by Jette Harris
“Is that—is—” Monica was too terrified to speculate. “What is that?”
Now she wants help. Heather rose to her feet with a sigh. Going to the door, she touched the liquid, then sniffed it. She shook her head, turning back to her friend.
“It’s kerosene.”
“Oh, God.”
“He’s about to burn the house down.” Heather smirked, voice pinched with hysteria. She didn’t think Monica could get any paler, but she was wrong. Her skin was a ghastly grey color.
The door flew open, knocking Heather into the wall. Rhodes stumbled in. He spared a glance at her as she hit the floor, but headed straight toward Monica. His robe was soaked in liquid. His chest was splattered with blood.
“No!” Monica began to cry as he grabbed her shoulder. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
“Face the wall.” He shoved her to her knees in front of the wall. She began to sob harder.
“This won’t hurt,” he promised. He pointed the gun at the back of her head.
“I’m sorry, Heather,” Monica sobbed. Squeezing her eyes shut, she lowered her head.
Rhodes hesitated. Never in his life had he hesitated when he needed to act. He turned to find Heather standing at his elbow. She was wide-eyed and resolute, looking alarmingly like she had when she demanded he move Z.
“I’ll go with you,” she said. “I’ll go, just don’t do this.” She inched between the gun and her friend. He could point the gun at her, or lower it.
“Lies.” He shook his head.
“You know me better than that.” She took a step toward him. Placing a gentle hand on his wrist, she persuaded him to point the gun at the floor.
“I can’t.” He took a step back. “I wasn’t careful enough. She’s seen things.”
“You can… Avery.”
Before Rhodes could collect his thoughts enough to reply, she folded herself into him, pulled his head down, and kissed him. It was everything he had been wanting: gentle, reassuring, giving. He allowed her to push him back, expecting to collide with the door. He hit the banister instead. He raised a hand to touch her face. She lowered hers to his chest.
And pushed.
Instinctively, Rhodes grabbed at the nearest thing to steady himself as he toppled over the banister. Heather was jerked off of her feet, and they both fell to the floor below.
75
Heather was floating in water under the flawless blue sky. Her eyes were closed. The sun was shining down, warming her chilled skin. Monica’s laughter floated over her, and she was rocked in the wake created by the girl swimming over.
“Heather!” Monica called in a hushed voice. “Heather!”
Heather began to paddle, sinking into the water. She turned to find Monica doing a breast-stoke in her direction, pulling up within a few inches. The inertia threw them together. Without a word, Monica took Heather’s face in her hands and kissed her.
****
“Heather!” There was panic in her voice now. “Heather?”
Heather gasped for air. Footsteps pounded toward her, and Monica dove toward her side. Heather’s back burned where she had hit the hardwood. Pain radiated from her bones. She knew she wasn’t supposed to move, but she also knew she didn’t have a choice.
“I thought you were dead!” Monica sobbed. She helped Heather to her feet.
Rhodes lay face-down on the other side of the chaise lounge. His foot was at an odd angle. A small pool of blood was forming where his forehead met the floor. His eyelids fluttered, but he was not moving.
“Not so lucky.” Heather turned away from him. Pain shot through her back as she straightened, but she forced herself to limp toward the open French doors. They had to be wary of slipping in the kerosene covering the floor. Like upstairs, there were piles of tires spread throughout the ground floor.
“What’s—” Monica began when she saw them, but was interrupted by a deep groan behind them.
“Run!” Heather shoved Monica forward.
The police officer lay in the middle of the great room. A puddle of blood spread from his head, and his brown uniform was soaked in kerosene. Heather spared enough time to confirm it was not Byron, but couldn’t hesitate for any details beyond his name plate saying DULEY. Monica, however, knelt by his side. She began to rummage in his pockets.
“Where’re his keys?”
Heather ran back. She grabbed the collar of Monica’s robe and dragged her to her feet. “The car’s still running!”
76
Rhodes pulled himself up using the chaise lounge. Pain shot up his leg. He clenched his teeth and forced himself to move. Monica’s curly hair was disappearing out the front door.
Groaning, he lumbered after them. At the threshold, he was just in time to watch them slam the doors of the patrol car. Left with no other choice, he stepped back inside the foyer. Opening the coat closet by the door, he grabbed a rifle. He stepped back onto the front porch and cradled it in his shoulder.
(Breath even. Wind estimated. Speed calculated.) He pulled the trigger.
The passenger-side window shattered. The car swerved, then stopped. Rhodes huffed, raising the scope again. (I didn’t miss. I couldn’t have missed.) He took a few painful steps forward. The car lurched, then took off again.
He didn’t have time to think about it. Reaching into the pocket of his robe, he pulled out a box of matches.
77
Every officer in Cheatham Hill and the surrounding municipalities listened in silence as dispatch called for Sgt. Duley. Ten minutes had passed with no check-in. They all experienced the same rising sense of dread and anger. When the order came in after another five minutes for officers to respond, Kondorf and Byron were already en route. They were joined by at least five others, making them third in a convoy of flashing lights and blaring sirens.
Kondorf’s heart pounded. He prayed so fervently the words ran together in his mind: Saint Michael, be our protection… we humbly pray… cast—cast… Byron was much worse off: He was pale, clutching his seat belt in a way that Kondorf had not seen him do since he was a rookie.
The Hospitality House sat on the city limits. The road leading to it was not widely used. The police cruisers paid little attention to the few cars driving in the opposite direction, unless they refused to slow down or pull off. In that case, the officers cursed the drivers in their mind as they flew past.
A car that looked like a police cruiser appeared on the horizon, barreling in their direction. The lead car slowed, forcing the others to slow as well. It was a good thing, too: the car—indeed a police cruiser—pulled wide to the right, then swung into their lane. Kondorf feared for a moment that it might run off the road and hit a large oak tree. It stopped before running off the shoulder.
The convoy was forced to stop. They managed to do so with about thirty feet between the lead car and the obstructing cruiser. A few vehicles pulled out of the line to zip ahead, continuing to the house. Loud whaps and thunks revealed that some of the guys in the back had been following too close or not paying attention. Normally, this would have amused Kondorf, but not today.
Unable to see anything from his seat, Kondorf stepped out of his car. He kept his hand on his gun. The cruiser’s passenger-side window was missing, only a little range of tempered glass remained. The cruiser’s driver-side door flew open and the driver fell out. Kondorf approached, seeing some movement through the windshield. A spider-web crack obscured the view.
The officers from the two front cars stood behind their doors, guns at the ready. They yelled orders for the driver to put up his hands and come out from behind the car. They fell silent as soon as they caught sight of the driver: It was a woman, with dark, messy hair. Her face was pale. She appeared to be wearing a robe that had at one point been white. She emerged from behind the car hunkered down, looking around her like a nervous cat. The robe was far too short for public use. Her right side, from her face down, was covered in brown stains.
No, not brown. Red. They saw it clearly
as she emerged from the shade of the tree, into the sunlight. Kondorf took a few steps forward.
“Holy fuck,” Byron muttered. “It’s—”
“Heather?” Kondorf called.
She froze at the sound of the name. Her eyes met his.
“K—Kondorf?”
She raised her hands to her mouth. Ducking as if she expected something to jump at her, she jerked her head around. There were bandages around her wrists. She began to move, starting with one step, then another, then broke into a sprint. Kondorf ran to meet her.
“Oh, God,” she sobbed, throwing her arms around his neck. Kondorf expected to feel weighed-down or thrown-back, but there was little impact; She was alarmingly lightweight.
“I tried!” she cried into his shirt. “I tried—I…”
It took him a moment to realize that it wasn’t just her tears that were wet. The blood on her face rubbed off on his cheek and streaked his shirt. He barely had time to register this before her knees buckled. He lifted her into his arms. She clung tighter to his neck.
Three other officers had approached the car. They were touching their faces and running their hands through their hair. Kondorf stared for a moment before he realized what he was looking at: someone with curly brown hair was slumped against the dashboard, not moving.
Tightening his arms around her frail body, Kondorf carried Heather Stokes back to his police cruiser.
To be continued in
Two Guns
Discover the beginnings of Avery Rhodes in Phoenix Rising:
Flint Ranch
Salvage
from Two Guns
2
Washington, D. C.
FBI Special Agent Remington didn’t know how to feel as he watched the stack of manila folders on his partner’s desk dwindle: some set in another stack, some passed off to a different division, many shredded, all no longer Senior Agent Richard Steyer’s responsibility. Steyer never said a word indicating what he was doing or why, but Remington had his suspicions. As the stack of folders diminished, a vague sense of dread grew.
Steyer stood in front of his desk one morning, hands folded in his pockets. There were two stacks of folders now: A tall stack of about twenty, and a short stack of three. He placed a hand on the small stack. The top one was fat with papers and photos. The bottom looked empty. His hand rested a moment before Steyer drew it away. Instead of tackling those three remnants of the original pile, he hoisted the large stack and carried it to the desk of Samantha Wickes, administrative assistant for the Violent Crimes division. After a brief exchange, Wickes pulled out her keys, unlocked the door to the file room, and led him in.
When Steyer returned a good half-hour later, Remington pretended to be busy reading an email. Steyer did not hesitate this time, but scooped the three files up and dropped them with a smack! on Remington’s desk. Remington avoided them and looked up at his partner instead.
“I’m retiring,” Steyer announced.
Remington couldn’t speak at first. He nodded slowly until he could make his throat cooperate. “Congratulations. I’m happy for you.” Although this was true, he couldn’t help but wonder why he was having trouble breathing.
Steyer heaved a sigh. “I didn’t want to leave any loose ends, but…” He tapped the top of the three folders.
Remington’s eyes flickered down to the tabs on the folders: PHOENIX, SFO—2002, PHOENIX, DTW—1997, and PHOENIX, PHX—1994. His forced pleasant expression slipped when he looked back up.
“Some legacy, I know.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Remington slid the folders to the edge of his desk. He opened a drawer and tucked them in tightly, as if their contents might escape.
“I know you will. One way or another.”
[…]
3
May, 2006
Atlanta
Fog rose hot off the asphalt and settled around the base of Kennesaw Mountain, muffling headlights and obscuring unfortunate possums. Jamal Byron struggled to focus on driving the patrol car, but his mind kept wandering back to the case. He checked the clock: 11:24. Chuck Witt and Zachariah Vlasov had been missing for exactly twenty-five hours, and they had nothing, no clues but the blood splattered inside Chuck’s Nissan Titan.
Lieutenant Kondorf—being the ranking officer and an old fogey—had the honor of riding shotgun. Byron had no qualms with this, as it meant Kondorf had to fill out the incident report. The older officer paused over the carbon paper and rubbed his forehead.
“You remember Tex’s real name? I heard it a million times back when he was in and out of the drunk tank, but I can’t ever remember.”
“Brewer.”
“Right.” Kondorf scribbled in the name. “Russel Brewer, AKA ‘Tex,’ cracked a few jokes, humiliated his granddaughter, and was ultimately useless.”
“We knew when we heard the connection between Tex and Z, it would be useless.”
“Yeah, well…” Kondorf sighed. “After interviewing worried-sick mothers all day, I needed a laugh.”
“It was good—” Byron snapped his mouth shut and cleared his throat.
“Hm?” Kondorf continued to scribble an appropriate version of the interview with Tex and his granddaughter.
“Nothin’.”
“Oh, yeah. Officer Jamal Byron kept a close eye on Heather Stokes throughout the interview.”
Byron’s face burned. “Come on.”
“… eventually chasing her up to her… bedroom.”
“That was Tex’s fault.”
“… pursuit failed.”
Byron groaned. He was never going to hear the end of it now. It was bad enough Tex and Kondorf kept exchanging glances and smirks while he and Heather spoke. After Heather fled the kitchen, Byron had resisted the urge to give pursuit, opting instead to go up when Tex and Kondorf landed on the topic of Vietnam-era firearms.
Byron had been drawn, as he often was, by the feeling he had forgotten to tell Heather something important, like congratulations on her last track meet, or that he loved her. But her light had been off, and she didn’t respond when he tapped. He leaned his forehead against the door and whispered good-night to the silence.
When he re-entered the kitchen, Tex and Kondorf abruptly clammed up. Swallowing a doubled sense of rejection, Byron took his leave and stood on the porch until they finished their private conversation.
Kondorf held the report up to re-read in the dim cabin light, then folded it and tucked it away. The pouch he tucked it in also contained three speeding tickets, a noise complaint, and notes from interviews with Chuck’s parents and Z’s mother.
“What do you think?”
Byron glanced over to ensure Kondorf was addressing him again. Sometimes the senior officer spoke aloud to himself, or the Lord, or whatever hypothetical character he was speaking with in his mind. Right now, though, his eyes were on Byron.
The younger officer shrugged. He didn’t want to think about the possibilities anymore. He had never spoken to Z beyond placing an order at the coffee shop, but he had played football with Chuck, back when he was a senior and Chuck was a freshman. The poor boy had been afraid of anyone who wasn’t white, flinched when the coach yelled, and refused to change with the others in the locker room.
“My money says Witt—I mean, Chuck… ran away.” With a firm nod, Byron committed to the least terrifying theory. “Z is probably helping him hide away somewhere.”
“Why’s that?” The drawn-out tone in Kondorf’s voice implied skepticism. Someone had called 9-1-1 to say the boys were in danger. Someone’s blood was sprayed across the inside of Chuck’s truck door.
Byron pushed those thoughts aside. “His dad’s a dick. They act all Brady Bunch, but Mr. Witt is rotten to the core. When we were in school, Wi—Chuck would show up with bruises and shit—”
Kondorf’s eyebrows disappeared under the brim of his hat. “He beat him?”
“He sure didn’t get them during practice.” Byron turned to see Kondorf’s reaction, but t
he older man slapped the dashboard.
“Whoa! Stop!”
Byron hit the brakes. The cruiser squealed to a stop, throwing them against their seatbelts. A Honda sedan was sitting at a stop sign, lights off, driver’s door gaping wide. Kondorf squinted. The decal of the Queen crest across the back window told them whose car it was.
“Is that—”
“That’s Heather’s car!” Byron unbuckled his seatbelt and kicked the door open.
“Wait!”
But Byron was already walking toward the Honda, flashlight in hand. He started as the blue lights flashed on. Kondorf popped his door open and stood behind it as he radioed dispatch.
Byron could see (at least, he hoped) the car was empty. There were skid marks on the road behind it. Low speed, sudden stop. The trunk and bumper were dented. Larger vehicle, possibly an SUV. He approached the open door and peered inside. Airbags deployed. Blood on the driver’s airbag. Both driver and passenger-side airbags had deployed; Someone had been in the car with her. There was a purse on the passenger-side floorboard. Heather never carried a purse…
Pulling out his phone, Byron dialed Heather’s number. Inner Circle began to sing “Bad Boys” from the cup holder in the center console. The screen of a cell phone lit up with his induction photo.
“Fuck…” Byron was too worried to see humor in his ring tone. He jerked his head to look around. The terrain on one side of the road was even and grassy for about twenty feet, then gave way to dense pine woods. The other side dropped into a deep ditch lined with granite riprap. Walking around the front of the car, he shined the beam into the ditch. No blood, no broken body. Kondorf walked with his own flashlight and offered Byron a pair of blue nitrile gloves.
“She wasn’t alone,” Byron said. “There’s a purse in the car that isn’t hers.”
