Two Guns

by Jette Harris

“Was he as tall as I am?” Steyer stood straight and rolled his shoulders back. He didn’t seem so old now, but like the soldier he had once been.

  Sterling’s smile disappeared. She shook her head. “No, taller.”

  Steyer raised his brow with mild surprise. He swept his hand to present Remington to them. “As tall as him?”

  Remington put his foot down and stood tall. He towered about three inches over Steyer. Sterling and Xavier made faces as they compared the men mentally. Eventually, they both nodded.

  David looked from his siblings to Remington and bit his lip. “Taller,” he said in a small voice, afraid to dissent.

  Steyer’s eyebrows rose higher. “What was he wearing?”

  “A police uniform,” Sterling said, her tone smacking of Duh. Lauri shot her a look, but it was most likely Steyer’s unamused, measured stare that put her attitude in check.

  “He said he wasn’t a cop,” David said quietly.

  “No, he didn’t,” Xavier snapped.

  “Uh-huh, before you ran over! I asked him, ‘Are you a cop?’ and he said, ‘No, I’m just wearing the… the suit.’”

  Steyer stared at David, stunned. Remington snorted and covered it with a cough. They exchanged a glance. If they hadn’t verified it was the Phoenix, that comment alone would have cemented their suspicion.

  “What color was the uniform?” Steyer continued.

  “Brown,” they all agreed.

  Steyer and Remington exchanged another glance. The Phoenix had kept Beaumont’s uniform.

  “Was he wearing a duty belt? With a radio and gun?”

  “Yes,” David said, louder this time.

  “Did he ever touch his gun?”

  “No…”

  “We asked him to show it to us, but he said no,” Xavier said.

  Steyer smoothed his tie. “What color was he? What race?”

  “White.”

  “Did he have a tan?”

  “No,” David said.

  “Yes, he did!” Sterling replied. “He had a dark tan, almost like an Indian.” She nodded at Remington. “Kinda like him.”

  Remington’s face went flat at yet another comparison, but Steyer’s brows went up again. They had reports the Phoenix was dark-haired and dark-eyed, but never anything other than Caucasian.

  “What color was his hair?”

  “Brown.” Xavier looked at the others for consensus, and they nodded.

  “What color were his eyes?”

  “He was wearing sunglasses,” Sterling said.

  “Like mirrors,” David added, holding his fingers over his eyes, indicating large lenses.

  Steyer pulled a pair of tortoiseshell aviators from his inside pocket. “Like these?” He pulled them on and shot them a Fonz-like smile.

  Xavier nodded. “But black.”

  “With wire frames.” Sterling traced the shape of frames in the air with a finger.

  The youngest Shatterthwaith, Devin, came up behind his mother and clung to her legs, peering around to see what was going on in his living room. Recognizing Remington, his face lit up, and he ran to hug the agent’s legs. Remington had to spread his arms and balance himself on the wall to keep from toppling over on the child.

  Devin released him and ran to do the same to Steyer. Sterling’s eyes grew as large as saucers, but Steyer smiled down at the toddler. He put an affectionate hand on the boy’s head. Devin gave him a huge grin.

  “He did that too,” David whispered.

  “Who did what?” Steyer’s smile faded.

  David nodded down at his innocent little brother. Lauri buried her face in her hands. Oblivious, Devin ran to the couch and pulled himself up to sit in his spot at the end.

  “How did the officer respond to that?” Steyer asked.

  “Just like that,” Sterling said, nodding at him.

  Xavier took a deep breath. “He put his hand on his head and gave him a big smile.” He paused, then added, “He smiled, but he looked… looked almost…” He lips curled as he doubted his words.

  “Sad,” Sterling helped. “He was smiling real big, but he looked sad.”

  52

  The incident with Lauri and the agents loosened Rhodes's courage. When they exited the office, the old, familiar thrill rose back up in his chest and travelled down into his belly. He grew jittery—too jittery to drive—filled a second cup of nasty coffee, and leaned back on Byron’s desk, one leg braced against the side.

  “I’m here to meet Agent Steyer.”

  Rhodes looked around and realized he was the only person there. The officer behind the front desk had stepped away. The man speaking stood on the opposite side of the partition. He was tall, wearing thick glasses, a short-sleeved button-up, and khakis. The card hanging from his shirt pocket read DOVALE, MICHAEL above a humiliating photo. Under one arm, he carried a collapsible easel.

  “They’re on site,” Rhodes said. “I think they were expecting you to meet them there.” He tossed his second coffee cup into the trash can and crossed into the lobby.

  “I guess they assume everyone has a fancy GPS nowadays,” Dovale said.

  “I’m ’bout to pass by there.” Rhodes lit up his most charming smile. “You can ride with me.”

  Dovale didn’t seem put-off by Thrace’s lack of a patrol vehicle. In the short distance between the police station and Rhodes’s Jeep, he complained about the heat and the bugs. He asked to stop for coffee, and complained about how Starbucks over-roasts their beans. After the slag at the station, Rhodes was willing to argue for any amount of improvement. He sipped his coffee, grateful to have something to do with his mouth, although he wished that something had to do with Byron or Remington.

  Rhodes took the long way, waiting for the road to clear of other cars. He stopped hearing Dovale’s words, and instead focused on the sound of his voice. Rhodes could hear a familiar rounding in some of Dovale’s words.

  “And anyone who sells Sumatra and claims—”

  “Where’re you from, originally? Utah?”

  Dovale switched gears with a blink. “Close: Wyoming… Laramie.”

  “I’m a Colorado boy myself. Not far from you.”

  “Is that so?” Dovale narrowed his eyes. “You don’t sound like it.”

  Rhodes barked a laugh and cleared his throat. “Oh, it’s fake,” he replied, shaking off the drawl.

  “Fake?” Dovale looked around as if searching for the candid camera. Rhodes loved that expression.

  “Oh, yeah,” Rhodes assured him, “so everyone believes I’m some redneck from Rockdale, when I’m really just here to fuck shit up.”

  “Oh.” Dovale snapped his mouth shut. His face fell, not sure of what to do with this revelation. He was silent for the first time since he walked into the station. His brow furrowed and his frown deepened. Turning back to the faux deputy, he opened his mouth, but he did not get a chance to respond.

  Rhodes swung his arm, burying the blade of a hunting knife up to the hilt in the man’s throat. Dovale flailed in a pathetic attempt to slap then hand away. Twisting the blade, Rhodes yanked it back out. Blood spewed across the windshield and passenger window. Dovale gargled, opening his mouth to speak, or scream, but only blood came out. He coughed, splattering the dash. His shoulders shook as if he were about to heave. His face grew pale, a soft shade of blue, and he slumped forward.

  “Fuck,” Rhodes muttered as a car turned onto the street. He slid the knife back into its sheath and pulled onto the grassy shoulder. There were only a few feet before it fell off into a steep ditch. Rhodes unbuckled, blocking the body from view as he leaned over and popped the passenger door open. He unbuckled the passenger seatbelt and kicked the body out of the Jeep. It hit the ground and hung on the edge of the ditch.

  Rhodes sighed. He settled back into his seat and picked up his coffee. Wrinkling his nose, he turned the cup to avoid the blood splattered on it, and sipped. A chirping made him pause. Dovale’s cell phone was ringing.

  Another car passed, then another
. When the road was clear, Rhodes climbed out. The phone went off again. He rummaged through the dead man’s pockets, pulling out his wallet and an old Nokia. The phone number on the screen made Rhodes smile, but by the time he answered it, the caller hung up.

  Rhodes pocketed the phone. He pulled the large bills from the wallet and tucked it back into the dead man’s pocket. Turning the body with a boot, Rhodes teetered it on the ledge, then let it fall. It rolled down the rocky incline with a few glorious noises, and settled at the bottom, glaring up at the sky with sightless eyes.

  (That will distract them.)

  The phone vibrated and chirped again. Smiling broadly, Rhodes answered it.

  ****

  “Now, that’s just creepy,” Remington said as they emerged from the house. He closed the front door behind them.

  “It’s very telling,” Steyer replied, looking at his watch. The composite artist should have arrived by now. Pulling out his phone, Steyer made a few phone calls back and forth with the DeKalb office. Eventually the man’s supervisor gave Steyer his direct number. Steyer dialed it twice, both times ringing until the voicemail picked up. He scratched his brow with a thumb and waited a few minutes, reviewing the notes Remington had scribbled out, then tried again.

  This time there was an answer: “Hello!”

  The casual and chipper tone irritated Steyer. “Mike Dovale?”

  “Mm—no,” the man replied. “He’s not available.”

  “OK,” Steyer sighed. “Could you have him call me back as soon as humanly possible?”

  “No, I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.”

  Steyer’s stomach dropped. He snapped for Remington’s attention, and pointed at the phone. Remington nodded, pulling out his own cell.

  “Why is that?” Steyer tried to continue sounding irritable, but it was a challenge to keep his voice even.

  “Because…” There was a pause, as if the man were reading the name. “Michael Dovale is now at the bottom of a ditch. I apologize for the inconvenience.” There was a clatter, as if the phone had been dropped, then a series of crunches and cracks, followed by dead air.

  53

  “Why aren’t there cameras in this building? An officer is dead. An agent is dead. And this precinct is unprotected?”

  Steyer stormed into the office and slammed the door, rattling the glass. Placing his hands atop his head, he stood in the middle of the room and stared up at the ceiling. Collins stepped out of his office with a phone held to his ear. He waved for Remington’s attention and gave him a thumb’s up.

  Remington nodded and pushed into the office. “Hey, boss.” Steyer liked it when Remington called him “boss.”

  “Yeah, sport.” He had that apologetic tone where he knew he had lost control.

  “The dogs are on their way.”

  “Thank you.”

  Remington’s tongue worked around the words, but he wasn’t sure how to ask. Steyer glanced to see he was still there, then cocked a questioning brow.

  “Yeah, sport?”

  Remington made sure the door was closed before asking, “How do you know he’s not just fucking with us?”

  “Oh, he is.”

  “No, I mean, he could be lying to us. Dovale could still be alive.”

  Steyer shook his head. “He had his phone, Remington.”

  “He had Z’s phone,” Remington countered, “and as far as we know, he’s still alive.”

  “So far, that’s not his MO. He has the four, and anyone else gets killed.”

  Remington slipped his hands into his pockets and ran his tongue over his teeth. “I survived.”

  Steyer waved a hand. “He’s attracted to you.”

  Remington scowled. Steyer closed his eyes and sighed, regretting his hasty words. After all these years, they never sought to name the reason the Phoenix had left Remington alive.

  “He didn’t kill you, either.”

  “I wasn’t holding the…” Steyer turned and spread his arms. “Agent Remington, what do you want?”

  “In the ruins of Montara, you told me not to blame myself.” Remington stepped close to bring his point home. Steyer narrowed his eyes. “Yes, we lost a deputy and an agency contractor. We lost two officers in San Francisco. You lost your partner—your mentor! But what you said is still true: That’s not on you; It’s on him.”

  Steyer ran his hands over his face, nodding. He leaned back against his desk. “Some retirement this is turning out to be.”

  The corner of Remington’s mouth twitched up. “You know, Sam warned you… if you don’t have a registry for your retirement gifts, you’re either gonna get gift cards, or something you really don’t want.”

  Steyer snorted, then laughed. He nodded. “Yeah, you’re right.” He sighed and wiped his eyes. “One last hurrah.”

  ****

  Steyer walked along one side of the road with Agatha sniffing in the ditch below. Remington and Young walked along the other side with Edgar. Steyer, still agitated, had insisted on this arrangement.

  They each had a copy of the topographical map the fire department had provided. They had three symbols drawn on them: a box for the Cheatham Hill Police precinct, where they assume the Phoenix had abducted Michael Dovale; a star for the Shatterthwaiths’ house; and thick lines running along every path between the two with ditches deeper than three feet running alongside them.

  “Why deeper than three feet?” the firefighter had asked.

  “Has anyone reported a dead body?” Young countered.

  “Because he’d enjoy it more,” Remington muttered.

  They were both right.

  Remington was more concerned with his partner’s agitation than finding the agency contractor’s body. He almost stumbled twice because he was distracted by glancing over at Steyer’s unusually-slumped posture. Although Steyer had ensured they both wear sunscreen, the back of his pale neck was pinking. Every ten minutes or so, Agatha would climb out of the ditch and sit before him with her tail beating the ground.

  “She’s checking on him,” Young explained. “Sometimes we have family members searching with us, so Agatha’s trained to give emotional support.”

  “Very thoughtful,” Remington said.

  A few minutes later, their radios crackled: “523 to dispatch.”

  “Go ahead 523.”

  “I’ve got a body on Irwin northbound. There’s an FBI badge here, too.”

  Remington turned to watch Steyer. The old man closed his eyes and pressed his radio to his forehead.

  54

  He’s bold… but he’s reckless…

  The agents’ temporary office was dark, with only a lamp lighting Steyer’s desk. He sat turned to stare at the window, twisting his wedding band. Remington had left reluctantly when Steyer suggested pointedly he hit the gym then get some sleep.

  Steyer inhaled sharply as his ring sliced through the skin. Blood oozed out. He pressed his finger to his mouth before the blood could drip and stain his shirt. He spun toward his desk and scavenged for a napkin. He snatched one from under a stack of used coffee cups. Sighing, he wrapped the napkin around his finger, then picked at the accumulated junk across his desk and threw it all in the wastebasket.

  “Need a Band-Aid?”

  Steyer jerked his head up. A man stood in the doorway: tall, lean, with eyes so dark, they looked almost black.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you without your uniform, deputy,” Steyer said. “Thrace, is it? May I help you?”

  Nodding, Deputy Thrace leaned heavily against the door. “A bunch of the guys are goin’ to Cowboys for a beer, some billiards. You should join us.”

  Steyer snorted at the concept of fraternizing with the local law enforcement. “You know, treason is still punishable by hanging.”

  Smiling, Thrace shrugged. “Actually, I was hoping to find your partner here. I wanted to—”

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree,” Steyer cut him off. “Agent Remington is stompingly heterosexual.”
/>   “Ah.” Thrace reached up to worry at the hair on the back of his head. “I’m… I’m gonna get going; The others are waiting.” He paused with the door half-closed. “If you’re free later, come by. I hear Tex’s been hangin’ around most nights.” He turned to leave.

  “You heard what?”

  Thrace spun on his heel. “Tex is there a lot… almost every night. I thought he was a friend of yours.”

  Steyer turned his ring absently and winced. “Tech.”

  “Come again?”

  “Not Tex; Tech.”

  “OK…” Thrace nodded. Steyer grabbed a pen and tapped it on his desk. Tap-turn. Tap-turn. Thrace cracked a smile. “We were all wonderin’ how a Yankee like you knows a… a Good Ol’ Boy like him, anyway.”

  Steyer stilled, studying Thrace with that cool expression. “You were a soldier?”

  Taken by surprise, Thrace frowned and nodded. “Yessir. Two years. Corpsmen.”

  “Then you should know sometimes it’s best not to ask.” Steyer stood, pulling his jacket off the back of his chair. He slipped it on as he crossed the room. “Let the others know as well.”

  “Yessir.” Thrace stood back for him to pass, holding the door wide.

  Steyer paused a few inches from Thrace. “And for pity’s sake, don’t ask Tech, either.”

  “Roger-wilco, sir.”

  Steyer snorted. Thrace flicked the light switch and pulled the door shut. From that distance, in the dim light, Steyer couldn’t see the piece of duct tape he had slipped over the latch.

  ****

  “I have to grab a few things from the store on the way there, but keep going down past McCollum ’til you hit 41, and it’s on the left. You can’t miss it.”

  The directions Rhodes gave Steyer would get him there eventually, but not without quite a bit of confusion. Rhodes felt odd to be standing so close, close enough to smell the old man’s Old Spice. He gestured and pointed as he spoke, could have killed the man in a flash, but he resisted. Something about Steyer resonated with him, making him content to continue this game despite the risks.

  Steyer nodded as he absorbed Rhodes’s misleading directions, but did not wait for the deputy before climbing into his car and pulling away. Rhodes hummed with tense energy as he went to his Jeep. Rather than climb in and follow Steyer, he opened the trunk and pulled on his black hooded sweatshirt and some nitrile gloves.