Run Rabbit Run Boxset

by Jette Harris

  Since Steyer was still seething, Remington asked the questions, pressing his fingertips together. He rarely got to play Good Cop. “As we’re sure you’ve seen on the news, we believe Chuck and the other three students were abducted by the same man. He’s committed similar acts three times before, that we know of, and it’s always the same: two men, two women. Everything else—race, age, occupation—varies widely. We believe he abducts his victims based on appearance, but there could be other factors.

  “What we need to know is: Of all the seniors at Cheatham Hills, what do you think made your student stand out from the rest?”

  Frank stared at him. Remington fought to keep a straight face and a closed mouth. Cathy glanced from her husband to the agents and lowered her eyes to the table. After an awkward silence, Frank caved.

  “Uh…” he shrugged. “Chuck… well, he’s the best athlete at that school. Very… fit. He can be loud sometimes, I hear. People sometimes find him… intimidating, call him a bully. That’s all nonsense. He’s smart, if he puts his mind to it.”

  “Very attractive,” Cathy added in a small voice. Frank stared at his wife, his face flushing.

  “That is relevant.” Steyer drew Frank’s attention to him.

  “It’s a wonder he chose those girls, then.” Frank barked a laugh. Cathy turned to him, face red, eyes wide. Even Remington looked taken aback. Steyer was the only one who appeared unsurprised by the comment. He continued to stare at the man coolly. Frank cleared his throat and dropped his eyes to the table. “Excuse me.”

  ****

  Aneta Vlasov, still in her Waffle House uniform, sat down across the table. Remington disappeared and returned with a coffee, setting it in front of her.

  “You are like my son,” she told him, sniffling. A placid expression came across her face, the closest she could get to pride.

  “Really?”

  “He is very thoughtful, like you.”

  Remington sat down and smirked. He had never considered himself thoughtful. “What other qualities make Zach stand out?”

  “Oh, he is not like that with everyone. Only people he cares for: me, his friends, that girl…”

  “Which girl?”

  Aneta waved her hand at the door. “The old man’s granddaughter… Heather.”

  Steyer lifted his eyebrows and took a deep breath. “Did you know your son and Heather had an… that they dated?”

  Aneta snorted and she took a sip of the coffee. “Agent Steyer, you and I both know that is not what they were doing.”

  “We were led to believe you did not know about that,” Remington said.

  “He was upset for a very long time. He did not talk, did not eat much. Finally, I stay home from work to talk to him. This upsets him, too, but he tells me.”

  “How did that make you feel?”

  Aneta shrugged again. “I never know how to feel. Life here is very different from Ukraine. There, no one would think twice. Here, it is cause for concern. I am not concerned, as long as he is with me, and not with his father.”

  The men nodded. They had had a difficult time tracking down Zachariah’s father, but found him serving time for a DUI.

  “Is there anything else that might make your son stand out?” Steyer asked.

  Aneta smiled. “He is smart. Very smart. I don’t know where he gets that. He is strong. Helpful. Not unpleasant to look at.” She chuckled, shaking her head. Her smile became sad. “My son is strong, clever, and with people he cares for.” She nodded, taking consolation from her own words.

  ****

  “Monica… is beautiful…” Lauri said with a sigh. “She is… magnetic, sweet, endearing.” She rolled her eyes with an amused sniffle. “She can be a brat, but…” She shook her head.

  “I’m sorry my husband couldn’t come,” she said. “There was no one else to watch the kids. Usually that’s Monica’s job, or—uh—Heather’s, if Monica is busy. She’s right next door; It’s convenient.” She glanced at the door, placing a hand on the purse in her lap. She lowered her voice. “I didn’t want him to come, because I thought you… I thought this might help.” She pulled out an envelope and pushed it across the table.

  The envelope had been ripped open. The torn edges were soft with age. Remington turned it over. Monica’s name was written across the front in bright blue ink. There was a single piece of paper inside, tri-folded. Unfolding it, he found the same neat handwriting and the same blue ink. Monica’s name was at the top; Heather’s signature was at the bottom.

  Skimming it, Remington’s jaw went slack. His eyebrows crept up his forehead. He read it more carefully before pushing it over to Steyer. Steyer read it with interest, then sniffed.

  “Did you know about this?” Steyer asked.

  Lauri nodded. “Well, I knew… I knew Monica and Heather had… experimented with one another.” She took a deep breath. “I didn’t know it was anything other than that. I didn’t know Heather developed feelings. I didn’t think she was like that.”

  “Like what?” Remington asked.

  “Like… a lesbian. I didn’t think she was a lesbian.”

  Remington and Steyer exchanged a glance. “It’s not uncommon for young ladies to experience conflicting emotions like this in their formative years,” Steyer offered.

  Lauri nodded, taking another deep breath.

  “How long have you had this letter?” Steyer folded and returned the letter to its envelope.

  “Since Tommy and Jamal came to say they found the car,” Lauri replied. “I went searching through her room. She has a shoebox of letters under her bed. Most of them were stupid… high school, middle school stuff with her teammates. This was at the bottom.”

  “When did this take place?” Remington asked. “This… experimenting?”

  Lauri pressed her fingers over her mouth, looking down at the floor. “They were thirteen. I think it started at the end of eighth grade. I don’t know when. I don’t know how long it lasted. I caught them… late June. They said it wasn’t long.” She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “There’s so much I don’t know. They were just little girls. They are still just little girls!”

  ****

  Steyer tried not to let it show, but he was nervous about interviewing Tech. At the house, they focused on what happened to each of them after the war. When the conversation steered to Heather’s disappearance, Steyer had to watch as his old comrade digested the idea she was likely being raped, beaten, and starved.

  “Well,” Tech pointed out after a long silence, “you’re here. If you’re here, after forty years, then maybe—” He cracked a strained smile. “—maybe everything else we believe is wrong.”

  Steyer had nodded. He nodded now, as Remington showed Lauri out. He was about to beckon Tech in when he noticed Steyer’s expression.

  “Need a minute?”

  Steyer tapped his fingers on the table to bring himself back to the room. “No. Show him in.”

  After the warmth of their reunion, the two men seemed awkward now: Tech avoided looking at his old C.O. and Steyer kept flipping through his notepad, as if they were both reminding themselves, We are professionals. This is serious. This is an investigation.

  Steyer cleared the air with an uncharacteristic wave of his hand. “Tech,” he began, leaning forward, “was… is there anything about Heather that would make her stand out?”

  Tech shrugged. “I… no. Not really. Looking at her, there’s nothing that stands out, not like Monica stands out. But… there’s nothing about her that doesn’t stand out, if you know her. All you have to do is listen to her, or talk to her, or be around her for a few minutes, and you would realize that.

  “She’s a good kid… most of the time. And she’s brilliant.” Tech’s eyes lit up with pride. “French, poetry, science, even mechanics—there is nothing she encounters she does not meet with… deconstructive understanding. My old Mustang, she can pull up the schematics, play with it for a few hours, and have it revving… at least for a bit. And s
he can run. Running is like breathing to her. Just… just get her out the door, and she will run… run to freedom.”

  Falling silent, Tech sniffled. “Now, tell me something…” He looked from one agent to the other. “Tell me, honest, what’re her chances? What are the chances of Heather—of any of them—coming home?”

  Steyer dropped his eyes to the table. He opened his mouth, but closed it again.

  Remington tapped his notepad. “There have been four selected victims in each city,” he replied, “and none of them have survived.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “That’s not counting two police officers and one federal agent who were murdered in the course of investigation.”

  Tech turned to Steyer beseechingly.

  “I want to say something encouraging, or comforting. I really do,” Steyer said, not looking at him. “But we started the San Francisco investigation after a week, only a week, after the victims disappeared, and the house still went up in flames. So unless someone has seen something, or thinks of something we haven’t thought of…” He chose his next words carefully: “It hurts to say this, but you should prepare for the worst. ‘Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst.’”

  Tech stared as his words sank in. “I—um—I have a… a plot… for me…” His body shook. Tears filled his eyes. “For me!” He banged his fist on the table and spread out his hands in supplication. “There’s nothing… nothing I can do? Nothing? Anything?”

  Shaking his head, Steyer squeezed his eyes shut. He did not want to watch the old man’s heart break.

  ****

  Steyer walked Tech out of the interview room with a hand on his shoulder. Lauri had waited for him. Tech put his arm over her shoulder, and she slipped hers around his waist.

  “We’ll stay in touch,” Steyer assured them.

  Remington nodded his good-byes and followed his partner back to their temporary office. Steyer stood before his desk, staring blankly at his chair and twisting his wedding band. He started when Remington tapped his elbow.

  “It’s coffee o’clock.”

  Steyer nodded. “Then the school, then…” He searched the ceiling for a plan and sighed.

  “Then more coffee and we regroup.” Remington patted Steyer’s shoulder. He had never seen the senior agent so despondent and it unnerved him. Steyer was supposed to be the focused, indefatigable one.

  They gathered the materials they would need for the school visit, nothing more. Grabbing their suit jackets from the coat rack, they headed out.

  28

  Byron flopped down on his couch with a turkey sandwich and turned on the TV. He clicked over to the Channel 2 news. Almost an hour later, Jovita Moore—Byron’s first love—appeared with a stock photo of Cheatham Hill City Hall in the corner of the screen. She put on a serious face.

  “Four teens have been reported missing in Cheatham Hill, a small affluent suburb twenty minutes north of Atlanta. 17-year-old Zachariah Vlasov, 18-year-old Monica Shatterthwaith, 18-year-old Heather Stokes, and 19-year old Charles Francis Witt, all honors students at Cheatham Hill Magnet High school, all accepted to four-year universities, and all vanished without a trace. Police state they are currently investigating all angles… but sources are now telling us the FBI is getting involved.

  “Now, FBI involvement is only deemed necessary under specific circumstances, including terrorism, gang-related activity, human trafficking, cyber-crimes, kidnapping for ransom, civil-rights violations, and illegal activity across state lines.”

  Justin Farmer smiled at her. “I think it’s safe to say these four aren’t leading an international terrorist ring, don’t you?”

  Byron smirked.

  “Local authorities did say ‘every angle,’” Moore parried, “but what’s interesting about this situation is not the FBI assisting, but whom they sent to assist: Special Agent Richard Steyer.”

  Farmer’s smile faltered. “I’ve heard that name before.”

  “Agent Steyer is a senior investigator with the FBI’s Violent Crimes division, which eliminates theories of terrorism and civil-rights violations, which are handled under their own divisions, and human trafficking, which is handled by Organized Crime. But the most curious feature of this story is that Agent Steyer walked out of his retirement ceremony in order to respond to this case.”

  Byron lowered his sandwich and forgot to chew.

  “Sounds like some unfinished business came up.”

  “Exactly. And sources close to Agent Steyer tell us his most notorious ‘unfinished business’ is a serial killer known as the Phoenix, or the Phoenix Killer.”

  “Shit,” Byron muttered.

  “Named after Phoenix, Arizona, where he struck in 1993, he is also linked to murders in Detroit in 1997 and San Francisco in 2002.”

  “And the disappearances in Cheatham Hill are similar?” Farmer asked.

  “Correct. There are always four victims abducted: two male, two female. Among the four, connections vary. Some have been married, some attended the same college, others have no connection whatsoever.”

  “Were all of the other victims in the same age group?”

  “No. Previously the youngest victim was a twenty-year-old man from San Francisco. The oldest was a forty-two-year-old man in Detroit.”

  “They’re going to need more of a connection than that.”

  Byron nodded slowly. He tore another bite from his sandwich.

  “There are other links, other similar circumstances, but so far authorities have not released that information. Channel 2 will be keeping a close eye on Cheatham Hill to bring you updates as more information is released.”

  Popping the last bite into his mouth, Byron brushed the crumbs from his hands and chest and turned off the TV. “We’re gonna need more of a connection than that,” he repeated.

  29

  1997

  Detroit (“Jay Faliro”)

  Faliro had gotten ahead of himself. The house had five occupants before he had completed re-wiring the upstairs. The occupied portion of the house was currently without electricity, heat, or hot water. He didn’t really care about the others, but his feet were starting to get cold.

  The two couples sat in the dark, getting to know each other as Faliro hastily jury-rigged the remaining circuits. His impatience—mixed with cold, stiff fingers, and juggling a cigarette—earned him a few toasted fingertips. At first, the four spoke in hushed voices. Gradually, they became louder.

  “Hello?” Benny called. “Is anybody out there?”

  Faliro shook his head, muttering around his cigarette, “Nobody here but us chickens…”

  After a few more tentative calls, the screaming began. Screams for help, for attention, for anyone who might hear them. The loudest voice, of course, was Sandy’s. The only voice Faliro never heard was Ian’s. Neither of these surprised him.

  Confident that no one would hear their cries—or care, if they did—Faliro dug some headphones and a CD player out of his bag. Pressing them over his ears, he turned the Foo Fighters up and returned his focus to the job at hand.

  ****

  They were still screaming when Faliro threw the power on. He heard several pops! as a few bulbs blew, but nothing any more alarming than that. The shouting fell silent. Faliro pulled his headphones down around his neck. The power hummed steadily, which was not ideal, but it was better than several of the alternatives.

  The bulb directly in front of the occupied room was dark but intact. Faliro paused to tap it. It flickered and burst, making him jump. He shook himself loose and flicked a piece of glass burning his arm.

  He had learned in Phoenix that everyone needed to be restrained in some way, but he did not want their movements completely restricted. He bought several sturdy leather collars, two-inch magnum padlocks, and medium-grade chains. He reinforced a few of the studs in the walls, and riveted the chains to them.

  “You got a show?” the clerk at the hardware store asked.

  “A what?”

  “A show?” he re
peated, then lowered his voice. “You a dogman?”

  “No, I’m not a fucking dogman, you heartless fucking bastard.” Faliro took his chains and padlocks and left.

  As soon as the door opened, Leila, directly in front, backed into the wall. She slid toward Ian until the chain pulled taut. Faliro stared down at her, taking a drag of his cigarette. Her eyes were full of fear and when she met his gaze, she dropped them to the floor. Slowly, Faliro looked over the others. Ian scowled fixedly at the floorboards in front of him. Benny stared at him in shock. Sandy looked him up and down critically.

  Faliro spread his arms for her. “Like what you see?”

  “Who the fuck’re you?” she demanded.

  “Jay,” he replied, taking another drag of his cigarette.

  They looked at one another, surprised at his willingness to answer. Sandy slumped, relaxing a bit. “Sandy,” she introduced herself.

  “I know,” he said, nodding. “I know who you are.” He looked around to include the others.

  “Why…” Faliro was surprised to hear Leila’s delicate voice. “Why are we here?” Ian shot her a look and gave a sharp shake of his head.

  “You’re here for my entertainment.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Faliro shrugged. “That’s not necessary.”

  “How do you expect us to entertain you?” Ian asked in a hard voice.

  Smiling, Faliro shrugged again. “Any way I want. I have a very good imagination… but I’m open to suggestions.” He wagged his eyebrows. Their faces were pale as they considered what he might be imagining.

  “How about… you let us go?” Benny chuckled nervously. “You can be entertained by our backs growing smaller as we run away…” As he spoke, everyone stared at him, and his voice dwindled under the scrutiny. Sandy rolled her eyes.

  But Faliro chuckled. “That was good. You’re real funny.” He perched his cigarette between his lips and fished the keys out of his pocket. “Thanks for volunteering.”