Run Rabbit Run Boxset

by Jette Harris

  ****

  Despite the heat and humidity, the sky was overcast and there was a fair breeze. Steyer, hands in his pockets, perused the ground around the corner spot where Charles Witt had parked his Nissan Titan. The truck itself had been transported to the crime lab the day before to be disassembled. There was a variety of cigarette butts crushed into the mulch, all peeling and in various states of decomposition. He toed them.

  “What brand?” Remington joined him on the curb.

  “Looks like Camels… that one is definitely a Virginia Slim.”

  “What did Phoenix smoke?”

  “American Spirits, but that was in ’97. There weren’t any signs of smoking in San Francisco.”

  “He may have been policing his butts.”

  “He may have quit.” Steyer searched the overcast sky. Conditions had been similar when he and Feingold had arrived in Detroit. “It would be an interesting change for such a creature of habit.”

  Remington didn’t reply. He knelt to nudge a soggy piece of paper with his pen. It had been a receipt, but the ink had washed away in the rain, rendering it useless. Steyer stood in the middle of the parking space and studied the coffee shop. Byron, Kondorf, and another man who stood with the posture of a cop were watching them and chatting.

  “Let’s walk through this.” Steyer pointed to the door of the coffee shop. “This place closes at ten. Zachariah Vlasov begins his closing duties at half-past nine, after Heather and Monica leave. Charles Witt walks out about a quarter to ten, the last to leave, according to the manager.”

  Remington craned his neck and searched the sky. “Sun would have been setting over there, so these windows might still have been covered.”

  “Correct, so neither the manager nor Zachariah could have seen this end of the parking lot.” Steyer nudged Remington so he could take his place on the curb. “The back door of the truck was here,” he said, holding his hands up to indicate a door. “There was a jump kit on the floor of the back seat, so the Phoenix must have asked for a jump, and his vehicle must have been nearby—close enough Chuck did not have to move his truck.” He pointed to the next space over.

  “Or Chuck was getting the kit out and didn’t have a chance to move,” Remington countered, pointing to the adjacent spaces on their left.

  Steyer nodded. “Charles Witt is five-foot-four. The blood spray is high on the door, so he had stood back up. We know the Phoenix is right-handed, so he hits him with something—” He gestured a swing of his right hand. “—not too hard, but causing a moderate spray of blood.” Steyer stepped off the curb and stood in front of the space, pointing to a neon circle painted into the asphalt. “The Phoenix drags him and leaves him here, where anyone could see him.”

  “But no one else was around,” Remington picked up the narrative, “except Zachariah Vlasov and the manager. Manager said she heard the back door open just after ten—she said it was loud. He made it to the dumpster and dumped the trash, but never went back in; The door only opened and closed once. He must have seen Charles Witt and gone to help him.”

  “Now, in comes our Good Samaritan...”

  “Not so good at all. He calls 9-1-1 and reports two injured boys. Dispatcher’s recording has Zach’s voice in the background, so he was conscious at ten-twelve. He sounds alarmed; the attack would’ve occurred immediately after hanging up. Charles Witt is here.” He points to the neon circle, then moves to another, seven feet farther from the space. “Zach ends up here.” Remington ground his teeth, looking at the two adjoining spaces. “I’d bet my paycheck the Phoenix parked here,” he said, pointing to the adjacent space. “He may have even already had the trunk open. Otherwise he would’ve moved Charles Witt to the opposite side, more visible from the dumpster, closer to his vehicle.”

  They moved to the space. Part of a tire track had been dug out of some silt during the initial investigation. There had been no such accumulation in the parking spot next to the truck.

  “How much would you be willing to bet,” Steyer asked, “that he’s driving a Jeep Cherokee?”

  “Creature of habit…”

  ****

  “That’s a nice suit he’s wearing.”

  Byron turned to find the speaker, a tall, rugged-looking man with a cup of coffee held against his bottom lip. He shot Byron a glance that made him feel the irritating stirring all over again–except this time, it was inspired by someone closer. And addressing him.

  “Which one?” Kondorf asked.

  “Remington,” Byron said. It was obvious; Steyer’s suit was comparatively plain. “It is a nice suit.”

  “Could you tell whose it is?” The stranger looked askance at Byron with a raised eyebrow.

  What is it about today and tall, dark, and handsome? Byron took a deep breath, wanting to ask the man why he assumed he would know anything about suits. Byron didn’t want to admit he had noticed how perfectly Remington’s suit was tailored. He glanced the stranger over. A glint in his eye and the smirk playing on his lips implied an interest in more than suits.

  “Nah,” Byron replied instead. “Up close, it looks custom.”

  “Custom! Naw, not on their salary.” He pointed with his coffee. “They don’t make much more than we do. Still…I bet it’s Dolce & Gabbana. They feature those colors often.”

  Kondorf snorted. “I tell you what, the only suits I own are from Sears.”

  The stranger chuckled. “That suit is definitely not from Sears.”

  They watched in silence for a few minutes as the agents gesticulated and shuffled about.

  “Y’all respond to that mess the other night?”

  “Yep,” Kondorf replied. “We got the call.”

  “That musta been somethin’. I heard all about it when I got on duty yesterday morning. Y’all don’t usually get that much excitement out here.”

  Byron snorted. “That’s one word for it.”

  Steyer and Remington turned and headed toward the door, wiping their faces and the backs of their necks.

  “Let me know what you find out,” the man said to Byron. “About the suit, I mean. I’ll see y’all around.” He headed for the door, holding it open for the agents. They grunted their thanks without looking at him. Before he exited, he caught Byron looking. Byron’s face burned. Did he just wink?

  “You know him?” Byron asked, trying to sound casual.

  “Not a clue,” Kondorf replied. “Walks like a cop, though.”

  “A gay cop,” Byron snorted. But his eyes followed the man as he crossed the parking lot to his Jeep.

  13

  Steyer had a system for everything, including multi-casualty incidents: Go in order. If chronological order cannot be established, go alphabetically. Therefore, their visits would start with the Vlasov residence and end with Heather Stokes’s residence.

  Zachariah Vlasov’s father lived in New Jersey. His only listed phone number was disconnected. The young man’s mother, Aneta Vlasov, lived outside the Cheatham Hill city limits, but had found a sliver of land on the edge of the school district. Remington was unable to reach her on the phone, and she did not answer the door of the duplex listed as their address. The woman in the adjoining unit directed the agents to the Waffle House where she worked.

  When Remington pushed the door open, he wasn’t sure if the aroma that met him was pleasant or offensive. Waffle House was clearing out from breakfast and still not over-crowded for lunch. Remington identified Aneta Vlasov immediately: She sat in the last chair at the counter, slumped against the wall. An untouched plate of food sat in front of her, next to a discarded black apron. Despite the circles under her eyes and the gray shooting through her chestnut hair, she had the beautiful features common to Eastern Europe: high, wide cheekbones, and large, bright eyes.

  Steyer did not question Remington’s judgment, but followed where he led.

  “Aneta Vlasov?” He showed his badge. “I’m Agent Steyer, with the FBI’s Violent Crimes division. This is my partner, Agent Remington. We’re invest
igating your son’s disappearance. May we sit?”

  “Yes, please.” She sat up as if her body ached and pulled her apron into her lap.

  “I’ll box that up for you, sugar,” a server said, sweeping her plate away.

  “Thank you.” She gave him a tired but gracious smile and turned back to the investigators. “I apologize; I have not slept. I don’t know how much help I will be.” Her Eastern European accent was softened by years in the US, but still audible.

  “That’s OK,” Steyer assured her. “We’re here to introduce ourselves and arrange an appointment at a time more convenient for you.”

  Her eyes flickered to the clock over the office door.

  “For now, we just wanted you to see our faces, and know we are doing everything in our power to find your son and bring him home.”

  “I appreciate that very much. When he did not come home, and the police came, I think, He has helped his friend run away. But when the girls disappear, the young ladies, I knew it was more. He would not disappear like this, not without saying something. Do you think you know what happened?”

  Frowning, Steyer shook his head. “We have our suspicions, but it’s still too early in the investigation to pin anything down.”

  “Oh, God.” She covered her mouth. “Could it… could it be traffickers?”

  Remington narrowed his eyes with a dangerous and determined glint. “No, Ms. Vlasov, we don’t suspect trafficking. We actually…” he turned to Steyer. The senior agent nodded. “We suspect it might be a bit worse.”

  “Worse than slavery?” Aneta looked from one agent to the other, slipping her hands between her knees.

  Remington had trouble committing to a nod. “More… time-sensitive than slavery. We believe we have about a month to find them. It could be less, but… not more.”

  “A month?”

  “Yes.”

  Turning her head, she became animated, sitting up straighter. She unbundled the apron and folded it. She sniffled and wiped her eyes, ensuring no tears had fallen.

  “A lot can happen in a month.” She placed the apron back in her lap and smoothed the creases. “You could find him. He could escape.” She sniffed again and shrugged. “The world could end.”

  Remington frowned, nodding. “Anything could happen.”

  14

  1993

  Phoenix (“Roc Prousa”)

  “Fuck.”

  Tall’s cage was empty. The wires at the back were mangled and sunlight flooded through a hole in the wall where it met the floor.

  “Fuck!” Roc rolled off the bed. Dust was still settling outside. He shot into the back and grabbed his rifle. Growling as he unlocked the door, he ran outside with the rocks biting and the sand burning his bare feet. He blinked furiously as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness.

  Clouds of dust betrayed their maker: Tall was about two hundred yards from the shack. Lifting the rifle, Roc found the dark figure among the dun of the desert. Tall’s biggest mistake was following a straight path. Roc centered him in the sights and pulled the trigger. The gun bucked his shoulder, but he saw the dark figure drop.

  Huffing, Roc broke into a sprint. He could feel the sweat steaming off his skin. Just these few minutes of exposure burned his bare shoulders. When he found the dark form on the ground, he slowed to catch his breath, dry in his throat. Tall wasn’t moving. Roc’s initial panic subsided. Tall wasn’t dead; His limbs lay limp by his sides, his chest heaving for air. Blood glistened on his cheek, speckled with the sand kicked up by his labored breathing. A large hole bubbled on the right side of his chest.

  “Huh.”

  Roc knelt. Tall’s eyes fixed on him, wide with panic, but he did not move. Roc smiled as he guessed the reason for his stillness. He grabbed Tall’s shoulder and heaved his body up. A hole, much smaller, oozed in the middle of his back, about three inches down from his neck. Tall was paralyzed.

  “Bulls-eye!” Roc laughed. “Fuck, Tall, you’ve got the shittiest luck. Always in the wrong place at the wrong time!”

  Tall huffed, but could not reply. Roc patted his shoulder and let him fall back again. Grunting, he stood and swung the rifle strap over his shoulder.

  “Do you wanna know how you’re gonna die, Tall?” He grabbed Tall’s ankles and began to drag him back toward the shack. He could feel the sun on his shoulders like tongues of flame, but did not want to pass up this opportunity, especially now that Tall was emitting a high, breathy sound, like a dog whining with fear. “Well, depending on exactly what the bullet hit on its way through your chest, you could bleed to death. Not a horrible way to die. You could aspirate, which is a bit worse: You’ll experience the sensation of drowning, because… well… you are. I should know, I’m a doctor now.

  “If you don’t exsanguinate and you don’t aspirate, well, then, two things could happen: You could die of thirst, or you’ll be eaten by coyotes.”

  They reached the shack. Roc dropped Tall’s legs and stood in the shade of the structure, bent double to catch his breath.

  “Personally, I think it would be interesting to be eaten by coyotes. Not pleasant by any means, but… interesting.”

  Grabbing Tall under his arms, Roc backed him closer to the shack and propped him against the wall, blocking the hole he had made. Tears were streaming down Tall’s face, leaving furrows in the dust and blood. His mouth moved wordlessly, beseeching.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Tall,” Roc said in a sympathetic tone. “You won’t feel much…” He wiped the tears away with the back of his hand. “Not until they start to eat your face.” He patted Tall’s cheek and smiled. “I guess in your case, the most painful death would be thirst. Are you thirsty, Tall?”

  Tall bared his teeth and turned his face away. He nodded.

  “Well, then—” Roc tapped Tall’s nose. “—You shouldn’t have run.” He stood and headed back toward the door. “Pray for exsanguination, Tall.”

  15

  May, 2006

  Atlanta

  Speaking with Aneta Vlasov tapped into a well of compassion Remington had kept buried deep in order to help women just like her: Eastern European and Asian women who had been kidnapped or convinced they could make a better living working in the US as a slave or a wife, or both. For her—and all those like her he had failed—an iron determination formed: Failure was not an option.

  The Witts lived in a neighborhood in the middle of Cheatham Hill, the serpentine streets lined with large houses, pristine yards, with expensive cars sitting in the driveways. The Witts’ house was no different. It was the opposite of the Vlasovs’ red clay slope of a yard.

  Mr. and Mrs. Witt certainly did not work at Waffle House.

  Frank Witt answered the door. He was a tall, stout, red-haired and red-faced man. Like Steyer, Frank looked as if he felt uncomfortable wearing anything but business attire. He shook their hands with conspicuous firmness.

  “Now, y’all look like you know what you’re doing,” he said. His voice was deep, with a thick Southern accent lacking the warmth Kondorf’s drawl had. “Nothin’ against Tommy and Chief Collins, of course, but that little girl they got working there has no business investigating my son’s disappearance. She’s got an attitude on her.”

  Remington gave a tight smile. “That little girl,” Sergeant Young, was around his age, if not slightly older.

  “We’re only assisting at this juncture.” Steyer had a crisp pointedness to his tone.

  Frank studied them more carefully. “Where’re you boys from?”

  Steyer’s eyebrows arched high on his forehead. He gave Frank a moment to correct himself, but he didn’t take the opportunity. “Boston,” he finally answered.

  “Brooklyn.” Remington usually felt self-conscious saying it, since he had trouble hiding his accent, but he let it out stronger this time.

  “Huh.” Frank’s confident expression slipped. “Well, welcome to Cheatham Hill. Come on in. Cathy! Kids! Come down here!”

  Remington winced at the booming voi
ce. After a few seconds, a girl in her early teens with brown hair bounded down the stairs. She jumped the bottom step and bounced, but her enthusiasm faded when she saw them. She bit her lip and looked them over. A woman with an undeniable resemblance descended after her.

  Frank sighed. “These are my girls: My wife, Cathy…” He held out a hand to present her, and she took her place by his side with a pleasant smile.

  “It’s so nice to meet you.”

  “And this is my daughter—my youngest—Carly.” He held his hand out to the young lady. She nodded coyly. Frank pointed to Steyer. “These boys are with the FBI.”

  Carly’s eyes grew wide. Cathy’s placid expression slipped, but she recovered quickly.

  “This is Special Agent Richard St…” He narrowed his eyes.

  “Steyer.”

  “Steyer—and Special Agent Remington…” His tongue worked around the names as he noted their connection. “Are these code names or something?”

  Steyer pursed his lips and shook his head. “Nope.”

  “Huh.”

  “Please, come into the kitchen and sit.” Cathy gestured to the threshold on their right. “Can I make you gentlemen anything? Coffee? Tea? Water?”

  “No, thank you.” Steyer gave her a pleasant smile and placed a hand over his belly. “We just had some.”

  Cathy’s smile grew a little more relaxed. They moved into the kitchen and sat around a white oak table. Cathy sat next to her husband. Carly hesitated before taking the seat between her mother and Remington.

  “My son—my younger son—should be down shortly,” Frank said. “I don’t know what’s taking him so long.”

  “That’s fine,” Remington replied. “At this time, we don’t have many questions the police haven’t already asked. We just wanted to introduce ourselves.”

  “Perhaps also take a look around at Chuck’s bedroom while we’re here,” Steyer added. “And the yard, if it’s not too much.”

  “Of course,” Cathy said.

  “And if you don’t mind, do you think we could speak with Chuck’s brother and sister privately?” Remington asked.