Two Guns

by Jette Harris

  “And he jumped up and threw a knife at you?” Remington asked.

  “No, he didn’t jump. That’s the thing. He didn’t even put his coffee down.” Darnell continued to reenact the incident. “He looked around, pulled the knife out, and threw it. I ran, heard it stick in the door. I didn’t even realize he had hit me until I was over the fence.”

  The muscle in Remington’s jaw bulged as he ground his teeth. “Did he chase you?”

  “Nah. I looked back, and the door was still open, knife stickin’ out of it, but I didn’t see him at all. When I got home, my shoulder wouldn’t stop bleedin’, so Gramma took me to the hospital. They called the cops. Deputy Duley, he don’t like me. He knew me back from when I was runnin’ with the wrong crowd… I don’t blame him, but he shoulda believed me.”

  “Sergeant Duley says once you were stitched up, he brought you back there. Is that true?”

  “Yeah.”

  “According to the report, nothing looked out of the ordinary.”

  “That was the thing, though!” Darnell’s eyes got wide. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “He told me to walk him across the yard, and I did. There wasn’t no blood on the grass, or the fence, like he had cleaned up. I know I got blood on the fence—I saw it with my own eyes! Then we got to the door, and there wasn’t a hole in the goddamn door! I saw the knife stickin’ out of it! He had me jimmy the lock, and it wouldn’t give. I looked real close; It wasn’t even the same door. Motherfucker had changed the fuckin’ door!”

  Remington snorted. He lowered his head into his hand.

  “You gotta believe me!”

  Steyer pursed his lips. “He’s not laughing at you, son. He’s laughing because we do believe you.”

  “You do?” Darnell looked between the agents, torn between relief and suspicion.

  “Motherfucker changed the door!” Remington’s voice was high and tight. He turned toward the fence, covering his eyes. He pulled his lips back from his teeth, torn between a grin and a grimace, exposing his straight white teeth.

  “Agent Remington…” Steyer scolded.

  “No, no, I’m good.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Darnell asked.

  Steyer raised his eyebrows, then patted the young man on his unscathed shoulder. “You may have just saved a lot of lives.”

  “Damn right,” Remington muttered. He threw his head back, placed his hands on his hips, and took a deep breath. He turned from Darnell to Steyer with a smile. “Let’s go before he burns down the oldest house in Cobb County.”

  84

  2002

  Washington, DC

  Sweat ran down Remington’s neck in torrents. His heart pounded as he threw one punch after another. He could feel eyes on his back. His pace slowed. Hiding a glance by twisting his torso, he caught an old man in a suit watching him from the other side of the glass wall. He had a folder in his hand.

  Fuck. I must be in trouble.

  Remington resumed pounding the bag. When he was winded, he cooled down on the rowing machine. Only when his workout was over did he retreat to the locker room.

  Although there had been a few men in the room when Remington emerged from the showers, they dispersed soon after he sat down. The silence gnawed at him as he took his pulse. Looking up, he found Special Agent Steyer from Violent Crimes leaning on the wall next to the door. The man who had been watching him.

  Remington’s heart beat faster. He had heard of Richard Steyer; This could either become an incredibly awkward scene or a much-desired opportunity. Steyer was often called in to consult when the lines between Organized Crimes and Violent Crimes blurred. Remington recalled a soul-crushing case involving the growing market for newborns; The traffickers did not wait for the mothers to deliver before abducting the babies.

  The senior agent stepped forward. “Agent Remington.”

  “It’s Steyer, right?”

  “It is.”

  “How can I help you?” He spread his hands to indicate the unusual meeting place.

  Steyer dropped the file on the bench next to him. “What do you see?”

  Remington flipped the file open. It contained information on four missing persons in San Francisco. He glanced over the photographs: Two women, two men. Their ages ranged from early twenties to late thirties, different races, different careers. He leaned over the file with increasing interest. Steyer observed silently as Remington sought out the place in each report where witnesses reported interaction between the missing person and another man, tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed, and snorted as his finger traced under the words feminist book reading and Dungeons & Dragons.

  “There’s no doubt they’re related?”

  “There’s plenty of doubt they’re related.”

  Remington shook his head dismissively. He began to grind his teeth. There was something there, in the back of his mind…

  “Detroit.” He smacked the file with the back of his hand. “This… this is the Phoenix Serial Killer.” He looked up at Steyer. His excitement faded as he placed the reports with the faces and names: Phoenix. Detroit. Steyer. Feingold.

  Steyer nodded.

  “But why are you showing me this? This is VC.” Remington held the file back out to the senior agent. His heart pounded; The implications of this exchange were too good to be true.

  “You’re being transferred.” Steyer turned away without taking the file. “Pack a bag; We’re going to California.”

  85

  May, 2006

  Atlanta

  Sergeant Duley ignored Agent Steyer’s advice. He was not about to admit to a fed and a Yankee he had neglected a case. He had met Darnell before, and didn’t believe any yarn about a knife-throwing naked man. As for the mystery renovations, neither Cobb County nor Cheatham Hill—both listed as landowners—could give him a straight answer on the matter.

  Driving by was the original idea. He didn’t expect to find fresh tire tracks in the marble gravel driveway. Duley became anxious as he grabbed his bolt-cutters. There was an inkling in the back of his mind, making him regret not taking Agent Steyer’s advice. He ignored it as he cut through the chain securing the gate.

  Pulling in front of the house, Duley called in the tracks and reported he would be checking for occupants as if this were a routine call. He would report back in within ten minutes. He was relieved when Agent Steyer did not bark back. He planned to run out any trespassing kids or meth addicts and get off the property as quickly as possible.

  The looming trees made him feel like he was being watched.

  Duley mounted the porch and banged on the door in classic police-fashion. After two minutes, he banged again. He began to wonder if he had cause to force entry when he heard a shout from within, sounding like, “Yeah—hold on!”

  A fuzzy shadow appeared on the other side of the cracked lead glass. The door was opened by a tall, middle-aged man who looked vaguely familiar. He was wearing a fluffy blue robe and striped pajama pants. His unshaved face and mussed hair made it look like he had rolled out of bed when Duley knocked. He looked surprised to see a deputy at the door.

  “Oh, good morning!” He leaned against the doorframe. “Sorry, it’s a big house and I was—” He paused to yawn, then shrugged. It was obvious what he had been doing.

  “Good morning. I’m Sergeant Duley with the Sheriff’s Office.” Duley put out a hand.

  “Wren Chares.” The man pointed to himself. He clasped and released Duley’s hand without shaking it.

  Duley was unimpressed. “Do you own this house, Mr. Carries?”

  Chares nodded. “I moved in… about a month ago? Maybe? I found it real cheap on an online auction.”

  “Do you mind if I come in?”

  “You betcha.” Chares smiled with a shrug. It was a damn good-looking smile. “You’re my first guest since making it presentable.” Scratching the back of his head and yawning again, Chares shuffled into the great room. “Is there a problem, Sergeant? Something amiss?”

&
nbsp; “Not necessarily.” Duley closed the door behind him. “We were under the impression the house was vacant.”

  “Not anymore,” Chares said. “Although I’ve been led to believe it stood vacant for quite a while before I acquired it. It was a mess.”

  “When did you say you moved in? Last month?”

  “Mm… the beginning of May.” He scratched his head and ran his fingers through his hair. “Is it still May?”

  “For one more day.”

  “Ah, shit. Sorry, officer.”

  “Deputy,” Duley corrected him, looking around. “Are you familiar with the history of the house?” He looked daunted by the walls and ceiling.

  “Nope.” Chares bit the word off, indicating he could not care less about the property’s history.

  “Just don’t expect anyone to show up to your Juneteenth barbeque.”

  “My what?”

  Duley chuckled. Chares was obviously not from around these parts; His accented was reminiscent of Wisconsin. “Don’t concern yourself with it.” He looked around again. A duffel bag and rucksack sat on the floor at the mouth of a corridor leading to the back of the house. “Do you currently have the deed to the house? Or a bill of sale?”

  “Yeah, yeah, of course.” Chares gestured toward a closed door on their left and opened it into a richly-furnished office.

  Duley leaned on the doorframe as Chares sat at a large, claw-footed desk, opened a drawer, and shuffled through a row of file folders. Duley took in the leather furniture and functional fireplace with a mixture of envy and disdain.

  “What is it you do, Mr. Carries?”

  “Uh…” Chares paused over the files. “Acquisitions.”

  “That’s one of those jobs everyone knows the name of, but no one can say exactly what they do.”

  “You’re not the first one to say that,” Chares chuckled. “I—uh—well, I acquire things. If my company wants a certain building, or a fleet of cars, or a thousand bookshelves, they send me to find it, purchase it, and arrange for transportation if it needs to be transported.”

  “The more you know…”

  Chares pulled out a small stack of papers. He stared down at it and sniffed. Duley sniffed as well, then turned back into the great room. He had only caught it for a second: a trace of decay. Frowning, he returned to the great room, sniffing, trying to find it again.

  “What’s wrong?” Chares asked, following. He held the paper in front of him.

  “Do you smell that?”

  “Sometimes.” Chares looked around with a funny grin. “Didn’t you say something about the house having history?”

  Duley shot the man a look that said Don’t even go there. His robe had fallen open, revealing a toned chest, covered in dark hair and red scratches in varying degrees of freshness. Duley looked from the scratches to the man’s eyes—eyes so dark, they looked black. He didn’t look lethargic or weak anymore. The document in his hand exploded.

  Duley hit the floor, unable to catch his breath. Chares peered down at him, face drawn with concern. His expression hardened. Before Duley lost consciousness, he could feel liquid being splashed over him. The smell of kerosene filled the air.

  86

  Byron and Kondorf were already en route to the Hospitality House when the tones dropped for an officer in distress.

  “Dispatch all units, channel is 10-3 for a code 63 in reference to Sergeant Travis Duley at the Hospitality House.”

  She followed with the address, but everyone already knew where they were heading. They turned on their lights and sirens and hit the gas. Byron clung to his seatbelt and Kondorf started to pray.

  87

  2002

  San Francisco (“Lark Alexander”)

  Steyer stood, hands in his pockets, on the shoulder of Route 1, watching the firefight. Next to him, Remington scowled. He had his back to the remainder of the structure, finding it difficult to watch. Although the majority of the fire had been knocked down with a portion of the house still standing, they were still likely to find four bodies inside.

  “This is my fault,” Remington said as the heat of the fire gave way to the cold ocean air.

  “This isn’t your fault,” Steyer assured him.

  Remington shook his head, turning to the fire, then away again. “I shouldn’t have engaged him. I freaked him out—got too close. I should have waited for back-up. He couldn’t have killed all of us. And now all of them are dead.” He waved a hand back toward the house.

  Steyer grabbed his shoulders and forced him to face him. “Special Agent Remington, this has nothing to do with you. It’s been over three weeks. It was time.” Remington looked askance, but Steyer grabbed his chin. Remington tried to pull away, but Steyer did not release him. “This man murdered my partner, not three feet from me. I’ve wrestled these demons, agent. It took me a long time to realize that, given the circumstances, the same thing would have happened to anyone: Fire marshal, local PD, anyone. Not just me. Not just you.”

  Remington stared, shocked by this lapse in Steyer’s cool and professional demeanor. Steyer released him, nodding. Remington let the words sink in before nodding back.

  “Now,” Steyer’s matter-of-fact tone returned as he straightened his tie, “fire’s out. Let’s go see if we can gear up and get in.”

  ****

  Remington kicked through some debris. Steyer had been called over to see if he could make a tentative ID on a partially-charred corpse. The sun was crawling out from the ocean behind the house, threatening a deceptively-beautiful sunrise.

  The phone in Remington’s pocket began to buzz. Stepping over a wall, he cleared the debris and pulled it out. It was from a local number.

  “Remington.”

  “Agent Remington,” a man replied in a breathy voice.

  The muscles along Remington’s spine knotted. “Who is this?”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t have the opportunity to get to know you better.”

  Remington took a deep breath to keep himself from screaming into the phone. He turned slowly, studying the people picking through the site. When he caught Steyer’s eye, he spread his arms and dropped them. “Who—?”

  “I’m leaving now, Agent Remington, but I look forward to seeing you again next time. I might even finish what I started.”

  “What do you mean, finish what you started?”

  “Adieu, mon putain.” The phone clicked, leaving Remington alone with the flaming sunrise.

  88

  May, 2006

  Atlanta

  Rhodes opened his eyes with a groan. The smell of kerosene made him dizzy. No, his head hurt. He was on the library floor.

  (Why am I on the floor?)

  He raised his head and looked up at the second floor. The banister was broken, threatening to fall on him. Heather… (That goddamned Rabbit…) Heather had pushed him. She had tricked him. Again.

  He pulled himself up using the chaise lounge. Pain shot up his leg. He clenched his teeth and forced himself to move. Following the sound of footsteps, he caught sight of Monica’s curly hair as she disappeared out the front door.

  Groaning, he lumbered after them. At the threshold, he watched them slam the doors of the patrol car. Left with no other choice, he stepped back inside the foyer and opened the coat closet. He stepped back onto the front porch and cradled a rifle in his shoulder. He found the patrol car in his sights.

  (Breath... Wind... Speed...) He pulled the trigger.

  The passenger-side window shattered. The car swerved and stopped. Rhodes huffed, raising the scope again. (I didn’t miss. I couldn’t have missed.) He took a few painful steps forward. The car lurched and took off again.

  Rhodes didn’t have time to think about it. Reaching into the pocket of his robe, he pulled out a box of matches.

  The radio on the deputy’s chest squawked, making Rhodes jump. “Sergeant Duley, what’s your status?”

  Every step Rhodes took sent grinding pain through his left leg. Tears stung his eyes. He clen
ched his teeth to bite back his pain and rage. He locked the door, although it would soon be useless, and slung the rifle over his shoulder. Tones dropped as he reached the back door.

  “Dispatch all units, channel is 10-3 for a code 63…”

  The duffel bag and rucksack containing his remaining possessions were already waiting by the back door. A puddle of kerosene had spread, threatening to soak the bag. He roared in pain as he hoisted them up. His vision blurred. He fumbled with the matches as he stepped out into the back door. His robe was soaked in patches and the kerosene was oily on his feet. He leaned back into the house to strike the match, and waited for the flame to spread up the matchstick before dropping it.

  The match disappeared into the liquid. This was his favorite part, providing a momentary relief from his panic: The puddle of golden liquid roared to life. He stepped back to watch the fire fly across the floor, ravenous, licking the walls. The flames covered and consumed Duley, tendrils splitting and spreading into the dining room, the office, and out of sight into the library and upstairs. It climbed the tires he had stacked throughout the house and emitted rank, thick black smoke.

  Over the roar and crackle, Rhodes could hear sirens approaching. His rucksack over one shoulder and the duffel in his hand, he turned away from the house. The back and driver’s doors of the Jeep already hung open. A box sat behind the passenger seat. Rhodes slid the duffel bag in. It was bulging; The zipper had refused to close all the way, revealing the tawny brown of a deputy’s uniform. He made sure the opening faced the seat. He placed his rucksack carefully in the middle, where he could reach it if he had to, then slid the rifle behind them. It was hidden from a cursory glance.

  The sirens were getting louder.

  As he closed the door, he wrenched his knee. A jolt shot down his shin and up, deep into his teeth. He fought to bite it back, then threw his head back and roared.