by Jette Harris
The air in his room was stale, but not as hot or humid as it was outside. Rhodes dropped his rucksack and duffle, placed his doctor’s bag on the table, and cranked up the air. He paused in the open doorway, debating whether to bring everything else inside. The pain in his knee made him close the door.
Rhodes crossed to the back of the room and—grunting and groaning—crouched under the counter. Kneeling hurt so badly, he flopped onto his side and slid underneath. The brown vinyl that acted as a baseboard peeled away to reveal a gaping hole in the wall. He reached in up to his mid-forearm and pulled out a large Ziploc bag.
With a sigh of relief, Rhodes rolled onto his back and pulled the bag open. Two passports, one blue, one burgundy, and a brown leather wallet tumbled onto his chest. He flipped open the burgundy passport and sighed. The name was CHARES, Wren, but the picture was not Wren Chares; Rhodes’s own dark eyes stared back at him. He took a deep breath and pressed the passport against his chest. The heat in his face had nothing to do with the weather outside.
Swallowing hard, he opened the wallet. The same dark eyes stared back at him from a Colorado driver’s license, next to the name THADDEUS JAMES ADAMS.
He flicked the wallet closed and tucked everything back into the bag. Closing his eyes, he pressed his palms against them until he saw stars.
“You’re a fucking idiot, Thatch.”
1
31 May 2006
Wednesday
“You’re so weak.”
Heather Stokes flinched awake with a grunt as pain radiated around her torso. One of the machines hooked up to her beeped. With every breath, she felt as if her ribs were scraping her lungs. She groped blindly for the morphine pump. The pain subsided with a flood of warmth.
Men’s voices floated in from beyond the door, but none of them were the voice that had snapped her awake, the voice that had invaded her thoughts every time she began to regain consciousness. Her eyes shot open with the sudden fear the voice had not just been a memory this time. He could be in the room with her, unknown to the voices outside.
“—need to speak with her as soon as possible—” One of the voices was low and gravelly, with a distinct Northern note. “—understand her delicate condition—”
Delicate. Heather closed her eyes. Weak. The memory of those words overwhelmed her.
“You’re so weak.”
She had been sitting on the bathroom counter in what she now knew had been the Hospitality House. That knowledge sent a chill down her spine, as if the horrors she had witnessed within its walls were not enough.
With a mixture of fascination and temptation, she watched as Avery Rhodes shaved using a straight razor. He had been working in silence, but it was a heavy, loaded silence. He was waiting for her, daring her. Although he made the process look like a long-practiced art, one shove, one tap, even making him flinch would result in bloodshed… but not only his.
“I’m what?”
“Weak.” He pointed to her in the mirror with the razor. “Look at yourself: You’re a weak little bitch now.”
Heather clenched her jaw. He was trying to get a rise from her, trying to arouse the fight he had scared out of her when he had beaten Monica so badly…
Her heart throbbed at the memory Monica’s bruised and swollen face. The image of Monica in the cruiser flashed through her mind: grappling with her neck, sinking closer to the dashboard, blood pouring from her mouth. A painful sob tore from Heather’s throat.
“No wonder you haven’t escaped yet.” Rhodes had washed the foamy blade in the sink and wiped his face with a damp towel. “I bet you couldn’t strangle me if I were tied down for you.”
He inspected his work, perhaps the cleanest shave Heather had ever seen, then cleaned his razor and packed it away. This process was almost as delicate as the shave itself: patting the razor dry, sliding it into a velveteen pouch, and tucking it into a faded box that looked like it was about to crumble with age.
With the razor safely packed, Heather decided to take the bait: “We should try that.”
“H’OK…” Rhodes wiped his face once more and tossed the towel into the sink. “I’ll make it easy for you.” He leaned down until his dark eyes were level with hers. “Strangle me.”
She stared at him, as afraid to obey as she was to deny him.
“Choke me. Squeeze,” he instructed her, slowly parsing his words. He gestured what she should do with a broad, scabbed hand. “Wrap your hands around my neck. Go ahead. I promise, I won’t resist.”
Her face burned. After countless days of abuse and starvation, he was right: She was weak, too weak to squeeze the air from his sinewy neck.
One of the machines beeped again. Heather released the breath she had been holding. She finally turned her head and sighed with relief. The hospital room was empty. Her grandpa’s windbreaker hung from the back of a chair that had been pulled up to the edge of the bed. She remembered vaguely he had been there earlier, but couldn’t remember anything she had said to him. He hadn’t looked relieved for very long. She couldn’t blame him. Her eyes filled with tears.
Rhodes had been right; She had been weak. She should have strangled him. Maybe not that day, half-starved, but after he had started feeding her better, after he had let his guard down. There had been dozens of vulnerable moments. A hundred missed opportunities.
If she hadn’t been so weak, she could have strangled him. She could have grabbed the knife when he had offered it to her and plunged it into his throat, right where he had pointed.
If she hadn’t been so weak, she could have saved Monica. She could have saved all of them.
It should be Monica lying here, not you. Heather Stokes closed her eyes. You don’t deserve this…
****
Special Agent Remington of the FBI’s Violent Crimes Division clung to the residual shreds of his patience as his partner, Richard Steyer, explained to the head nurse—again—why it was so urgent they should be allowed into the room to speak to Heather Stokes. Remington held his badge limply by his side, swinging it every few minutes as if the RN would notice and suddenly realize who was speaking to her.
Despite Steyer’s patient and well-informed lecture on adrenal response and the impact of pain-killers on memory function, the RN continued to shake her head as she went on about her work; They could speak to the patient only once she has recovered her faculties of her own volition.
Remington sighed and began to grind his teeth. He wondered idly if Officer Byron or Lieutenant Kondorf would have better luck with their easy-going drawls and Southern charm. He was about to suggest as much to his partner when a door squeaked down the hall.
A gaunt, ragged girl resembling Heather Stokes’s photograph poked her head out of the room. Remington watched her out of the corner of his eye as she glanced over him and found the nurses occupied. She stepped out and quietly closed the door behind her. She walked at a leisurely pace, despite blood running down her arm and one hand pressed over her ribcage, away from the nurses’ station. She passed a nurse doing her rounds, then broke into a run.
Remington bolted after her. She paused at the end of the corridor to look around, then shot down the next hall. As Remington turned to follow, the stairwell door snapped shut. He shoved through it and began down. When he heard the slap of bare feet echoed over his head, he spun around and followed her up.
There was only one reason he could think of for her to go up: the roof.
Three flights up, Remington heard a door below crash open, and several pairs of feet joined the chase. That would be Steyer, and hopefully backup. Fast, tactful backup.
Heather’s pace above him faltered and grew heavier, then faster. How could she possibly move so fast with broken ribs? Remington winced.
He was closing in, just two flights below her by the sound of it, when the crash of a heavy door opening made his heart sink. He was already climbing as fast as he could, and it was nowhere near fast enough.
****
The faster you rea
ch the roof, the sooner the pain will end.
When Heather hit the heavy door marked ROOF, a brilliant burst of pain blinded her. She stumbled into the muggy evening air. The world grew loud with the deep hum of an over-worked HVAC system.
Gravel bit into her bare feet as she ran to the closest edge. She hopped up on the lip. Her breath caught in her throat, and she swung her arms wildly to keep herself from pitching over. Below her feet wasn’t the sheer, multi-story drop she had anticipated, but a drop of maybe twenty feet to an adjoining wing.
The rooftop below had been converted into a courtyard., lined with hydrangeas, blooming with shocking purple and delicate blue bunches.
A fall like that wouldn’t end her pain; It would just cause more of it. Then she would be helpless when Rhodes came for her.
A cool breeze whipped around her, ruffling her gown and tugging her hair. She closed her eyes.
Were you really so weak?
Rhodes was not going to let her off after he had issued his challenge. She needed to respond somehow. She sat on the counter, paralyzed, her hand half-raised. His eyes gleamed with anticipation. His wicked smile broadened.
That smile broke her.
Heather scowled. Any amount of pain would be worth wiping that smile off his face.
She moved her left hand, drawing his gaze. Her right hand shot out. He jumped back with a strangled, dog-like noise, clutching his throat. His arm whipped around, a dark blur before it hit Heather’s head. She toppled off the counter, her body hitting the toilet, her face cracking against the edge of the tub.
“Fucking—!” Rhodes burst into a coughing fit.
A high-pitched ringing had filled Heather’s head. Every noise, every movement seemed like she was wrapped in cotton. Blood filled her mouth, flooding over her chin and running down her neck. Disoriented, she pushed herself to her knees and gagged, hurling some of it on the floor. She climbed her way back up the counter until she felt relatively upright.
Red-faced, coughing intermittently, Rhodes watched her with his mouth set in a tight line. His left hand pressed against his chest just below his throat. His right was a tight fist clenched by his side.
Heather bent her head and spit. Blood splattered Rhodes’s bare feet. She looked back up at him. His expression hadn’t changed—But was there wonder in his eyes? Awe? She spit again. Something hard clicked on the tile floor, bouncing against his foot. A tooth spun to a stop between them.
Heather had raised her head to look him in the eye.
Wasn’t that brave?
Rhodes laughed, broken by an occasional cough. Heather’s courage fled. As he exacted his revenge later, she clung to that moment she had wiped the smile off his face.
“Not much of a view, is it?”
Heather froze. It isn’t him. It isn’t his voice at all. She forced herself to breathe, to unlock the muscles that begged her to glance at the man who had stepped up to the ledge a few feet from her. It was the man in the brown suit who had been standing at the nurses’ station, the younger of the two. He didn’t look at her, but gazed out at the horizon.
She raised her eyes to see what he was referring to. The sun was setting, painting the sky a brilliant copper and the clouds purple. Barely visible through the smog, Atlanta was beginning to light up in the dusk.
“I think it’s the best view in the world.” A pang of sadness hit her at the thought of never seeing that view again.
The man shrugged as if saying Agree to disagree, and leaned forward to look at the courtyard below. “You’re taking a pretty big chance, there.”
Heather huffed. Busted. “I’ll take that chance.”
He finally looked at her. The part of her that had been comparing his stature and complexion to Rhodes eased up. His accent was undeniably New York. He was tall, perhaps even taller than Rhodes. His complexion was more copper than olive, and his eyes were a tawny shade of brown. They looked irritated and sad at the same time. “Yes, because you’ve had the best of luck recently.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “What would you know about my recent luck?”
He tapped a leather bi-fold on his fingers, and flipped it open to show her a badge. “Special Agent Remington, FBI.”
She gaped. A child-like excitement clawed its way up through her fear and pain. “OK.” She nodded. “That’s really cool.”
Remington offered her his hand. She took it and allowed him to help her off the ledge.
****
Heather didn’t want to lie down, despite fatigue, muscle soreness, and sharp pain barking unpredictably as she moved. A small army of orderlies and nurses, led by an older man in a gray suit, escorted her back to her room. They dispersed one-by-one as they traveled back down, until only Remington, the suit, and one large, red-faced orderly followed her into her room. She took Tech’s windbreaker, draped it over her chest, and sat down. She attempted to pull her feet into the chair, but a crushing pain made it difficult to breathe.
With Heather in the only chair, the older man lowered himself onto the window seat. He noted the trepidation with which Heather regarded the orderly, and sent him for some chairs. Remington leaned against the wall opposite Heather’s chair and crossed his arms over his chest.
“You had us very concerned, Miss Stokes,” the older man said. He had the low, gravelly voice she had heard earlier. Something about it—the authority and sincerity—made her relax a little.
“Sorry.” It came out a dry rasp. Her throat felt like it was full of sawdust, her tongue brittle. She eyed the water pitcher on the opposite side of the bed. Remington followed her gaze and went to pour her a cup.
“I understand you’ve been through an unimaginable ordeal. You’re hurt and you’re scared, but—” He paused as Remington handed her the cup, and she gulped it sloppily. “You have no idea how important that makes you right now, Miss Stokes.”
Heather lowered the cup to study him. The man—she assumed he was another FBI agent—gazed at her with steady blue eyes. He looked about her grandpa’s age. There was something familiar about him, but the answer felt distant. He pressed a hand to his chest.
“My name is Richard Steyer, with the FBI’s violent crimes division. You’ve met my partner, Agent Remington. We’ve been—”
“You look familiar.”
Steyer glanced away and straightened his tie. “I believe your grandfather… has a photograph of us in your guest room.”
“It’s not a guest room.”
“In your mother’s room, I apologize.”
“You were in his squad?”
“I led his squad.”
Heather narrowed her eyes. “But he called you—”
“My name is Richard Steyer.”
Heather pursed her lips and accepted his firmness. “He said all of those men were dead.”
“He believed I was dead. Just as I was led to believe he was dead.”
Her brow furrowed. “But you’re with the FBI…”
“I had far more… pressing matters to attend than opening old wounds.”
“Lo and behold…” She gestured herself and the room. Steyer shook his head with a smile, but it quickly faded.
“We’ve been investigating a serial killer known as the Phoenix for almost ten years, the man you know as Avery Rhodes.”
Her face fell. She opened her mouth, but closed it again. Rhodes had mentioned other murders—Detroit, Phoenix—but she had never known whether to believe him. She hadn’t wanted to. Her gaze shifted from Steyer to Remington.
“Four years for me,” Remington said.
“You are the Phoenix’s only surviving victim,” Steyer continued. “Only you can give us insight into what happens in those houses.”
Her chest tightened. She pressed a hand against it. “No… No pressure…” The corner of her mouth twitched, but she couldn’t quite manage a smirk.
“We’ll do everything within our power to keep you safe, in case he comes back to hurt you.” Remington raised his chin with a confidence
Heather couldn’t grasp.
Rhodes hadn’t been planning on killing her, but taking her with him. At least, that’s the impression he had given her. But what if he had said that to others who had gone before? What if it had been another well-played trick?
Somehow, she couldn’t imagine his disintegration had been an act. His shift in behavior. His red-rimmed eyes and ragged breathing. Avery Rhodes would never have made such a sincere show of vulnerability. He made it clear he would do anything to keep her by his side, even endanger himself.
Now he’ll do anything to get you back. Maybe. Or maybe now you’ve tricked him, he’d do anything to kill you. Or worse.
She pulled the windbreaker closer around her body and pressed it over her mouth. She smelled her grandfather on it, causing a swell of conflicting comfort and fear. “Where… Where’s Grandpa? Is he OK?”
“He hasn’t left your side since you got out of surgery. We had Officer Byron take him to get a proper meal shortly before you… woke.”
“He’s not safe.”
“You believe your grandfather is in danger?”
“He is. If Avery’s still out there, he’ll go after Grandpa to get to me.”
Steyer leaned back, his expression equally surprised and skeptical. Remington pulled out his phone.
“I’ll let Officer Byron know.”
Heather blinked. Her brow furrowed slowly. “Grandpa’s with Jamal?” The idea felt absurd, but she couldn’t place why. Byron had been there just after they escaped the House—Just after Monica died…—But the memory felt choppy and distant. Like the House itself; It felt like a lifetime ago. Everything of her life before came in glimpses and impressions, like a book she had read as a child rather than something she had lived through.
Grandpa and Jamal don’t get along; Grandpa teases him too much, she reminded herself.
“Officer Byron’s assistance has been invaluable to our investigation.”
Gratitude rose in her chest, but an oppressive apprehension rose to meet it. She knew why Byron was so eager to help, and didn’t feel comfortable being indebted to him. She changed the subject.