar.”

  Byron stilled, swallowing hard. “If…” He rubbed his hands as he formulated his idea. “If it’s a ransom, there should be a call pretty soon, right?”

  “Mm-hm. Or suspicious transactions. Warrants for those records came in last night, and we have a specialist reviewing them.” He raised his eyebrows. “And that’s assuming they didn’t run away.”

  Byron shook his head. “Heather wouldn’t do that.”

  “How sure are you about that?”

  “Ninety-nine point nine percent,” Byron shot. Remington eyed him thoughtfully. Byron’s face flushed. He looked down at his feet. “If it is the Phoenix, it should be pretty easy to bait him.”

  “Come again?”

  Byron wished he had a cup of coffee he could hide behind, to hide he had been reading confidential case files. He shrugged. “I mean, he popped up in Detroit when… when Agent Feingold found the cigarette butt, and he popped up a few times in San Francisco to mess with your shit…” He sniffed. “I was just thinkin’… maybe we could bait him. Draw him out. Make him think we have something, or even make him think we think it’s not him, or like he’s nothin’.”

  Remington stared at him blankly.

  “Out of the question.” They jerked their heads toward the door. Steyer stood with his hands in his pockets, studying them. “What you’re proposing could get people killed, even if it’s not the Phoenix; You could be poking a sleeping dragon.”

  Byron shrunk under the agent’s gaze. He realized what Remington had said about Steyer making him feel two foot small. A heavy silence fell.

  “Thank you for helping set-up, Officer Byron,” Steyer finally said.

  “Thank you, Agent Steyer, Agent Remington.” Byron nodded and stood, adjusting his belt. “I’ll see you gentlemen this evening.” He wanted to say “Good luck” or “I hope you find something,” but everything sounded either demeaning or pretentious. He pursed his lips and gave another nod instead.

  Leaving the office, he felt ten times more drained than he had when the agents had arrived. But he could have sworn he heard a low voice say, “You know, he has a point.”

  23

  After three calls to Cobb County Dispatch, through which all 9-1-1 calls in the area are routed after ten PM, Detective Young finally got her hands on a disc containing the call from the coffee shop. As far as Remington could determine, this exchange involved driving out to the dispatcher’s office in Austell and offering to dog-sit for free. It had been quite a while since he had to play inter-jurisdictional games, and he didn’t look upon them with much nostalg
ia. He thanked Young for her sacrifices and popped the disc into the stereo that usually lived on the vacant desk next to Byron’s, which had been requisitioned for this purpose.

  “So, y’all know his voice?” Young asked.

  Steyer simply nodded, but Remington felt the urge to crush his coffee cup in his fist. He resisted and instead placed the cup gently on the edge of his desk. Young studied him until he nodded.

  “We have both spoken to him briefly on the phone.”

  “He called you?” She raised a brow.

  Steyer studied Remington for a moment. “Not exactly.”

  Young resigned herself with a nod and hit play. An electronic female voice stated the date and time.

  “9-1-1, is this a medical emergency?” As the dispatcher spoke, so did a faint male voice in the background. They couldn’t make out his words.

  “Yes, medical emergency…” the caller said. Remington’s skin crawled. He shifted uncomfortably. “Please send an ambulance to Dallas and John Ward. There are two boys here, injured. They’re in great danger.”

  “Melodramatic piece of shit…” Remington breathed.

  This time the background voice was clearer: “I’m not hurt; It’s just Witt.”

  There was a click as the call disconnected.

  “Hello? Sir? Are you there?” The dispatcher continued to prompt. “I think he hung up… Ambulance and police are en route.”

  The disc slid to a stop. Steyer looked up at Young and nodded. “That’s him.”

  “You sure?”

  “Beyond the shadow of a doubt.”

  Young turned to Remington. “Do you agree, Agent Remington?”

  Remington shuffled the papers around his desk, grinding his teeth as he nodded. Opening his middle drawer, he found the car keys and his wallet. “I’m going to run out and get some coffee,” he said curtly. He didn’t wait for anyone to speak, but made a beeline for the door.

  “Sore spot?” Young asked.

  Steyer nodded gravely. “Very.”

  24

  2002

  San Francisco (“Lark Alexander”)

  Steyer’s throat was tight. His heart fluttered and pounded so erratically, he feared he was having a heart attack. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to maintain a calm demeanor. He clutched the car door as the cruiser flew down the road, slowing only slightly before barreling through red lights at busy intersections. The detective driving, Christina Grimes, also wore a calm demeanor, except for the fingers drumming against her thigh, as if the sirens were some brazen pop song.

  Three blocks from Samuel Vanegas’s antique studio, Steyer attempted one more time to call Remington’s cell phone. He was expecting it to ring, for the fifth time, until it went to voicemail. But it didn’t. It clicked as someone answered.

  “What’s wrong?” Steyer demanded. There was a huff of silent chuckling and the metallic grinding and clinking of chains in the background. “Who is this?”

  “Afraid you’re going to lose another partner, Agent Steyer?” a man asked in a low, growling voice. He grunted and there was a clank.

  Steyer could not reply. His throat was too tight. He opened his mouth, but nothing would come out.

  “You don’t have to worry about this one,” the man said. “I like him; He’s cute.”

  The phone clicked again. Steyer listened dumbly to dead air until Grimes pulled up to the curb. Other patrol cars pulled around them, blocking in the cruiser that was already parked in front of the building, the one Corporal Woodall and Remington had arrived in.

  Steyer jumped out, pulling his gun, and nudged the door open. The light from the back room lit the studio just enough for him to see a clear path. He hurried toward it, noting the small puddle of blood on the floor. Despite the stranger’s assurance, his throat tightened again.

  Steyer stood by the back door and peered inside, his gun held rigidly in front of him. A pool of blood drew his eyes to a body wearing a police uniform, face down on the ground. Steyer followed the sound of clinking to the back of the room. His eyes went wide.

  Remington hung from the ceiling by a network of chains, his feet dangling above this floor. His wrists were bound over his drooping head. Blood dripped slowly onto his shirt. His trousers and boxers sagged around his ankles.

  Boots scraped behind Steyer as officers swept into the studio. He shot forward, yanking Remington’s boxers up around his hips. Officers flooded the room before he could pull up the trousers.

  “Help me get him down!” Steyer yelled.

  25

  May, 2006

  Atlanta

  Dean Witt stood about six-foot-four with massive shoulders and a narrow waist that made him resemble a baseball player. Remington studied Steyer as he studied the younger Witt, and knew that was exactly what Steyer was thinking. Despite his size, Dean stood in the middle of their temporary office and tried to look as small as possible.

  “Do your parents know you’re here?” Steyer asked.

  Dean dropped his eyes to the floor. He shook his head.

  “Are you skipping school to be here?” Remington asked.

  “Yessir.”

  Remington found his notepad and flipped it open. He scribbled a note, signed and dated, and tore it loose. “See if they’ll accept this. If not, we have a meeting scheduled with the principal this afternoon anyway.”

  “Thanks.” Dean accepted the note and tucked it into his back pocket.

  “Please, have a seat,” Steyer gestured to the chairs set up before their desks. “What can we do for you today?”

  Dean shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then shrugged his book bag off and thunked it on one of the chairs. He unzipped it and hesitated once more before pulling out a rolled-up stack of magazines. He glanced at each agent, then handed the roll to Remington without meeting his eyes.

  “Carly… found these under Chuck’s mattress… She grabbed them as soon as the cops showed up, because she knew Dad would…” Dean trailed off and swallowed. His cheeks pinked as Remington unrolled the magazines and raised his brow.

  “Carly wanted to bring them herself, but I told her no. I told her I had to come talk to y’all anyway. I don’t know why Chuck had them. He never—you know… He wasn’t…”

  He fell silent and pursed his lips as Remington rolled over and tossed the magazines onto Steyer’s desk. Steyer’s eyebrows also went up. He tilted up an issue of Freshmen and Men to find an issue of The Advocate. He leaned back in his chair and flipped through it.

  Dean blinked in shock. When he took a deep breath, his shoulders relaxed as if a great weight had been lifted from them. He raised his head a little higher. “Chuck… Um…” He swallowed hard. “Our… Our dad… would…”

  Before he could reveal what their dad would do, Dean jumped at two sharp wraps on the door. Sergeant Young leaned in.

  “Hey, Dean. You here with your parents?” Her mouth twerked with pleasant surprise. The young man shrank again, shaking his head. Young frowned. “Well… they’re in the lobby—”

  “Shit…” His body went rigid with fear.

  “—along with Ms. Vlasov, Tex, and Lauri.”

  Steyer looked up from the magazine and studied Dean’s pale face. He cleared his throat and stood, crossing to the window with a long stride. He unlocked it, slid it all the way open, and settled back into his seat as if he were only attempting to enjoy the breeze.

  “Let them know we’ll be with them in a moment.” He tucked the stack of magazines into a drawer.

  “Yessir,” Young said, and pulled the door closed behind her.

  Dean was still rooted to the spot. Steyer stared at him, then cut his eyes toward the window. Starting, Dean grabbed his bag and zipped it back up as he crossed the office. He tossed the bag, swung his legs over the sill, and hopped out.

  Sniffing, Steyer collected some notes into a folder.

  “Oh, Agent Steyer,” Dean called back in through the window. He was so tall, the sill came mid-chest on him. “Mom
had me check the bathroom. I couldn’t find Chuck’s facewash.”

  Remington raised an eyebrow. “Just the facewash?”

  “Yeah, everything else we share… pretty much. But he has some fancy prescription facewash for acne.”

  “Thank you, Dean.”

  Dean slapped the windowsill in way of good-bye. “I hope that makes more sense to y’all than it does me.” He ducked to grab his book bag and ran toward the parking lot. A police cruiser chirped and pulled up beside him, Young behind the wheel. They had a quick exchange, and Dean ran around the front to hop into the passenger seat.

  Steyer tapped his notes straight and stood, adjusting his tie. Remington went to the window and closed it slowly.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’d like to know what Mr. Witt’s hiding in the closet.”

  “Haha,” Steyer said dryly. “Perhaps we’ll find out.”

  26

  Byron cracked open an eye. His cell phone rang again. From the light creeping in through the cracks in his curtain, he could tell it was between one and two, about an hour before he had to wake up. He groaned and ran a hand over his face. Rolling onto his back, he pretended he hadn’t heard.

  It might be about the case.

  Byron groaned again. His hand flopped out, hitting the edge of the bedside table. Flopping once more, he found the phone and picked it up.

  1 MISSED CALL

  Mama

  A third groan. He hit Call twice. The phone rang, and continued to ring. Sighing, Byron pulled the phone away to hang up, but it clicked before his thumb could find the button.

  “Jamal!” Oforlea Byron’s crisp accent filled him with a mixture of anxiety and comfort. “Why did you not answer your phone?”

  “I was sleeping, Mama.”

  “Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. But what is this I hear of the FBI coming to take over your investigation?”

  “What d’you mean, Mama?”

  “I saw it on the news.”

  “The news?”

  “Jovita Moore said the FBI has come down to investigate the girls’ disappearance.”