Two Guns

by Jette Harris

  Byron’s scowl faded. Tex hadn’t looked so rough since his daughter and son-in-law’s funeral; He had looked sick then, since he went from raging alcoholic to responsible guardian in the span of a week. Now he looked haggard, drained. Byron sniffed. “Woulda been worth it.”

  Tex nodded. “True.” He cleared his throat. “So what brings you here… officer? Any… news?”

  Byron regretted he hadn’t taken the walk up to consider what he would say. “The FBI is coming.”

  Tex’s eyebrows shot up. “Coming to Georgia?”

  “Coming here, now, to talk to you and Monica’s parents. We wanted to give y’all a head’s up, so you’re not blindsided.”

  Tex looked thoughtful, then his shoulders slumped, as if he were slowly deflating. “What… what’s changed? What’s happened?” His voice was thin, like he didn’t want to know the answer, but he had to ask.

  “Nothing’s happened,” Byron assured him. “So far, nothing’s changed. We think… We’re just… looking at… at… well, I’ll let them explain. They’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  “Ah.” Tex raised his chin and searched the porch ceiling, his throat working anxiously. He sniffled and tried to cover it with a sigh, but Byron knew better. “I’ll get… I’ll tidy up then.”

  Byron glanced into the house, but nothing looked different. He shrugged. “Need any help?”

  “Uh-uh.” Tex shook his head and turned back into the house. “Just gimme a minute.”

  “Yessir.” Byron descended a few steps.

  “An-and, Jamal…”

  Surprised, he paused. Tex’s head poked through the door.

  “Thank you… for lettin’ me know. And… for everything.”

  Byron blinked, at a loss for words. The front door closed, and Byron headed toward the car. Kondorf met him on the lawn.

  “They’re not there.” He tipped the remainder of his coffee back. “So, you tell ’im? Did he crack any X-Files jokes?”

  “He’s not alright,” Byron said, shaking his head.

  Kondorf lowered the cup slowly. “He’s not drinkin’ again, is he?”

  Shit, I should have thought of that. “I… I don’t think so. I didn’t smell alcohol. He wasn’t slurring or anything.”

  Kondorf nodded. “We’ll have to keep a close eye on him.”

  A car turned onto the street. Agent Remington sat behind the wheel. Agent Steyer was furrowing his brow at a manila folder.

  “Grab your coffee; It’s show time.”

  ****

  Remington was starting to get a bad taste in his mouth, more bitter than usual. Not only that, but doubt was beginning to creep in: These kids are just spoiled brats. Why would the Phoenix target someone like them?

  Remington’s energy was flagging, especially after the frustrating interview with the Witts and the intoxicating smells of Waffle House. He had cracked open an energy drink, although he had promised himself he would be cutting down. To assuage his guilt, he had been sipping it slowly rather than gulping it down.

  “What’s the name of the street?”

  Steyer flipped open another folder. “This one coming up on the right. They appear to be neighbors.”

  “Would be nice to wrap this up not-too-late after dinnertime.”

  “Focus…” Steyer’s tone sounded oddly distant. Remington glanced over. Steyer was staring at Heather Stokes’s dossier, brow furrowed.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Russell Brewer… Heather Stokes’s grandfather. I know that name; I’ve read it before.”

  “In the case?” Hope lurched in Remington’s chest. There was no such thing as coincidence during an investigation.

  Sighing, Steyer shook his head. “I would remember if it were from the case. No, this is something… from before…” He trailed off, looking more troubled than confused.

  “Before the case?”

  Steyer shook his head, slower this time. “Before the FBI.”

  Remington chuckled. “No wonder you can’t remember.”

  Even Steyer’s mouth twitched into a smirk.

  A Cheatham Hill police cruiser sat on the curb in front of one of the houses. Kondorf and Byron were waiting on the well-kept lawn. Remington pulled up behind them. These houses were much smaller than the Witts’, but still nice, two-story houses.

  The agents climbed out of the car. Steyer straightened his tie—his ritual for reorienting himself—and tossed the folder onto the seat. Remington slammed the remainder of his energy drink and tossed the can into the back of the car.

  Byron smiled a little too enthusiastically as he held a coffee cup out to each of them. Although tempted, Remington shook his head. Byron covered his disappointment by sipping the rejected coffee. Remington wasn’t sure what to make of the local law enforcement; They were either too eager or too laid back. Small town, Remington reminded himself. Not much to get excited about on a day-to-day basis.

  “The Shatterthwaiths are out,” Kondorf informed them. “But they got small kids, so they should be home before too long.”

  “Mr. Brewer’s home,” Byron said, “but we should probably warn you: He’s a real joker. He may be serious, seeing as it’s Heather missing, but otherwise take everything he says with a grain of salt.”

  Remington raised an eyebrow. He hated smart-asses; Humor was often used to shield guilt. Byron’s face reddened slightly. He took another sip of coffee. Steyer nodded, admiring the red 1972 Mustang sitting in the driveway.

  The front door scraped open. The old man who stepped out wore the air of feebleness, but had the sturdy trunk of a man who knew how to handle himself. Steyer stared, head cocked as the old man took a deep breath and descended the porch steps.

  “Oh, and no one calls him Mr. Brewer,” Byron added. “Everyone calls him—”

  “Tech…” Steyer breathed.

  Remington jerked his head to find Steyer gaping. Obviously, he remembered how he knew that name. Remington realized Russell Brewer and Steyer must have been of similar ages, although he never thought of Steyer as old anymore.

  Byron blinked, confused. “It’s… it’s ‘Tex,’ sir.”

  “Oh, no, son.” Steyer shook his head with an odd smirk. “It’s Tech.” He walked toward the old man, smirk broadening into a grin. “You son of a bitch!”

  Remington’s jaw dropped.

  “Intel!” Tech’s eyes also grew wide and bright. His body unfolded, and Remington recognized the broad posture of a former soldier. He spread his arms and threw them around Steyer’s shoulders.

  Remington flinched with the urge to lunge forward. But Steyer reciprocated the hug, rocking Tech from side to side. Remington settled back, hopelessly confused.

  “Huh,” Kondorf grunted. “Tech. I wonder why he never corrected us?”

  “I thought you were dead!” Tech took a step back with a hand over his mouth. “I thought everyone was dead!”

  Remington’s face burned. He had known Steyer was in the military as an intelligence officer, which spring-boarded his FBI career after an ear injury. But he had been under the impression Steyer had never seen action.

  “I did too.” Steyer placed a reassuring hand on Tech’s shoulder.

  Tech covered his eyes. His body quaked. Steyer steered him around back toward the house. “C’mon, Sarge,” he said, loud enough for them to hear. “Let’s talk.”

  Remington’s jaw was still hanging open when the door shut behind them.

  “I think that means we’re out,” Kondorf said.

  Remington snapped his mouth shut. He furrowed his brow and pointed at the door. “Did he just… swear?”

  “Uh-huh,” Byron replied with a deep, slow nod.

  “Fuck.” Remington pulled out his cell phone. “I won the pool.”

  17

  Winter, 1971

  Vietnam

  The radio was broken. The enemy was closing in. The entire squad should have been dead, but somehow two survived. Steyer had his back against a boulder, hugging his knees to h
is chest. He finally allowed himself to regret defying his father’s wishes and enlisting. His calm demeanor had abandoned him.

  He didn’t want to die. Not in this God-forsaken jungle.

  Tech, who shut down when the radio was hit, was now bustling.

  “Dump your bag!” he demanded as loudly as he dared. He turned his own pack upside-down, emptying the contents into the mud. He rummaged through the letters, dirty clothes, and pornographic magazines, but did not find what he needed.

  Forgetting the lieutenant is supposed to be barking orders at the sergeant, Steyer reached for his bag with a shaking hand. Before he could touch it, Tech snatched it and dumped it out. He sifted through the junk—it all seemed like junk now—Steyer’s parents had sent him with such love and care.

  “What… What…” Steyer was attempting to ask what he was doing, going through his personal belongings, but his throat wouldn’t work.

  “I can fix this!” Tech said. “I know how to disarm a nuclear warhead; I can fix this damn radio.”

  “Oh, Intel…” Pausing, Tech lifted one of Steyer’s precious photographs. The usual mischief returned to his eyes. “You have some explaining to do later.” He flicked the photo at the terrified man and returned to his hunt.

  Steyer looked down at the black-and-white photo of him and Johnny, taken at arm’s length, since no one in their right mind would photograph two young men kissing, especially with one of them resembling the Enemy. Steyer’s heart ached to think he might never again see the only person who loved him for himself and not his connections.

  Like a cat that has seen a mouse, Tech jumped over the remains of Steyer’s belongings, pouncing on one of the rucksacks. Blood was pooling around the bottom, attracting flies. The bags smelled wretched, but they could not bring themselves to leave them behind.

  “What are you doing?” Steyer forgot to keep his voice down.

  Tech yanked open the zipper. When the smell hit him, he bent over to the side and retched, then over-turned the bag. The pieces of Corporal Baker they had been able to recover slid out in a slimy mess. The stench of decay wafted over to Steyer. Baker’s head rolled a few times before coming to a halt. Flies had managed to get into the bag, and the man’s eyes were now hollow brown caverns.

  Steyer forgot they were hiding. He leaned out from behind his rock to vomit. A hand jerked him back, leaving a bloody print on the shoulder of his fatigues. Tech’s face was covered in blood and—Steyer didn’t want to consider what else—but his expression was triumphant as he held up Baker’s tape deck.

  “I can fix it!” He scrambled over to the wreckage that was supposed to be their saving grace.

  “As soon as I get off the horn with air support,” Tech grunted as he pulled open the casing, “you’re going to call your daddy and tell him he’s going to be pinning a medal on both our chests.”

  “Deal,” Steyer replied, wiping vomit from his chin. He watched as Tech twisted together wires and swapped nodes. The procedure was so anti-regulation, it made his head spin.

  Within seconds, Tech was on the phone, calling in their location and begging for help.

  “Fuck!” he muttered. “I can’t hear a damn thing… it should be working.” He made a few adjustments and called again. He continued to fidget and call, fidget and call, for several minutes that seemed like forever, and they didn’t hear a sound—not even a bird.

  “Maybe...” Steyer wanted to say something encouraging, but was still having trouble speaking.

  “Oh—” Tech jerked his head up.

  A grenade hit the ground between them. Steyer jumped to his feet, grabbed the technician’s shirt, and pulled him around the boulder.

  The blast knocked the soldiers off their feet. Steyer felt a ripping sensation in his ears and hit the ground. Pushing himself up on an elbow, he watched Tech hit a tree trunk and fall motionless. Another grenade exploded nearby. When the concussion hit him, Steyer’s world went blank.

  18

  May, 2006

  Atlanta

  Remington sat in the driver’s seat of the FBI fleet vehicle, smirking at his phone and texting. Tech’s front door did not re-open. About ten minutes passed with Byron glancing from the door to the car, torn between going and doing something more productive and staying with the slight possibility of proving useful to the feds. He was about to turn to Kondorf and suggest leaving when an SUV turned onto the street. He elbowed Kondorf and nodded toward it.

  “The Shatterthwaiths are home,” Kondorf announced.

  Remington checked his wing mirror and tucked his phone in the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

  “I guess this is as much warning as they’re gonna get,” Byron said, waving at the vehicle as it pulled into the driveway.

  The garage door opened and the SUV pulled in. A back door popped open before it even stopped, and the SUV lurched as the driver slammed the brakes. Xavier, Monica Shatterthwaith’s ten-year-old brother, jumped out and ran to the officers as they walked up the driveway.

  “Did you find her?”

  “Not yet,” Kondorf said.

  Xavier slumped. The rest of the Shatterthwaiths piled out: Lauri, Sean, thirteen-year-old Sterling, and seven-year-old David. Lauri leaned into the backseat and reappeared with three-year-old Devin in her arms.

  “Wow…” Remington murmured behind them.

  Sean popped the trunk, revealing several grocery bags, before walking down behind the kids to meet them. “Tommy,” he greeted Kondorf and nodded at Byron. He studied the man in the suit behind them and unconsciously put and arm around Sterling, pulling her closer.

  “Sean.” Kondorf shook his hand, then waved at the others. “Lauri, kids. We—uh—we brought in the big guns—”

  Remington coughed.

  “I mean, backup. This is Agent Remington with the FBI.” The children’s eyes went wide. Lauri’s face fell. “He’s here to help us investigate.”

  “Duh…” Sterling breathed. Sean nudged her shoulder.

  “Sorry,” he said, extending his hand. “She’s developed a bad case of sarcasm. We fear it may be terminal.”

  Lauri bounced Devin a couple of times. “Kids, groceries first.”

  “But, Mom, he’s an FBI agent!” Xavier protested. “How cool is that?”

  “I am not deaf, Xavier! He may be cool, but the back of that car is not. If you don’t want me to throw your ice cream out, take it inside.”

  Xavier and David ran back to the garage, collected a few bags, and ran inside. Sean nudged Sterling, who was now eyeing Remington with interest. She was interrupted by Lauri holding Devin out to her. Her face turned bright pink as she accepted the child and carried him up the driveway.

  Remington pulled out his little notepad and a pen. He scratched his temple with the cap and nodded toward the children. “Do you have any other kids?”

  Lauri folded her arms over her chest and raised her eyebrows. “I have an eighteen-year-old daughter.”

  Remington’s face flushed. “I didn’t mean… I’m sorry, that was stupid.”

  “Mm-hm.”

  He cleared his throat. “That was definitely the wrong foot. My name is Remington. I’m with the FBI’s Violent Crimes division—”

  Lauri paled and Sean’s jaw went slack. Remington held up a hand to pause their rampant fears.

  “We’re here looking into the possibility of a connection between your daughter’s disappearance and some other cases.”

  “What… what cases?” Sean asked.

  Remington tapped his pen on the notepad. After a long pause, he said, “The Phoenix serial killings.”

  Sean raised his brow. “You think our daughter… and her friends… were kidnapped by a serial killer?”

  “We are simply looking into the similarities.”

  Scoffing, Sean shook his head. He continued to shake it as he looked from Remington to Kondorf, then turned and walked up the drive way. He grabbed the last several bags of groceries—a few too many—and slammed the trunk much harder t
han necessary. Lauri flinched. She stared at the ground, then glanced between Byron and Kondorf.

  “How strong is this connection?”

  Byron shrugged. “It’s there.”

  “The circumstances are similar,” Kondorf said in a low voice.

  Lauri’s mouth twitched. Byron was surprised when it flickered into a wry smirk. “Well, he’s gonna have his hands full, isn’t he?” She turned and headed toward the house.

  Byron bent double, laughing. Kondorf snorted. Remington looked at them both as if they were insane, then followed Lauri.

  ****

  “Detective Young has already asked us all of these questions.” Sean was beginning to fidget.

  Remington eyed him and shifted his gaze to the children, who sat across the couch in order of height. He pointed at them with his pen. “Did she ask them?”

  “No—What? Why?” Sean looked at them as if he suspected mutiny. Sterling pursed her lips and dropped her eyes to the floor.

  Byron nodded toward her. “Yo, Sterling. Your sister ever run away?”

  “No, of course n—” Sean stammered to a stop as Sterling nodded slowly. Remington and Byron gave him a look, satisfied their point was made.

  “When was this?” Remington asked, pen poised.

  Sterling shrugged. “I dunno. Happened a few times: She’d get in a fight about somethin’ stupid and run away. Then she’d get bored and come home before Mom and Dad even noticed.”

  Remington snorted and made a note.

  “Is it possible she ran away to be with Chuck?” Kondorf asked.

  “With who?”

  “Witt,” Byron said.

  Sterling and Xavier rolled their eyes.

  “Always with the Witt!” David groaned, raising his hands in supplication.

  Xavier quirked his mouth and shook his head. “She woulda told her friends. Everyone would know.”

  “And Heather wouldn’t of drove if she knew. She hates Witt.”

  “Why does she hate Witt?” Remington scribbled furiously.

  “Asshole,” Xavier muttered under his breath.

  “Xavier Rhys!” Lauri cried.

  Remington cleared his throat. “Why… why do you say that?”