by Jette Harris
Thatch couldn’t argue with that. He ran ahead and into the stable. “These are my friends!” he said, running from stall to stall. “This is my favorite. Her name is Cassie. She’s a Painted.” He climbed the gate and swung his leg over the top, where he perched and turned back to the adults.
“Cassie’s about to foal,” Virgil explained in a whisper.
A small female paint raised her nose to nuzzle Thatch’s face. Homer reached over and stroked her neck.
“I’m sorry ’bout your aunt.”
“Me too.” Thatch didn’t understand why everyone kept apologizing to him. He wasn’t crying.
“When you saw her last, did she seem upset at all? Sad? Angry?”
“Aunt Betty was always happy.”
Homer shot Virgil a glance, and Virgil shook his head. Was that the wrong answer?
“She smiled a lot,” Thatch added weakly.
Now Virgil nodded with a shrug.
“So,” Homer continued, “she was smiling when you last saw her?”
“Yeah.”
“Did she or your uncle say anything strange or angry?”
“Uncle Jed doesn’t talk much.” Thatch lowered his voice and growled, “‘Pass the salt,’” then laughed. Virgil snickered as well.
“Did you hear anything last night?” Homer asked. “Yelling? Banging?”
Thatch shook his head. “I went straight to bed. I was supposed to go to school today. I’m in the first grade.”
“You a deep sleeper?”
Thatch didn’t really understand the question, so he nodded. He understood the next one, though:
“Did you hear your Aunt Betty fall down the stairs?”
He shook his head vigorously.
“Did your aunt and uncle ever fight?”
“No.”
“Did your aunt and your ma ever fight?”
“No, they were always joking and laughing, unless Uncle Jed was around. Then only Aunt Betty would talk.”
Homer furrowed his brow. “Did Jed and your ma fight?”
Thatch didn’t answer at first. “Ma calls it bickering,” he murmured.
“Do they bicker a lot?”
“Yeah…”
“About what?”
“I dunno.” He laced his fingers into Cassie’s mane and clutched her hair. “She said he never lets us go anywhere without him being with us.”
Homer’s head bobbed. He turned to Virgil and gave a curt nod. Virgil lifted the boy off the gate and lowered him to the ground. Thatch stood at the deputy’s feet and looked up at him.
“Is Mama in trouble?” His voice wavered.
“No, son.”
His face brightened, then fell again. “Is Uncle Jed in trouble?”
Homer took a deep breath. Crouching, he looked Thatch in the eye. “Do you think your uncle hurt Aunt Betty?”
Thatch’s eyes went wide. He dropped his gaze to the ground. “No.”
Homer took much less time talking to Ma. She followed him downstairs afterward, red-eyed, clutching a handkerchief, and stood on the bottom step as the deputy took his leave. Thatch climbed behind her and hid in the folds of her dress.
“I’ll call if I need anything else, Mr. Flint.” Homer shook Jed’s hand and waved at Virgil. “I’ll see you later.”
Jed closed the door behind him. Everyone stared at him as he searched the floor around their feet. “Let’s get back to work.”
“You sure, boss?” Virgil asked. “I mean—”
Jed shook his head. “Let me clear my head.” He walked toward the kitchen to leave out the back door.
“Jed?”
They were all surprised to hear Judy’s meek voice. Jed waved Virgil out. Virgil left haltingly, watching them over his shoulder.
“Homer mentioned there are some jobs in town.” She stood taller and spoke louder, but her voice still wavered. “I can save up a bit and get an apartment, get us out of your hair.” She slipped a hand behind her back and stroked Thatch’s head. “I don’t want to be—”
“Please, Mama…” His soft voice floated from behind her. “I don’t wanna leave my friends…”
Jed’s jaw jutted out and he looked her over. His eyes landed on the boy. Thatch didn’t like it when they bickered. He hid again, clutching her skirts. Jed shook his head. “That won’t be necessary; I could use your help around here, especially with…” He clenched his jaw, his eyes sweeping the floor at the bottom of the stairs. “Especially now.”
Sighing, Judy looked down at Thatch and ran her hands through the hair at the back of his head. She nodded. “We can do that for a while.”
The funeral was Sunday morning. Sunday night, the screaming began.
May, 2006
Atlanta
A loud chime made Rhodes flinch. He furrowed his brow and fished his phone out of his pocket. He chuckled as he read the screen:
1 MESSAGE RECEIVED
JAMAL BYRON
Gonna check out houses.
Wanna come?
Love to. Bored as fuck.
Meet in 10
Rhodes took a deep breath. He still had two boxes in the back of the Jeep, and one of them had to go.
Make it 15. See you soon.
64
“What happened to your head?” Byron’s brow furrowed with concern as Thrace walked down the crumbling front path of the abandoned house.
The deputy raised his hand to his forehead to touch the fresh-looking contusion, but thought better of it. “I got knocked around responding to a domestic.”
“Looks bad, man.” Byron leaned forward to study it as Thrace mounted the porch stairs. Thrace tilted his head as if going in for a kiss and chuckled as Byron settled back on his heels. “Did you get it checked out?”
“Oh, yeah. Just a mild concussion. Nothin’ I need to report to the sheriff.”
Byron scoffed. Thrace cracked his mouth as if he was laughing at a joke he hadn’t known he made.
“I’d hate to see the other guy.”
Thrace’s mouth tightened and twisted into an odd smirk. “No, he didn’t look too good by the time I brought him in.”
The house was confirmed vacant, but Byron knocked anyway. The windows across the front of the house were covered by plywood, but the shards of glass on the front porch indicated it was too little, too late.
“Would you like the pleasure?” Byron asked, stepping aside. “You look like you could blow off some steam.”
“Why, thank you.” Thrace stood square with the door and kicked it in. The wood splintered and flaked around the knob as it tore loose, releasing a gust of rank mildew.
“Cobb County Sheriff’s Department!” he called, poking his head in. “What a shithole.” The carpet was littered with debris and dead bugs. Black patches of mold ran down the corners. The ceiling sagged and cracked, or had given out altogether, adding to the mess on the floor. It was, however, empty of furniture or anything else that could conceal an intruder.
“The Phoenix report said the first house was just a shack,” Byron said, following Thrace in. “Phoenix, Arizona, I mean.”
“I know what you mean.”
They moved through the house, opening doors to peer into closets and bathrooms.
“You read all the reports?” Thrace asked, upsetting an eerie silence.
“Yeah, I figure the more I know, the more I can help.” Byron stuck his head in to investigate the linen closet of a reeking bathroom. Someone had used the shower as a toilet long after the toilet had broken. He backed out with a hand over his nose, and took a deep breath once he was clear of the room. “I might get them to write me a referral or something.”
“Referral for what?” Thrace searched the floor under the attic panel for any suggestion it had been opened.
Byron pursed his lips. He didn’t answer until Thrace fixed him with a questioning gaze. “The FBI. I’ve always wanted to be an FBI agent… ever since I was a kid.”
A smile broke across Thrace’s face as if he were about to bu
rst out laughing, but he shook his head instead. “I thought you wanted to be a lawyer?”
They moved into the kitchen. Byron pulled open the pantry, which was mercifully empty. “That would make my parents happy, but not me. It’s boring.” He turned as Thrace reached for the refrigerator door. “Don’t—!”
His warning came too late: Thrace opened the fridge and immediately twisted away, gagging. He slammed it shut again. The rank, murky smell of rotting food made them choke and cough.
“Any heads?” Byron joked, waving the foul stench away.
Thrace gagged again and snorted several times. “Just some poor, defenseless lettuce.”
A narrow door occupied the back corner of the kitchen. Byron pulled it open expecting a cabinet. He was met with a set of rickety wooden stairs leading down into a black abyss. They shined their flashlights into the darkness, casting beams across cinder blocks and a dirt floor.
“Would you like the pleasure?” Thrace smirked.
“Uh… thanks…”
Byron descended slowly, bending low to peer around the room. Thrace stayed close behind him.
“Looks empty,” Byron said.
And he was right. The room was a 12 x 12 cellar with a dirt floor, cinder block walls, and nothing else. No furniture, not even trash scattered about.
“That was… anti-climactic…” Byron muttered.
Thrace snickered.
“What?”
“Remember what you said before I kicked in the door?”
“What’s that?”
“I looked like I need to blow off some steam.” The beam from Thrace’s flashlight disappeared. “Wanna make it a bit more climactic?”
Byron chuckled and looked down at the flashlight in his hand. He shook his head and clicked it off.
****
Once shirts were tucked and zippers were zipped, the young man caught his arm. “Hey, man, something buggin’ you?”
Rhodes smirked. “Is that a joke?”
“No, I’m serious.” The concern in his voice was touching. “You seem…”
Sucking his bottom lip, Rhodes glanced around. He reassured himself his discomfort was related to the looming threat Steyer and Remington could be knocking on his door right now, but it wasn’t. He shook his head. “Naw, it’s like you said; I needed to blow off some steam.”
As if he hadn’t been doing plenty of that recently.
They stepped back out onto the front porch. The day was mockingly beautiful, a good day for housework. Rhodes searched the sky, then kicked a piece of debris off the porch stairs. Byron pulled the door as closed as it could get.
“Y’all just now gettin’ back to searching houses?” The drawl tasted like copper in his mouth. It was easy, but felt unnatural.
“We’ve been checking out one or two when we can, but getting permission is hard, and we’re spread thin.” He tugged at the door in a half-hearted effort to secure it. “I really appreciate your help.”
Rhodes took a deep breath. His anxiety settled, although the other feeling still lingered in his gut. He forced himself to smile. (This poor boy…) “About how many houses do you have on the list?”
“Maybe a dozen.”
“And growing, I bet.”
“No, I think we got all of ’em.”
Rhodes deflated. Byron clapped, making him jump.
“Ready for the next one?”
“I can’t.” He checked the time on his phone. “I’m about to get off and I have to fix a hole in the wall.” He needed to get a look at that map. But not now; He had been away too long. He needed to get back and fix that damn wall.
Byron’s smile faltered. “Wham-bam, thank you, ma’am?”
Rhodes snorted. He stepped close to Byron and leaned down until his lips brushed his ear. “Thank you, sir.”
He leaned back with a smile. Byron’s phone buzzed.
“It’s Tommy,” Byron said, flipping the phone open. “Byron,” he answered. Kondorf spoke quickly. “Wait… Say that again?”
“It’s Frank Witt,” Rhodes heard Kondorf repeat, slower. “He’s throwing all of Chuck’s stuff out.”
Rhodes frowned.
“We’ll be right there,” Byron said, and snapped the phone shut.
65
When the three of them arrived at the house, they found the front door open. Several boxes of various sizes were scattered on and around the porch. As they got out of their cars, Frank came to the front door, a box in his arms.
“You can take it!” he yelled at the officers, dropping the box off the side of the porch. “You can have it all—” He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “—and burn the rest!”
“Now, hold on there!” Kondorf jogged across the yard. “Frank, I can see you’re upset, but you’re not thinking clearly.”
Frank disappeared back into the house. When Kondorf followed, he turned on him so suddenly, Byron’s hand flew to his gun. Thrace imitated this startled movement.
“Out!” Frank bellowed. “You can’t come in here without a warrant! I know my rights!”
Holding his hands up in surrender, Kondorf stepped back onto the porch, where Byron and Thrace joined him. Frank stomped up the stairs, out of sight.
“I called Agent Steyer right after I called you,” Kondorf whispered to Byron. “I don’t believe that man is accustomed to swearin’, but he sure sounded like he wanted to.”
The three officers leaned into the door to look around. Cathy Witt sat in the living room, sobbing into the arm of the sofa. Carly rubbed her mother’s back, looking as if she could use some comfort herself. Approaching footsteps warned them to pull their heads back out. Dean Witt descended the stairs, carrying a large, heavy-looking box in his arms. He wore a fixed expression.
“Dean,” Byron greeted him with a nod.
Dean glanced back up the stairs to make sure his father was not behind him. “Hey, Jamal.”
He lowered the box close to the ground and let it fall the last inch or so. It was loud, but there was little risk to the contents. Glancing back inside, he guided Byron to the side of the porch and reached into his back pocket. He pulled out his wallet and shoved a wad of bills into Byron’s hands.
“Get a storage unit,” he whispered. “If that’s not—”
“What’re y’all still doing here?” Frank’s voice drifted down the stairs.
Byron, who had been shaking his head throughout the transaction, stuffed the money into his pocket. Dean stowed his wallet and leaned down to rearrange boxes. This was how his father found him.
Emerging onto the porch, Frank held up a stack of magazines, then threw them down at Kondorf’s feet. “Now, even a foot-washer such as yourself would be sick if you found these behind your son’s bookshelf.”
They looked down, except for Dean, who became very interested in the flowers lining the front lawn. Kondorf shook his head and scratched his brow. Byron glanced at Thrace, but the deputy kept his eyes on the magazines. His face was red.
“Take them and burn them.” Frank turned to go back inside.
“I don’t see anything wrong,” Thrace called. Frank stopped and turned back as Thrace retrieved the magazines from the ground. The deputy straightened them and wiped some dirt off the back covers with care.
Frank enunciated as if Thrace were dim. “I imagine only a faggot wouldn’t see anything wrong with this… pornography.”
“Well, at least you got one thing right.” Thrace smiled, holding the magazines out. “But this isn’t pornography. These two are human rights magazines, and this here is a lifestyle magazine, much like your, uh, Cosmopolitan and GQ. They send me two each month; I don’t know why.”
Frank’s lip curled in disgust, but before he could retort, Thrace stepped closer. Frank swayed, but did not want to appear intimidated by stepping away.
“You might want to keep these, Francis Witt,” Thrace said, firm but quiet. “One day, you might look around and realize they’re all you have left of your oldest son.”
Frank stared at him in silence, the red draining from his face. Everyone stared, ready to spring forward should the two require separation. Frank’s face was deathly pale when he spoke again. “Get off my property,” he muttered. He raised his voice to say, “This investigation is over! Dean is my only son.”
Clenching his jaw, Thrace threw the magazines down and stormed back to the cars. As soon as Frank retreated inside, Dean ducked to recover his brother’s property.
“Leave it!” Frank screamed, making the boy jump.
66
“You wanna hear something weird?”
“Sure.”
“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“Rewind that?” Cathy Witt asked. Remington complied.
Despite Steyer’s warnings, when Frank Witt found a box in his driveway with WITT on the lid, he tore it right open. Obviously, he didn’t like what he found. Rather than including a photograph, the Phoenix had tucked a digital recorder in one of Chuck’s shoes.
“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” Chuck Witt repeated.
There was a long pause. One of the speakers shifted and sighed. “I can’t say anyone’s ever said that to me before.”
Steyer kept his face fixed. He recognized the voice, with an unguarded Northwestern accent, as the Phoenix.
There was a deep, shaking breath. “I can’t… go home after this,” Chuck said. “Ever. My dad will kill me.”
Cathy lowered her head to hide her face.
“Can I stay here?” He sounded so young.
There was rustling. The Phoenix was ruffling Chuck’s hair. “Sure. You’re a good pet.”
Cathy’s body shook with silent sobs. Frank’s face was bright red, twisting into a disgusted sneer. They listened as one of the speakers rolled over, one of them released a staccato gasp, then sighed. The sighs mounted until Chuck was moaning.
“Turn it off,” Frank demanded.
“No!” Cathy wailed.
“Off!”
Steyer and Remington exchanged a look. Steyer lowered his gaze to Cathy. Remington hit pause and slid the recorder across the table to his partner as he beckoned to Frank. They crossed into the living room. Steyer slid the recorder in front of Cathy. He pointed to the stop button.