Two Guns

by Jette Harris

  28

  Byron flopped down on his couch with a turkey sandwich and turned on the TV. He clicked over to the Channel 2 news. Almost an hour later, Jovita Moore—Byron’s first love—appeared with a stock photo of Cheatham Hill City Hall in the corner of the screen. She put on a serious face.

  “Four teens have been reported missing in Cheatham Hill, a small affluent suburb twenty minutes north of Atlanta. 17-year-old Zachariah Vlasov, 18-year-old Monica Shatterthwaith, 18-year-old Heather Stokes, and 19-year old Charles Francis Witt, all honors students at Cheatham Hill Magnet High school, all accepted to four-year universities, and all vanished without a trace. Police state they are currently investigating all angles… but sources are now telling us the FBI is getting involved.

  “Now, FBI involvement is only deemed necessary under specific circumstances, including terrorism, gang-related activity, human trafficking, cyber-crimes, kidnapping for ransom, civil-rights violations, and illegal activity across state lines.”

  Justin Farmer smiled at her. “I think it’s safe to say these four aren’t leading an international terrorist ring, don’t you?”

  Byron smirked.

  “Local authorities did say ‘every angle,’” Moore parried, “but what’s interesting about this situation is not the FBI assisting, but whom they sent to assist: Special Agent Richard Steyer.”

  Farmer’s smile faltered. “I’ve heard that name before.”

  “Agent Steyer is a senior investigator with the FBI’s Violent Crimes division, which eliminates theories of terrorism and civil-rights violations, which are handled under their own divisions, and human trafficking, which is handled by Organized Crime. But the most curious feature of this story is that Agent Steyer walked out of his retirement ceremony in order to respond to this case.”

  Byron lowered his sandwich and forgot to chew.

  “Sounds like some unfinished business came up.”

  “Exactly. And sources close to Agent Steyer tell us his most notorious ‘unfinished business’ is a serial killer known as the Phoenix, or the Phoenix Killer.”

  “Shit,” Byron muttered.

  “Named after Phoenix, Arizona, where he struck in 1993, he is also linked to murders in Detroit in 1997 and San Francisco in 2002.”

  “And the disappearances in Cheatham Hill are similar?” Farmer asked.

  “Correct. There are always four victims abducted: two male, two female. Among the four, connections vary. Some have been married, some attended the same college, others have no connection whatsoever.”

  “Were all of the other victims in the same age group?”

  “No. Previously the youngest victim was a twenty-year-old man from San Francisco. The oldest was a forty-two-year-old man in Detroit.”

  “They’re going to need more of a connection than that.”

  Byron nodded slowly. He tore another bite from his sandwich.

  “There are other links, other similar circumstances, but so far authorities have not released that information. Channel 2 will be keeping a close eye on Cheatham Hill to bring you updates as more information is released.”

  Popping the last bite into his mouth, Byron brushed the crumbs from his hands and chest and turned off the TV. “We’re gonna need more of a connection than that,” he repeated.

  29

  1997

  Detroit (“Jay Faliro”)

  Faliro had gotten ahead of himself. The house had five occupants before he had completed re-wiring the upstairs. The occupied portion of the house was currently without electricity, heat, or hot water. He didn’t really care about the others, but his feet were starting to get cold.

  The two couples sat in the dark, getting to know each other as Faliro hastily jury-rigged the remaining circuits. His impatience—mixed with cold, stiff fingers, and juggling a cigarette—earned him a few toasted fingertips. At first, the four spoke in hushed voices. Gradually, they became louder.

  “Hello?” Benny called. “Is anybody out there?”

  Faliro shook his head, muttering around his cigarette, “Nobody here but us chickens…”

  After a few more tentative calls, the screaming began. Screams for help, for attention, for anyone who might hear them. The loudest voice, of course, was Sandy’s. The only voice Faliro never heard was Ian’s. Neither of these surprised him.

  Confident that no one would hear their cries—or care, if they did—Faliro dug some headphones and a CD player out of his bag. Pressing them over his ears, he turned the Foo Fighters up and returned his focus to the job at hand.

  ****

  They were still screaming when Faliro threw the power on. He heard several pops! as a few bulbs blew, but nothing any more alarming than that. The shouting fell silent. Faliro pulled his headphones down around his neck. The power hummed steadily, which was not ideal, but it was better than several of the alternatives.

  The bulb directly in front of the occupied room was dark but intact. Faliro paused to tap it. It flickered and burst, making him jump. He shook himself loose and flicked a piece of glass burning his arm.

  He had learned in Phoenix that everyone needed to be restrained in some way, but he did not want their movements completely restricted. He bought several sturdy leather collars, two-inch magnum padlocks, and medium-grade chains. He reinforced a few of the studs in the walls, and riveted the chains to them.

  “You got a show?” the clerk at the hardware store asked.

  “A what?”

  “A show?” he repeated, then lowered his voice. “You a dogman?”

  “No, I’m not a fucking dogman, you heartless fucking bastard.” Faliro took his chains and padlocks and left.

  As soon as the door opened, Leila, directly in front, backed into the wall. She slid toward Ian until the chain pulled taut. Faliro stared down at her, taking a drag of his cigarette. Her eyes were full of fear and when she met his gaze, she dropped them to the floor. Slowly, Faliro looked over the others. Ian scowled fixedly at the floorboards in front of him. Benny stared at him in shock. Sandy looked him up and down critically.

  Faliro spread his arms for her. “Like what you see?”

  “Who the fuck’re you?” she demanded.

  “Jay,” he replied, taking another drag of his cigarette.

  They looked at one another, surprised at his willingness to answer. Sandy slumped, relaxing a bit. “Sandy,” she introduced herself.

  “I know,” he said, nodding. “I know who you are.” He looked around to include the others.

  “Why…” Faliro was surprised to hear Leila’s delicate voice. “Why are we here?” Ian shot her a look and gave a sharp shake of his head.

  “You’re here for my entertainment.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Faliro shrugged. “That’s not necessary.”

  “How do you expect us to entertain you?” Ian asked in a hard voice.

  Smiling, Faliro shrugged again. “Any way I want. I have a very good imagination… but I’m open to suggestions.” He wagged his eyebrows. Their faces were pale as they considered what he might be imagining.

  “How about… you let us go?” Benny chuckled nervously. “You can be entertained by our backs growing smaller as we run away…” As he spoke, everyone stared at him, and his voice dwindled under the scrutiny. Sandy rolled her eyes.

  But Faliro chuckled. “That was good. You’re real funny.” He perched his cigarette between his lips and fished the keys out of his pocket. “Thanks for volunteering.”

  “Wait, what? I didn’t—What?” Benny put his hands up as Faliro approached him.

  Slipping his fingers under the collar, Faliro pulled Benny to his knees and pushed his head down against his hip. As soon as Benny felt the collar loosen, he jerked out of Faliro’s grasp.

  “I don’t want any trouble!” he called, backing away.

  “Oh, I know,” Faliro said, nodding nonchalantly. He shoved the keys back into his pocket, took a long drag, then pulled a hunting knife out from behind his back
. Leila whimpered. Even in the dim light, he could see the color drain from Benny’s face.

  Faliro grabbed Sandy’s hair and pulled her head back. She screamed as he held the knife at her throat.

  “No!” Benny yelled. “No! OK!” He took a few nervous steps forward. “What–whatever you want… Whatever you imagine, I’m–I’ll do it. Jus-Just don’t hurt my wife.”

  “S’what I thought,” Faliro muttered, shoving Sandy’s head away.

  “Fucking—” She withered when he raised the back of his hand to her.

  “No!” Benny took a few more steps forward. “No, I’m… She’s sorry. See? She’s sorry; She was just scared.” Sandy nodded, looking more childish than scared.

  Faliro looked Benny up and down. He couldn’t believe the words coming out of the man’s mouth: He had thought that Benny was the typical nice guy, but now he just seemed like a pandering bitch.

  Sliding the knife back into the sheath clipped to his belt, Faliro stepped up to him, so close, they were almost bumping chests. Benny turned his face, wincing in anticipation. Faliro reached down and grabbed his crotch.

  “Oh, God!” Benny jumped back into the wall.

  Faliro accidentally blew smoke in Benny’s face, but repeated for good measure. He unbuttoned Benny’s trousers and snaked his hand down to explore his genitals. Benny squeezed his eyes shut and began to stammer something under his breath. From the snatches Faliro could hear, he guessed it was a prayer for chastity and purity of mind. He was surprisingly aroused by this. He licked his lips and began to massage Benny’s cock.

  “No…” Benny whimpered. The others watched in open-mouthed horror. His shoulders shook as he fought the urge to cry. “Please…” He turned his face away from the others. “Please, not in front of my wife.”

  Although Faliro was already throbbing, he had no intention of pursuing this further here. He pulled his hand out of Benny’s pants and licked the small amount of fluid he had managed to leech. He wiped his fingers dry on the front of Benny’s shirt and grabbed his tie.

  “Let’s go, then.” Faliro nodded toward the door.

  Sniffling, Benny cupped his hands over his pants and shuffled toward the door. Sandy’s eyes were wide with shock. Her hands were pressed over her mouth. But as soon as their backs were to her, Faliro could have sworn he heard her snort with derision… or amusement.

  30

  May, 2006

  Atlanta

  Rhodes tossed the Red Wing shoebox onto the passenger seat of the Sheriff’s cruiser. He pried Beaumont’s one-size-too-small Bates off his feet and pulled on the Red Wings. Standing, he released a sigh of relief. He leaned back into the cruiser and stacked the Bates neatly into the empty box. He took the GPS chip from where he had tossed it on the dashboard and slipped it in one of the boots. Popping the lid shut, he pushed the box onto the floor and walked around the car a few times before climbing back into the driver’s seat.

  Witt had given him Monica’s address, and Rhodes had sat down the street after texting her from Witt’s phone, but he had never seen the houses and daylight, and had never approached them from this direction. The only way he recognized them was from the red 1972 Mustang sitting in Heather’s driveway. Rhodes debated pulling in behind it, but pulling up to the curb felt more coply.

  When Heather’s grandfather opened the front door, he shielded his face from the sunlight. He lowered his hand to reveal glassy, blood-shot eyes. “Huh?” he grunted with a gust of alcohol.

  Rhodes cleared his throat and donned the accent he picked up from his brief exchange with Kondorf. “Mr. Brewer, I’m with the Sheriff’s Department.”

  Tex grunted again and coughed. “How can I help you, deputy?”

  “Some of the other parents reported items missing from their chil—their students’ bedrooms. Have you noticed anything missing from Heather’s room?”

  Tex covered his mouth with a hand and shook his head. “I… I haven’t been in there.”

  “Mind if we take a look?”

  Glancing into the kitchen, Tex sniffled. Rhodes was certain if he followed the old man’s gaze, he would find a tumbler and a bottle on the kitchen table.

  Tex turned back and shrugged. “Sure, follow me.”

  Rhodes followed the sharp, oaky fragrance of Bourbon up the stairs. All the doors on the second-floor landing hung open, except for one at the far end. He fought the urge to pull them shut as he walked past. He expected Tex to lead him to the closed door, but he turned into the room before it.

  Rhodes was assaulted by purple. The walls were painted lilac, broken by posters of musicians from every era and genre. The heavy bedspread was violet, spotted with dark ink stains. An acoustic guitar with mother-of-pearl inlay leaned in a stand between the door and a desk. The desktop was scattered with textbooks, binders, and school papers. Three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves occupied the adjoining wall. Books and CD’s filled them top-to-bottom, save one shelf overcrowded with trophies, ribbons, and medals.

  Once the purple shock wore off, Rhodes was impressed. If he had been able to decorate his room as a teen, it probably would have looked much like this. (Only a little less purple.)

  Heather’s grandfather hesitated at the threshold as Rhodes was drawn to the bookshelves. He pulled on some nitrile gloves and sneered when he realized they matched the purple on the walls.

  “You said you haven’t been in here?”

  “Not since Ritchie first came over.” Tex looked around the room as if it were haunted. “That was a few days ago.”

  “Ritchie?” Rhodes raised a brow. Although he had been in too much of a panic in Detroit to learn much about the investigators, he had developed an unexpected esteem for Agent Steyer. “You two know each other?”

  “Oh,” Tex gave a non-committal wave. “We—uh—Once upon a time. We go way back.”

  “That’s a story I’d love to hear.”

  Tex did not follow through. He either smiled or grimaced, and broke into a coughing fit. He waved again.

  “Looking around,” Rhodes continued, “does anything seem different? Anything moved? Missing?”

  As Tex searched the room with his eyes, Rhodes browsed the titles on the bookshelves: Roots, Deadly Feasts, Prophets, lots of classical literature, histories, biographies, scientific investigation.

  “It’s cold.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Heather… hates the cold. Usually her room is about ten degrees warmer than the rest of the house.”

  Rhodes turned to hide his smirk. Heather grumbled about the cold often as he sat listening to them. A large picture frame mounted above the desk caught his eye: a B.S.Ed. in Exercise and Sport Science from UGA for one Thi Thuyen Vu Stokes. An acceptance letter to Heather from UGA was tacked to the wall next to it. They were surrounded by Post-its covered in mathematical formulas, chemical symbols, irregular French conjugation, historical dates, and translations of common phrases into Vietnamese.

  Tex coughed again. “Do you mind if I…?” He pointed over his shoulder.

  “No, of course.” Rhodes waved him off. “I’ll come find you.” He had only expected to poke around in the bathroom, but now his curiosity was piqued.

  Tex disappeared. Rhodes heard him heaving on the opposite end of the house. He pushed the door until it stood open only a few inches. Opening the closet, he flipped on the light and stepped inside. He brushed a hand over the clothes hanging inside, all practical and sporty, with a couple of slacks and button-up blouses too large for the scrawny girl he knew. An outdated skirt suit and a garish black dress hung in the back.

  Shoved in the back corner, partially-hidden by the hanging clothes, sat two boxes. One was labelled MOM in red, the other DAD in yellow. Rhodes’s mouth twitched. He peered inside Dad’s box, finding a crumpled Pearl Jam t-shirt on top. He sniffed it, most likely the reason Heather kept it on top. It smelled faintly of Speed Stick, even after all these years. Underneath was B.S. in Computer Science from Georgia Institute of Technology for Heath William
Stokes. Rhodes folded the shirt and placed it back in the box.

  Opening Thi’s box, he found a stethoscope and blood-pressure cuff. He smiled bittersweetly; He had a box just like it pushed into the back corner of his own closet, unmarked. Underneath was a copy of the Collected Poems of e e cummings. He flipped a few pages. Two different hands had scribbled in the margins. One of them he recognized from the Post-its on the wall. The other was far neater. He slipped the book into his shirt and pushed the box back against the wall.

  The bedroom had two windows on the far wall, one over the bed and one at the foot of the bed. He had watched as Monica climbed in and out of the one at the foot of the bed. The bottom pane wasn’t seated properly; It wobbled, but did not give under pressure. The lock took a great effort to shift, but once unlocked, the window slid open without a sound. Hot, muggy air gusted in. He slid the window back down and did not re-lock it.

  A full-length mirror covered the bathroom door. Rhodes removed Beaumont’s hat, smoothed down his unruly hair, and straightened the hat back on his head. Entering the bathroom, he studied the cleansing products around the sink and bathtub, all cheap, generic brands. His lip curled. He found a cosmetics bag as he poked around the drawers and cabinets, but it had a thick layer of dust over it. He unzipped it and was surprised to find a chain of uncultured pearls tucked into a lace pouch. (This has to be the most precious thing Heather owns.) Although tempted to take it, Rhodes tucked it back into the pouch and slid the bag back under the counter.

  Under the opposite end of the vanity sat a half-empty bag of panty liners. Rhodes searched, but could not find a stash of tampons or pads. He furrowed his brow, but shook his curiosity off.

  Rhodes left everything but the window as he had found it, although he was now convinced he had no reason to return. He tucked the book more securely in the waist of Beaumont’s trousers and stepped onto the landing. Tex was coughing again across the way. Rhodes side-stepped to the only closed door in the house and found it unlocked.

  Pushing it open, he found another teenaged girl’s room, only twenty years in the past. Pat Benatar and Paul McCartney adorned the walls, along with a poster for the original Nightmare on Elm Street. Rhodes almost laughed aloud; the room was so unexpected. A queen-sized bed made with black bedding occupied the near wall. Opposite the foot of the bed stood an upright piano. It had patterns, band names, and occult symbols carved into it—signs of adolescent rebellion—sanded and stained in an attempt to hide the damage.