Two Guns

by Jette Harris

  Although he could have walked in through the front doors without rousing much suspicion, Rhodes was getting bored with the uniform that acted as camouflage. He zipped the sweatshirt all the way up and pulled the hood low over his face. An errant smoker had left the chock in the back door leading to the room where the mounted patrol kept their dusty bicycles. Crouching low, Rhodes slipped past the break room where two old dogs on the swing shift reminisced on Don Knotts’s best moments, navigated the workstations like a lab rat in a maze, and pushed open the door to the agents’ makeshift headquarters without a sound.

  Rhodes sifted through the Post-its Steyer had piled into his top drawer, flipped through the files stacked neatly on the corner of his desk, and rummaged through the pockets of the London Fog left on the coat rack by the door.

  After confirming his house was still not pinned on the map, Rhodes stood in front of the wipe board taking up the wall next to it. He scrutinized it, sliding his hand inside his hood to tug at the hair on the back of his head. He stretched his imagination to determine if any of the information scribbled there could lead them back to the House, or to his home.

  (If I’m drawing a blank, surely it means they will as well.)

  They had, as far as he could tell, nothing but the name Avery Rhodes. Combined with his previous aliases, they might be able to determine the system he used, but it would not lead them to him. The names were all vanity. They didn’t have the name he travelled under, the one that actually meant something to him.

  Rhodes turned away from the wipe board and stepped behind Remington’s desk. Leaning close to the surface, he inhaled deeply. Nothing. He leaned close to Remington’s chair and inhaled again. He had expected, for a man who took such pride in his suits, to catch a whiff of some expensive cologne. Rhodes was surprised to find nothing beyond a hint of antiperspirant and hand sanitizer.

  Atop Remington’s desk, front and center, he found what he was looking for: A manila folder containing an auto accident report.

  The cause of the deaths of Thi Vu Stokes and Heath William Stokes was determined to be faulty equipment. He slid two driver’s license photos from the folders. Heath Stokes was gaunt and bespectacled with curly brown hair and familiar coffee-brown eyes. Upon first glance, Rhodes thought the other photo was Heather, but the woman had laughing blue eyes and more rounded features.

  A small page torn from a spiral-bound notebook was covered in Remington’s dark, smudged, left-handed scribble:

  Awarded 795K from car co.

  (90K x 2) x 4

  Tech until 04/21/06

  Rhodes furrowed his brow. As Steyer had just informed him, Tech was Heather’ grandfather... He glanced back over the police report and re-read the memo. Heather’s birthday was April 21st… The notes described a settlement; Heather was now a very wealthy young lady.

  The groan of springs warned him someone had pushed open the partition and was heading to the back. Rhodes ducked under Remington’s desk, holding his breath and listening. Plastic popped, water ran, and glass scraped into the cheap coffee maker. The springs groaned again.

  Reaching up, Rhodes slid the file down and slipped out the door.

  55

  Thrace stood out front chatting with the doorman when Steyer finally pulled into the parking lot. He already had a wristband and a drink. As Steyer approached, Thrace raised his cup in a toast. Steyer bit back his commentary on the deputy’s ability to give directions.

  Steyer knew they were in the right bar when he walked in to hear a piano weakly competing with the DJ blaring “Cotton-Eye Joe.” Tech never could resist a piano, and in Vietnam every bar they stumbled into had the same rickety stand-up. To Steyer’s surprise, this redneck deadbeat could play better than any professional hired for his father’s black-tie events.

  The piano had been pushed into a crevice in the back corner upstairs with the hope customers would never find it. The clacking led the men to four pool tables, felt scuffed and balls chipped. Kondorf was shooting a ball off the rails with practiced jerks of his elbows. Byron was squinting down a cue, explaining to Sergeant Duley how to determine straightness. They all looked alien in their street clothes, and when they saw Thrace leading the fed in, they all donned a similar expression of unpleasant surprise.

  “Agent Steyer.” Kondorf’s expression was a habitual flicker across his face before he recovered his usual pleasantness. He shook Steyer’s hand.

  “Since we’re off duty,” Steyer replied, “you wouldn’t be amiss to call me ‘Ritchie’.”

  Thrace took his place with the other officers, who looked at him with a similar expression of curiosity. “I think he’s just here to pick up Tex,” he muttered.

  “Tech,” Byron corrected him. Steyer smirked.

  “Care for a drink?” Kondorf beckoned a shooter girl who looked like she belonged on a street corner.

  “Oh, no.” Steyer shook his head at the girl. “I’m here on a rescue mission.”

  “Thank God,” Byron said, stepping around Thrace. The deputy’s eyes followed him. “We’ve talked to the servers, but he’s still pretty bad off. His money’s as green as ours.”

  “I can hear you!” Tech’s voice thundered from the corner. The tune slowed, then stopped with a jarring cacophony. Tech turned, straddling the bench.

  “Intel!” His face lit up.

  Steyer forced himself to smile as he joined Tech at the piano. “Don’t call me that.”

  “I was just thinking about you.” Tech began to play a familiar tune. The shooter girl approached with a double Bourbon. Gesturing to her Tech was cut off, Steyer took it while he was still distracted with the tune. She scowled, putting a hand on her hip. Steyer raised his eyebrows and put his hand on his hip, pushing back his suit jacket to reveal his badge. The girl glanced from it to his face, then turned her heel and bounced away.

  “You know this one—Steyer—sing it with me.”

  Steyer closed his eyes. He could not hear the melody without the sound of helicopter rotors humming in his mind. He raised the glass to his lips and took a gulp. Unaccustomed to strong drink, he wrinkled his nose and clenched his jaw.

  “We met as soul mates on Paris Island…” Tech sang in a gravelly, robust voice.

  “I don’t sing, Tech, you know that.”

  “I know you do.” Tech reached out with one hand and pull the agent onto the bench. “And it was dark! So dark at night…”

  Steyer drained the bourbon. A strange sensation, not quite pain and not quite sorrow, filled him. Taking a deep breath to steel himself, Steyer joined in. Behind him, Kondorf, Thrace, and a couple of the others joined the chorus with soft voices. Tech’s voice grew unsteady, until he took a deep breath, but could not continue. He let his fingers fall from the keys. Lowering his head, his shoulders began to shake.

  Steyer tossed the glass on top of the piano and wrapped an arm around Tech’s shoulders.

  “I thought you were dead,” Tech sobbed. “Everyone else is dead. They told me you were dead, too.”

  “I’m not dead,” Steyer assured him, praying silently Tech would lower his voice. He stood, slipping his hands under Tech’s arms. Byron handed his cue to Thrace and joined Steyer on Tech’s other side.

  “I can take him home,” Byron mouthed. Steyer declined with a shake of his head.

  ****

  Rhodes watched the old soldiers stagger out, their arms around one another. His throat constricted with a bitterness he had not felt for years. His hand drifted unconsciously to his abdomen, below his ribcage. His fingers could feel the scars through his shirt, but the tissue did not register being touched. The meatball surgery that had saved his life had done too much damage; The entire area had lost sensation.

  “Hey!” Byron clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry,” he said when Rhodes started. “We’re almost ready to rack. You playin’?”

  Rhodes smiled. He stared at Byron’s well-defined mouth and straight teeth.

  (That mouth would be a wonderful distraction…) />
  “Always.”

  ****

  Byron tilted back his beer, but it was empty. He sighed and placed the bottle on the banister behind him. A glass of oaky liquid was placed next to the empty bottle. Byron looked up to find Thrace with another glass in his hand.

  “Cheers.”

  “What is it?”

  “Scotch,” Thrace replied. “Sipping Scotch, not the swill Tech was drinking.”

  Byron sniffed the liquor, then took a sip. He clenched his teeth and shuddered. Thrace laughed, opening his mouth wide. Byron’s belly stirred, but the feeling made him think of someone else.

  “Is—uh—Is Ritchie comin’ back?”

  “Nope,” Thrace said, taking another sip of his Scotch.

  “Is…” Byron struggled to find a discreet way to ask. “Do you happen to know if…”

  Thrace tilted his head with a smirk. “If a certain deliciously-dressed federal agent might show up tonight?” He smiled broadly and shook his head. “Unfortunately not.”

  Byron dropped his eyes and pursed his lips. Thrace smiled, the picture of confidence. Byron met his eyes and found the courage to raise his head, but before he could speak, there was a shout. Duley tossed his cue on the table. Kondorf laughed.

  “You playin’?” he called.

  “You betcha!” Thrace called back.

  As they played, Byron felt Thrace’s intent gaze on his body. He could feel their closeness like electricity as they maneuvered around one another to make a shot. Byron’s face burned. The twitching in his belly intensified. He tried to ignore it, but he if he were honest with himself, he didn’t really want it to go away.

  Thrace was all smiles, but at one point Byron caught him staring with an intense expression on his face. When their eyes met, Byron expected him to look away, but he didn’t. Instead, the deputy made a casual nod of his head—toward the men’s room in the corner.

  Looking away, Byron’s face burned hotter.

  I’m not curious.

  I’m not curious.

  I’m not—

  Kondorf groaned as he scratched on the eight ball. Duley heckled him.

  I’m a god-damned adult, Byron thought with sudden resolve. I can make my own decisions.

  Racking his cue, Byron headed toward the men’s room. He had to resist the urge to glance over his shoulder, to see if Thrace was watching.

  Waiting was the hard part. A couple of other men occupied the bathroom. Byron tried to act natural. He took his time unzipping his pants, urinating, washing his hands. As one of the men exited, Thrace entered. He acknowledged Byron with a glance in the mirror as he passed behind him. He used the urinal, then stood next to Byron to wash his hands.

  When the door finally opened and closed again, Byron hesitated before turning to Thrace.

  “I—” He wished to confess his ignorance, but Thrace didn’t allow for any such waste of time. Byron didn’t have any chance to protest before Thrace’s mouth was on his, and he didn’t think he wanted to anymore. Wrapping an arm around the younger man’s neck, Thrace steered him into the closest stall and locked the door.

  ****

  The sky was growing dusky when Byron and Thrace collapsed in an exhausted, sweaty heap in Byron’s bed.

  Breathless, Thrace asked, “Do you work tomorrow?” He chuckled. “I mean, today?”

  “Fuuuuck…” Byron ran a hand over his face. “Yeah.” He held up his arm and turned the watch that had somehow gotten twisted on his wrist. “But not until tonight.”

  Thrace turned to Byron with a lascivious grin. Byron laughed. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

  Thrace wagged his eyebrows. “Not if there’s fun to be had.”

  “Do you work today?”

  Thrace looked up at the ceiling. “No,” he said, then rolled onto his side. He spun his finger to gesture Byron should do the same.

  “I’m tired!”

  “Yes,” Thrace assured him. “Time for sleep.”

  Byron rolled away from Thrace, and he wrapped his arm around Byron’s broad shoulders. Byron lay there, shifting and feeling it out.

  “That’s not going to work.” He rolled back over and spun his finger at Thrace with a mocking grin. Thrace snorted and rolled over. Byron wrapped his arm around Thrace’s chest.

  If it was uncomfortable, neither of them said so. In a matter of seconds, Byron was snorting softly.

  56

  Colorado Springs

  There was a car accident. The patient’s leg was severed, hanging from the rest of her body by two inches of resilient tissue.

  “You better put on your miracle-worker cap, doc,” the medic told him as they transferred the patient from the life-flight board to the hospital stretcher.

  “I don’t take it off until end-of-shift.” Thatch eyed the wound as he pulled on his gloves. There would be a lot of hands on this leg before it would be functional again; His job was only to keep it alive.

  (All in a day’s work…)

  ****

  Thatch was exhausted. He sat on the bench outside the trauma room, not wanting to move.

  (You were supposed to be home three hours ago.) For some reason this motivated him to get up, peel off his PIC, and trudge out to the parking lot. He had driven the Wrangler to work. He narrowed his eyes when he saw it, wondering why he hadn’t brought the Lexus. He always drove the Lexus to work.

  He couldn’t remember. He was too tired to think…

  The sun was high as he pulled into the garage. It is usually rising when he gets home. He remembered to turn the Jeep off before shutting the door. The garage grew dark. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

  (No, you can’t sleep. You need to go inside.)

  (Fuck you. I’ve slept right here plenty of times. But usually in the Lexus…) He looked over at the car. (It’s more comfortable.)

  (You can’t do that anymore.)

  Thatch opened his eyes, torn between an indignant (Why the hell not?) and a reluctant (Yes, you’re right.) He popped the door open, his tired body protesting. He glanced at his briefcase and decided to leave it until he woke. Sighing, he opened the door leading into his house.

  “Daddy!”

  A tiny body collided with him and attached itself to his legs. Furrowing his brow, Thatch looked down to find a boy of about five beaming up at him.

  “You’re late,” the boy said. Thatch wrapped an arm around the boy and picked him up, hugging him tightly. He looked the boy in the eye—coffee-colored eyes—and knew his name.

  “I’m sorry, Wren,” he said. “There was a car accident.”

  “You were in a car accident?”

  “No, there was a car accident. A lady got hurt, and I helped her get better again.”

  (Now, how did this happen?) Thatch studied the boy with wonder. He had dark features, and Thatch couldn’t place them. The eyes were familiar, though.

  “Oh, thank God you’re here.”

  Thatch jerked his head up. His throat constricted. Heather Stokes, dressed in scrubs, bounded down the stairs and into the living room.

  “Mommy,” Wren said, “Daddy helped a lady get better.”

  “Daddy does that every day, sunshine.”

  Thatch stared at her, confused, as she pulled Wren from his arms and kissed his head. Setting him down, she turned to Thatch. She rose onto her toes and kissed him, her lips landing on the side of his mouth.

  “If I don’t leave now, I’m going to be late.”

  “You mean late for being early.” (Why did I say that?) He looked down as Wren re-attached himself to his leg.

  “Exactly.” Heather grabbed the keys to the Lexus and opened the garage door.

  “Heather?”

  She turned. It was definitely her, but not the emaciated animal he kept locked away in a cage; Her body was softly-contoured with healthy weight and she walked with the gait of a woman who had given natural childbirth. He could see a thin white scar across the bridge of her nose, and another above her ear, where the hair never
grew back. She tilted her head, giving him a confused smile. He glanced down at Wren, who gazed up at him adoringly. His chest filled with affection. Placing a hand on the boy’s head, he looked back up at her.

  “I love you.”

  Rhodes’s eyes shot open. Inhaling sharply, he furrowed his brow. The room was dark, hot and stuffy. He was still in Georgia. Glancing around, it took him a moment to remember whose bed he was in.

  To reassure himself it was all a dream, he rolled onto his back, propped up onto his elbows. The naked man next to him snored softly. His skin looked like black velvet in the darkness. Rhodes slid a hand over his firm ass. He sighed in his sleep, but did not move.

  (No. Definitely just a dream.) He hadn’t said those words in over twenty years.

  He lay back down, but could not bring himself to close his eyes.

  57

  Remington’s eyes snapped open as the sky paled outside the window. His limbs felt heavy and his brain foggy. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he knew it could not have been more than an hour ago. Concern had kept him awake, stealing sleep in snatches. He checked his phone, but the last message from Steyer was still: Taking Tech home.

  Home from where?

  What time will you be back?

  Are you coming back tonight?

  Did you make it safely?

  Do you need help?

  Are you still alive?

  Remington had tapped out all of these messages, but never sent them. Sighing, he got out of bed. He was tempted to celebrate this rare time alone by roaming the hotel room naked, but half-hoped Steyer would walk in.

  He didn’t.

  Remington had showered, shaved, and was brushing his teeth when the phone finally rang. He jumped across the bed to answer it, and resumed brushing his teeth to give the illusion of calmness.