by Jette Harris
Tech snorted with a sad smile. He shook his head. “It’s not the store’s. I don’t even remember how it got here.” He pointed at the models on the wall in front of him. “I must have used it in one of these scenes.” He stared at the rabbit, then rubbed his beard with the back of his hand and waved dismissively. “Take it. It’s best if…” He shook his head. “You can give it back to my granddaughter when this nightmare is over.”
Rhodes stared at the old man, rubbing his thumb over the front of the rabbit’s overalls. Tech would not meet his eyes.
“I will,” Rhodes said.
****
Rhodes was jittery as he drove back to the house. He wondered if he should be worried he might find a dead girl when he arrived. He shook that thought off and focused on a different one: reducing the number of players on the field. Frank Witt had led Rhodes to make up his mind. Now he just needed to decide when and how.
As he pulled up to a stoplight, David Bowie’s Rebel Rebel came on the radio. Rhodes drummed his steering wheel along to the beat, until he turned his head. He froze. Lauri Shatterthwaith, oblivious to the bouncing in the Jeep beside her, sat behind the wheel of the SUV on his left, in the turn lane for the grocery store.
Rhodes took in a deep breath and let it out. She was still. Quiet. Alone.
The green arrow appeared, and Lauri blinked as if waking up, and turned into the parking lot. After the turn lane cleared, Rhodes flicked on his blinker and pulled in after her.
69
Lauri’s throat was tight. She had been waiting for days. The groceries she had purchased sat forgotten next to her car, meat spoiling and ice cream melting. It had taken all of her composure not to drop them in the middle of the parking lot. The only thing that had prevented her from running over and tearing the box open was the fleeting hope he might have screwed up, there might be a fingerprint on the tape.
“Have you touched it?” Steyer asked. The cardboard along the edge of the flaps was torn, as if someone had torn the box open after it had been taped shut, but the tape used to reseal it showed no signs of damage.
Lauri closed her eyes and shook her head. Everyone else had received a box. When her box never appeared, she feared the worst. She was both relieved and anxious, terrified of what the contents might reveal; There must be a reason he had waited so long.
And why was it on her car? Not on her porch?
Remington voiced this question as he took photos.
“Coul—Could you just open it… please?” Lauri asked, her voice strained, as if Monica herself could pop out.
Lowering the camera, Remington glanced at Steyer. The senior agent skimmed the parking lot to ensure it was free of spectators, then nodded. Remington slipped the camera into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out his butterfly knife. He flipped it open and sliced through the edge of the box. A faint smell of bleach drifted out. He peered inside before lifting the lid all the way.
Clothing sat in a neat stack, folded with military precision. A purple ribbon with a silver knight’s helmet lay on top. Lauri breathed a sigh of relief.
“Do these belong to your daughter?” Remington asked, pulling the camera back out. Lauri nodded. He photographed the top layer, then carefully spread the necklace and shirt out on the car.
“There’s not…” Her voice caught in her throat. She reached out to stroke the fabric. “There’s not any blood on her clothes.” Tech had told her about the alarming amount of blood covering Heather’s shirt. She peered into the box. A white bleach stain spread across the front of a pair of jeans.
“This could explain why it took so long,” Remington said. He lifted the jeans out. “He probably thought some of his DNA might have gotten on these…” He held them up to inspect the stain, and something clattered to the ground. He looked down to find a pair of dog tags. Steyer leaned down to scoop them up.
“Russell Brewer,” he read, running his thumb over the imprint.
“Those were on Heather’s car keys,” Lauri said.
“I wonder why they weren’t in her box,” Remington said.
Steyer did not offer an answer, but pulled a small evidence bag from his pocket and slipped them in.
Monica’s panties and flip-flops lay at the bottom of the box. The panties had been black before being soaked in bleach. Remington began to lift them out, but Steyer pushed his hands back down and shook his head. Remington held them below the rim of the box and spread them out. The elastic over the left leg had been ripped. There was a brown outline of a bloodstain smudged across the front, faded by the bleach.
Lauri covered her mouth and turned away. Steyer caught her before she fell to her knees. “She’s just a little girl! Just a—just a…”
Remington’s mouth twitched. Heat rose in his face. Folding the clothing back inside the box, he resisted the urge to shake his head. He had seen little girls become victims before. Monica was not a little girl; She was a young woman.
This rationalization did not make his hands stop shaking.
70
“We have two questions concerning the box—”
“Only two?” Young asked, raising a brow.
“Only two that don’t lend themselves to speculation, and analysis can’t answer,” Steyer explained.
“Why did he include Tech’s dog tags with Monica’s stuff?” Remington posed. “And why did he leave the box on the car and not on the porch?”
“Bingo,” Steyer said.
Kondorf walked in, stirring a cup of coffee. Young handed him a stack of photos. He studied them, shaking his head when he found the torn panties. “How old is Sterling?”
Young shrugged. “Thirteen or fourteen. She starts high school this fall.”
“Makes me glad for once I don’t have any kids,” Kondorf muttered. He popped the stirrer in his mouth and gnawed on it.
“Say what?” Remington asked.
“Can you imagine what it would be like if the kids found a box on their porch, tore it open not knowing what it was, and finding their sister’s torn panties?”
Remington’s brow furrowed. He began to grind his teeth.
“What are you thinking?” Steyer asked.
“Children…”
“The Shatterkids?” Kondorf asked.
“No, no… Detroit.” Remington shuffled through the files, pulling one out. “Leila Speers’s little girl.”
“Hailey,” Steyer said.
“Was she Sterling’s age?” Young asked.
“No, younger, much younger.” Remington skimmed the pages.
“Eight,” Steyer said. “She reported a man wearing a police jacket and hat, with a badge, sitting with her at the park until her grandmother came to pick her up. He promised her she would see her mother again.”
“Sounds like a death threat,” Young said.
“It does,” Steyer agreed. “We took it to be a threat as well, so we put her in protective custody. But she didn’t agree. She said the man was nice, and not scary at all. She believed him.”
“A lot like what the Shatterkids reported.”
Kondorf shook his head. “You’re saying he didn’t leave the box on the Shatterthwaiths’ porch, because… he didn’t want to freak out the kids?”
“He didn’t want to freak out the kids.” Steyer nodded. “He didn’t want to scare the kids.”
“He likes kids.” Remington nodded as well.
“That’s… disgusting,” Young said.
Steyer shook his head. “No, not like that.” He turned toward his desk. “Not like that…” Pulling out his phone, he waved them out. “Excuse me.”
71
1997
Detroit (“Jay Faliro”)
The girl looked just like her mother. She was small, even for her age, wan and lean. Nevertheless, she was adorable. There was no justifiable reason she should look so sad. Faliro fought against the instinctual pity that welled up into his throat as he approached her. She was sitting in a swing, toeing the dirt beneath her. She didn’t look up,
even when his shadow fell over her.
“Hailey?”
She looked up, head tilted with curiosity. He held the stolen badge out to her.
“My name’s Detective Hunter.” The name and rank felt awkward in his mouth; he usually rehearsed his name for weeks beforehand.
Taking the badge, she ran her fingers over the stolen rank and the department name. He wondered if she could read the words yet, and had to remind himself that even he could not read at her age.
“Is this about Mommy and Daddy?”
“Yes.” He hooked the swing next to her with a finger. “Do you mind if I sit with you?”
She looked at the swing, then shook her head. He sat down awkwardly; He had never sat in a swing before. After rocking a few times, he made a mental note to get one.1
“Is anyone with you?” he asked, although he already knew the answer. Lowering her head until her hair covered her face, she shook her head. Although this was good for him, he frowned. “Do you know when someone is coming to get you?”
She shook her head again.
“Would you like for me to stay until someone shows up? I can do that; I can stay as long as you like.”
She raised her hair and looked him over before nodding. “Have you heard anything about Mommy?”
Faliro bit his lip, tempted to share more than he had planned by the pity he had not yet been able to batten down. “Yes.”
“Is she OK?”
“She’s alive,” he said. Hailey looked confused, but he prevented her from asking any other questions by asking, “What was it like, living with your mom?”
Her face brightened a little, and she rocked back in a swing a bit. “It was warm. Mamie’s house is always cold, like wintertime.”
“Does Mamie take good care of you?” Seeing as she was at a public park, all alone, he already knew the answer to this question, too. Hailey shrugged. “Does she read to you? Help you with your homework?”
Hailey shook her head. “I don’t think Mamie can read.”
Rhodes had to suppress an expression of disgust and surprise.
“Mommy used to read to me. Did your mommy read to you?”
He smirked, amused at how disarming children can be without even knowing it. “When I was younger than you are, she did. She stopped when I got a bit older.”
“When you learned how to read?”
“No, I actually had a very hard time learning how to read,” he confessed.
She was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “Me too.”
“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 befo
re you die, that 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.”