by Jette Harris
“Eventually I just taught myself.”
Her eyes went wide. “To read?”
“Yeah!” He smiled, glad he could introduce this concept to her. “It’s possible. Hard work, but possible.” They were both silent for another moment, then, “Tell me more about your mother.”
“She always found the best hiding places.” She had lowered her voice as if imparting a secret.
He smirked again. “For hide and seek?”
“No, for when Daddy gets mean.”
Faliro fell still, clinching his jaw. (Of-fucking-course, Daddy gets mean.) “Was Daddy mean to you, or just Mommy?” It was impossible to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
She was quiet for a long time. She finally answered when he turned to look at her. “Usually just Mommy.”
Pulling off his hat, Faliro tugged at his hair, then smoothed it down again. He had to push away the violent images that entered his head—for now, at least. He would have words (and more) with Ian when he returned to the house. He nodded, replacing his hat.
A silver SUV pulled up to the curb and blew its horn. Hailey began to ease out of the swing. The woman behind the steering wheel didn’t bother to get out.
“Is that your Mamie?”
“Yes,” she replied, underwhelmed. She didn’t know whether to run to the beckoning SUV or remain with the nice policeman.
Faliro watched her for a long time, tugging at the hair on the back of his head, before crumbling. “Hailey… would you like to see your mother again?”
Her face lit up with hope. “Yes!”
He nodded. “Well… you will see your mother again… soon.”
“Really?”
“Really. I promise.” He didn’t think he had ever seen a child so happy. “Now, run to your Mamie.” The woman was now leaning on the horn.
With a whoop, Hailey threw her arms around Faliro’s neck, then scampered. A few feet away, she stopped. Running back, she dropped the stolen badge into his hands, hugged him tightly again, then bolted off to the SUV.
It was the only promise he ever made that he could not keep.
Faliro sat in the swing until the sky became dusky. After looking around to ensure that the park was empty of children, he lit a cigarette. Scowling, he pushed his hands deep into the pockets of Detective Hunter’s jacket and walked through the bitter cold, back to the house. He had two intentions in mind: Plan a way to return Leila home with minimal risk to his identity… and to beat Ian to death.
By the time Faliro had reached the house, he had gotten himself so worked up, he flicked his cigarette butt carelessly into the yard. He wasn’t going to release anyone just yet, he decided as he shouldered the door open. He was just going to pommel Ian right there, as he was chained to the wall—
A sound from above pulled him out of his blind rage. Footsteps paced the length of the room overhead. Someone had gotten loose. Pulling out his gun, Faliro padded up the stairs and went to the door. He waited for the footsteps to move to the far end of the room before opening it.
Ian stood at the far side of the room. He looked like he had been doused in oil. When Ian turned, Faliro realized it wasn’t oil—it was blood. Opening his mouth wide with a scream, Ian charged. He raised something in his hand. Faliro slammed the door and threw his weight against it.
The thing splintered through the door, inches from his face. It was wooden, pointed, and stained with blood.
Faliro turned and fired six times, three at chest-level, and three lower. When he heard a body fall to the floor, he closed his eyes and fell back against the opposite wall. Sliding down to the floor, he waited for his heart to slow before standing back up and pushing the door open.
Ian lay on the floor with two holes in his chest and one in his hip. He gasped and wheezed. When he coughed, blood splattered onto his face. Faliro looked around for Benny and Laila. His stomach dropped. The floor and wall on his left was covered in blood. There were a couple of hunks of meat on the floor, but they looked more like road kill than anything else.
Swallowing hard, he turned away to find the chain that had held Ian that morning. The floorboard had been splintered and broken, and the leather collar lay torn on the ground, still attached to the chain. He had broken a large piece from the floor board and used it to stab and tear the collar, then…
Grabbing a handful of hair, Faliro tugged at it as he finally turned to the opposite side of the room. Ian hadn’t cut either of them loose; They were still chained to the wall. Rhodes could only distinguish between Leila and Benny by their placement, and the curly black hair that stuck out from the gory mass that had been Leila’s head.
Faliro fell to his knees by her body, forcing himself to focus on the physical and distinguish one part from another: Here is her jaw, the cheek flayed from the muscle; here is her scapula, here her wrist; here is part of the hip, split from the main, most likely by a crushing stomp. Ian’s foot was probably broken as well.
Ian’s desperate, sucking gasps pulled Faliro’s attention back. He clenched his jaw. This man had ruined all of his plans, destroyed everything that he had invested in and worked for. Pushing himself up, he clung to the only plan he could still carry out: beating Ian to death.
Faliro grabbed the gasping man by his hair and dragged him across the floor to the bloody masses. He tried to scream, but it wouldn’t come out right—more like a dog whining. Faliro sat on his torso.
“I talked to your daughter today. I want you to know before you die, that’s she’s going to have a wonderful life. Not any time soon, but she will.”
Ian moved his mouth to speak, but failed. He grinned instead, making a staccato sound in his throat. He was laughing.
Faliro’s first punch broke Ian’s jaw. He wasn’t smiling anymore, or laughing. Faliro laid into him until his skull was indistinguishable from the other hunks of meat in the room, perhaps even more flattened.
Exhausted, he swayed, allowing himself to fall onto the floor. He lost track of time. His knuckles were split and bleeding. He turned his hand, allowing the blood to drip on his face as he picked the bone shards out of his skin. He didn’t want to think about children. He didn’t want to think about why his mother stopped reading to him, and why keeping promises meant so much.
The smell of smoke reached him, another Detroit house fire. Faliro struggled to his feet. The smell reminded him, although it was too early, he had work to do.
72
May, 2006
Atlanta
Hailey Speers had been eight years old when her parents were murdered. Being orphaned was the best thing that ever happened to her; Once word of her parents’ fate had spread, a charity had granted her a scholarship to attend the premier boarding school in the region. She was seventeen now, the same age as Zachariah Vlasov.
Since the investigation in Detroit, Steyer had visited her at school twice and called about once a year. His calls were generally social, to check in and see how she was faring. Every once in a while, he would cling to some detail he had originally believed was insignificant and ask her to clarify. Every time he inquired about the case, he believed she was holding something back, hiding something. Now, he suspected he knew what.
“I’ve been waiting for you to call,” she said when she answered the phone. Her voice still had the Detroit twang to it, but she no longer spoke in the careless manner she had been taught at home. “I’ve seen you on the news.”
“I didn’t know you were allowed to watch television.”
“My scholarship bought me a laptop. I watch the news on that. I’ve had trouble keeping my grades up this month. My instructors understand, but… there’s still no excuse.”
“In that case, you understand how important it is for you to be one hundred percent honest with me.”
“He called me.”
All the air drained from Steyer’s lungs. He took a deep breath. “When?”
“After the funeral… I was angry. I was scared. The phone kept ringing, but when anyone answere
d, the caller would hang up. One day, I was home alone. The phone rang. I wasn’t allowed to answer the phone when I was home alone, but I did anyway. I thought they were gonna hang up! The first thing he says is, ‘Don’t hang up, please. It’s Detective Hunter.’ I say, ‘I know you’re not a detective.’ Except I was still talkin’ like trash, so it was probably more like, ‘I know you ain’t no cop. You that bird; You killed my mommy.’”
“How did he respond to that?”
“He didn’t at first. He was quiet for a long time. I was afraid he was going to hang up. I didn’t want him to, so I said, ‘You’re a liar!’ That got him going. ‘I didn’t lie to you,’ he said. ‘I was going to let your mother go, but when I got back to the House, she was already dead.’ He told me, when he got back to the house, Ian had gotten loose and murdered my mother and one of the others.” She was silent for a moment. “Is that possible, Agent Steyer?”
Steyer drummed his fingers over his forehead, then sifted through the file. The bodies and the house were too badly burnt for a conclusive autopsy, but it appeared two of the bodies—identified as Laila Speers and Benedict Criss—were mutilated before the fire, while Ian’s body was mostly in-tact, only his skull was shattered.
“The evidence would support that account,” he replied. “What else did he say?”
Hailey took a deep breath. “He said, ‘I make a point always to keep my promises, but your mother was already dead when I made that promise.’ Then he hung up.”
Flicking the folder shut, Steyer rubbed his brow. If she had told him this when it had occurred, or the next time he spoke with her, he could have traced the call. It was possible at least seven people would still be alive. But not now.
“Agent Steyer, why would he do that? Why would he apologize? He kills people—what does he care about a little kid?”
“I have a theory.”
“He never touched me.”
“I know,” he assured her. “I believe you.”
“Agent Steyer, do you think he’s going to come for me? Am I in danger?”
Steyer took a deep breath. “No, Hailey, I don’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because he knew you as a child.”
73
Rhodes had to get away from the house. He had rubbed his skin raw, but could not get the feeling of rancid blood off. He jumped the back gate and climbed into the Jeep. He took several deep, even breaths, and checked in the rear-view mirror to make sure—again—he had washed all of Z’s blood off his face.
Settling back into his seat, he pulled the burn phone from his center console and slid the battery into place.
2 MESSAGES RECEIVED
JAMAL BYRON
20/5/06
Knocking out 3 houses 2nite. Wanna join?
22/5/06
Did u evr make tht list of vacant houses?
Rhodes huffed and let his head fall against the window. He needed to see that map. He needed to start wrapping up this Sabbatical so he could just strike a match and board his flight. Neither of those things seemed so easy now. If Byron is looking for more addresses, they must almost be done with the list they already had.
Rhodes twisted in his seat to look back at the house with the sudden sensation Steyer and Remington could be pulling up to the gate right now. It looked so calm from the outside, but they would be two corpses too late.
Turning the phone off and disassembling it, Rhodes took a deep breath. He tugged at the hair on the back of his head, gradually slowing. He dropped his hand and straightened.
(Steyer and Remi would be two hostages too late… but I have three corpses…)
Rhodes shoved the door open and ran back toward the house.
74
Dispatcher: 9-1-1. Is this a medical emergency?
Caller: Oh, no. I was walking my dog on one of the Kennesaw Mountain trails and we smelled somethin’ real bad. We followed our noses and found a body off… about ten meters off the trail.
Dispatcher: A human body?
Caller: Oh, yeah! Looks young, too. Could be one of them kids, you know?
Dispatcher: Do you know the name of the trail you’re on?
Caller: Oh, it’s off… uh… Callaway Road.
Dispatcher: Can you name an intersection? Any landmarks?
Caller: Mmm…
Click.
Dispatcher: Sir? Hello? Are you there?
****
Remington stroked his cheek with the back of his hand, an energy drink poised on his lip.
“What’s on your mind?” Steyer looked up from his new notes on the Detroit file.
“I got bored last night and turned on the TV. Watched the first few episodes of X-Files.” Remington finally took a drink. “I kinda dozed off, but something… tugged at my mind. Lauri said Tech’s dog tags were on Heather’s keychain, with her car keys?”
Steyer nodded. He put his coffee cup down.
“Have we recovered any car keys? Ever?”
Steyer knitted his brow. He skimmed the evidence boxes in his mind. He had spent hours—entire nights—pouring over them after returning from Detroit, looking at each piece individually and spreading them all across the floor to see if he could make sense of anything. To double-check, he crossed to his desk and pulled out a folder labelled PHOENIX, PHX—1994. He pulled out the list of items recovered from the crime scene. There were two padlock keys and two sets of handcuff keys, but no car keys or keychains. He picked up the folder labelled PHOENIX, DTW—1997. The list here was significantly shorter; The fire had done its job with disappointing efficiency. Like Arizona, there were padlock keys, but no car keys.
The San Francisco file was tome-like in comparison. Steyer had to put down the two slender folders to lift it. Since the fire had only consumed part of the house, they were able to recover a long list of items. Steyer skimmed it, running his finger down each column. There were only two keys: One key for the front and back door, and one for the interior doors.
“No,” Steyer said, looking back up.
“Chuck and Heather were abducted at their cars; Both would have had their keys on them—their vehicles may have even been running. In that case, he would have actually had to reach in and pull the keys from the ignition. If not, he returned everything but their keys.”
“He is keeping souvenirs.” Steyer raised his hand to his mouth. “Remi, you’re brilliant.”
“Well, yeah, but—”
A loud knock made them turn to the door. Chief Collins didn’t wait for them to invite him in, but stuck his head inside. “Dispatch just received a call. Someone reported finding the body of a young man.”
Steyer and Remington looked at one another with identical expressions of confusion.
75
Byron was surprised to look at his ringing phone and see Steyer’s name. He cleared his throat before answering with his last name.
“Officer Byron, we need you to come in early,” the agent said.
Byron’s heart raced. Hope rose in his chest. “What can I do for you?”
“Meet us at the Cheatham Hill Kennesaw Mountain parking lot.” Steyer took a deep breath. “We might need you to identify a body.”
The air drained from Byron’s lungs. He leaned against his kitchen counter and slowly sank to the floor.
“Officer Byron?”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
****
Byron’s hands were shaking so badly, he couldn’t button the top buttons of his shirt. When he pulled into the parking lot, Detective Young was waiting to guide him up. Byron walked up to her shaking his head.
“Body is definitely male,” she informed him, taking command of his buttons.
Byron took a deep breath and lowered his head until he regained control of his body.
“Ready?”
Nodding, Byron followed her. After about a quarter of a mile, a group of uniforms, brown, blue, and green, milled on the edge of the trail. A row of little orange flags and a line of po
lice tape guided them through the woods. Over a ridge, Agents Steyer and Remington stood by a brown mass of cloth among the leaves covering the ground. The breeze carried the sewage-like stench of decay up to them.
“I don’t see any obvious cause of death, but he was definitely dumped here,” Remington was saying. “The body’s decomposing, but there isn’t any… slime on the ground underneath. It’s been sitting around somewhere else for a while.”
Byron’s stomach turned.
“Officer.” Steyer looked Byron over, noting his paleness. “We’re fairly certain this is neither Zachariah Vlasov nor Charles Witt. But we’d like confirmation before we make any assumptions.”
Remington knelt by the cloth, a wool blanket. “Ready?”
Byron nodded. Remington pulled the blanket back. Byron furrowed his brow. He stepped closer, finding a bearded face among a mass of long, wiry hair. He shook his head.
“Definitely not Witt,” he said, “or Z.” He crouched down beside the body, breathing easier despite the smell. Tilting his head, his lips parted slightly. He jumped up.
“You OK?” Remington flicked the blanket back over the face.
“That’s—” Byron pointed to the body, then turned from Remington to Steyer to Young, the familiar face. “It’s Michelle.”
“Michelle?” Steyer asked, raising his brow.
“Mich—Michael. Michael Menter.”
Young shook her head. “No…” She crouched and pulled back the blanket again. A long, slow exhale indicated her surrender. She nodded. “Bless his heart,” she muttered, throwing the blanket back down.
“Her heart,” Byron corrected in a low voice.
Remington spread his hands. “His or her?”
Byron’s mouth twisted, unsure of how to answer.
“Her,” Steyer replied firmly, furiously scribbling notes. “How do you know her?”
“She graduated the year before me. She was savin’ up for hormone replacement therapy. but her parents kicked her out. Washed their hands of her.” He ran a hand over his face and turned away.