by Jette Harris
Steyer froze, mind racing. “First: Where’s Heather? Did she talk you into going over there?”
“Yessir. She’s in the car.” Byron’s voice was small at first, then stronger as he continued: “But Dr. Magee mentioned he hadn’t been able to get ahold of her, and when we went to have breakfast at Waffle House, they said she hadn’t shown up…” He left the implied just cause hanging.
“Second,” Steyer continued, “you’re supposed to be off duty and you’re out of jurisdiction. Is anyone with you?”
“Cobb County just came on scene. We’re going to check the house more thoroughly.”
Sighing heavily, Steyer eased the SAK report shut. “Call Sergeant Young to pick Heather up, then go home.”
There was a heavy pause.
“Understand?”
“Yessir.”
“Is she OK?”
“Sir?”
“Heather. What’s her condition?”
Steyer heard the crunch of gravel as Byron’s boots scraped the dirt. “She’s holding it together.”
“Make sure she stays that way. We’ll be on our way there shortly. Don’t wait up.”
Byron sighed, but before he could hang up, Steyer called his name. His first name. “Yes, sir?”
“Do me a favor and swing by the office before you go to Heather’s tonight. I… I have a special request.”
Byron blinked, surprised. “Y-yes, sir. Yeah, OK. I’ll see you then.”
****
Sergeant Kline of the Cobb County Sheriff’s Office reached the duplex first. Thirsty for blood after losing his billiards buddy, he and Byron searched it far more thoroughly than they would have, but there was no sign of forced entry apart from the door being open. No sign of anything missing. No sign of a struggle.
But the smell of death clung to the air as if a body were in the middle of the living room.
Since Byron could toss a rock and hit the sign that marked Cheatham Hill city limits, he let Kline call the site cleared. The firefighters milling around the engine parked on the street cried out mock-protests. Kline held up a finger.
“Have you checked next door?” He crossed the porch and banged on the door.
“I knocked, but no one answered,” Byron replied.
Kline jerked the knob to see if the door would give, but it held firm. “Wait here,” he said, stepping off the edge of the porch and disappearing around the side of the house.
Byron sighed and turned toward the street. Heather was sitting with her legs hugged to her chest, eyes on the firefighters. Young would be arriving shortly to pick her up. Byron was relieved she wouldn’t be there when they open the house up. He jumped when Kline jumped up on the other side of the porch with a thump!
“We got flies! That’s just cause, right?”
“Uh…”
Without waiting for an answer, Kline walked half-way up the slope and spoke with the fire captain. The captain leaned into the engine and grabbed his officer’s tool, a small, wicked-looking implement about the size of a hatchet with a pry bar on one end and a pick on the other. Byron eyed it enviously.
Heather watched them with wide eyes, a fist pressed against the mouth.
“Your girlfriend looks upset,” the captain said with a glance.
Byron’s face flushed. “She’s not my girlfriend… that’s… Heather Stokes.”
He turned to get a better look.
“She looks a lot better than I last saw her.”
“Yeah, she does.” The captain wiggled the window next to the door. “I mean, it helps that she’s not covered in blood.”
Kline tilted his radio. “Kline to ’patcher, fire is about to breach the window of the neighboring unit.”
“Do not—”
Byron cringed at the harsh, gravelly voice.
“This is Special Agent Richard Steyer. Do not breach that unit.”
Kline’s shoulders slumped. “This is what I get for following procedure.”
More relieved than disappointed, Byron shook his head. “Look at it this way: There could be a Phoenix in there.”
****
Heather slumped back against her seat with an exaggerated sigh. She had turned the radio up just enough to hear what was going on. Although Steyer’s intrusion had startled her, it also filled her with a relief she couldn’t understand.
But she needed to know: What happened to Aneta Vlasov?
As cars passed, they slowed to peer curiously at what was going on at the house. Heather stared at the rubberneckers until they noticed her and sped off or didn’t notice and continued on at normal speed. A black sedan approached slowly and stopped altogether next to the cruiser. She turned to scowl at the driver.
Avery Rhodes sat behind the wheel, leaning forward to peer at her.
With a gasp, Heather pressed herself against the door, as if getting farther away from him. Rhodes blinked, unimpressed by her horror.
What is he doing here? How did he find you? What did he do?
What did he do to Aneta?
One of the firefighters stepped in front of the cruiser and gave a sharp whistle.
No, don’t, he’ll kill you!
Rhodes glanced at him, as equally nonplussed at being so addressed. The firefighter waved for him to move on. Heather opened her mouth to cry a warning, but to her shock, Rhodes eased forward and continued down the road. She shot forward to watch him go. A cardboard square stating TAG APPLIED FOR where the plate should have been made her slam her fist into the seat with an angry cry. She threw herself against the door and scrabbled with the lock. She fell unceremoniously onto the red clay.
“Jamal!” she screamed. “He’s here! Jamal!” Byron was on the porch one second and lifting her from the ground the next. She pointed after the car. “Black—Tag applied for—He… he…he…”
The ground began to lurch and spin. She couldn’t breathe. She could hear a man’s voice repeating her words. Byron telling her to breathe. Blinding lights. A piercing siren. A woman’s voice trying to comfort her. Strong arms pulling her against a large body. A comforting smell.
As the lights and siren faded, so did conscious thought. Heather became a trembling shell.
****
“Agent Remington, you are being excessive.” Steyer had one hand on the dashboard, elbow locked, and the other clutched the grip handle.
Remington squealed the tires on a turn, throwing his partner into the door. “You think so?”
They barreled past the fire engine sitting in front of Aneta Vlasov’s house. A few miles down, flashing lights appeared on the horizon, two Cobb County patrol vehicles boxing in a black 80’s model Geo Prizm. It didn’t have a tag, but a cardboard square in the back window saying tag applied for.
They screeched to a halt behind the nearest patrol car. Remington’s heart lurched into his throat: a dark-haired man had been placed in the back seat.
Steyer sighed. The disappointment was so palpable, Remington could have bitten into it like an apple.
“What?”
“Too short.”
“Bullshit!”
Steyer glared at him.
“He could be slouching!” Remington’s voice pitched. Kline and another deputy stood from where they were leaning on the hood and headed toward them.
“He would still be too short, Agent Remington,” Steyer said in a measured tone. “You know how small—”
Remington unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed out, slamming his door on Steyer’s words.
He’s right and you are out of line.
Steyer climbed out as well, making a point to close his door in a more controlled manner. The man in the back twisted around to find the source of the noise. His face was distorted by blood running down from a busted eyebrow.
“Fuck,” Remington breathed. Both deputies had their hands on their belts. Kline’s were unmarred, but the other deputy had dark blotches on his. Remington ran a finger over his knuckles and pretended to adjust his cuffs. Steyer nodded. As the deputy approa
ched, they noted his name: Gainey.
They would have to deal with Gainey later. Kline opened the door and the man wiggled away as Gainey reached in to pull him out.
Remington sighed as well, abandoning his final hope.
The man cowered as far away from Gainey as he could as the deputy wrenched him from the cruiser and presented him to the agents. In addition to the busted eyebrow, his lip was swollen and split, and his arm was scraped and bleeding. He had the right color hair and complexion, was broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted, but stood no taller than five-foot-nine.
“What happened to his face, Deputy Gainey?”
“He resisted when I told him to step out of the car, and fell when I pulled him out.”
The man opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again.
“It would be a shame if you used excessive force on an innocent man.”
Gainey cracked a smile like Steyer had just told a joke and shook his head. “Your girl identified him as the Phoenix.”
“Before or after you pulled him over?”
His smiled faded. He sniffed rather than reply.
“Our girl is a traumatized young woman under constant threat, referring to a man who slightly resembles her attacker by a glance she got as he drove by.”
“We know for a fact,” Remington added, “that this attacker is at least six foot tall.”
The deputies looked down at the man as if his height offended them.
“It’s not him.” Steyer reached into his jacket pocket. “Let him go.”
“Oh-ho, no,” Gainey laughed. “This guy disobeyed police orders and resisted—”
“Release him,” Steyer said firmly. “We will discuss it later with your CO.”
Kline held up a hand. “Agent Steyer—”
“Deputy Kline, we’re going to need you back at the house. The property manager is meeting us there shortly.”
Kline frowned and squared his shoulders. Steyer gazed back at him coolly.
This might not end well… Remington shifted so he could intervene if needed.
After almost a full minute of tension, Kline exhaled slowly through his nose. “Don’t take too long, Agent Steyer.” He gave Gainey a curt nod and stormed to the cruiser in front of the Prizm.
Gainey shook his head and grumbled as he unlocked the handcuffs. The man didn’t say anything, but rubbed his raw red wrists and stepped close to the agents. The deputy spit into the grass and climbed into his car. Remington hadn’t given him enough room to pull out. Gainey had to sit and watch as Steyer handed the man his card.
“I don’t know what the fuck happened,” the man said. “I was just driving to work and this cop cuts me off!”
“We’re gonna need you to back up a bit.” Remington flipped open his notepad. “Tell us what happened when you passed the fire truck.”
He stared at Remington, then Steyer, and back. “I… I never passed a fire truck.”
Steyer’s face went slack. Remington slowly lowered the notepad. They turned to stare at one another.
It hadn’t been a wild goose chase spurned on by mistaken identity; The Phoenix may have actually driven by in a black sedan with a cardboard tag.
****
“Ms. Werner was found in the Kroger parking lot a few weeks ago.” Amanda Farr, the property manager for the duplex, juggled a clipboard with the release forms to pull a set of keys from her pocket. “Her sister told us it was a massive stroke. They were supposed to claim her things this past weekend, but they were no-show.”
Steyer waited patiently, hands in his pockets. Remington was not as patient. He prowled around the perimeter of the house with Kline to peer through the windows. He was edgy, tugging at his sleeves and collar.
Farr shook the keys out of her pocket and stepped toward the house. Steyer held up a hand.
“May I? You should wait here.”
“Um… I’m not supposed to. I’m required to supervise.”
“I recommend—for your safety—you supervise from the sidewalk. A locked car would be even better.”
She glanced at the house. “Well, if the FBI insists…” She gave an uncomfortable laugh and handed the keys over.
“Thank you, Ms. Farr.” Steyer took them and crossed the yard. He gave a sharp whistle. Remington and Kline joined him on the porch.
“Based on the condition of the house last time I was in there, I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s just how it smells,” Remington grumbled.
Steyer gave him a look.
“Sorry.” The younger agent shook his head. “I’m just… I’m thinkin’ the worse and I keep hoping beyond hope… that what I suspect happened isn’t what happened.”
“I know exactly what happened.”
Remington blinked at him. “It’s very unlike you to make an assumption.”
Steyer shrugged. “You have my permission to never let me live it down if I’m wrong.”
“You think the Phoenix is involved?” Kline asked.
“Nope.”
Steyer took a deep breath. The air was foul on the porch, but he knew it was about to get much worse. He slipped the key into the lock and glanced at Remington and Kline. They pulled their guns and held them at the ready, pointed at the ground. The deadbolt slid aside easily, but the door wouldn’t open.
“After you.” Steyer nodded at Remington, pulling his own gun.
Remington tested the door with his shoulder, then stepped back and kicked it. The door scraped open a bit. He kicked it again, and it popped clear. He jumped back so Steyer and Kline could sweep the room.
Remington covered his mouth and coughed as the stench billowed out at them. “Well, he’s definitely not here.”
They holstered their weapons and studied the living room. It was stacked with boxes and indistinguishable junk. Roaches scurried for cover, but the flies continued their circuits undeterred. A narrow path led from the door to the back of the house, branching off to the couch, the kitchen, and the two rooms in the back.
Steyer waved Kline and Remington back out. They retreated to their vehicles. Farr leaned against her car, a hand over her nose and mouth, eyes wide with horror. Steyer pulled out the HEPA masks and shoe covers.
“I only have two. Mind waiting out here?”
Kline shuffled his feet with angry energy. “Better out here than in there.”
Steyer snapped on his shoe covers and walked over to Farr. “You may want to wait in your car,” he said, securing the mask to punctuate his point. She nodded numbly, but didn’t move.
“Down the street a few blocks,” Remington muttered.
They made their way back down to the house and stepped inside. Steyer made sure he entered first. The couch was covered in stacks of clothes, one cushion open for sitting. A dark stain revealed the resident’s shape and size. He glanced into the kitchen. Dirty dishes filled the sink and littered the counter among various take-out containers.
“Please don’t let this be…”
Steyer didn’t catch what Remington didn’t want it to be, but he had a pretty good guess: Please don’t let this be Aneta Vlasov’s final resting place.
Steyer knew in his gut his young partner was about to be let down. He pointed to the open door next to the kitchen, the room he already knew would be empty, and headed toward the closed door opposite.
The flies were thick, like smoke in the air. When Steyer opened the door, they swarmed into the air and settled again. A form sat on the floor at the foot of a cluttered bed, legs spread before her. She wore a modest dress with comfortable-looking tennis shoes. Her hand rested in an unnatural position on her chest, still pointed toward her face. A .357 Magnum laid where it had fallen on her lap.
Remington emerged from the guest room, shaking his head. Steyer quickly pulled the door shut. The younger agent fell still, but his throat moved like he was having trouble swallowing.
“This isn’t our case,” Steyer told him firmly. “I’ll let Kline know they can take over.”
*
Heather couldn’t sit still. Although Young offered to take a walk with her, Heather wanted to be alone. She wished she could scream. She wished she could run. Most of all, she wished she were anywhere but in that house, with her grandfather following her with helpless eyes. She did her best to sit by his side and focus on Alan Alda, but jumped up at every opportunity she could.
After the fourth time, she took half a Narco. Just as she was starting to loosen up, the phone rang. She shot up to answer it.
“Don’t hang up.” The voice wasn’t hard or threatening, but in earnest. Heather’s throat tightened with fear, but anger loosened it. Tech and Young watched her with concern and curiosity. Schooling her expression, Heather casually covered the mouthpiece.
“I’ll be on the back porch.” Her voice wasn’t as steady as she wanted. Her heart hammered painfully, her chest so tight, it was difficult to breathe. She stepped out the kitchen door and sat on the top porch step. After several deep breaths, her chest loosened up.
Rhodes waited patiently. He must have heard her struggling to breathe, because as soon as she regained control, he spoke: “Are you OK?”
He sounded like any other man who had asked her that very question over the past few days.
“What…” Her voice quivered. She swallowed hard. “What did you do to Aneta Vlasov?” Her voice cracked. Fuck.
“What?”
“Aneta Vlasov. Tell me.”
Silence.
“Avery Rhodes, so help me—”
“I didn’t do anything to Aneta Vlasov.”
“Bull. Shit.”
“It’s not. I haven’t seen her.”
“But her door was open and it smelled like…” Her throat grew tight with tears. She clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Heather, she probably killed herself.”
“No—!” she squeezed out. Grabbing a fistful of hair, she pulled it as hard as she could.
“Look, losing a kid is tough. A lot of parents don’t survive it. My dad…” He fell so silent, she was afraid the line had gone dead.
“What about your dad?”
Another long pause. “I can’t.”
She hardened her voice and tried to sound as much like him as possible: “Tell me.”