by Jette Harris
“It’s about time,” he said. “I was starting to get worried.”
He was answered by a deep breath. Remington’s heart stopped at the sudden thought it might not be Steyer on Steyer’s phone.
“Can you get a ride to Tech’s?” the old man finally rasped.
Remington sighed with relief. He spit his toothpaste in the sink to give himself a moment to diffuse. “Yeah, no problem.”
“And bring coffee—please. This sludge is worse than the station’s.”
“I heard that!” Tech’s voice protested weakly in the background.
“You were meant to.” Steyer pulled the phone away.
“Son of a bitch,” Remington muttered.
“I heard that.”
Remington hung up.
58
Like clockwork, Rhodes opened his eyes at eight o’clock. Byron had untangled himself at some point during the morning and had his back to him. Ensuring Byron was still deeply asleep, Rhodes sat up and slipped his legs off the edge of the bed. He picked over the used condoms and foil wrappers, lifting them carefully between two fingers and tossing them into the wastebasket. He dressed silently and carried the basket out to the dumpster across the parking lot. Finding an untied bag, he dumped them in with someone’s diapers and soiled wipes.
Byron’s apartment was small and, outside the bedroom, impersonal. When Rhodes returned, he checked to make sure Byron was still in a deep sleep, then poked around. Looking at Byron’s desk, he caught his breath. He glanced over Byron once more, then scooped a manila folder up and slipped back out of the bedroom.
Rhodes resisted opening the folder until he found the coffee maker and put a pot on to brew. As the air filled with the rich aroma of dark coffee, Rhodes paced the apartment, immersed in the police reports, victim profiles, and evidence lists from the Cheatham Hill Police Department and the FBI, accompanied by a disorderly scrawl written in the margins.
The report didn’t contain much more than Rhodes would have suspected, but a few of the speculations were shockingly accurate and inspired a growing sense of dread: “may have quit smoking,” “may be driving a Jeep Cherokee or similar SUV-type vehicle.”
Growing anxious, Rhodes slapped the folder down on the counter and rummaged through Byron’s cabinets. He found a mug the size of a soup bowl and poured himself a generous cup of coffee. He pulled at the hair on the back of his head and wandered over to Byron’s only bookshelf next to the bedroom door.
Sipping, Rhodes browsed the books. Most of them were criminal justice and law textbooks—remnants of a college career constantly being resumed and abandoned—but there were also some emergency medical textbooks and a smattering of true crime, biographies, and graphic novels. Tucked away in the bottom corner, Rhodes found a row of four Cheatham Hill Magnet High yearbooks. He slid out the 2003 issue, the year following the one Rhodes already had.
Rhodes blew dust off the spine and cracked the book open. He sifted back and forth through the pages until he found the freshmen. Their awkwardness and desperation made him snicker. Flipping a couple more pages, he found a photograph tucked between the pages. Turning it over, he was shocked to find Heather Stokes smiling up at him. She was also awkwardly young—she could not have been older than fourteen—but she didn’t look as solemn as she did in the photos accompanying the police report.
In this photo, she sat atop Byron’s shoulders. He had one hand wrapped around her leg, and the other was pointing up at her. They were both wearing Cheatham Hill athletic shirts, Track and Field for her, Football for him. “Fastest on the Field” had been written across the bottom in Sharpie.
Rhodes studied the photo. What held his attention was the placement of their hands: the hand Byron had wrapped around her leg rested on her thigh. Her hand was resting by his neck, as if she were stroking his skin with her thumb. Irritation crept through his mind, but Rhodes shook it off as residual side-effects of his dream.
Creaking pulled Rhodes’s attention away from the photograph. He tucked it back into the yearbook, snapped the book shut, and slid it back on the shelf. He poured a second cup of coffee, tucked the folder under his arm, and returned to the bedroom.
Byron cradled his head in his hand. He had gathered an excessive amount of blanket in his lap. Rhodes put his mug on the desk, placed the folder next to it, and offered Byron the fresh cup.
“Thanks,” Byron said, accepting it.
“I know that posture.”
“It’s just a hangover.” Byron glanced up at him, but dropped his eyes to the coffee and focused on it instead.
“Gay hangover.”
“What?”
“Gay hangover.” Rhodes sat on the edge of the bed with his own coffee. “When a straight man… well, usually straight… indulges in a same-sex encounter, then convinces himself the next morning it was a mistake.”
Byron shook his head. “I… I must have had too much to drink.”
“No, you didn’t.” Rhodes winked at him over his coffee. “You were curious. I knew from the way you watched Agent Remington.”
Byron’s dark cheeks brightened.
Rhodes chuckled. “Don’t worry; You’re not the only one.”
“I have decided…” Byron heaved a fake sigh. “I am not gay.”
Rhodes shrugged. “That doesn’t matter much.”
“What, that I’m not gay?”
“Deciding,” Rhodes said knowingly. “Decisions change—often.”
Byron really sighed and looked away. “Can we talk about something else?”
“Yes, of course.” Rhodes crossed to the desk and flipped open the case file. “Although I didn’t think we were supposed to be taking these home…”
“Ohhh…” Byron made a sound like he was deflating. “What can I say? They were my classmates.” He leaned down and hooked his boxers and undershirt from where they had been discarded on the floor. “They’re my friends.”
“What bugs me is everyone talks about them like… like…”
“Like they’re dead?” Byron murmured.
“No.” Rhodes cringed. “Like the sun shines out of their asses. You knew ’em: What’re they really like? What are their flaws? Their weaknesses?”
Pausing pensively, Byron slid his boxers on under the blanket. “I knew Witt the best—Chuck, I mean. He… uh… he could be a real asshole, like his old man. He lightened up eventually. Really insecure, though; He wouldn’t change in the locker room or shower with us. I think his attitude is overcompensating for something, if you know what I mean.”
Rhodes snorted and gulped his coffee. “And Mo… Monica?”
“Monica can be a real brat, but she’s a good kid.” Byron shook his head and covered his face with his hand. “Kid. She’s only four years younger than me.” He took a deep breath. “You know, she could have been a real bitch, the Queen B, but… for some reason, she never did. She was never a bully.” He fell silent.
“Did you know Z?”
Byron shook his head and took a sip of coffee. “I was away at college when Z came down. I only saw him at the coffee shop.” He stared into his cup, sucking his bottom lip. “I… I avoided him.”
Rhodes bit his lip and studied Byron carefully. “Because you were in love with Heather?”
Byron jerked his head up, sloshing his coffee. “Don—Don’t say that. Don’t tell anyone.” He wiped the coffee off his chest. “I can’t… They’ll take me off the case.”
They stared at one another. After a moment, Byron looked back down into his coffee.
“Tell me Heather’s flaws.”
Byron shook his head. A smiled slowly spread across his face. “None,” he said. “I mean, she was stubborn. She could be obstinate.” He took a deep breath. “Before her folks died, she could be trouble. Small stuff, you know: Skipping school to sneak into R-rated movies. But after they died, she cleaned up quick.” He snapped his fingers. “She doesn’t so much as swear.”
Rhodes swirled his coffee, looking down into his cup to hide
his smirk.
“Did… Did I ever tell you about the first time I ever saw her?”
Rhodes drained his coffee and tried not to sound too eager. He had heard snippets of the story during the pool game. “Something about a flagpole?”
Byron grinned, basking in the memory. “It was the day after our start-of-year skirmish, and I am hungover as fuck. I pull up to the school, and all the JROTC boys are standing around, staring up. At first, I don’t think anything of it; They’re runnin’ the flag up, just like every morning. Then I see her: She’s sitting at the top, untangling the rope.
“I have no idea how she got up there, but she was sittin’ up there while the guys got the flag on, smiling down at everyone. She smiled down at me. It was just amazing.” He closed his mouth, sobering. “I… every time I look at her, I want to tell her what it felt like to see that. I form the words in my head, but I never… never could tell her. Now I wish I had. I wish I could.”
Rhodes gathered the contents of the case file. Byron watched him, stroking his shoulder absently.
“Want some breakfast?” Rhodes asked.
Byron inhaled as if coming out of a trance. He frowned and shook his head. “Nah.” His hand stopped moving, but he didn’t drop it from his shoulder. “I should get ready. You… you should go.”
Rhodes snorted. Byron raised his brow. Taking the cup from Byron’s hand, Rhodes set them both on the bedside table and sat in front of him, almost in his lap. Rhodes smirked.
“If you think,” he said in a low voice, “that you can fuck me all night long, and not kiss me good-bye in the morning, you are dead… wrong.”
Byron barked a laugh. Nodding, he inched forward. Rhodes leaned into him with a kiss. Within a few seconds, he had Byron on his back again.
59
Rhodes settled into the driver’s seat of his Jeep. The manila folder he had stolen from Remington’s desk was tucked between the seat and the center console. He pulled it out, flipped it open, and shuffled through the papers until he found the speculative report.
Female victim sat in passenger seat. Male victim sat in driver’s seat. Passenger seatbelt unbuckled. Driver’s seatbelt, found to be faulty, could not be unbuckled. Tracks in mud indicate passenger escaped car then returned. Autopsy results found no burning in lungs. Victims died from smoke inhalation before vehicle became fully involved. Origin of fire determined to be faulty wiring.
Victims’ 14yo daughter placed with maternal grandfather. Frequent welfare calls recommended.
Rhodes forced his breath out, then in again. He re-read at least three times: Tracks in mud indicate passenger escaped car then returned. His hand went to the back of his head and he tugged at his hair.
(Like mother, like daughter…)
His mind drifted back to the boxes in the back of Heather’s closet, full of leftovers from the dead. A smile slowly spread across his face.
60
“Coffee’s up!” Remington called as he knocked. He looked down by his feet, and was still looking down when Steyer opened the door. His shirt was wrinkled and his pants rumpled. He had circles under his eyes.
“You look like—”
Steyer leaned heavily on the doorframe and raised his brows.
“—like you had a long night.”
“I slept on the couch.” He didn’t only look tired, but old. Remington swallowed and held up the tray, which held two coffees and an energy drink.
“You didn’t hear anyone knock?” Remington asked, nodding toward the box at his feet.
“Nobody knocked.”
They both looked down to stare at the box. It was about 24x24, taped shut, and had Tex written across the top in black marker. It had been placed perfectly square with the door.
“Do you think he would…” Remington began, but let the remainder of the question hang in the air.
Steyer took a deep breath. “Go to the car. Get bags and the camera.”
Remington turned, but Tech’s voice made him pause.
“What’s going on?” Tech shuffled to the door and leaned heavily against the wall. He looked much worse than Steyer. He glanced at the box, then at the agents’ concerned faces. “Could it be a bomb?”
Steyer shook his head. “That seems uncharacteristic.” He beckoned for the coffees, and Remington passed them over. Steyer handed them to Tech and pushed him toward the kitchen. Steyer searched his pockets, producing a single nitrile glove. Pulling it on, he crouched to inspect the box. Remington hesitated, then went to the car to get a bundle of evidence bags and the digital camera.
“I doubt very much it’s a bomb,” Steyer concluded as Remington mounted the porch. “It’s not very heavy either.” He sighed and relieved Remington of the bags. “Photograph it and bring it in. We’ll need coffee first.”
Remington pulled on some gloves and photographed the box, relieved there wasn’t any blood seeping through the bottom or smeared on the lid. Once he had gotten every angle, he nudged the box, then lifted it. It was very light, no more than seven pounds. Relieved he would not be opening it to find Heather Stokes’s head, Remington carried the box inside.
Tech sat at the table, already gulping down the dregs of his coffee. He slammed the cup on the table and shook his head. Remington set the box in a chair across from him, handed Steyer a second nitrile glove, and popped open his energy drink. Steyer eyed the box as he sipped his coffee at a more reasonable pace.
“Where do you keep your scissors?”
Tech twisted in his chair to point, but before he could speak, Remington reached into his pocket and pulled out a butterfly knife. Steyer cringed as the younger agent flicked it open skillfully. Remington offered the knife to Steyer, who narrowed his eyes disapprovingly. He was going to get an earful later.
Remington sliced along the edge of the flap to preserve the tape as much as possible. He flipped the top off, then peered under the inner flaps. Tech stood to see inside. Furrowing his brow, Remington flipped the flaps open. Tech’s brow furrowed as well, then he sank down with the sound like he was deflating.
Folded neatly on top was a white t-shirt. At least, it had been white. Now it was white and brown, splattered with rust-colored bloodstains. Most of them were small, but there was a large stain on the left shoulder.
“Still with us, Sarge?” Steyer asked.
Tech was pale. Instead of a reply, he released a soul-rattling groan. His eyes drifted to a cabinet in the corner. Steyer followed his gaze. Remington was sure they would find a bottle tucked away up there later. Tech closed his eyes and shook his head.
Remington photographed the shirt as he unfolded it. “This large stain here is consistent with the scenario the lab proposed concerning the blood splatter on the car.” He exchanged another glance with Steyer and they came to a silent agreement.
“In that case,” Steyer said, “there is no reason to believe Heather was badly injured.”
Tech narrowed his eyes skeptically, but nodded.
Remington held the shirt up and studied and front and back. He moved his drink and spread the shirt out on the kitchen table. Frowning, he drew a circle around the front of the shirt with a finger. “What does this look like to you?”
Steyer tilted his head. Tech rose in his chair and wrinkled his nose.
“Did she sneeze?” he asked.
“Sneezed or snorted…” Remington nodded. “There was blood on the airbag, so this blood here, all of this…” He swept a hand over the splatter across the front of the shirt and right shoulder. “—is most likely from her nose. And this” He pointed to the large stain on the left shoulder. “—could be from the assault. He struck her across—”
Steyer cut him short with a hiss and a curt shake of his head. Tech sat back down heavily. He peered inside the box. Under the t-shirt was a pair of faded jeans, also folded neatly. The back pocket was torn off. “I can’t say one way or the other about the shirt, but those are Heather’s jeans.” Sniffling, he reached out to touch the frayed edges. Steyer lifted a hand
to stop him, but dropped it.
“Were they already torn?”
“Oh, yeah.” Tech smirked. “She had a—uh—a wrench in the back pocket. She was going into the crawlspace under the house to check some wiring when the air conditioning broke. She snagged the wrench on the doorframe and tore the pocket right off.” He sighed. “She would wear these if she was workin’ or… runnin’ out for somethin’.”
“Or to save some missing friends?”
Tech sighed and shrugged. “Either she thought she was gonna be right back or she thought she was gonna get her hands dirty.”
“She went for one and got the other,” Remington said as he pulled the jeans out. The other back pocket was intact. There were holes in both knees. The button was missing and the zipper was broken. The legs were spotted with grease, grass, and other assorted stains. Blood stains spotted the left leg above the knee.
“So she’s sitting in the driver’s seat,” Remington began, spreading the jeans on the table, keeping one hand on it to conceal the missing button and broken zipper, “and the airbag goes off, busts her nose. She leans over to open the door—Wait!”
Steyer turned to find Tech reaching into the box. He pulled out a Polaroid photograph.
“Holy shit…” Remington murmured.
Tech sniffed. His hand trembled. He turned the photo over to read the message written in black ink on the other side.
“That yella son of a bitch…”
He allowed Steyer to pluck it from his fingers. The photograph was of a man’s naked torso, from the shoulders down. He was twisted profile, displaying a long, deep gash across his ribcage, blood running down his side. In one hand, he held the front page of yesterday’s Atlanta Journal-Constitution. In the other, curiously, he held a tube of toothpaste. There was blood on one corner of the tube.
Taking a deep breath, Steyer turned the photo over and read aloud, “Your grand-daughter is surprisingly resourceful.” He snorted and re-read the message, then flipped the photo back over.