by Jette Harris
“Uh-huh,” Byron replied with a deep, slow nod.
“Fuck.” Remington pulled out his cell phone. “I won the pool.”
17
Winter, 1971
Vietnam
The radio was broken. The enemy was closing in. The entire squad should have been dead, but somehow two survived. Steyer had his back against a boulder, hugging his knees to his chest. He finally allowed himself to regret defying his father’s wishes and enlisting. His calm demeanor had abandoned him.
He didn’t want to die. Not in this God-forsaken jungle.
Tech, who shut down when the radio was hit, was now bustling.
“Dump your bag!” he demanded as loudly as he dared. He turned his own pack upside-down, emptying the contents into the mud. He rummaged through the letters, dirty clothes, and pornographic magazines, but did not find what he needed.
Forgetting the lieutenant is supposed to be barking orders at the sergeant, Steyer reached for his bag with a shaking hand. Before he could touch it, Tech snatched it and dumped it out. He sifted through the junk—it all seemed like junk now—Steyer’s parents had sent him with such love and care.
“What… What…” Steyer was attempting to ask what he was doing, going through his personal belongings, but his throat wouldn’t work.
“I can fix this!” Tech said. “I know how to disarm a nuclear warhead; I can fix this damn radio.”
“Oh, Intel…” Pausing, Tech lifted one of Steyer’s precious photographs. The usual mischief returned to his eyes. “You have some explaining to do later.” He flicked the photo at the terrified man and returned to his hunt.
Steyer looked down at the black-and-white photo of him and Johnny, taken at arm’s length, since no one in their right mind would photograph two young men kissing, especially with one of them resembling the Enemy. Steyer’s heart ached to think he might never again see the only person who loved him for himself and not his connections.
Like a cat that has seen a mouse, Tech jumped over the remains of Steyer’s belongings, pouncing on one of the rucksacks. Blood was pooling around the bottom, attracting flies. The bags smelled wretched, but they could not bring themselves to leave them behind.
“What are you doing?” Steyer forgot to keep his voice down.
Tech yanked open the zipper. When the smell hit him, he bent over to the side and retched, then over-turned the bag. The pieces of Corporal Baker they had been able to recover slid out in a slimy mess. The stench of decay wafted over to Steyer. Baker’s head rolled a few times before coming to a halt. Flies had managed to get into the bag, and the man’s eyes were now hollow brown caverns.
Steyer forgot they were hiding. He leaned out from behind his rock to vomit. A hand jerked him back, leaving a bloody print on the shoulder of his fatigues. Tech’s face was covered in blood and—Steyer didn’t want to consider what else—but his expression was triumphant as he held up Baker’s tape deck.
“I can fix it!” He scrambled over to the wreckage that was supposed to be their saving grace.
“As soon as I get off the horn with air support,” Tech grunted as he pulled open the casing, “you’re going to call your daddy and tell him he’s going to be pinning a medal on both our chests.”
“Deal,” Steyer replied, wiping vomit from his chin. He watched as Tech twisted together wires and swapped nodes. The procedure was so anti-regulation, it made his head spin.
Within seconds, Tech was on the phone, calling in their location and begging for help.
“Fuck!” he muttered. “I can’t hear a damn thing… it should be working.” He made a few adjustments and called again. He continued to fidget and call, fidget and call, for several minutes that seemed like forever, and they didn’t hear a sound—not even a bird.
“Maybe...” Steyer wanted to say something encouraging, but was still having trouble speaking.
“Oh—” Tech jerked his head up.
A grenade hit the ground between them. Steyer jumped to his feet, grabbed the technician’s shirt, and pulled him around the boulder.
The blast knocked the soldiers off their feet. Steyer felt a ripping sensation in his ears and hit the ground. Pushing himself up on an elbow, he watched Tech hit a tree trunk and fall motionless. Another grenade exploded nearby. When the concussion hit him, Steyer’s world went blank.
18
May, 2006
Atlanta
Remington sat in the driver’s seat of the FBI fleet vehicle, smirking at his phone and texting. Tech’s front door did not re-open. About ten minutes passed with Byron glancing from the door to the car, torn between going and doing something more productive and staying with the slight possibility of proving useful to the feds. He was about to turn to Kondorf and suggest leaving when an SUV turned onto the street. He elbowed Kondorf and nodded toward it.
“The Shatterthwaiths are home,” Kondorf announced.
Remington checked his wing mirror and tucked his phone in the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
“I guess this is as much warning as they’re gonna get,” Byron said, waving at the vehicle as it pulled into the driveway.
The garage door opened and the SUV pulled in. A back door popped open before it even stopped, and the SUV lurched as the driver slammed the brakes. Xavier, Monica Shatterthwaith’s ten-year-old brother, jumped out and ran to the officers as they walked up the driveway.
“Did you find her?”
“Not yet,” Kondorf said.
Xavier slumped. The rest of the Shatterthwaiths piled out: Lauri, Sean, thirteen-year-old Sterling, and seven-year-old David. Lauri leaned into the backseat and reappeared with three-year-old Devin in her arms.
“Wow…” Remington murmured behind them.
Sean popped the trunk, revealing several grocery bags, before walking down behind the kids to meet them. “Tommy,” he greeted Kondorf and nodded at Byron. He studied the man in the suit behind them and unconsciously put and arm around Sterling, pulling her closer.
“Sean.” Kondorf shook his hand, then waved at the others. “Lauri, kids. We—uh—we brought in the big guns—”
Remington coughed.
“I mean, backup. This is Agent Remington with the FBI.” The children’s eyes went wide. Lauri’s face fell. “He’s here to help us investigate.”
“Duh…” Sterling breathed. Sean nudged her shoulder.
“Sorry,” he said, extending his hand. “She’s developed a bad case of sarcasm. We fear it may be terminal.”
Lauri bounced Devin a couple of times. “Kids, groceries first.”
“But, Mom, he’s an FBI agent!” Xavier protested. “How cool is that?”
“I am not deaf, Xavier! He may be cool, but the back of that car is not. If you don’t want me to throw your ice cream out, take it inside.”
Xavier and David ran back to the garage, collected a few bags, and ran inside. Sean nudged Sterling, who was now eyeing Remington with interest. She was interrupted by Lauri holding Devin out to her. Her face turned bright pink as she accepted the child and carried him up the driveway.
Remington pulled out his little notepad and a pen. He scratched his temple with the cap and nodded toward the children. “Do you have any other kids?”
Lauri folded her arms over her chest and raised her eyebrows. “I have an eighteen-year-old daughter.”
Remington’s face flushed. “I didn’t mean… I’m sorry, that was stupid.”
“Mm-hm.”
He cleared his throat. “That was definitely the wrong foot. My name is Remington. I’m with the FBI’s Violent Crimes division—”
Lauri paled and Sean’s jaw went slack. Remington held up a hand to pause their rampant fears.
“We’re here looking into the possibility of a connection between your daughter’s disappearance and some other cases.”
“What… what cases?” Sean asked.
Remington tapped his pen on the notepad. After a long pause, he said, “The Phoenix serial killings.”
; Sean raised his brow. “You think our daughter… and her friends… were kidnapped by a serial killer?”
“We are simply looking into the similarities.”
Scoffing, Sean shook his head. He continued to shake it as he looked from Remington to Kondorf, then turned and walked up the drive way. He grabbed the last several bags of groceries—a few too many—and slammed the trunk much harder than necessary. Lauri flinched. She stared at the ground, then glanced between Byron and Kondorf.
“How strong is this connection?”
Byron shrugged. “It’s there.”
“The circumstances are similar,” Kondorf said in a low voice.
Lauri’s mouth twitched. Byron was surprised when it flickered into a wry smirk. “Well, he’s gonna have his hands full, isn’t he?” She turned and headed toward the house.
Byron bent double, laughing. Kondorf snorted. Remington looked at them both as if they were insane, then followed Lauri.
****
“Detective Young has already asked us all of these questions.” Sean was beginning to fidget.
Remington eyed him and shifted his gaze to the children, who sat across the couch in order of height. He pointed at them with his pen. “Did she ask them?”
“No—What? Why?” Sean looked at them as if he suspected mutiny. Sterling pursed her lips and dropped her eyes to the floor.
Byron nodded toward her. “Yo, Sterling. Your sister ever run away?”
“No, of course n—” Sean stammered to a stop as Sterling nodded slowly. Remington and Byron gave him a look, satisfied their point was made.
“When was this?” Remington asked, pen poised.
Sterling shrugged. “I dunno. Happened a few times: She’d get in a fight about somethin’ stupid and run away. Then she’d get bored and come home before Mom and Dad even noticed.”
Remington snorted and made a note.
“Is it possible she ran away to be with Chuck?” Kondorf asked.
“With who?”
“Witt,” Byron said.
Sterling and Xavier rolled their eyes.
“Always with the Witt!” David groaned, raising his hands in supplication.
Xavier quirked his mouth and shook his head. “She woulda told her friends. Everyone would know.”
“And Heather wouldn’t of drove if she knew. She hates Witt.”
“Why does she hate Witt?” Remington scribbled furiously.
“Asshole,” Xavier muttered under his breath.
“Xavier Rhys!” Lauri cried.
Remington cleared his throat. “Why… why do you say that?”
Xavier crossed his arms over his chest and slumped back.
Sterling crossed her arms too and cocked her head. “You talk to his daddy yet?”
Remington nodded hesitantly.
“He called—”
“Sterling,” Sean warned.
“—my daddy a nigger-lover.” She glared at Remington as if he were the perpetrator. Lauri sighed and covered her red face with a hand.
Remington’s pen paused. He blinked. “Why?”
“Because he’s an—”
Lauri dropped her hand. “A-hem.”
“—a racist.”
“Witt or his father?” Remington asked.
“Both.”
“Witt might not be, but dude’s an idiot,” Xavier said, then added under his breath, “Monica is too, for liking him.” He turned to stare bitterly at the window. “Probably went out after him, and dragged Heather along. Used her, ’cause she’s gotta car.”
Everyone donned expressions of bitterness and sadness. Remington’s eyebrows rose high on his forehead as he observed them. Byron pursed his lips.
“She’ll protect her from the dogs.”
Byron looked around, unable to determine who spoke in such a soft voice. Kondorf closed his eyes with a sigh. Remington stared at the children, waiting for one to betray the other. Sterling’s lips trembled. She got up and left the room. David raised his eyes and stared at Remington. The scar tissue on his face and neck glistened.
Remington swallowed. “You wanna… tell me about the dog?”
David dropped his eyes. “I don’t remember.”
Xavier swallowed hard. Byron heard a whimper behind him. Lauri leaned her face into Sean’s shoulder.
“Monica will protect Heather, or Heather will protect Monica?” Remington asked.
“Heather…” Xavier’s lips began to tremble as well. He ran out of the room after his sister.
Kondorf cleared his throat and nodded toward the kitchen. Sean sat down next to David and Devin, Lauri hurried after Sterling and Xavier. The investigators stepped inside the kitchen.
“A few years ago,” Kondorf whispered, “Monica was watchin’ the kids, and they were all playin’ outside. This big ol’ chow-dog ran up on David, grabbed his throat and wouldn’t let go. I don’t know all the details, but apparently Heather ran up with a baseball bat or a—uh—a tire iron, and beat the dog until it ran off, then drove ’em all to the hospital. David almost didn’t make it. It was really touch-and-go for… for weeks, it seems.”
Remington glanced out at the kids and scratched his cheek. “Do we know anything about the owner of the dog?”
Kondorf shrugged. “We killed the dog when we found it. Collins shot it, actually. We never found the owner, if it had one.”
Remington began to scribble onto his notepad again. Sean, pale and drawn, stepped into the kitchen. “I think that’s enough.” Remington nodded absently. Sean licked his lips and raised his voice, “Did you hear me?”
“Yes, Mr. Shatterthwaith,” Remington replied, flipping his notebook closed.
Sean appeared to shrink under the agent’s gaze. He looked away and cleared his throat. “It’s just… it’s hard. It’s been rough.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” Sean looked him in the eye.
It was Remington’s turn to look down, shaking his head. “I can’t imagine.”
Sean swallowed hard. He twisted around to glance at his sons. David was holding Devin like a teddy bear. Sean turned back, looking ashamed. “I haven’t wanted a cigarette this bad since…” He shrugged and scratched his red hair. “Since I quit, probably. Since the dog, I guess.”
Kondorf put a reassuring hand on Sean’s arm and shook it. “We’re doing everything we can, Sean. We’ll find her.” He cleared his throat and nodded toward the door. “Give Lauri my best.”
Byron patted his arm as he passed toward the front door. Remington paused to shake his hand. “We’ll call to arrange a time for a more detailed interview, if that’s alright.”
Sean dipped his head and scoffed. “Well, I can’t really refuse, can I?”
Remington just pursed his lips and imitated the gesture. Kondorf and Byron paused on the porch, but Remington continued across the lawn. They followed him to the cars.
“Lieutenant Kondorf, it’s best you not tell them we’re going to find their children.” Remington looked at the Shatterthwaith house, then at Kondorf. He spread his hands. “What if we don’t?”
Byron’s heart sank. He shook his head. “That’s not an option.”
“That may be beyond our control.” Remington popped open the door to the FBI fleet vehicle. “They could already be dead.” He ducked in, then stood back up and shrugged. “Then again, they could be on a beach somewhere.”
19
Rhodes needed a cop. Not in the way he had needed one in Detroit; He had more mischief in mind.
Worst-case scenarios raced through his imagination. He had only ever visited prison, never been a prisoner (not legally, anyway). Hoping that was not about to change, he took a deep breath and crossed the parking lot, leaving his Jeep parked inconspicuously next to the dumpster. His heart was racing. Sweat formed on his neck and ran down his back, tickling his naked ass.
A neon light in the window read “Hot now!” Two patrol cars with Cobb County Sheriff’s Department across their sides sat front and cente
r. All three of the deputies inside roughly fit Rhodes’s requirements: About six foot, not too heavy, with large feet. He was mostly concerned with the feet; He could adjust everything else.
Swallowing hard, Rhodes walked to the front of the building. A minivan turned into the parking lot and promptly pulled back out, the driver looking mortified. Choosing the spot right next to the “Hot now!” sign, Rhodes leaned his back against the window. (I hope they cleaned these recently.) The glass was uncomfortably warm against his bare skin, despite the overcast sky. Lifting his bare foot to perch on the windowsill, he watched the passing cars and waited.
(This is gonna be fun. This is gonna be fun. This is gonna be—)
****
“You gotta be shittin’ me,” Sergeant Duley mumbled, staring at the naked man as he crossed the parking lot and leaned against the window.
“Language,” Sergeant Kline replied.
Deputy Beaumont said nothing as he stared at the man’s bare back. He popped the remainder of a doughnut into his mouth and sucked the glaze off his fingers. The naked man waited, looking around, as casually as a man waiting for a bus. Beaumont eyed the large white pock of an old bullet wound on his back and fresh red scratches on his shoulders.
Duley sighed. Turning to Kline, he held out his fist. “Two outta three.”
“There are kids out there.” Kline brushed crumbs from his fingers and made a fist. “First call.”
They bounced their fists. Before they could throw, Beaumont pushed back his chair and stood.
“I got him,” he sighed, pushing his hat onto his head. Kline and Duley exchanged surprised glances. They turned in their seats and sipped their iced coffees, watching as Beaumont crossed to the front.
“I’ll bet you a dozen he’s gonna taze ’im,” Duley said in a low voice.
“I bet he’s gonna run,” Kline countered. They shook hands as Beaumont pushed the door open.
“Sir,” he said, “I’m going to have to ask you to put some clothes on.”
“He’s not gonna do it,” Duley hissed.