Two Guns

by Jette Harris

  Steyer and Remington were not interested in the damage at the back of the room. They were interested in the single tile resting against the wall a few feet in front of the door and the gaping hole above it. Remington tilted the tile forward, hoping this would be as easy as finding the putty knife hiding behind it. It wasn’t.

  A table stood in the middle of the room, occupied by a five-gallon bucket and a toolbox. Steyer studied the contents.

  “Six-inch putty knife?” Remington asked.

  “Nope.” Steyer took a glove and used it to pull out a one-inch and a three-inch putty knife, but not a six-inch. He glanced into the bucket, which had been used as an impromptu waste basket. It contained an assortment of debris. Steyer tilted his head and pulled out a dust mask.

  “Cross your fingers,” he said, holding it up.

  “Trust me, I am.” But Remington wasn’t looking at Steyer; he was looking up into the ceiling.

  Steyer followed his gaze. “Can you make that?”

  “Sure, no problem.” That’s not what Remington wanted to say as he looked into the darkness. He wanted to say: Please don’t make me go up there… Or, Let’s tear all of the tiles down and make sure he’s not still up there… Or, I’d rather dive into shark-infested water; It would be about the same. But he couldn’t.

  Crouching, he jumped and grabbed the cross-rail. Unsure if it would support his weight, he hung and slowly pulled himself up. Grabbing the strut above his head, he pulled himself on top of it. It was a tight fit, with only a few inches between his back and the roof. He pulled off his suit jacket.

  “You there?”

  “Right here.” Steyer’s face appeared, looking up at him. “You know there are ladders, right?”

  “Yeah, well, I missed my workout yesterday.” He pulled gloves from the inside pocket and tossed his jacket down. Steyer caught it and brushed it off. Remington took a deep breath and coughed, kicking up more dust. Pulling the gloves on, he took a flashlight from his pocket and peered around. “Someone’s definitely been up here,” he said, observing streaks in the dust in front of him. Only a broom closet separated this room from Schaefer’s office.

  Ducts and bundles of wiring cast uncanny shadows, making the space between the ceiling and the roof feel crowded. He turned and flinched at a kink in the duct work that looked like a crouching man. He sighed, but his muscles refused to loosen. “If I shout,” he called, shining the flashlight at the looming shadows, “light it up.”

  “Will do,” Steyer replied.

  The assurance did not alleviate Remington’s pounding heart. Despite the closeness of the ceiling above, it still felt too open for safety. He imagined a weight clambering over him, pressing against his back. Closing his eyes, he took several deep breaths.

  “Remington?” Steyer’s voice came clear this time. “You OK?” He had set up a ladder and poked his head into the ceiling.

  Remington had to swallow before he could reply. “Yeah,” he lied. “Just very close. Dusty.”

  “I’m here,” Steyer said. “I have eyes on you.” Steyer always knew exactly what to say. “Just look for the putty knife. Everything else can be left to PD.”

  Sliding forward, Remington’s light glinted off silver metal about a four feet in front of him. “I think I found it.” He pushed with his feet and pulled with his hands until he was over the putty knife. Chunks from the tile below had been torn away and littered the dust. “Yeah, here it is.”

  He leaned down to grab it. When he pulled himself back up, the flashlight glinted off something on the strut. Grasping the handle of the putty knife tightly, he swallowed hard and brought the beam closer.

  Just in front of his face, drawn into the dust, was a smiley face. Written above it: I missed you.

  36

  When Byron arrived at the precinct, it was more crowded with tan uniforms and suits than usual. Sheriff Bill Hutson himself was even there, a round man with white hair combed over a shining pate. Chief Collins stood near him with his hands on his hips.

  Byron maneuvered through them to the CHPD side of the office, which was as empty as usual. Kondorf leaned against his desk, watching the crowd. Byron leaned next to him.

  “They havin’ a potluck no one told us about?”

  Kondorf looked down at the floor and shook his head solemnly. Byron’s heart sank.

  “Don’t tell me…”

  “They’re missin’ a deputy. Beaumont.”

  Byron’s initial instinct was to spit, “That asshole?” but instead said, “Shiiit…”

  “He went after a streaker the night before last, and never reported back. Didn’t clock out, didn’t check in. No one’s answering his phone. His apartment is abandoned.”

  “He went AWOL after pursuing a streaker…” Byron’s mouth twitched. “Is it OK to laugh?”

  Kondorf snorted and hid it by taking a sip of coffee. “I guess until we find out what happened… Sure.” He lowered his voice. “It was in the Krispy Kreme parking lot.”

  A barking laugh escaped Byron’s mouth. Several deputies fell silent and turned to glare at him. Clearing his throat, he pulled his face back under control. “Sorry,” he murmured.

  When Steyer and Remington entered the precinct to find the crowd, their faces fell as if they had seen this kind of thing before. Byron sipped his coffee and watched from his desk as Steyer leaned close to say something to Remington. The younger agent made a beeline for their temporary office while the senior agent gravitated to Collins and Sheriff Hutson. They exchanged a few words with bent heads. Steyer straightened with a heavy sigh and nodded.

  “OK, listen up, boys!” Hutson bellowed. “And lady,” he added apologetically with a nod to the single female deputy in attendance.

  Everyone turned to the three men. Steyer smoothed his tie and raised his chin. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “until we can confirm otherwise, we will be regarding these cases as linked.”

  Remington emerged from their office with his cell phone to his ear and an open notepad in his other hand. Steyer glanced at him, then returned his attention to the audience.

  “In addition to our investigation, we will also be arranging a safety meeting for all law enforcement officials involved, directly or indirectly, or interested, regarding the risks unique to investigating the Phoenix Killer.”

  Remington’s face darkened. Kondorf noted the gesture as he sipped his coffee.

  “Something tells me Special Agent Remington doesn’t like safety meetings,” he whispered.

  “Maybe it’s more about the risks unique to the Phoenix.” Byron hid his mouth behind his own coffee cup. “Didn’t you read the report from San Francisco?”

  “Skimmed most of it. What happened?”

  “Let’s just say someone got caught with their pants down.” Byron lowered his face as it flushed slightly at the thought of Remington in his underwear.

  “Oh my.”

  37

  Dispatcher Kay Maas had a friendly, pleasant face and held her hair back with a headband topped with cat ears. Nevertheless, she donned a serious expression and spoke in a business-like tone as soon as the introductions were made.

  “It’s not unusual for Deputy Beaumont to get a wild hare and drive off-pattern. We’ve had our eye on him for a while, but we haven’t been able to pin him with any kind of moral turpitude.”

  “Moral turpitude,” Steyer repeated with an appreciative nod.

  “As soon as his GPS chip was pulled, the fleet manager called him—twice—and when he didn’t answer, she called us.”

  “Where did the trail go cold?” Remington asked.

  “In the middle of the woods.”

  “Huh.” Steyer’s eyebrows rose on his forehead.

  “Let me guess,” Remington said. “The woods near Cheatham Hill.”

  Maas tapped the side of her nose. “About a mile or so away. The GPS chips are good up to about ten feet, but when we dispatched a unit out there, they couldn’t find the vehicle, or Deputy Beaumont, or
the chip.”

  “Are there units searching the area currently?” Remington asked.

  Maas blinked at him. Her face fell. “Searching for what?”

  The agents stared at her blankly.

  “For Deputy Beaumont’s body, Ms. Maas,” Steyer finally said.

  Maas pursed her lips. “We’ll call in a dog,” she said in a low, decisive voice.

  38

  2002

  San Francisco (“Lark Alexander”)

  Lark was starting to get frustrated as he stared up at the nearest street sign.

  What started as exciting and mischievous was quickly growing dangerous: He couldn’t find his Jeep.

  “Uh, sir? Sir, what are you doing?”

  Lark had been so distracted, he hadn’t even heard the patrol car pull up. He turned to find an officer behind him, stepping out with a hand on his gun. He was tall, lanky, and didn’t look too bright. Lark spun to turn from the other direction.

  “Well, Officer—” He squinted to read his name. “—Ford, I’m just walking to my car. Uh…” He turned back to the street sign. “I think it’s this way.”

  Lark took a few unsteady-looking steps. Ford hurried in front of him, holding out a hand.

  “Sir, you have a woman over your shoulder.”

  Lark had to fight the urge to burst out laughing. “Oh, yeah, I know. She—uh—she had a bit too much.”

  “Sir, there’s blood on your face.”

  Reaching up, Lark found the place on his cheek where Persia had scratched him. The blood was already dry and flaked off on his fingers.

  “And your hand. Is that a…” Before he could finish the question, he realized that it was, indeed, a bite mark. “Sir, please put the woman down… gently, please.”

  Lark looked around for a decent place to set her down. “Can I lay her on your car?” He backed toward the vehicle.

  Ford’s mouth flapped. “Yeah, sure—gently.” He followed to the back of his patrol car. Lark shifted Persia on his shoulder and Ford reached out to make sure her head didn’t hit anything.

  A sickening crack sent Ford to the ground with a cry. Before he could lean up or grab his gun, Lark stood over him with one foot raised. All he felt for an instant was pressure, then nothing.

  Officer Ford had been considerate enough to leave the door of his patrol car open. Gently, Lark sat Persia in the passenger seat. Blood trickled down her face from an abrasion on her forehead. He licked his thumb and wiped it away.

  Settling into the seat, he found a pair of utility gloves tucked between the seats. He pulled them on before closing the door and shifting into gear.

  39

  May, 2006

  Atlanta

  Remington recognized Stephen Flowers from Quantico. He had been a long-haired, grungy kid hired almost straight out of college. Remington always wondered how Flowers got away with his appearance, and that curiosity amplified when he saw his arms were now covered with tattoos of dragons. Nevertheless, he was dressed like Bill Nye and wore thick black glasses glued together in the middle. He looked like a basement-office IT guy, which was not far from the truth, except it was his job to catch killers, terrorists, and—most importantly—child predators.

  “Rem-job!” Flowers cheered as he hopped up the front steps of the district office building.

  “Flower Boy,” Remington greeted him with a bit less enthusiasm and shook his hand. He could hear Steyer wincing at their lack of professionalism.

  “Agent Steyer!” Flowers turned to the senior agent and clasped his hand. “It is an honor. You are a legend, sir, a legend! The way you caught the Perinatal Predators was… was a work of art. It’s going to be an honor working with you.”

  Steyer smoothed his tie. “Thank you. I heard you’ve had some great success as well.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Flowers’s mouth twitched at the recognition. “Two thousand twenty-three arrests. About twelve more warrants being served this week, so we’ll see where those go. Then again, our stings usually sweep up two or three hundred at a time, so the number is… far greater than the effort.” He pushed his glasses up his nose and blinked hard. “So,” he said, clapping his hands, “we’re catching a Phoenix today?”

  Remington scoffed. If only.

  “We are simply following up on a lead,” Steyer explained, “looking into this substitute teacher. When our human resources specialist searched for his data yesterday, it had…”

  “Conveniently disappeared?” Flowers offered.

  “Yes.”

  “Welp, have no fear.” He thumped the kit hanging from his shoulder. “We can find out if it’s really gone the way of the dinosaurs or just wearing an invisibility cloak. But—” He wiggled his eyebrows. “—even dinosaurs leave fossils.”

  “Let’s get started, then,” Remington said. They pushed into the front lobby and Steyer set a warrant down on the receptionist’s desk.

  ****

  Under the closer supervision of Marty Sullivan, Cheatham Hill’s Legal Officer, Flowers had Mrs. Schaefer log into her computer and access her database for him. Flowers and Schaefer exchanged seats and several smiles, and he spoke excitedly about the acquisition process he was about to go through: creating a mirror image of her computer and the school district’s database and loading it onto an external hard drive.

  “Since the mirroring process is time-consuming and you can’t do anything while it’s running, I’m going to do some initial poking-around to see if I can find something of immediate use. Then I can run the mirror, we can grab some coffee—”

  “About how long does this process take?” Sullivan asked.

  “Which part?” Flowers raised his brow.

  Sullivan didn’t answer.

  “Poking around shouldn’t take too long, but mirroring the hard drive could take a few hours, based on the size…” Flowers turned to the computer and clicked a few times. He made a face and leaned back. “Maybe four hours.”

  Sullivan scoffed, shaking his head.

  “You can leave, if you’re allowed to.” Flowers smiled and made it sound like he was doing Sullivan a favor. “Everything I’m doing is pretty straight-forward and listed in the warrant, and I’m sure Mrs. Schaefer can supervise us.” He shot her a wink.

  Sullivan narrowed his eyes, but his gaze went distant in a way that told Remington he was re-evaluating the necessity of his presence in this situation. He made an executive decision by giving Schaefer a curt nod, and disappeared.

  Flowers beamed up at his remaining audience and cracked his knuckles. “Let the magic begin!”

  Opening the command prompt, he typed something, waited. Typed something else, waited. Upon typing the third item, white letters streamed across the screen. “Oh, hello, keystroke logger! My, you’re looking lovely this morning…”

  Remington and Steyer raised their brows and exchanged a glance. Schaefer pursed her lips nervously.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about your thing for chipmunks,” Flowers whispered.

  Schaefer blushed and stood. “I’m going to get some coffee. Would you boys like any?” She turned from Flowers to Remington and Steyer. “I’m sorry—gentlemen.”

  “Yes, please,” Flowers said.

  Remington and Steyer held up their half-full coffee cups. She nodded and left the tiny office.

  Flowers sniffed. “She has a pleasant perfume.”

  Steyer took a deep breath. Remington pursed his lips and nodded. Same old Flowers.

  “Is there a date range I can use to narrow down my search?”

  Steyer scratched his chin and searched the ceiling for a possible answer. “Run it from April first to… yesterday morning.”

  Flowers’s mouth twitched, unhappy with this response. “Name?”

  “Avery Rhodes,” Steyer said.

  “As in, Colossus of,” Remington added.

  Flowers snickered. Steyer gave Remington a disapproving side-long glance. The tapping paused. Flowers shook his head and tapped some more. “So, Mrs
. Schaefer wasn’t able to find this Rhodes in the database yesterday?”

  “Nope.” Steyer shook his head.

  “There’s a good reason for that…”

  “What’s that?” Remington asked.

  “There’s no Avery Rhodes in this database.”

  Remington rolled his eyes.

  “But he would have been there before yesterday morning?” Flowers shifted in his seat, bracing for the challenge.

  “Definitely on May first and second,” Steyer said.

  Flowers took a deep breath and pulled his glasses down. He looked uncharacteristically studious. He tapped the same key repeatedly. As the tapping slowed, his mouth gaped a bit wider. “Mother fucker…” he breathed.

  Steyer’s eyes narrowed.

  “Son of a bitch ran a blank slate command.”

  Remington ran a hand over his face. “Please tell me…”

  “He deleted every trace of the names Avery and Rhodes from the system, whether they related specifically to him or not—including within the command. I can see Mrs. Schaefer’s search yesterday, but nothing else.”

  Remington hung his head, deflating. He took a few slow, deep breaths. Flowers peered at him over his glasses as earnestly as he had been peering at the screen. “What did I say about dinosaurs?”

  Remington raised his head.

  “The name is gone, which renders the profile unsearchable in the database, but the profiles themselves appear to be based on the staff ID numbers, which means…”

  “The fossil is still there,” Steyer said.

  Flowers tapped his nose and turned back to the screen. “All I need to do is look through the profiles generated within the date ranges you gave me, and find the one with a missing name or a series of X’s, however the command works.”

  “Is this pretty sophisticated stuff?” Remington asked.

  Flowers frowned and shook his head. “No, this specific command is pretty basic. It would still have cost him a pretty penny, if he didn’t write it himself, but it may have even been scribbled on a slip of paper.” He turned back to the screen and perched his chin on his hand. “You said May first?”