by Jette Harris
Blinking, Remington leaned up on his elbows. “I’m getting fired?”
“I’m pregnant.”
“Wait—What?”
She fixed him with an even gaze. He sat up straight.
“And it’s mine? You’re sure?”
She nodded. “The doctor said seven weeks. I saw a guy week before last, but it was just you for five months.”
Remington exhaled slowly. First Steyer, now Sam. What next, marriage? Start a family? “So… what…?”
“‘So what?’” She glared at him.
“No! No, I mean, so… what are our options? What do you want? Do you want to keep it?”
“I don’t know. I wanted to talk over it with you first.”
“OK?”
“I know you like your space and you don’t believe in marriage, but if I—if we keep it, we’d have to get married. One or both of us would get fired if the Bureau finds out and we’re not already hitched.”
“How would they know it’s mine?”
Wickes rolled her eyes.
“I mean—Right. Sorry. Stupid.” Remington pressed his face into his hands.
“And we’d have to move in together anyway, so you can help me take c—”
“Fuuuuck!” It had taken him long enough to grow accustomed to Wickes staying overnight. He couldn’t imagine being thrust into the same space as another person 24-7.
Wickes huffed.
“I’m sorry,” Remington said through his hands. “This is just… the worst time.”
“I spent all week hiding the fact I was violently ill. You know I hate doctors.”
“I mean, I’m losing my partner, and now I’m losing…” He gestured over her. “… my partner!”
That brought a small smile to her lips. He took her hand and pulled her closer.
“I know this is scary for you—”
“I’m not scared,” she breathed.
Remington laughed. He didn’t know what to say to that.
“I was scared when I was sick. I was scared when the doctor told me. But we have to look at his like a business decision. This isn’t the fifties; We have that luxury.”
Remington tilted his head, reminded of why he enjoyed her company so much. Her level-headedness competed with Steyer’s. “How long do we have to make a decision?”
“I could start showing within four weeks.”
“That’s not what I mean…” He shook his head.
“Oh…” Wickes gazed up at the ceiling and exhaled sharply. “Thirteen weeks, I think. But we need to make a decision before that.”
Remington fell into a thoughtful silence. He didn’t want to think heavy thoughts tonight. He tapped her hand. “Why don’t we wait until after the retirement ceremony? That way, I don’t have that… looming over my head and distracting me.”
“Aww…” Wickes gave a soft smile and lifted his chin. “You’re really sad, aren’t you?”
“‘Sad’ isn’t the word.” He shook his head, at a loss for an accurate description.
“You’re going to miss him. I felt the same way when I was little and my big brother went off to college.”
Remington smirked and shook his head again. “If I admit to being sad, what would you do to cheer me up?”
Her smile brightened. “What wouldn’t I do?” she whispered, and threw the blanket aside.
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 the 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.”
Nodding, Kondorf turned to the passenger side and paused. Byron followed his gaze. Blood fanned up the side of the car. Byron’s throat tightened. He turned to look at the woods around them, but nothing looked back out.
“Heather?” he shouted. “Heather!”
Kondorf opened the passenger door and peered inside the purse. A Cheatham Hill Magnet High School ID smiled at him with curly hair and hazel eyes.
“Monica,” he greeted it.
Byron spun toward him. “Huh?”
“Your mystery passenger was Monica Shatterthwaith.”
“Oh.” That made perfect sense: Heather and Monica lived next door to one another, and Monica was always hitting her up for rides.
Kondorf stared at the ID blankly. His mouth twitched.
“What?”
He shook his head slowly. “We now have two young men and two young ladies—”
“Heather hates Witt.”
“—missing. This is not good.”
Byron’s eyes were wide, his face pale. “We… we need to go back. Tell Tex... And Monica’s parents... Fuck, what’re we gonna tell them?”
Kondorf blinked and took a deep breath. “Stop.” He placed a hand on each of Byron’s shoulders. “You’re getting too far ahead of yourself. Way too far. This may or may not be related to the boys’ disappearance. Or, like you suggested, they might be helping Chuck run away.”
“But there’s blood… there was blood… I was sayin’ all that to… because…”
Kondorf took a deep, deliberate breath. Byron mirrored him.
“The first thing we need to do is find out what they were doing out this late on a school night.”
****
Chief Collins rarely came into the office this early. He stood at the window by his desk, thumbs tucked into his belt. The sun reflected off the clouds, painting everything red, pink, and orange. His jaw moved as if he were chewing on the information Kondorf and Byron had given him.
“Two young men, two young ladies. An unsettling phone call, and two abandoned vehicles…” He turned to them. “I can’t help but hope someone’s playing a game, some kind of senior prank.”
Byron shook his head. “Heather would never—”
“Oh, I know.” Collins looked back outside. “She cleaned up her act P-D-Q when her parents died.”
A heavy silence fell. It grew heavier as Kondorf opened his mouth, but did not speak. Collins turned to him expectantly.
“It sounds familiar,” Kondorf finally said.
“Hm?” Collins raised his brow.
Kondorf looked around the floor and leaned his elbows on his knees with his fists balled in front of his mouth. He closed his eyes and for a second, Byron thought he was praying. Kondorf mumbled something. Byron didn’t catch it, but Collins did.
“Nah!” The chief jerked his head back toward the window.
“What?” Byron looked between them. Collins shifted uneasily.
Kondorf looked at him askance and straightened. “Phoenix,” he repeated. Collins sucked his teeth.
“What? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Arizona,” Kondorf said.
“Nineteen… what? Ninety-two?” Collins scratched his chin.
Kondorf furrowed his brow. “Ninety-four?”
Byron was still lost. “What about it?”
“Phoenix, then Detroit, then… Los Angeles?”
“San Francisco.”
Byron frowned and stilled as he began to understand what they were implying.
“OK.” Collins nodded, turning back to them, but not meeting their eyes. “I’ll call the FBI.”
Kondorf leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees again. He squeezed his eyes shut. This time, there was no doubt he was praying: “Please, Lord. Please let us be wrong.”
4
Washington, DC
Banners, ribbons, and balloons littered the banquet hall: everything was red, white, blue, and gold. Ladies and gentlemen in suits, pencil skirts, and dress uniforms of all kinds sat around tables and stood along the walls. Steyer sat with a small company across the back of the stage, behind a man standing at a podium. Steyer hated events like this, but it was his retirement ceremony, and he was obligated to attend.
The man at the podium called Steyer’s name and held out a hand. All eyes were now on Steyer. Steyer glanced to his right. Johnny gave him a reassuring smile. Steyer forced himself to imitate the smile as he stood and straightened his tie.
“Thank you, Director.” He shook the man’s hand. Steyer had exchanged only a handful of words with him over the thirty-one-year course of his career, but patted his shoulder as if they were close. The Director of the FBI took his seat as Steyer pulled his speech from his pocket and unfolded it. “You know me: I am the Boy Scout; I like to be prepared.”
He glanced over at the piece of paper and folded it again. Death announcements were easier than these social obligations.
“Ladies and gentlemen, agents, officers, esteemed guests of all ranks, thank you for your presence here today as I celebrate the crowning event of my career: my retirement.” Laughter rippled through the audience. At least he had gotten the introduction right.
Samantha Wickes pushed through a door and hurried around the crowd to the edge of the stage. She kept her eyes down and her lips pursed. Steyer tried not to stumble over his words as she beckoned someone behind him. Remington shuffled down to her. The two had a hurried exchanged. When she left, he stared after her, arms akimbo, then looked up at Steyer.
Day and Night, their associates called them. The monikers referred to more than Steyer’s fair features and white hair contrasting Remington’s dark: Steyer always looked cool and placid, while Remington always looked angry or on edge. After four years as partners, Steyer had become skilled at interpreting the nuances of Remington’s scowls. He turned to him with concern.
Remington swallowed hard and held up his hands. Hooking his thumbs, he spread his fingers wide and flapped them, imitating some wicked bird.
Steyer’s voice stuck in his throat. His heart sank. Pausing, he looked out over the audience. They had fallen silent, expectant. He glanced back at Johnny, whose face was pale. He must have recognized the gesture.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for the inconvenience,” Steyer told them. “It appears I have a case.”
Uneasy laughter floated through the crowd. Steyer stepped away from the podium and joined his partner.
“Where is he?”
“Atlanta,” Remington replied.
5
Fairfax, VA
St
eyer changed into a more casual suit. As he straightened his tie in the mirror, a pair of hands slid under his arms and wrapped around his chest. Steyer clasped them in his, their wedding bands clinking. Johnny had been unusually quiet on their way home and while helping Steyer pack. Now he rested his head against Steyer’s back.
“I know it will be useless to tell you not to worry,” Steyer said, giving Johnny’s hands a squeeze, “but I will call every day.”
“Twice a day.” Johnny hugged him tighter.
Steyer smirked. “I always come back.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“I seem to remember you saying that the first time I left.”
“You almost didn’t come back then.”
“But I did.”
Johnny’s grip became rigid. “Elie didn’t come back from Detroit. Remi almost didn’t come back from San Francisco.”
“Oh, you can’t worry about both of us.” Steyer turned in Johnny’s arms until they were face to face.
“Oh, yes, I can.” Johnny smirked. His round face had wrinkled, but his almond-shaped eyes were as bright and sharp as they were forty years ago. “If you don’t come home, I will need a… a studly young man to comfort me.”
Steyer barked a laugh. Remington’s idea of comfort would probably be a pat on the shoulder, and Johnny knew it. Steyer rocked him gently, then ran his hands over his hair and kissed him. “Keep those eyes on me.”
“Always.”
The doorbell interrupted their affectionate good-byes.
“He’s early,” Johnny growled.
“No, he’s not. That’s your studly young man.”
They untangled themselves reluctantly. Steyer double-checked the contents of his bags as Johnny answered the door.
“Remi! What, no damsel in distress to see you off?”
“I decided to let you have the honors.” Remington stepped inside and hung his keys on a hooks by the door. He left a duffel and a bulging garment bag on the porch. “Thanks for always letting me leave her here, by the way,” he said, referring to his 1970 Yenko Nova. “I wouldn’t trust letting it sit in front of my building.”
“Oh, it’s my pleasure,” Johnny said. “Young men such as yourself believe it’s mine and might even ask for a ride around town.”
