by Jette Harris
“Include March, just in case,” Steyer said. “Let’s hope this leg of his planning doesn’t go any further back…”
Flowers drummed a few keys, waited, then drummed some more. After a few tattoos, he perked up and spread his hands at the screen. “Gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to Z-z-z-z, formerly known as Avery Rhodes.” He turned the screen toward them as he spoke. The name Avery Rhodes had been replaced by a series of overlapping X’s.
The first thing Remington noticed, with sinking disappointment, was the broken image address icon where the staff photo should have been. He sighed. Flowers tapped the screen with his knuckle.
“Set up March twenty-third. 1954 Horseshoe Court, Flint Hill, Georgia, 30002…”
Remington tore his notepad from his jacket pocket and began to scribble.
“Interview notes are a blank file, references, transcripts, all blank documents. He slipped the profile in, set it to high priority, exclusive to Cheatham Hill Magnet High School, AP classes preferred… He rejected several calls before accepting the one for R. Creighton on April thirtieth.”
Remington looked up, blinking. “Several what?”
“Several calls befo—”
“Calls?”
Flower’s mouth spread slowly into a smile. “Would you like his phone number?”
40
“It’s you again,” Steyer said with a smile as Young opened the hatch of her Jeep Wrangler and unloaded her golden Labradors. “Don’t Cheatham Hill officers ever clock out?”
“Clock out?” Young laughed. “Oh, I clocked out. I’m just takin’ my dogs for a walk!” The animals wiggled excitedly and rounded her legs until she motioned for them to sit with a closed fist. “This is Agatha… and this is Edger,” she said as one by one, she strapped the neon orange SEARCH vests on them. The wiggling stopped immediately, and they sat at attention.
The corner of Remington’s mouth turned up. He had never had a dog, but had always wanted one. He reached out and scratched between Agatha’s ears. He could see himself and Wickes getting a service dog…
“There’ll be plenty of time to visit the puppies once they’re done,” Young said with a slight scold to her tone. “Right now, they’re at work.”
“Apologies,” Remington said, stepping back.
Leaving a few rangers to barricade the trailhead, Young led the dogs across the street to Cheatham Hill, which was really only a grassy slope surrounded and crowned by woods. Remington and Steyer followed behind at a leisurely pace. Unlike the previous few days, there was a slight breeze to counteract the sticky heat. Remington wondered if that would aid or hinder their search.
Young paused at the gap where the trail ran into the woods. The dogs sat down. Agatha turned and looked at him, wondering why they were walking so slowly. Sighing, Remington hastened his step. He couldn’t believe he was being judged by a dog.
Removing their leashes, Young took a deep breath and called, “OK, go find them!”
Standing, they sniffed the ground around their feet, then lifted their busy noses into the air. The breeze picked up and they both froze. In complete accord, they bayed and took off running, first up the trail, then straight into the woods.
“I think they smell something,” Remington said.
“Yep!” Young replied. “Let’s go!”
They followed the dogs, who bayed at intervals, into the woods. They were not particularly thick, but the terrain was rocky and uneven. Remington was beginning to wish he had worn more suitable shoes when the breeze slapped him with the same scent the dogs must be following. The dogs bayed once more, then fell silent.
Their pace slowed with a good idea of which direction they were heading. Before them was a clearing and a track leading away from it. The dogs were lying on the ground on either side of a tree. Their tails wagged hesitantly as the three approached.
The stench of rotting flesh grew stronger. Remington’s lip curled and he put a hand over his nose and mouth. They gave the tree a wide berth as they parted to circle it.
“Animals got to him,” Steyer said, slipping his hands into his pockets.
The remaining remains sitting against the base of the tree were barely recognizable as male. The face was largely missing, and its jaw hung loosely from one side. The rest of the skull was cracked and caved from blunt force trauma. The fingers and toes had been gnawed off, as well as the genitals. Chunks had been torn loose from his thighs, belly, and arms.
Young swallowed hard and put an arm across her stomach. She nodded solemnly, walked a few feet away, then bent over and heaved. The dogs whined. Remington grimaced.
Steyer closed his eyes at the wet sound and cleared his throat. “He’s naked,” he observed.
“Mm-hm.” Remington turned to attempt to catch a breath of fresh air, but the smell was pervasive. “Beaten to death.”
“Looks like it.” Steyer nodded.
“His wild hare turned on him.”
Steyer pursed his lips, waiting for the inappropriate amusement to pass. He pulled out his phone and flipped it open. “Let’s tell Sheriff Hutson he can call off the dogs.”
The labs turned upon hearing themselves discussed. Smart things. Too smart for their own good, wagging their tails at completing their task so quickly.
Remington decided he didn’t want a service dog after all.
41
“Of our eight male Avery Rhodeses, none of them live in or within fifty miles of a locality called Flint Hill,” Steyer announced, tucking his phone away.
Remington clutched his own phone, resisting the urge to chuck it across the office. His leg jerked violently. “There is a Flint Hill in South Carolina, Virginia, Kansas, Missouri, Colorado, Oklahoma, and Texas, but not a there is not a town, city, or county known as Flint Hill, Georgia.”
Steyer studied his posture. “You don’t have to do this, you know. I can do it, or we can have one of the officers do it. Someone can pose as a wrong number.”
“People hang up on wrong numbers.”
“A serial killer would hang up on a federal agent.”
“Yes, but despite what the movies portray, serial killers don’t usually take a special interest in the federal agents investigating them.”
Steyer studied him. “Perhaps we should discuss what happened—”
Remington clapped his hands on his knees and leaned up. “I’m fine. He called me; It’s about time I called him.”
Steyer nodded, then tilted his head toward the recording device hooked up to the phone on Remington’s desk. “They’re ready when you are.”
Remington took a deep breath.
The phone number Avery Rhodes had given Cheatham Hill School District went straight to a voicemail message stating the phone number. Remington had never kept a schedule so faithfully than calling it every hour on the hour until it was too late for decent people to be receiving phone calls.
“We’ll try again tomorrow.” He popped and rubbed his jaw, sore from grinding his teeth.
“Bright and early,” Steyer said.
****
“The Phoenix now has a Glock, a rifle, a sheriff’s cruiser without a GPS chip, and—most importantly—a radio.” Remington, his tie loosened and his foot up on a chair, tossed his crust into the lid of the pizza box sitting across Byron and Kondorf’s desks.
“Why is that most important?” Byron asked around his bite. He had been surprised when the agents returned, late and despondent, and agreed to pitch in on a few pies.
Remington picked the crust back up and tore off the end. “He can spy on us.”
Byron leaned back and propped his feet up on his desk. He chewed on this conundrum. “Maybe we could set up a separate channel specific to Phoenix business. Share it verbally.”
“He would find it,” Steyer said. He had spent much of the time after their return making several phone calls in their office. He looked both reluctant and relieved to pick up a slice of pizza. “We can keep Phoenix business verbal, and any radio communications�
�� vague.” He waved his hand, unsatisfied with his own idea. He sat down heavily at an empty desk nearby.
Remington yawned and ran a hand over his face. “It’s too late to strategize.”
Steyer tilted his head from side to side and opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by Taps emitting from his pocket. He tossed his slice down and dug his cell phone out. Furrowing his brow at the number on his screen, he flipped the phone open.
“Steyer,” he answered.
Byron smirked. They really did answer the phone like on X-Files.
Steyer’s confused expression intensified as he listened to the caller. “No, I’m not. Let me check.” He stood and hurried toward the front doors.
“What’s up, boss?” Remington jumped to his feet.
“Someone just pulled the GPS chip from our car,” Steyer called back.
“Someone,” Remington muttered, as if there had been any question as to who. He sprinted after Steyer, overtaking him and beating him out the door.
The shifting light outside gave Byron a clue as to what was waiting for them, but he still gaped when he saw it: In the parking lot, perpendicular to the FBI fleet vehicle, was a patrol car, engulfed in fire. Black smoke billowed up, obscuring the clouds around the moon.
Byron fumbled with his radio. “214 to dispatch. We have a fully-involved vehicle fire in the precinct parking lot.”
Maas’s voice crackled back. “Dispatch to 214, repeat your 20.”
“Cheatham Hill Police Department parking lot.”
The radio clicked, but there was a moment before she replied, “Units are en route.”
Steyer waited for Byron to end transmission before he held his phone back up to his hear. “The car appears to be fine,” he said, “but I’ll call you back tomorrow morning with an update.” He lowered the phone back down slowly.
“Motherfucker…” Remington said, running his fingers through his hair.
Steyer swallowed hard. “Apparently not everyone thinks it’s too late to strategize.”
Remington narrowed his eyes and glared at him.
42
At six AM sharp, Remington tried calling the phone number again. Once again, it went straight to voicemail. He began to despair at seven. When he called again at eight, it was purely out of habit.
But the phone rang. Remington’s heart leapt into his throat. He and Steyer stared at one another wide-eyed. After three rings, the ringing stopped and there was a hesitant pause.
“… Hello?”
Remington’s throat was so tight, he was choking. Steyer prompted him to speak. Remington had to force words out. “H-hello?”
After another hesitating pause, Steyer moved his hand in a slow circle.
“Yes?” The simple words were not enough for Remington to say, beyond a shadow of a doubt, it was the Phoenix.
“Hi! Yes, hello. This is Marty… Schaefer…” Remington stammered. Steyer gestured for him to slow down his speaking. “… with Cheatham Hill Magnet School District. May I please speak with… Avery Rhodes?”
Another pause, then a snort. Fuck, it is the Phoenix, and he can read us like a book. The laughter that followed sent a chill down Remington’s spine.
“Try again.”
“I’m sorry?”
The sound of the phone shifting away from his face, then back. “You have thirty-six seconds. Try again.”
Remington scowled. He racked his brain. What did he want, his name? Wouldn’t he just hang up? What would be more likely to get him to stay on the line? The immediate answer made his throat close up again.
Rhodes sighed. “Twenty-five… Twenty-four…”
Steyer dropped his face into his hand and shook his head. Rhodes was playing them at their own game.
Remington beat his fist on the desk. “It’s ton putain, bitch. You said you missed me?”
His answer was met with raucous laughter. Steyer grew still, his mouth cracking into a grimace. Remington’s face burned.
After a few seconds, Rhodes coughed and got himself back under control. “Ohhh, Remi… you have three more weeks, but I’ll see you sooner.”
The line went dead.
43
“What the fuck is going on down there?” Wickes’s tone was low and panicky.
Remington cringed. “Why, hello. It’s good to hear your voice too.” He bit his lip. “I take it you’ve been watching the news?”
“I read a newspaper article this morning saying the Phoenix allegedly murdered a deputy and torched your vehicle?”
“Not our car,” Remington assured her. “Although it had some minor heat damage. It was the deputy’s patrol car.”
“He torched a car.”
“Yes, he did. But now we can confirm with absolute certainty the Phoenix is responsible for the death of Deputy Beaumont and almost-certainty the four students are in his possession—and still alive.”
“How do you know they’re still alive?”
Remington hesitated before replying. “I… spoke to him on the phone.”
“What?”
“He said we had three more weeks.”
Wickes groaned. “This is torture.”
“Are you OK?”
“Am I OK?” she spat. “Someone tried to burn my boyfriend alive!”
Remington blinked, surprisingly pleased. “I’m your boyfriend now?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I believe the proper term is baby daddy.”
She groaned again. “That’s a different torture. I haven’t really been able to keep anything down.”
“No wonder you’re grumpy.”
“Starving, since we’re discussing proper terms.”
Remington pursed his lips. He considered telling her to go ahead and get the abortion, but his throat grew tight. “Have you gone back to the doctor?”
“Not yet.” Her tone softened. “I had really hoped we would have a decision by now.”
“I know,” Remington sighed. He now considered telling her to keep it, but his throat grew tight again. Not at the idea of having a child and everything that came along with it, but at the thought he might not make it back to witness it. “Just… just hold on. See if you can get something for the sickness. I’m trying…” He wanted to say, as hard as I can, but it felt like a lie in his mouth. “I’m trying.”
“I know.” She was silent for a moment, then breathed, “I’m getting scared.”
“Sam, if you’re scared, maybe you should just—”
“No, Remi, scared for you.” Her voice wavered. “I’m afraid of what this man might do to you.”
Remington let out a long, slow sigh and ran a hand over his face. “I am too,” he confessed. “But, Sam, I can’t focus on that. I need to focus on what is happening, no matter what. I need to catch this guy.”
“Don’t forget you’re part of a team, Remi.”
“Oh, I’ll let Ritchie get a few pops off.”
Wickes laughed again. Remington smiled, grateful for the sound.
“OK, mister,” she said with a sigh. “You take care of you. Come back in one piece.”
“Roger-wilco, captain. I lo—” He stopped himself before he could say it. “I… I’ll call you later.”
The disappointment in her sigh was palpable. “Have a good day, Remi. Go, catch bad guys. Save lives.”
“Will do. ’Bye.”
Hanging up, Remington pressed the phone against his mouth. The gravity of the situation settled upon his shoulders, paralyzing him. Steyer pushed open the door, making him jump.
“Got the car,” he said. “Let’s go.” He tossed a set of keys across the room. Remington caught them and nodded.
“Let’s go catch some bad guys,” he said, more to himself than to Steyer.
“You sound like Sam,” Steyer replied, pulling the door shut behind them.
44
“Do I really have to be here for this?” Remington fidgeted with jerky movements and ran his hand through his hair until it was uncharac
teristically unkempt.
Steyer raised his chin and studied his partner. “Yes,” he decided with a nod.
“Fuck…”
They stood in the front corner of the largest conference room in the Cheatham Hill courthouse, on loan because the precinct did not have a conference room large enough. Steyer narrowed his eyes at Remington.
“Sorry.” Remington glanced at the young woman standing on a table nearby, hooking up the overhead projector. She did not appear to be paying attention.
“Someone might have a question or bring up an important point,” Steyer explained. “There are some details only you can fill in, some information only you have.”
“You could—”
“I was not there, Remington.” Steyer held up a hand to prevent any further protest. “It has been four years, and you have not seen this footage since we left San Francisco. Watching it with a fresh pair of eyes—responding to inquiries—may benefit you, and those officers need to know what they’re up against. We have already suffered unacceptable losses.”
Remington stared at a spot on the floor, pulling his jacket close around his body. His gaze was about to melt the acrylic tile when he nodded.
“You can leave out any details you don’t feel are necessary,” Steyer assured him.
“We should be ready here,” the young lady announced. She lowered the screen and hopped off the table. The FBI seal appeared across the screen. She turned back to Steyer, who turned to Remington.
Remington took a deep breath and steeled himself. “OK,” he sighed. “Send them in.”
“Thank you,” Steyer said to the young lady. “You may open the doors now.”
Blue and tan uniforms shuffled in, along with a few suits, firefighters in t-shirts and station pants, and a couple of green ranger’s uniforms. The smell of coffee and stench of cigarettes floated in with them. There were only a few familiar faces: Collins, Hutson, Young, Kondorf, Byron, a few of the deputies stationed at the Cheatham Hill precinct: Duley and Kline. Remington found it difficult to breath. His muscles were twisting into knots.