by Jette Harris
“Good luck catching the bad guy!” Lexa sang.
Sydney recovered from her moment of unguarded joy. “Call us if you need any more information.”
They waved and postured on their way out the door. Magee put his hands on his hips and raised his eyes to the ceiling, shaking his head.
“I feel violated,” Remington muttered.
32
“At first I wasn’t sure it was him, but after hearing that voice again…” Remington shook his head and suppressed an involuntary shudder. “But I still don’t get it: These are kids. It doesn’t fit.”
Steyer held his double-shot cappuccino under his nose for a long time. “Perhaps he doesn’t see it that way,” he replied from behind his cup. “Legally, they’re adults. They’re even vaguely adult-shaped.”
“A fifteen-year-old can be adult-shaped.”
“These kids are not fifteen,” Steyer replied lightly.
Discussing their new evidence put Remington’s feeling of violation in perspective. Once they were in the car, he recounted the girls’ report excitedly, his original sense of dread gone as he considered how many new leads they had to follow. When they finished comparing notes, they fell into a charged silence.
“Dr. Creighton said we were on the news last night,” Remington said. That specific detail hadn’t seemed important enough to recount earlier, but he didn’t want to stop the discussion.
“Were we?”
“I don’t know if he meant images of us or our names, or just the FBI being involved, but he said they mentioned something about the FBI being in Cheatham Hills.”
“Hm.” Steyer began to twist his wedding band. Remington knew his brain had started ticking. Steyer glanced back down. “Hill.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Cheatham Hill. There is only one.
“Did it destroy all the others and absorb their powers?”
Shrugging, Steyer smirked. “I believe they sacrificed themselves for the greater good.”
Relief filled Remington’s chest; They were back on their feet. “Where to next? District office?”
Steyer shook his head. “No, I’m sure they’re closed. We’ll go first thing in the morning. Let’s follow the original plan: Coffee and regroup.” He studied his cappuccino for a moment. “What is your opinion of Officer Byron?”
Remington raised his brow. Steyer waited patiently for an answer.
“He’s very… enthusiastic. Sharp.”
Steyer nodded. He took a sip rather than commenting.
“Very involved.”
“Do you think that’s a good thing or a bad thing?”
Remington shrugged, then nodded at him. “You tell me,” he said, implying Byron’s involvement with three of the four would be similar to Steyer’s involvement with Tech.
Steyer raised his brow and lowered his cup to the table. “I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”
Remington licked his lips and leaned forward. Realizing he looked too eager, he leaned back again and took another sip of coffee. “He had a good idea, though.”
“Did he?” Steyer raised a brow without looking at him. Remington realized he had gone exactly where Steyer wanted him to go.
“We both recognized his voice. We know beyond a shadow of a doubt he is already here in Atlanta. All we need now is something that will prove it to everyone else.”
Steyer nodded. “For him to show his hand, so we can show Sam.”
“He treats us like we’re playing some kind of game, competing against him. Why don’t we step it up and say…” Remington spread his arms. “‘Here we are. We’re ready. The no-show forfeits the match.’”
Steyer winced at the sloppy analogy, then sipped his cappuccino and leaned back with a sigh. “You know what has to happen, then, right?”
Remington’s heart sank. They weren’t going to be bait; He was. “What?” he asked flatly.
Steyer smirked. “You get to lead a press conference.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”
33
When Byron pulled into the parking lot of the matchbox-sized precinct they shared with the Cobb County Sheriff’s Department, he was surprised to pass two news vans and a small crowd of spectators. He half-expected to be accosted as he climbed out and walked to the door, but everyone kept mostly to their own group.
One year on the force, he still expected reality to reflect Hollywood.
It also helped he wasn’t wearing his uniform. He was early for his shift and dropped his bag on his desk before wandering over to the feds’ temporary office, where Chief Collins stood in his best suit. Agent Steyer looked as cool and as unruffled as always, but Agent Remington fidgeted and readjusted his suit and hair as if he were about to jump out of his skin.
“You’re early!” Collins smiled at Byron.
“You’re late, sir,” he replied.
“Press conference. The cat’s out of the bag, so we’re going to make a… careful statement concerning the disappearances, then the FBI will give a statement. Cheatham Hill is so small, we’ll fall back under the radar in no time.”
“Given no new developments,” Remington said, nose close to a mirror, sweeping his hair to one side, then the other, then back.
Byron made a gesture to the side he first swept it, and Remington complied. Despite the custom-tailored suits, Byron would never have assumed he was so vain. Remington scowled into the mirror and sighed.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered, tugging at his sleeves. When he looked back at Byron, his gaze was heavy and his mouth was set in a resigned line.
Steyer stood from where he had been leaning on his desk, already cluttered with papers and a copy of Georgia Criminal and Traffic Law Manual. He pulled something shiny from his pocket and squared up to the younger agent. Remington raised his chin and let his arms fall by his side, and Steyer affixed a pin of the FBI seal to his lapel.
“Don’t psych yourself out,” Steyer warned.
Collins checked his watch and looked Byron up and down. “You don’t have time to change, but you can watch from the crowd.”
“Crowd?” Byron raised an eyebrow. “There weren’t many people out there.”
Collins showed his teeth and chuckled. Byron looked around; The office was as empty as it was during the early hours of the morning.
Collins clapped his hands. “Showtime.”
He and the agents went out the front, where they would speak from the top step. Byron slipped out the back and made his way around to where an audience—small, but much larger than the crowd he had originally passed—of reporters, law enforcement, and citizens waited. Among the back of the crowd, the rugged stranger from the coffee stop stood in a brown deputy’s uniform, his hands hanging from his belt. In fact, every officer assumed a similar stance, as it was difficult for an officer stand comfortably in any other way.
As if he felt Byron’s gaze, the stranger turned. The corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk that made Byron’s stomach twitch. He laced through the on-lookers to stand at Byron’s side. His nameplate read Thrace.
“Howdy, stranger.” His smirk widened into a sardonic grin, and he touched his finger to his hat. “Did’jya get any answers?” He pointed up at Remington.
“He says he makes ’em himself,” Byron announced with a triumphant glow that smiled back in the reflection of Thrace’s black aviator sunglasses.
The deputy’s smile disappeared in disbelief. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. He says his ‘people’ are all tailors.”
“Huh…” He turned toward the front, where Collins was giving a brief report of the disappearances. “That’s one way to keep the black dog at bay.”
“He said as much.”
Thrace nodded thoughtfully and fell still. Remington stepped forward, his mouth still a resigned slash across his face.
“He look nervous to you?”
“I think he might be camera-shy. He was fussin’ all over his hair and suit inside.”
“Huh,” Thrace grunted again.
Remington looked down at his feet and swallowed before raising his head and taking a deep breath. “Good evening. I’m Special Agent Remington with the FBI’s Violent Crimes division. Chief Collins and Lieutenant Kondorf contacted us upon observing some similarities between the disappearances of the four students and a previous unsolved case of ours, namely the Phoenix murders.”
Collins’s face fell slack. He blinked a few times, then recovered his impassive expression. Thrace recoiled as if taken aback by the agent’s words. Steyer nodded slowly. Remington seemed to take this as assurance he was on the right path.
“As of right now, any connection between these disappearances and the Phoenix murders is tenuous and could be incidental.”
Thrace snorted. Even Byron’s jaw dropped a fraction.
“We are simply looking into it as a possibility. If we get more evidence, we will pursue this investigation to the fullest. If not, the case will be reassigned to a kidnapping specialist. We will…” He took a deep breath. “We will pack up. Go home.”
“Oh…” Byron breathed. They’re setting the bait. Then, Remington is the bait. Of course.
Steyer leaned forward and whispered a word into Remington’s ear. Remington’s face fell, but the slash quickly returned.
“Whether it means leading the investigation or handing it over to another—more specialized—team, we will do everything in our power to return these four children, Chuck, Z, Monica, and Heather, to their families safely.” After a pause, he gave a tight smile. At first it looked forced and painful, but it slowly grew sincerer, lighting up his face. Thrace let out a long, slow breath, almost a low whistle.
“I know, man,” Byron breathed, half-hoping the deputy would not hear.
But Thrace heard. He nodded slowly.
“Do you have a description of the Phoenix Killer?” someone shouted.
Remington’s mouth twitched. Byron scoffed.
“What’s so funny?” Thrace asked.
“Just listen.”
“Our current description is dark brown hair, brown eyes, medium complexion, between 5’10 and six-foot, 160 to 180 pounds, athletic build.”
Thrace and Byron exchanged a glance, Thrace’s eyebrow arching up over his sunglasses.
“White?” someone else asked.
“We believe so.”
Thrace’s face broke into a grin, revealing coffee-stained, uneven teeth. He fit the description as perfectly as Remington and Kondorf.
“Obviously…” Remington gestured to himself and a few of the officers around him who also fit the description. “We don’t want anyone to cause a panic so everyone who fits that description gets reported, but use common sense around strangers.”
“What a novel concept…” Thrace murmured.
Remington opened the floor for more questions. Thrace winked at Byron before strolling across the parking lot and climbing into a CCSD cruiser.
34
Remington popped his jaw and sighed. He tapped his computer screen with a knuckle. “According to Social Security, there are fourteen people in the United States named Avery Rhodes. Four are female. Two were under sixteen in ’94—”
“What the hell are you thinking?”
Remington jerked his head up toward the muffled shout. Sean Shatterthwaith stood on the opposite side of the glass. His angry expression made Remington want to keep it that way. Despite his livid expression, his pink face and spikey blonde hair made Sean look like a cartoon character rather than a concerned father. He spread his arms, as if the agents could divine from that gesture what he was referring to.
“You got this, sport?” Steyer asked in a low voice.
“You know, I think as the junior agent, I should let you handle this one,” Remington replied. “The press conference was your brilliant idea anyway…”
Steyer stood and straightened his tie before crossing the room and opening the door. Sean stormed in.
“My wife is crying,” He squared up to Steyer, but finding himself looking too far upward, he stepped back again. “She spent the last two days believing our daughter was being t-tortured in the… in the clutches of a serial killer, but now there’s doubt? How-how dare you?”
Steyer held up a hand. “Mr. Shatterthwaith, please allow me to explain.”
“Is my daughter dead or not?” Sean yelled, choking on the thought.
Struck with remorse, Remington shot up. “I’m sorry, Mr. Shatterthwaith, this is my fault.”
Sean turned to him, wilting.
“I did not intend to cast any doubt for your and the other families; We should have warned you. We should have had you there. Our intention was to attempt to draw the Phoenix out, to discredit him, so he would come forth and claim responsibility.”
Sean looked at Remington as if he were crazy. He turned to Steyer, now the beacon of sanity.
“First and foremost, I want to assure you, we have no reason to believe your daughter is dead.” Steyer paused to allow this to sink in. “As for the press conference: The Phoenix has…” His eyes flickered to Remington. “… contacted us before. We acted with the hope he will do so again, not only to verify his involvement, but to expose himself, perhaps give us some kind of clue.”
Sean turned back to Remington. “Did you have to sound so… so… sure?”
“No.” Remington shook his head. “I apologize. I got… caught up. The idea of communicating with the Phoenix… agitates me.”
Steyer placed a hand on Sean’s back and guided him to a chair.
“Do you think it’ll work?” Sean’s voice was dreamy, as if emerging from a daze.
“I don’t know,” Steyer said as Remington answered, “Absolutely.”
Sean stared between the two of them. “As long as we’re on the same page.” The red in his face had faded, and he looked sickly pale. “Is… is there anything I can do?”
Steyer and Remington exchanged a glance. They knew he was thinking the exact thing Tech had been thinking: an exchange, a human sacrifice. Remington’s throat was tight from the possibility—or lack thereof. Steyer shook his head and patted Sean’s shoulder.
“Just stay near your phone,” he said. “Keep a watchful eye out.”
“And keep the rest of your family close,” Remington said. Steyer raised a brow at this uncharacteristic sentimentality.
Sean shook his head and covered his eyes. His shoulders began to shudder. Remington, feeling guilty, leaned forward and patted his back.
“We’ll let you know as soon as we hear anything,” he promised softly.
35
The morning after his press conference, Remington jerked his leg the entire way to the Board of Education building. He could not imagine the Phoenix, who had been so careful to conceal his face before, being reckless enough to have his photograph taken and archived, but stranger things had happened. When the agents arrived, they were referred to the Human Resources department. They ended up in an uncomfortably small office, crowded with filing cabinets sizes and boxes of green folders.
“What was the last name again?” Deborah Schaefer, the HR clerk, asked.
Steyer double-checked the sign-in sheet. “Avery Rhodes,” he read. “R-H-O—”
“Oh, I remember him!” Schaefer laughed as she pecked at her keyboard. “He was a cutie. Very charming.”
“He could be a murder suspect.”
“Shame…”
Steyer’s cool expression fell flat. “I’m sure.”
She clicked several times, then played with her mouse. “It says here we don’t have any entries by that name. I may have spelled it wrong…” She tapped away in silence, shaking her head. “It goes straight from Reed, Stephen to Roddenberry, Nicole. No Rhodes.”
Steyer lowered his head. It was San Francisco all over again.
“What about hard copies?” Remington asked. “Paper applications, interview notes, I-9’s, things of that nature?”
Schaefer sniffed. Dismissing
the computer with a wave of her hand, she rolled over to a filing cabinet behind her. She shuffled through several folders. The furrow in her brow slowly deepened.
“I know it’s in here,” she said. “I made his ID myself. I can tell you all about it.”
“That would be most helpful.”
She slammed the drawer and opened another, then another.
“Let me guess…” Steyer said.
“No, it’s here,” she insisted. Rolling back, she sifted through the mess of papers and folders, then turned to the table behind her desk.
While she searched, Steyer leaned back in his chair and pulled the door toward him. There were not any scratches or scrapes near the latch. In San Francisco, their office door had scratches and furrows, obvious signs of being jimmied. Remington glanced up at the tiled ceiling and down at the floor around him. There was a dusting of white grit on the next to the table, and more sprinkled onto the floor as Schaefer searched through her piles of documents.
Beckoning to Steyer, they stared up at the ceiling. When Schaefer noticed, she craned her neck up. One of the tiles above the table had small grooves along one side, and the edge was rounded, as if it had been pried up with a wide, flat surface.
“What do you say?” Steyer rubbed his chin.
“Knife blade?” Remington suggested.
Steyer shook his head. “The grooves are too broad. It would have been a… a cleaver almost.”
“A putty knife?”
The agents looked down at Schaefer, surprised. She blinked, pale under her layers of make-up. “They just… They just started remodeling Training Room 2 after it flooded.”
“Putty knife,” Steyer repeated. “A six-inch putty knife… Perfect.” He patted her shoulder. “Thank you, Ms. Schaefer.”
****
The smell of mildew clung to the air, although the carpeting had been torn up. A new roll sagged in the corner. Half of the concrete floor was water-stained. In the back of the room, several of the tiles of the drop-ceiling were stained brown and sagging. A few were missing, and a few more threatened to buckle and fall.