Run Rabbit Run Boxset

by Jette Harris

  Rhodes sighed. He settled back into his seat and picked up his coffee. Wrinkling his nose, he turned the cup to avoid the blood splattered on it, and sipped. A chirping made him pause. Dovale’s cell phone was ringing.

  Another car passed, then another. When the road was clear, Rhodes climbed out. The phone went off again. He rummaged through the dead man’s pockets, pulling out his wallet and an old Nokia. The phone number on the screen made Rhodes smile, but by the time he answered it, the caller hung up.

  Rhodes pocketed the phone. He pulled the large bills from the wallet and tucked it back into the dead man’s pocket. Turning the body with a boot, Rhodes teetered it on the ledge, then let it fall. It rolled down the rocky incline with a few glorious noises, and settled at the bottom, glaring up at the sky with sightless eyes.

  (That will distract them.)

  The phone vibrated and chirped again. Smiling broadly, Rhodes answered it.

  ****

  “Now, that’s just creepy,” Remington said as they emerged from the house. He closed the front door behind them.

  “It’s very telling,” Steyer replied, looking at his watch. The composite artist should have arrived by now. Pulling out his phone, Steyer made a few phone calls back and forth with the DeKalb office. Eventually the man’s supervisor gave Steyer his direct number. Steyer dialed it twice, both times ringing until the voicemail picked up. He scratched his brow with a thumb and waited a few minutes, reviewing the notes Remington had scribbled out, then tried again.

  This time there was an answer: “Hello!”

  The casual and chipper tone irritated Steyer. “Mike Dovale?”

  “Mm—no,” the man replied. “He’s not available.”

  “OK,” Steyer sighed. “Could you have him call me back as soon as humanly possible?”

  “No, I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.”

  Steyer’s stomach dropped. He snapped for Remington’s attention, and pointed at the phone. Remington nodded, pulling out his own cell.

  “Why is that?” Steyer tried to continue sounding irritable, but it was a challenge to keep his voice even.

  “Because…” There was a pause, as if the man were reading the name. “Michael Dovale is now at the bottom of a ditch. I apologize for the inconvenience.” There was a clatter, as if the phone had been dropped, then a series of crunches and cracks, followed by dead air.

  53

  “Why aren’t there cameras in this building? An officer is dead. An agent is dead. And this precinct is unprotected?”

  Steyer stormed into the office and slammed the door, rattling the glass. Placing his hands atop his head, he stood in the middle of the room and stared up at the ceiling. Collins stepped out of his office with a phone held to his ear. He waved for Remington’s attention and gave him a thumb’s up.

  Remington nodded and pushed into the office. “Hey, boss.” Steyer liked it when Remington called him “boss.”

  “Yeah, sport.” He had that apologetic tone where he knew he had lost control.

  “The dogs are on their way.”

  “Thank you.”

  Remington’s tongue worked around the words, but he wasn’t sure how to ask. Steyer glanced to see he was still there, then cocked a questioning brow.

  “Yeah, sport?”

  Remington made sure the door was closed before asking, “How do you know he’s not just fucking with us?”

  “Oh, he is.”

  “No, I mean, he could be lying to us. Dovale could still be alive.”

  Steyer shook his head. “He had his phone, Remington.”

  “He had Z’s phone,” Remington countered, “and as far as we know, he’s still alive.”

  “So far, that’s not his MO. He has the four, and anyone else gets killed.”

  Remington slipped his hands into his pockets and ran his tongue over his teeth. “I survived.”

  Steyer waved a hand. “He’s attracted to you.”

  Remington scowled. Steyer closed his eyes and sighed, regretting his hasty words. After all these years, they never sought to name the reason the Phoenix had left Remington alive.

  “He didn’t kill you, either.”

  “I wasn’t holding the…” Steyer turned and spread his arms. “Agent Remington, what do you want?”

  “In the ruins of Montara, you told me not to blame myself.” Remington stepped close to bring his point home. Steyer narrowed his eyes. “Yes, we lost a deputy and an agency contractor. We lost two officers in San Francisco. You lost your partner—your mentor! But what you said is still true: That’s not on you; It’s on him.”

  Steyer ran his hands over his face, nodding. He leaned back against his desk. “Some retirement this is turning out to be.”

  The corner of Remington’s mouth twitched up. “You know, Sam warned you… if you don’t have a registry for your retirement gifts, you’re either gonna get gift cards, or something you really don’t want.”

  Steyer snorted, then laughed. He nodded. “Yeah, you’re right.” He sighed and wiped his eyes. “One last hurrah.”

  ****

  Steyer walked along one side of the road with Agatha sniffing in the ditch below. Remington and Young walked along the other side with Edgar. Steyer, still agitated, had insisted on this arrangement.

  They each had a copy of the topographical map the fire department had provided. They had three symbols drawn on them: a box for the Cheatham Hill Police precinct, where they assume the Phoenix had abducted Michael Dovale; a star for the Shatterthwaiths’ house; and thick lines running along every path between the two with ditches deeper than three feet running alongside them.

  “Why deeper than three feet?” the firefighter had asked.

  “Has anyone reported a dead body?” Young countered.

  “Because he’d enjoy it more,” Remington muttered.

  They were both right.

  Remington was more concerned with his partner’s agitation than finding the agency contractor’s body. He almost stumbled twice because he was distracted by glancing over at Steyer’s unusually-slumped posture. Although Steyer had ensured they both wear sunscreen, the back of his pale neck was pinking. Every ten minutes or so, Agatha would climb out of the ditch and sit before him with her tail beating the ground.

  “She’s checking on him,” Young explained. “Sometimes we have family members searching with us, so Agatha’s trained to give emotional support.”

  “Very thoughtful,” Remington said.

  A few minutes later, their radios crackled: “523 to dispatch.”

  “Go ahead 523.”

  “I’ve got a body on Irwin northbound. There’s an FBI badge here, too.”

  Remington turned to watch Steyer. The old man closed his eyes and pressed his radio to his forehead.

  54

  He’s bold… but he’s reckless…

  The agents’ temporary office was dark, with only a lamp lighting Steyer’s desk. He sat turned to stare at the window, twisting his wedding band. Remington had left reluctantly when Steyer suggested pointedly he hit the gym then get some sleep.

  Steyer inhaled sharply as his ring sliced through the skin. Blood oozed out. He pressed his finger to his mouth before the blood could drip and stain his shirt. He spun toward his desk and scavenged for a napkin. He snatched one from under a stack of used coffee cups. Sighing, he wrapped the napkin around his finger, then picked at the accumulated junk across his desk and threw it all in the wastebasket.

  “Need a Band-Aid?”

  Steyer jerked his head up. A man stood in the doorway: tall, lean, with eyes so dark, they looked almost black.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you without your uniform, deputy,” Steyer said. “Thrace, is it? May I help you?”

  Nodding, Deputy Thrace leaned heavily against the door. “A bunch of the guys are goin’ to Cowboys for a beer, some billiards. You should join us.”

  Steyer snorted at the concept of fraternizing with the local law enforcement. “You know, treason
is still punishable by hanging.”

  Smiling, Thrace shrugged. “Actually, I was hoping to find your partner here. I wanted to—”

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree,” Steyer cut him off. “Agent Remington is stompingly heterosexual.”

  “Ah.” Thrace reached up to worry at the hair on the back of his head. “I’m… I’m gonna get going; The others are waiting.” He paused with the door half-closed. “If you’re free later, come by. I hear Tex’s been hangin’ around most nights.” He turned to leave.

  “You heard what?”

  Thrace spun on his heel. “Tex is there a lot… almost every night. I thought he was a friend of yours.”

  Steyer turned his ring absently and winced. “Tech.”

  “Come again?”

  “Not Tex; Tech.”

  “OK…” Thrace nodded. Steyer grabbed a pen and tapped it on his desk. Tap-turn. Tap-turn. Thrace cracked a smile. “We were all wonderin’ how a Yankee like you knows a… a Good Ol’ Boy like him, anyway.”

  Steyer stilled, studying Thrace with that cool expression. “You were a soldier?”

  Taken by surprise, Thrace frowned and nodded. “Yessir. Two years. Corpsmen.”

  “Then you should know sometimes it’s best not to ask.” Steyer stood, pulling his jacket off the back of his chair. He slipped it on as he crossed the room. “Let the others know as well.”

  “Yessir.” Thrace stood back for him to pass, holding the door wide.

  Steyer paused a few inches from Thrace. “And for pity’s sake, don’t ask Tech, either.”

  “Roger-wilco, sir.”

  Steyer snorted. Thrace flicked the light switch and pulled the door shut. From that distance, in the dim light, Steyer couldn’t see the piece of duct tape he had slipped over the latch.

  ****

  “I have to grab a few things from the store on the way there, but keep going down past McCollum ’til you hit 41, and it’s on the left. You can’t miss it.”

  The directions Rhodes gave Steyer would get him there eventually, but not without quite a bit of confusion. Rhodes felt odd to be standing so close, close enough to smell the old man’s Old Spice. He gestured and pointed as he spoke, could have killed the man in a flash, but he resisted. Something about Steyer resonated with him, making him content to continue this game despite the risks.

  Steyer nodded as he absorbed Rhodes’s misleading directions, but did not wait for the deputy before climbing into his car and pulling away. Rhodes hummed with tense energy as he went to his Jeep. Rather than climb in and follow Steyer, he opened the trunk and pulled on his black hooded sweatshirt and some nitrile gloves.

  Although he could have walked in through the front doors without rousing much suspicion, Rhodes was getting bored with the uniform that acted as camouflage. He zipped the sweatshirt all the way up and pulled the hood low over his face. An errant smoker had left the chock in the back door leading to the room where the mounted patrol kept their dusty bicycles. Crouching low, Rhodes slipped past the break room where two old dogs on the swing shift reminisced on Don Knotts’s best moments, navigated the workstations like a lab rat in a maze, and pushed open the door to the agents’ makeshift headquarters without a sound.

  Rhodes sifted through the Post-its Steyer had piled into his top drawer, flipped through the files stacked neatly on the corner of his desk, and rummaged through the pockets of the London Fog left on the coat rack by the door.

  After confirming his house was still not pinned on the map, Rhodes stood in front of the wipe board taking up the wall next to it. He scrutinized it, sliding his hand inside his hood to tug at the hair on the back of his head. He stretched his imagination to determine if any of the information scribbled there could lead them back to the House, or to his home.

  (If I’m drawing a blank, surely it means they will as well.)

  They had, as far as he could tell, nothing but the name Avery Rhodes. Combined with his previous aliases, they might be able to determine the system he used, but it would not lead them to him. The names were all vanity. They didn’t have the name he travelled under, the one that actually meant something to him.

  Rhodes turned away from the wipe board and stepped behind Remington’s desk. Leaning close to the surface, he inhaled deeply. Nothing. He leaned close to Remington’s chair and inhaled again. He had expected, for a man who took such pride in his suits, to catch a whiff of some expensive cologne. Rhodes was surprised to find nothing beyond a hint of antiperspirant and hand sanitizer.

  Atop Remington’s desk, front and center, he found what he was looking for: A manila folder containing an auto accident report.

  The cause of the deaths of Thi Vu Stokes and Heath William Stokes was determined to be faulty equipment. He slid two driver’s license photos from the folders. Heath Stokes was gaunt and bespectacled with curly brown hair and familiar coffee-brown eyes. Upon first glance, Rhodes thought the other photo was Heather, but the woman had laughing blue eyes and more rounded features.

  A small page torn from a spiral-bound notebook was covered in Remington’s dark, smudged, left-handed scribble:

  Awarded 795K from car co.

  (90K x 2) x 4

  Tech until 04/21/06

  Rhodes furrowed his brow. As Steyer had just informed him, Tech was Heather’ grandfather... He glanced back over the police report and re-read the memo. Heather’s birthday was April 21st… The notes described a settlement; Heather was now a very wealthy young lady.

  The groan of springs warned him someone had pushed open the partition and was heading to the back. Rhodes ducked under Remington’s desk, holding his breath and listening. Plastic popped, water ran, and glass scraped into the cheap coffee maker. The springs groaned again.

  Reaching up, Rhodes slid the file down and slipped out the door.

  55

  Thrace stood out front chatting with the doorman when Steyer finally pulled into the parking lot. He already had a wristband and a drink. As Steyer approached, Thrace raised his cup in a toast. Steyer bit back his commentary on the deputy’s ability to give directions.

  Steyer knew they were in the right bar when he walked in to hear a piano weakly competing with the DJ blaring “Cotton-Eye Joe.” Tech never could resist a piano, and in Vietnam every bar they stumbled into had the same rickety stand-up. To Steyer’s surprise, this redneck deadbeat could play better than any professional hired for his father’s black-tie events.

  The piano had been pushed into a crevice in the back corner upstairs with the hope customers would never find it. The clacking led the men to four pool tables, felt scuffed and balls chipped. Kondorf was shooting a ball off the rails with practiced jerks of his elbows. Byron was squinting down a cue, explaining to Sergeant Duley how to determine straightness. They all looked alien in their street clothes, and when they saw Thrace leading the fed in, they all donned a similar expression of unpleasant surprise.

  “Agent Steyer.” Kondorf’s expression was a habitual flicker across his face before he recovered his usual pleasantness. He shook Steyer’s hand.

  “Since we’re off duty,” Steyer replied, “you wouldn’t be amiss to call me ‘Ritchie’.”

  Thrace took his place with the other officers, who looked at him with a similar expression of curiosity. “I think he’s just here to pick up Tex,” he muttered.

  “Tech,” Byron corrected him. Steyer smirked.

  “Care for a drink?” Kondorf beckoned a shooter girl who looked like she belonged on a street corner.

  “Oh, no.” Steyer shook his head at the girl. “I’m here on a rescue mission.”

  “Thank God,” Byron said, stepping around Thrace. The deputy’s eyes followed him. “We’ve talked to the servers, but he’s still pretty bad off. His money’s as green as ours.”

  “I can hear you!” Tech’s voice thundered from the corner. The tune slowed, then stopped with a jarring cacophony. Tech turned, straddling the bench.

  “Intel!” His face lit up.

  St
eyer forced himself to smile as he joined Tech at the piano. “Don’t call me that.”

  “I was just thinking about you.” Tech began to play a familiar tune. The shooter girl approached with a double Bourbon. Gesturing to her Tech was cut off, Steyer took it while he was still distracted with the tune. She scowled, putting a hand on her hip. Steyer raised his eyebrows and put his hand on his hip, pushing back his suit jacket to reveal his badge. The girl glanced from it to his face, then turned her heel and bounced away.

  “You know this one—Steyer—sing it with me.”

  Steyer closed his eyes. He could not hear the melody without the sound of helicopter rotors humming in his mind. He raised the glass to his lips and took a gulp. Unaccustomed to strong drink, he wrinkled his nose and clenched his jaw.

  “We met as soul mates on Paris Island…” Tech sang in a gravelly, robust voice.

  “I don’t sing, Tech, you know that.”

  “I know you do.” Tech reached out with one hand and pull the agent onto the bench. “And it was dark! So dark at night…”

  Steyer drained the bourbon. A strange sensation, not quite pain and not quite sorrow, filled him. Taking a deep breath to steel himself, Steyer joined in. Behind him, Kondorf, Thrace, and a couple of the others joined the chorus with soft voices. Tech’s voice grew unsteady, until he took a deep breath, but could not continue. He let his fingers fall from the keys. Lowering his head, his shoulders began to shake.

  Steyer tossed the glass on top of the piano and wrapped an arm around Tech’s shoulders.

  “I thought you were dead,” Tech sobbed. “Everyone else is dead. They told me you were dead, too.”

  “I’m not dead,” Steyer assured him, praying silently Tech would lower his voice. He stood, slipping his hands under Tech’s arms. Byron handed his cue to Thrace and joined Steyer on Tech’s other side.