Run Rabbit Run Boxset

by Jette Harris

  “Focus, ladies! One more minute!”

  The growler returned to scribbling. The other tapped her paper a few times as if her pencil were a magic wand and flipped it over.

  “The news?” Remington asked. “That was fast.”

  “Small community, lots of money. News travels fast.” Creighton shook his hand. “I’m Bill Creighton, as I’m sure you’ve deduced. And these young ladies had the misfortune of missing their finals last Thursday.”

  Remington nodded. He noted the sleeveless purple-and-white cheerleading tops, the same top Monica Shatterthwaith was wearing in her Missing Person’s photo. “They wouldn’t happen to be in your first period, would they?”

  “Oh, yes.” Creighton smiled broadly. “Yes, they would. Your timing is impeccable. Serendipitous, one could say.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  A timer went off, and the growler growled again. She dropped her pencil with a clatter and flipped her paper over.

  “The extra credit?” the magic girl asked her.

  “My BS cannon wasn’t prepared for that,” the growler replied.

  “Thank you, Lexa, I will keep that in mind.” Creighton confiscated her paper, then magic girl’s. “Thank you, Sydney.” He shuffled behind his desk and tucked the papers into a briefcase, which he snapped shut and locked with conspicuous deliberation.

  The magic girl, Sydney, turned her full attention on Remington. “Are you here about the substitute?”

  Remington attempted to conceal his curiosity. “That’s one possibility.”

  “Sooooo dreamy,” Lexa said.

  Sydney whipped around on her. “Whoever says ‘dreamy’ anymore?”

  “I’m bringing it back.”

  Remington focused on Creighton. The teacher appeared to sense Remington’s quiet desperation. “Last Monday evening,” he began, “my wife and I went to our usual restaurant—”

  “Sera Sera,” Lexa said.

  Creighton acknowledged her with a wave. “We sat at our usual table—”

  “In the back next to the kitchen door,” Sydney said.

  Remington raised a brow and glanced between them.

  “—and we had our usual waiter—”

  “It’s server, Dr. C,” Sydney chided. “Waiter is demeaning and sexist.”

  “And his name is Alonso,” Lexa added, drawing the name out. Apparently she thought Alonso was “dreamy” as well.

  “Enough, girls!” Creighton waved both arms as if trying to shoo off a bear. He cleared his throat and returned his attention to Remington. “Small community! What can you do? We had our usual server—Thank you, Sydney—but I came down with a very unusual case of salmonella.”

  Remington’s brow went up farther. As far-fetched as the idea seemed, he would not put it beyond the Phoenix to somehow induce food poisoning.

  “So I texted Dr. Magee from the hospital, and he arranged for a substitute. I had never heard his name before, but that’s not unusual.”

  “Do you remember the name?” Remington asked, flipping his notebook open.

  “N—”

  “Avery Rhodes,” the girls said in unison. “So hot,” Lexa added in an undertone.

  Taking a deep breath, Remington turned his attention to the girls. “Other than… ‘hot’ and ‘dreamy,’ what can you tell me about Mr… Rhodes?” He felt the name on his tongue, heard the voice, recalled his form, and the name clicked into place. Avery Rhodes. Remington’s heart hammered wildly.

  Lexa propped her chin on her hands. “He was a little older than you, maybe an inch or so taller…”

  “Brown hair,” Sydney added.

  “A gray or two.”

  “Dark eyes. Very dark.”

  “His shoulders aren’t as broad as yours.”

  “His shoes were bigger.”

  Remington’s face burned. He kept his eyes on his notepad. “Clothes?”

  Sydney tocked her head. “Blazer. Jeans. Button-up.”

  “Carried a briefcase. Leather,” Lexa drew the word out slowly.

  “Shoes, too. Leather… Money.”

  The girls’ eyes met and they nodded at one another.

  “Money?” Remington asked.

  “Yeah,” Sydney said. “All of his clothes were really nice. You can tell he really cared about his appearance. Maybe not vain; He didn’t have any product in his hair or anything…”

  Creighton cleared his throat loudly. “Ladies… I believe you had some comments on how he handled the assignment?”

  “Oh, yeah…” Lexa said, dropping her hands.

  Sydney bobbed her head. “He was really smart.”

  “Smart…?” Remington repeated.

  “Like, he knew a lot of answers off the top of his head, really tough things, like the difference between the descending vena cava and the inferior aorta—”

  “It’s inferior vena cava and descending aorta,” Lexa said.

  “Shit!”

  “Sydney…” Creighton scolded.

  “Sorry, Dr. C. Mr. Rhodes had it right, and helped us out without just telling us the answers.”

  “And he was really funny.” Lexa giggled.

  “Funny how?”

  “Um…” Lexa looked at Sydney and narrowed her eyes as she tried to remember the details. “He told a dirty joke, but in a way you wouldn’t really catch it was dirty. I don’t remember the first one, but Witt was goofing off…”

  “Oh, yeah, the D!” Sydney laughed.

  “Witt said he wanted to be called ‘D,’ so the sub said—”

  “‘I’ll give you the D’!”

  Both girls laughed, but it faded quickly. “Yeah, it’s not so funny now…” Sydney cleared her throat. “But for the rest of the block, Mr. Rhodes called him D.”

  Remington returned to scribbling in his notepad. “So, Chu—Witt had been making fun of the sub?”

  “Eh…” Lexa wrinkled her nose. “Not really ‘making fun of’…”

  “But giving him sh… Giving him crap all period, I mean. Playful.”

  “What was that first joke?” Lexa drummed her lips.

  Sydney searched the ceiling for the answer. Remington’s eyes followed her gaze. There was an array of scorch marks on the drop tiles, and a couple missing, but the answer wasn’t there.

  “Something… about his name…”

  “Did any of the others tease him?” Remington drew their attention back to him.

  Lexa giggled again, but pulled her face back under control. “Monica really made fun of him. She claimed he had mispronounced her name, and demanded he call her Moné-sha.”

  “Oh, and she said he called her that at the coffee shop, too!”

  Remington’s pen stopped. “Coffee shop? Rhodes was at the coffee shop?”

  “We didn’t see him, but Monica said he came in after. She called him, like, a tool or something in French, and then he called her over and spoke French to her.”

  “French?” Goosebumps crawled up Remington’s skin.

  “Yeah, he said, like… ‘Good luck on your finals.’ She said it was perfect.”

  Remington cleared his throat and shook off the eerie feeling creeping up his spine. “Did Zach or Heather ever speak with him, that you could see?”

  Lexa snorted. “It’s ‘Z.’”

  “Yeah, and he didn’t really, but he would have taken his order at the coffee shop.”

  “And Heather?”

  The girls exchanged a look.

  “Heather finished the assignment really early, and she was at the front of the class talking to him for a good ten minutes.” Sydney nodded at where they had been standing at the front.

  “Then he gave her some extra work the next day,” Lexa added.

  “Did you hear what they were talking about?”

  “Smart stuff…”

  “Of course,” Sydney said. “Like, he was trying to convince her to go to med school.”

  “He… wait, what?” Remington furrowed his brow.

  “She’
s going to UGA to study foreign languages, and he’s like ‘You’re so smart, you know all this stuff, you should study medicine!’”

  “Huh.”

  “UGA has the best nursing school in the South,” Lexa said, frowning. “I didn’t—”

  “Colossus!” Sydney slapped her desk. Remington started.

  “Oh, yeah!” Lexa laughed again.

  “What?” Remington demanded.

  Sydney shrank under his gaze. “At the very beginning of class, he said his name was Avery Rhodes, and Witt was like, ‘Road that you drive on?’ and he said ‘No, Rhodes. As in, Colossus of.’” Her face grew somber. “And then… Monica laughed at him.”

  “Oh.”

  ****

  When Steyer caught sight of Remington returning from the far side of the school, he began to blink rapidly, most likely to avoid making a face. Remington wished he had paid attention enough to blink S-O-S in return. Lexa and Sydney had both laced their arms into his and refused to release him, despite his repeated efforts to untangle himself. He could hear Deputy Moore snorting laughter close behind them.

  Lexa practically leaned her head on his shoulder. “I’m going to Emerson to study marketing and business management.”

  “Where did you go to college, Agent Remington?” Sydney asked.

  “Yeah, what did you major in? What does one study to become a big, bad FBI agent?”

  “Anthropology at CUNY.” Remington once more attempted to extract himself. When that failed, he deflected: “Agent Steyer here is the ‘big bad’ senior agent. Ask him what he studied.”

  The girls eyed the older agent. Lexa looked slightly disgusted, but Sydney released the younger agent and laced her arm into Steyer’s elbow. He turned to Moore.

  “I did not consent to this.”

  Moore raised his hands. “Hey, I’m here to protect the students. You’re on your own.”

  “What did you study, Agent Steyer?” Sydney asked.

  Steyer could not hide the blush spreading across his pale face. “Military intelligence.”

  Sydney’s eyes grew wide.

  “Ladies!” Dr. Magee called sharply as he pulled the office door shut and locked it.

  Sydney and Lexa dropped their hostages with disappointed sighs. Steyer promptly cleared his throat and straightened his tie.

  “I’m going to Tech for environmental engineering,” Sydney said. “I’m going to save the world.”

  Remington suppressed a groan. Steyer gave her a soft smile. “That’s very impressive. If that doesn’t work, the FBI is always looking for impressive young women.” Sydney’s face lit up. Once more, Remington envied his partner’s ability to say the right thing at the right time. “Thank you, ladies, for delivering my partner safely, but we have an investigation we need to continue.”

  “Good luck catching the bad guy!” Lexa sang.

  Sydney recovered from her moment of unguarded joy. “Call us if you need any more information.”

  They waved and postured on their way out the door. Magee put his hands on his hips and raised his eyes to the ceiling, shaking his head.

  “I feel violated,” Remington muttered.

  32

  “At first I wasn’t sure it was him, but after hearing that voice again…” Remington shook his head and suppressed an involuntary shudder. “But I still don’t get it: These are kids. It doesn’t fit.”

  Steyer held his double-shot cappuccino under his nose for a long time. “Perhaps he doesn’t see it that way,” he replied from behind his cup. “Legally, they’re adults. They’re even vaguely adult-shaped.”

  “A fifteen-year-old can be adult-shaped.”

  “These kids are not fifteen,” Steyer replied lightly.

  Discussing their new evidence put Remington’s feeling of violation in perspective. Once they were in the car, he recounted the girls’ report excitedly, his original sense of dread gone as he considered how many new leads they had to follow. When they finished comparing notes, they fell into a charged silence.

  “Dr. Creighton said we were on the news last night,” Remington said. That specific detail hadn’t seemed important enough to recount earlier, but he didn’t want to stop the discussion.

  “Were we?”

  “I don’t know if he meant images of us or our names, or just the FBI being involved, but he said they mentioned something about the FBI being in Cheatham Hills.”

  “Hm.” Steyer began to twist his wedding band. Remington knew his brain had started ticking. Steyer glanced back down. “Hill.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Cheatham Hill. There is only one.

  “Did it destroy all the others and absorb their powers?”

  Shrugging, Steyer smirked. “I believe they sacrificed themselves for the greater good.”

  Relief filled Remington’s chest; They were back on their feet. “Where to next? District office?”

  Steyer shook his head. “No, I’m sure they’re closed. We’ll go first thing in the morning. Let’s follow the original plan: Coffee and regroup.” He studied his cappuccino for a moment. “What is your opinion of Officer Byron?”

  Remington raised his brow. Steyer waited patiently for an answer.

  “He’s very… enthusiastic. Sharp.”

  Steyer nodded. He took a sip rather than commenting.

  “Very involved.”

  “Do you think that’s a good thing or a bad thing?”

  Remington shrugged, then nodded at him. “You tell me,” he said, implying Byron’s involvement with three of the four would be similar to Steyer’s involvement with Tech.

  Steyer raised his brow and lowered his cup to the table. “I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”

  Remington licked his lips and leaned forward. Realizing he looked too eager, he leaned back again and took another sip of coffee. “He had a good idea, though.”

  “Did he?” Steyer raised a brow without looking at him. Remington realized he had gone exactly where Steyer wanted him to go.

  “We both recognized his voice. We know beyond a shadow of a doubt he is already here in Atlanta. All we need now is something that will prove it to everyone else.”

  Steyer nodded. “For him to show his hand, so we can show Sam.”

  “He treats us like we’re playing some kind of game, competing against him. Why don’t we step it up and say…” Remington spread his arms. “‘Here we are. We’re ready. The no-show forfeits the match.’”

  Steyer winced at the sloppy analogy, then sipped his cappuccino and leaned back with a sigh. “You know what has to happen, then, right?”

  Remington’s heart sank. They weren’t going to be bait; He was. “What?” he asked flatly.

  Steyer smirked. “You get to lead a press conference.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

  33

  When Byron pulled into the parking lot of the matchbox-sized precinct they shared with the Cobb County Sheriff’s Department, he was surprised to pass two news vans and a small crowd of spectators. He half-expected to be accosted as he climbed out and walked to the door, but everyone kept mostly to their own group.

  One year on the force, he still expected reality to reflect Hollywood.

  It also helped he wasn’t wearing his uniform. He was early for his shift and dropped his bag on his desk before wandering over to the feds’ temporary office, where Chief Collins stood in his best suit. Agent Steyer looked as cool and as unruffled as always, but Agent Remington fidgeted and readjusted his suit and hair as if he were about to jump out of his skin.

  “You’re early!” Collins smiled at Byron.

  “You’re late, sir,” he replied.

  “Press conference. The cat’s out of the bag, so we’re going to make a… careful statement concerning the disappearances, then the FBI will give a statement. Cheatham Hill is so small, we’ll fall back under the radar in no time.”

  “Given no new developments,” Remington said, nose close to a mirror, sweeping his hair to one side, t
hen the other, then back.

  Byron made a gesture to the side he first swept it, and Remington complied. Despite the custom-tailored suits, Byron would never have assumed he was so vain. Remington scowled into the mirror and sighed.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered, tugging at his sleeves. When he looked back at Byron, his gaze was heavy and his mouth was set in a resigned line.

  Steyer stood from where he had been leaning on his desk, already cluttered with papers and a copy of Georgia Criminal and Traffic Law Manual. He pulled something shiny from his pocket and squared up to the younger agent. Remington raised his chin and let his arms fall by his side, and Steyer affixed a pin of the FBI seal to his lapel.

  “Don’t psych yourself out,” Steyer warned.

  Collins checked his watch and looked Byron up and down. “You don’t have time to change, but you can watch from the crowd.”

  “Crowd?” Byron raised an eyebrow. “There weren’t many people out there.”

  Collins showed his teeth and chuckled. Byron looked around; The office was as empty as it was during the early hours of the morning.

  Collins clapped his hands. “Showtime.”

  He and the agents went out the front, where they would speak from the top step. Byron slipped out the back and made his way around to where an audience—small, but much larger than the crowd he had originally passed—of reporters, law enforcement, and citizens waited. Among the back of the crowd, the rugged stranger from the coffee stop stood in a brown deputy’s uniform, his hands hanging from his belt. In fact, every officer assumed a similar stance, as it was difficult for an officer stand comfortably in any other way.

  As if he felt Byron’s gaze, the stranger turned. The corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk that made Byron’s stomach twitch. He laced through the on-lookers to stand at Byron’s side. His nameplate read Thrace.

  “Howdy, stranger.” His smirk widened into a sardonic grin, and he touched his finger to his hat. “Did’jya get any answers?” He pointed up at Remington.

  “He says he makes ’em himself,” Byron announced with a triumphant glow that smiled back in the reflection of Thrace’s black aviator sunglasses.

  The deputy’s smile disappeared in disbelief. “You’re kidding.”