by Jette Harris
“Why is that most important?” Byron asked around his bite. He had been surprised when the agents returned, late and despondent, and agreed to pitch in on a few pies.
Remington picked the crust back up and tore off the end. “He can spy on us.”
Byron leaned back and propped his feet up on his desk. He chewed on this conundrum. “Maybe we could set up a separate channel specific to Phoenix business. Share it verbally.”
“He would find it,” Steyer said. He had spent much of the time after their return making several phone calls in their office. He looked both reluctant and relieved to pick up a slice of pizza. “We can keep Phoenix business verbal, and any radio communications… vague.” He waved his hand, unsatisfied with his own idea. He sat down heavily at an empty desk nearby.
Remington yawned and ran a hand over his face. “It’s too late to strategize.”
Steyer tilted his head from side to side and opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by Taps emitting from his pocket. He tossed his slice down and dug his cell phone out. Furrowing his brow at the number on his screen, he flipped the phone open.
“Steyer,” he answered.
Byron smirked. They really did answer the phone like on X-Files.
Steyer’s confused expression intensified as he listened to the caller. “No, I’m not. Let me check.” He stood and hurried toward the front doors.
“What’s up, boss?” Remington jumped to his feet.
“Someone just pulled the GPS chip from our car,” Steyer called back.
“Someone,” Remington muttered, as if there had been any question as to who. He sprinted after Steyer, overtaking him and beating him out the door.
The shifting light outside gave Byron a clue as to what was waiting for them, but he still gaped when he saw it: In the parking lot, perpendicular to the FBI fleet vehicle, was a patrol car, engulfed in fire. Black smoke billowed up, obscuring the clouds around the moon.
Byron fumbled with his radio. “214 to dispatch. We have a fully-involved vehicle fire in the precinct parking lot.”
Maas’s voice crackled back. “Dispatch to 214, repeat your 20.”
“Cheatham Hill Police Department parking lot.”
The radio clicked, but there was a moment before she replied, “Units are en route.”
Steyer waited for Byron to end transmission before he held his phone back up to his hear. “The car appears to be fine,” he said, “but I’ll call you back tomorrow morning with an update.” He lowered the phone back down slowly.
“Motherfucker…” Remington said, running his fingers through his hair.
Steyer swallowed hard. “Apparently not everyone thinks it’s too late to strategize.”
Remington narrowed his eyes and glared at him.
42
At six AM sharp, Remington tried calling the phone number again. Once again, it went straight to voicemail. He began to despair at seven. When he called again at eight, it was purely out of habit.
But the phone rang. Remington’s heart leapt into his throat. He and Steyer stared at one another wide-eyed. After three rings, the ringing stopped and there was a hesitant pause.
“… Hello?”
Remington’s throat was so tight, he was choking. Steyer prompted him to speak. Remington had to force words out. “H-hello?”
After another hesitating pause, Steyer moved his hand in a slow circle.
“Yes?” The simple words were not enough for Remington to say, beyond a shadow of a doubt, it was the Phoenix.
“Hi! Yes, hello. This is Marty… Schaefer…” Remington stammered. Steyer gestured for him to slow down his speaking. “… with Cheatham Hill Magnet School District. May I please speak with… Avery Rhodes?”
Another pause, then a snort. Fuck, it is the Phoenix, and he can read us like a book. The laughter that followed sent a chill down Remington’s spine.
“Try again.”
“I’m sorry?”
The sound of the phone shifting away from his face, then back. “You have thirty-six seconds. Try again.”
Remington scowled. He racked his brain. What did he want, his name? Wouldn’t he just hang up? What would be more likely to get him to stay on the line? The immediate answer made his throat close up again.
Rhodes sighed. “Twenty-five… Twenty-four…”
Steyer dropped his face into his hand and shook his head. Rhodes was playing them at their own game.
Remington beat his fist on the desk. “It’s ton putain, bitch. You said you missed me?”
His answer was met with raucous laughter. Steyer grew still, his mouth cracking into a grimace. Remington’s face burned.
After a few seconds, Rhodes coughed and got himself back under control. “Ohhh, Remi… you have three more weeks, but I’ll see you sooner.”
The line went dead.
43
“What the fuck is going on down there?” Wickes’s tone was low and panicky.
Remington cringed. “Why, hello. It’s good to hear your voice too.” He bit his lip. “I take it you’ve been watching the news?”
“I read a newspaper article this morning saying the Phoenix allegedly murdered a deputy and torched your vehicle?”
“Not our car,” Remington assured her. “Although it had some minor heat damage. It was the deputy’s patrol car.”
“He torched a car.”
“Yes, he did. But now we can confirm with absolute certainty the Phoenix is responsible for the death of Deputy Beaumont and almost-certainty the four students are in his possession—and still alive.”
“How do you know they’re still alive?”
Remington hesitated before replying. “I… spoke to him on the phone.”
“What?”
“He said we had three more weeks.”
Wickes groaned. “This is torture.”
“Are you OK?”
“Am I OK?” she spat. “Someone tried to burn my boyfriend alive!”
Remington blinked, surprisingly pleased. “I’m your boyfriend now?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I believe the proper term is baby daddy.”
She groaned again. “That’s a different torture. I haven’t really been able to keep anything down.”
“No wonder you’re grumpy.”
“Starving, since we’re discussing proper terms.”
Remington pursed his lips. He considered telling her to go ahead and get the abortion, but his throat grew tight. “Have you gone back to the doctor?”
“Not yet.” Her tone softened. “I had really hoped we would have a decision by now.”
“I know,” Remington sighed. He now considered telling her to keep it, but his throat grew tight again. Not at the idea of having a child and everything that came along with it, but at the thought he might not make it back to witness it. “Just… just hold on. See if you can get something for the sickness. I’m trying…” He wanted to say, as hard as I can, but it felt like a lie in his mouth. “I’m trying.”
“I know.” She was silent for a moment, then breathed, “I’m getting scared.”
“Sam, if you’re scared, maybe you should just—”
“No, Remi, scared for you.” Her voice wavered. “I’m afraid of what this man might do to you.”
Remington let out a long, slow sigh and ran a hand over his face. “I am too,” he confessed. “But, Sam, I can’t focus on that. I need to focus on what is happening, no matter what. I need to catch this guy.”
“Don’t forget you’re part of a team, Remi.”
“Oh, I’ll let Ritchie get a few pops off.”
Wickes laughed again. Remington smiled, grateful for the sound.
“OK, mister,” she said with a sigh. “You take care of you. Come back in one piece.”
“Roger-wilco, captain. I lo—” He stopped himself before he could say it. “I… I’ll call you later.”
The disappointment in her sigh was palpable. “Have a good day, Remi. Go, catch bad guys. Save lives.”
“Will do. ’Bye.”
Hanging up, Remington pressed the phone against his mouth. The gravity of the situation settled upon his shoulders, paralyzing him. Steyer pushed open the door, making him jump.
“Got the car,” he said. “Let’s go.” He tossed a set of keys across the room. Remington caught them and nodded.
“Let’s go catch some bad guys,” he said, more to himself than to Steyer.
“You sound like Sam,” Steyer replied, pulling the door shut behind them.
44
“Do I really have to be here for this?” Remington fidgeted with jerky movements and ran his hand through his hair until it was uncharacteristically unkempt.
Steyer raised his chin and studied his partner. “Yes,” he decided with a nod.
“Fuck…”
They stood in the front corner of the largest conference room in the Cheatham Hill courthouse, on loan because the precinct did not have a conference room large enough. Steyer narrowed his eyes at Remington.
“Sorry.” Remington glanced at the young woman standing on a table nearby, hooking up the overhead projector. She did not appear to be paying attention.
“Someone might have a question or bring up an important point,” Steyer explained. “There are some details only you can fill in, some information only you have.”
“You could—”
“I was not there, Remington.” Steyer held up a hand to prevent any further protest. “It has been four years, and you have not seen this footage since we left San Francisco. Watching it with a fresh pair of eyes—responding to inquiries—may benefit you, and those officers need to know what they’re up against. We have already suffered unacceptable losses.”
Remington stared at a spot on the floor, pulling his jacket close around his body. His gaze was about to melt the acrylic tile when he nodded.
“You can leave out any details you don’t feel are necessary,” Steyer assured him.
“We should be ready here,” the young lady announced. She lowered the screen and hopped off the table. The FBI seal appeared across the screen. She turned back to Steyer, who turned to Remington.
Remington took a deep breath and steeled himself. “OK,” he sighed. “Send them in.”
“Thank you,” Steyer said to the young lady. “You may open the doors now.”
Blue and tan uniforms shuffled in, along with a few suits, firefighters in t-shirts and station pants, and a couple of green ranger’s uniforms. The smell of coffee and stench of cigarettes floated in with them. There were only a few familiar faces: Collins, Hutson, Young, Kondorf, Byron, a few of the deputies stationed at the Cheatham Hill precinct: Duley and Kline. Remington found it difficult to breath. His muscles were twisting into knots.
Walking in small circles, he shook out his arms and legs, then leaned against the wall to wait for Steyer’s cue. His muscles tensed up again as a deputy leaned against the wall behind him, a little too close for comfort.
Steyer took front and center, looking rather patriotic with the FBI seal projected across him, and raised his chin. This gesture was enough for everyone to take their seats or plant themselves against walls and fall silent.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve asked involved and interested to join us and Cheatham Hill Police Department to advise you of the possible risks emergency service providers and investigators may encounter while the Phoenix is present in your jurisdiction. These increased risks include espionage, sabotage, murder, and assault—both physical and sexual, for both male and female officers.”
A charge fell over the crowd, not quite a gasp, but a sudden pause.
“Starting now, I advise proceeding to all calls, all incidents, all inquiries with heightened caution.” He held up a finger. “Never respond alone.” He lifted another finger. “Always keep your partner in sight.”
Pausing, his gaze fell to the floor. He took a deep breath.
“As some of you know, we first became aware of the possibility of a serial killer in 1997, when four bodies were discovered among the remains of a house fire showing signs of torture: restraints, broken bones, different times of death, not by fire.” He cleared his throat. “Back then, my partner was a senior agent by the name of Elie Feingold. Our first day in Detroit, he was murdered while handling evidence.” Steyer spread his hands. “I had turned away for fewer than ten seconds. He was not three feet from me. A… jogger passed by, slipped a knife between his ribs, and stole the evidence, a cigarette butt. When I turned back, my partner was on the ground, and the perpetrator was too far for pursuit. Agent Feingold died within minutes, unable to speak.”
Steyer lowered his gaze again and swallowed.
“In 2002, when we suspected the Phoenix Killer had returned, this time in San Francisco, Agent Remington here—” He gestured toward where Remington leaned against the wall. “—was reassigned to me after two years with Organized Crimes. He accompanied me to California. We were there about a week before the Wi-Fi in the police station was sabotaged, and the hard drives were stolen from our computers. All of the digital evidence we had collected, all of our reports, gone.” He frowned and shook his head. “More relevant to you, the Phoenix murdered two San Francisco police officers, Officer James Ford and Corporal Kevin Woodall. Both were beaten to death; One while intervening during an abduction, and the other when the suspect returned to the scene of another abduction. Ford was alone. Woodall was with Agent Remington, who was also… assaulted.”
Steyer stepped over to the laptop hooked up to the projector. “We have footage from the location of the assault, which was an antique store owned and operated by one of the four San Francisco hostages.” He hit play and stood aside. “Please turn off the lights.”
As soon as the lights cut, Remington inched away from the deputy behind him. He did not want to be within arm’s reach of anyone during the viewing. Covering his face with his hand, he watched the footage through his fingers.
The screen flickered, and the interior of a cluttered antique studio appeared. The timestamp at the top corner read 14 SEPT 2002, 22:08. The camera was mounted on the wall behind a counter, covering both the register and the storefront. The infrared made marble and ivory glow in the darkness. The front windows were covered in butcher paper, the door with drawn blinds.
Outside, a shadow moved across the windows. It paused at the door, then pushed it open. A figure wearing a hooded sweatshirt entered the studio.
Remington squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to open them again. It was like watching a train wreck.
Since the camera only covered the front of the store, it did not offer an explanation as to why Corporal Woodall had been on the floor, eyes fixed open, with a crater in his skull. The camera had only caught the aftermath: the man, obscured by his hood, running out from the back room, pursued closely by Remington. Remington managed to grab his sweatshirt. In a graceful motion, the man ducked, slipping under Remington’s arm, and tackled him to the ground. They fought savagely until the man pinned him on his stomach. He beat Remington’s forehead against the cement floor until he stopped moving.
As if he did not know what was about to happen, Remington’s chest tightened when the Phoenix grabbed a nearby bust. The man rose it over his head, but paused. His shoulders heaved as he fought for breath. Sagging, he dropped the bust to one side. It shattered, sending luminescent pieces of porcelain across the floor.
Remington took a deep breath and held it. He tried to focus on the minute details and distance himself from the man sitting across his hips in the video. The Phoenix leaned down, disturbingly close to Remington’s face. He raised a hand—No rings, no watch, no tattoos…—and stroked Remington’s cheek.
Remington could not suppress a shudder as he watched the murderer turn his face from one side to another. With a movement so sudden it made Remington flinch, the Phoenix jumped to his feet. He took Remington’s ankles and dragged him into the back room.
Remington held his breath. After what felt like a tort
urous amount of time—in reality barely more than five minutes—the hooded figure ran back through the studio. He paused at the door, peering out, then disappeared. A few minutes later, Steyer appeared at the door, gun drawn, followed by a few police officers.
Without warning, the video cut off and the lights flicked on. Officers groaned and shouted, covering their eyes. Remington dropped his hand and took a deep breath. There wasn’t footage of what happened in the back room between Remington being dragged off-camera and Steyer arriving with the cavalry. Remington was grateful for that; He was content to know he had been found strung from the ceiling with his trousers around his ankles, according to Steyer’s incident report.
He didn’t want to know the rest.
45
Steyer was sitting behind his desk. It was uncharacteristically messy, cluttered with papers, reports, transcripts, manila folders, torn-open envelopes, a large stack of used coffee cups, and Post-its covered in indecipherable scribbles. Steyer wasn’t paying attention to anything there; His chair was turned, and he stared at the window, unmoving except his hand. He rhythmically tap-turned, tap-turned a pen on the desk. He would do this until he had either unraveled a problem or was interrupted.
This problem was not going to be unraveled any time soon. Remington recognized this the moment he walked into the office. Steyer did not notice. Pre-empting a potentially irritating workday, Remington confiscated the pen Steyer was tap-turning, and every other implement on the desk that could be tapped and turned. Steyer acknowledged him with an Oh, you’re here now glance and turned his gaze back to the window.
Steyer now occupied his hands by twisting the wedding band around his finger. He had known Steyer to do this until his hands were bloody and not realize it. Long bouts like these, with insanity-inducing pen-tapping or blood-letting ring-twisting, had solved several cases.
But not this one. Not yet.
The agents would clear and re-construct the wipe-board whenever they hit a wall. It grew cluttered with photos, notes, or details that may or may not be relevant. Remington stared at it, although he was no longer seeing it. Every once in a while, Steyer would think of something in his report, and look up to get a visual to go with the detail he was reading. He turned to the Detroit file, spread across his desk.