by Jette Harris
—Sandra Criss, 28—
—Benedict Criss, 42—
—Leila Speers, 24—
—Ian Kennedy, 32—
—chained and collared—
—24 Cherry Street, Detroit, MI—
Steyer glanced up, expecting to find a house. He had to remind himself the photo was not of the house, but the charred remains of a house. Curious, he leafed through the file until he came to a real estate picture they obtained. He scavenged through the other files for pre-fire pictures of the properties in San Francisco and Phoenix. The San Fran house had been extensively documented before the fire. All they had of the shack in Phoenix was a rough sketch the former property owner had drawn out on a napkin.
The bustling drew Remington’s attention. “Please tell me you’ve had one of your break-throughs.”
“No…” Steyer sighed, “just house-keeping.”
He emerged from behind his desk and slipped the pre-fire pictures on top of the post-fire pictures. Remington nodded. The small change altered the appearance of the board dramatically, but he couldn’t identify how.
“We need to find this house…” Remington muttered, leaning forward in his chair and running his hands over his exhausted eyes. He was about to suggest turning in, but when he looked up at Steyer, the senior agent had gone rigid.
“What?” Remington asked, afraid to feel hopeful.
“We need to find the house…”
“Yeah, that’s what I—”
“A vacant house,” Steyer continued. “A house where no one is supposed to be… but someone is.”
Remington wondered if Steyer needed a break, but before he could make a jab, Steyer threw open the door. There were three officers in the station at that hour: Kondorf, Byron, and Kline from the Sheriff’s Department.
“I need a list,” Steyer announced, clapping his hands. “We need to compile a list of houses that are currently vacant. Whether they are up for sale, abandoned, part-time homes, or the owner is on an extended vacation—anything, any reason. It will need to have been vacant for at least a month.” He turned to Kondorf. “We need every vacant property within a ten-mile radius, of, say, the high school. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Within seconds, everyone was shuffling papers or waking up their computers.
“We start making calls and doing drive-bys as soon as the sun is up,” Steyer concluded.
46
May, 2006
Washington, DC
Sam Wickes wore the light gray skirt suit. She must have known Remington was coming back. He slid the folder in his hand onto her desk and slipped into the file room, where she was rummaging through a drawer. She hadn’t heard him come in and yelped when he pressed his body against her back.
“Samantha…” he purred, slowly gathering her skirt up. She laughed. He would never admit it, but her laugh drove him mad. He kissed her neck. “You know, I’ve been thinking about your question…”
“And…?”
He opened his mouth to answer, but the door slammed. The closet went dark. He yanked Wickes’s skirt back down and pushed her into the corner.
“Remi—?”
“Shh!” He turned to the darkness.
A growling chuckle rose from in front of them. “Rrreeeem-miii…”
Remington froze. His heart pounded against his ribs. He reached behind him to reassure himself, but he found nothing. Wickes was gone.
“I’ve missed you,” the darkness said.
A body collided with his, wrapping powerful arms around his chest.
****
Remington shot up in bed with a shout. He heard the scrape of metal against wood from the other bed.
“Dream!” he gasped. “Just a… just a nightmare.”
A sigh. There was a fwump as Steyer collapsed back onto his pillow, followed shortly by soft snoring.
Quietly, so as not to get shot, Remington slipped out of bed and grabbed his phone. Shutting himself in the bathroom, he sat in the tub and dialed.
“Hello?” Wickes’s voice was heavy with sleep.
“Hey,” Remington whispered.
Wickes was suddenly awake. “Remi? Are you OK? Is Ritchie—”
“We’re fine.”
“Thank God. What time is it?”
“I don’t…” He checked the clock on his phone. It was after three. “Shit, I’m sorry. I just…” He stopped. She didn’t need to know about the nightmare.
“Remi?”
Remington sighed. He sank down until he was lying in the tub. “I was thinking about what you said the other day… What we talked about…”
“Remi, don’t—”
“I’ve made up my mind.”
“Oh.”
“I want you to keep the baby. We can get married.”
****
A tap on the door made Remington jump. He groaned, his neck and back stiff. Steyer stood in the doorway. He tilted his head.
“I woke up with my gun in my hand, and you slept in the bathtub… Did you have another nightmare?”
“Yeah.” Remington rubbed his face and stood, twisting his neck to loosen the muscles.
Steyer eyed the phone on the edge of the tub. “Calling in air support?”
“Emotional support.” Remington stepped out and stood before Steyer. To avoid complications at work, he was not supposed to tell anyone until after the marriage was final, but his partner raised his brow inquisitively. “You know how Sam and I would sometimes…”
“Fraternize?”
“Yeah… We’re getting married. She’s having—We’re having a baby.”
Steyer snorted, a smile playing on his lips. “It’s about time. Mazel tov,” he said. “When it rains, it pours. Speaking of…” He stood aside from the door.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry.”
Remington exited the bathroom. Before Steyer closed the door, he poked his head back out. “And Remington?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you bring a vest?”
Remington sighed. “Yeah.”
“Wear it.”
47
May, 2006
Atlanta
The officers collated their lists of several properties that were vacant or appeared abandoned, from houses belonging to deployed military personnel and being cared-for by relatives or neighbors, to the empty shells overtaken by kudzu. Locating the names of the property owners had been easy enough; Contacting them was the difficult part. Communicating their intentions and the reasons behind them was also a struggle for the officers. Young informed the FBI agents the department went through the same struggle every year, for fundraisers or whenever a particularly bad strain of flu spread through town.
Steyer sat down at his desk and scribbled out a rough template for the officers to follow if they were lucky enough to make contact with the property owners. It included a simple warning across the top:
Whatever you do, do not mention “serial killer.”
1.) Are you the owner of (property address)?
2.) Is the property currently vacant?
3.) When is the last time you or someone with your consent entered the property?
4.) May we have permission to enter the property?
If no—May we have permission to investigate the grounds?
5.) (If the property owner wishes to investigate personally) May an officer accompany you?
Steyer typed it out and made several copies. Each officer assisting with the calls had their own version of the pitch ironed out after the first few calls. Most of them, however, ended up leaving a voicemail sounding only slightly desperate, requesting a call back as soon as humanly possible.
That morning, the officers were able to verify twelve of the properties on the list were vacant, but only able to receive consent to investigate two of them. Both properties were real-estate listings awaiting renovation. All the agencies had to do was give them the code to the key box and their word they would stay away from the property until told otherwise.<
br />
When Steyer pulled the FBI fleet vehicle in front of the house, his eyes flickered over Remington’s chest to confirm a bullet proof vest bulged under his shirt. Remington’s fingers had been working the contours of his knee for the duration of the drive, and Steyer had to engage him in conversation to prevent him from grinding his teeth.
“We could wait for backup,” Steyer suggested.
Remington shook his head. “That’s ten minutes these kids might not have.” He shoved the door open.
The yard was overgrown, with a track in the grass from the road to the porch. The morning dew still clung to the grass on either side, but it didn’t look more than a few days old. Remington walked alongside it.
On the porch, they peered into the windows as they pulled on their gloves. The house appeared empty and neglected, with water stains on the ceiling and corpses of roaches littering the floor.
“The house in Detroit,” Remington asked, leaning over the porch railing to look in a far window, “what was it like?”
“Condemned.” Steyer punched the code into the key box and extracted the key. “Like many of the other houses in the area. I believe they cited potentially-catastrophic foundation issues.”
“He moved up,” Remington observed. The house in San Francisco had been a villa overlooking the ocean, vacant while awaiting the verdict of a highly-publicized divorce suit. Neighbors reported seeing a stranger—tall, dark, handsome—coming down from it to run on the beach every morning.
Steyer banged on the front door, powerful for his age. “Federal agents,” he yelled. “We’re entering the house.” He swung the door open. Guns down, they glanced around and stepped inside.
The house was silent and still. The agents glided from door to door, finding each room, closet, nook, and cranny empty. A window had been broken in the back bedroom, but the only sign of an occupant was a pile of blankets. Remington poked at it with his toe and holstered his gun.
“We can cross this address off the list,” Steyer said.
Remington sighed. He looked out the broken window into the large, unkempt backyard. He put his hands on his hips, looking much as he had at the attempted-retirement ceremony.
“The house in Phoenix, it was in the middle of nowhere, right?”
Steyer nodded. “Not even really a house. More like a shack; Somewhere for the ranch hands to rest while rounding up cattle. Two rooms, a front and back.”
“So, he is progressively moving up…”
“You think we should be looking for a mansion, Agent Remington?” Steyer smirked as they stepped out onto the porch.
Remington shrugged. “It was just a thought.”
48
1997
Detroit (“Jay Faliro”)
The Detroiters stared at Faliro as he ran past. Although he knew he was in the wrong neighborhood, he began to consider the risk involved in being there. Pausing by a stop sign to catch his breath, he stared at the bullet holes in the faded red face, a pathetic grouping. He caught his breath enough to scoff, then continued his run.
Every other house in this neighborhood was abandoned. Some had yellow fliers declaring the house condemned, some were partially collapsed, some were still inhabited when they should not have been. There were several empty lots where the houses had burnt, or been burnt, as well as a few burnt-out hulls that had not yet been demolished.
(Would it be possible…) He paused in front of a decent-looking yet condemned two-story house. (…for me to slip in and out of this town unnoticed?) All he would leave behind is another pile of ashes and four new missing persons fliers, nothing more.
Smiling, Faliro looked up and down the street. The air smelled strongly of sewage. Although the houses were falling down and the sidewalk was crumbling, the streets had fresh blacktop. (Priorities.) None of the houses in the immediate area appeared to be occupied.
Faliro loped up to the porch. Without slowing, he collided with the front door. This did not have the desired result: he bounced off and ended up on his ass, nursing a sore shoulder. Sighing, he shook out his arm and took the less-dramatic approach: He pulled out his hunting knife and jimmied the lock.
49
May, 2006
Atlanta
Rhodes pulled Beaumont’s hat low over his brow until he realized no one else in the precinct was wearing their hats indoors. Pulling it off intensified his jitters. He smoothed his hair down and tucked the hat under his arm. The precinct was small. The officer behind the front desk glanced at him, then returned his attention to the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. There were not many people in the office area, and those who were also glossed over him when they noted his tan uniform.
The shields painted on the walls told him which side of the office he belonged on. There was a clear distinction between the side owned by the Cheatham Hill Police Department and the side occupied by the Cobb County Sheriff’s department. The deputy’s desks were impersonal, occupied by ancient PC’s and half-empty file hangers. The officers, however, had made themselves at home at their workstations: Officer Kondorf had a picture of him and his wife, Byron had a framed EMT certificate, and another desk had a small pack of Golden Labrador statues.
Remington, Steyer, and a petite blonde officer stood in an office beyond a glass wall. Rhodes spun as soon as he caught sight of them, and had to plant his feet firmly to prevent himself from hustling back out the door. His heart hammered as he went to the coffee station instead. The coffee smelled bitter and burnt, far below his standards, but he poured himself a generous cup anyway. Leaning against the table, he pretended to observe the agents with casual curiosity.
The temporary office was devoid of any personal affects save the raincoats and umbrellas hanging from the coat rack by the door—all brand new—and the suit jackets hanging from the back of the desk chairs. Rhodes noted which one was Remington’s stylish cut and which was Steyer’s classic professional fit.
The agents and the officer did not notice or care that they were being observed. Rhodes furrowed his brow when he noticed the black outline of a bullet-proof vest under Remington’s shirt. Remington redirected Rhodes’s attention with a jab at a map on the wall in front of them. Steyer placed a pin with a white head where Remington had indicated, held a string to it, and used the string to draw a large circle around it with a Sharpie. They proceeded to stick little yellow and red pins into the map, referring occasionally to pieces of paper in their hands.
Rhodes recognized the map of Cheatham Hill and the surrounding areas from a smaller version of the map he had found in Beaumont’s cruiser. They had already outlined Cheatham Hill in black. The large white pin was roughly in the location of the school.
They spoke in low voices, but Rhodes could not garner the courage to move within earshot. Being so close to them now, after the encounters he had previously had with each of them, made his muscles twitch—and not in a good way. Deciding he had had enough reckless thrills for one day, he turned to throw away his half-empty cup of station coffee and leave.
Byron, looking as out-of-place in his street clothes as Rhodes felt in Beaumont’s uniform, jogged in. Rhodes paused. His loins throbbed as the handsome young man jumped the partition between the lobby and the office. Rhodes raised the coffee back up to his lips. The agents glanced up at the sudden movement, and Byron straightened, walking calmly the rest of the way to his desk. Once Remington saw who it was, his eyes roved over the rest of the office. Rhodes caught his breath and held it, but the agent noted him and turned his attention back to the map.
Rhodes exhaled, deflating with an unexpected mixture of relief and disappointment: Remington didn’t even know what he looked like, after all these years. Rhodes swallowed. His face burned as he reminded himself that was a good thing.
Byron watched the agents until they were engrossed in the map again, then opened his desk drawer and pulled out a couple of manila folders. He glanced around cautiously, and froze when he noticed someone watching him. He smiled and relaxed when he recognized
Rhodes from the coffee shop and press conference.
Taking the smile as an invitation, Rhodes pointed to the glass wall as he crossed the room. “You know what they’re up to?”
Byron tossed the folders casually his desk, where they would be out of sight from the glass office, and leaned back in his chair. Rhodes perched on the edge. “Oh, Agent Steyer had, like, a break-through last night.”
Rhodes froze, his heart jumping into his throat. (Is that why no one’s here? Are they knocking my door down right now?)
“So they’re compiling a list of houses that have been vacant over a month.”
Rhodes exhaled slowly. “Sounds efficient.” He turned back to the map and raised his cup to nibble at the rim. Squinting, he could determine most of the pins were concentrated around the school, with a few scattered around the mountain. There were not yet any pins in the area near the manor, but he was sure they would get there eventually.
(I have to slow them down, distract them with something nice and shiny…) He wracked his brain for possibilities. (Maybe a fire… or a body…)
“It’s a good idea in theory, but it also means we need to get permission or warrants to search all these properties.” Byron shook his head. “Otherwise all we can do is glance around, and that probably won’t be enough.”
Relieved, Rhodes barked a laugh. Byron furrowed his brow. “Fucking red tape,” Rhodes muttered.
Byron snorted and shook his head. He started at the map, a troubled expression settling over his face. “Do you know of any?”
“Any what?”
“Vacant houses.”
Rhodes sighed as if he were thinking. It wasn’t flashy or dramatic, but it might be worth tracking down a few red herrings. “Oh, yeah. I’ll have to double-check the addresses, but yeah, I’m sure I do.” Standing, he drained the gritty remnants of the coffee, cringed, and tossed the cup into Byron’s wastebasket. “I’ll let the others know as well… the other deputies. And I’ve got some friends with… uh… Marietta. I’ll let them know to keep an eye out. No use in y’all havin’ all the fun.”
