Run Rabbit Run Boxset

by Jette Harris

  “I can take him home,” Byron mouthed. Steyer declined with a shake of his head.

  ****

  Rhodes watched the old soldiers stagger out, their arms around one another. His throat constricted with a bitterness he had not felt for years. His hand drifted unconsciously to his abdomen, below his ribcage. His fingers could feel the scars through his shirt, but the tissue did not register being touched. The meatball surgery that had saved his life had done too much damage; The entire area had lost sensation.

  “Hey!” Byron clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry,” he said when Rhodes started. “We’re almost ready to rack. You playin’?”

  Rhodes smiled. He stared at Byron’s well-defined mouth and straight teeth.

  (That mouth would be a wonderful distraction…)

  “Always.”

  ****

  Byron tilted back his beer, but it was empty. He sighed and placed the bottle on the banister behind him. A glass of oaky liquid was placed next to the empty bottle. Byron looked up to find Thrace with another glass in his hand.

  “Cheers.”

  “What is it?”

  “Scotch,” Thrace replied. “Sipping Scotch, not the swill Tech was drinking.”

  Byron sniffed the liquor, then took a sip. He clenched his teeth and shuddered. Thrace laughed, opening his mouth wide. Byron’s belly stirred, but the feeling made him think of someone else.

  “Is—uh—Is Ritchie comin’ back?”

  “Nope,” Thrace said, taking another sip of his Scotch.

  “Is…” Byron struggled to find a discreet way to ask. “Do you happen to know if…”

  Thrace tilted his head with a smirk. “If a certain deliciously-dressed federal agent might show up tonight?” He smiled broadly and shook his head. “Unfortunately not.”

  Byron dropped his eyes and pursed his lips. Thrace smiled, the picture of confidence. Byron met his eyes and found the courage to raise his head, but before he could speak, there was a shout. Duley tossed his cue on the table. Kondorf laughed.

  “You playin’?” he called.

  “You betcha!” Thrace called back.

  As they played, Byron felt Thrace’s intent gaze on his body. He could feel their closeness like electricity as they maneuvered around one another to make a shot. Byron’s face burned. The twitching in his belly intensified. He tried to ignore it, but he if he were honest with himself, he didn’t really want it to go away.

  Thrace was all smiles, but at one point Byron caught him staring with an intense expression on his face. When their eyes met, Byron expected him to look away, but he didn’t. Instead, the deputy made a casual nod of his head—toward the men’s room in the corner.

  Looking away, Byron’s face burned hotter.

  I’m not curious.

  I’m not curious.

  I’m not—

  Kondorf groaned as he scratched on the eight ball. Duley heckled him.

  I’m a god-damned adult, Byron thought with sudden resolve. I can make my own decisions.

  Racking his cue, Byron headed toward the men’s room. He had to resist the urge to glance over his shoulder, to see if Thrace was watching.

  Waiting was the hard part. A couple of other men occupied the bathroom. Byron tried to act natural. He took his time unzipping his pants, urinating, washing his hands. As one of the men exited, Thrace entered. He acknowledged Byron with a glance in the mirror as he passed behind him. He used the urinal, then stood next to Byron to wash his hands.

  When the door finally opened and closed again, Byron hesitated before turning to Thrace.

  “I—” He wished to confess his ignorance, but Thrace didn’t allow for any such waste of time. Byron didn’t have any chance to protest before Thrace’s mouth was on his, and he didn’t think he wanted to anymore. Wrapping an arm around the younger man’s neck, Thrace steered him into the closest stall and locked the door.

  ****

  The sky was growing dusky when Byron and Thrace collapsed in an exhausted, sweaty heap in Byron’s bed.

  Breathless, Thrace asked, “Do you work tomorrow?” He chuckled. “I mean, today?”

  “Fuuuuck…” Byron ran a hand over his face. “Yeah.” He held up his arm and turned the watch that had somehow gotten twisted on his wrist. “But not until tonight.”

  Thrace turned to Byron with a lascivious grin. Byron laughed. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

  Thrace wagged his eyebrows. “Not if there’s fun to be had.”

  “Do you work today?”

  Thrace looked up at the ceiling. “No,” he said, then rolled onto his side. He spun his finger to gesture Byron should do the same.

  “I’m tired!”

  “Yes,” Thrace assured him. “Time for sleep.”

  Byron rolled away from Thrace, and he wrapped his arm around Byron’s broad shoulders. Byron lay there, shifting and feeling it out.

  “That’s not going to work.” He rolled back over and spun his finger at Thrace with a mocking grin. Thrace snorted and rolled over. Byron wrapped his arm around Thrace’s chest.

  If it was uncomfortable, neither of them said so. In a matter of seconds, Byron was snorting softly.

  56

  Colorado Springs

  There was a car accident. The patient’s leg was severed, hanging from the rest of her body by two inches of resilient tissue.

  “You better put on your miracle-worker cap, doc,” the medic told him as they transferred the patient from the life-flight board to the hospital stretcher.

  “I don’t take it off until end-of-shift.” Thatch eyed the wound as he pulled on his gloves. There would be a lot of hands on this leg before it would be functional again; His job was only to keep it alive.

  (All in a day’s work…)

  ****

  Thatch was exhausted. He sat on the bench outside the trauma room, not wanting to move.

  (You were supposed to be home three hours ago.) For some reason this motivated him to get up, peel off his PIC, and trudge out to the parking lot. He had driven the Wrangler to work. He narrowed his eyes when he saw it, wondering why he hadn’t brought the Lexus. He always drove the Lexus to work.

  He couldn’t remember. He was too tired to think…

  The sun was high as he pulled into the garage. It is usually rising when he gets home. He remembered to turn the Jeep off before shutting the door. The garage grew dark. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

  (No, you can’t sleep. You need to go inside.)

  (Fuck you. I’ve slept right here plenty of times. But usually in the Lexus…) He looked over at the car. (It’s more comfortable.)

  (You can’t do that anymore.)

  Thatch opened his eyes, torn between an indignant (Why the hell not?) and a reluctant (Yes, you’re right.) He popped the door open, his tired body protesting. He glanced at his briefcase and decided to leave it until he woke. Sighing, he opened the door leading into his house.

  “Daddy!”

  A tiny body collided with him and attached itself to his legs. Furrowing his brow, Thatch looked down to find a boy of about five beaming up at him.

  “You’re late,” the boy said. Thatch wrapped an arm around the boy and picked him up, hugging him tightly. He looked the boy in the eye—coffee-colored eyes—and knew his name.

  “I’m sorry, Wren,” he said. “There was a car accident.”

  “You were in a car accident?”

  “No, there was a car accident. A lady got hurt, and I helped her get better again.”

  (Now, how did this happen?) Thatch studied the boy with wonder. He had dark features, and Thatch couldn’t place them. The eyes were familiar, though.

  “Oh, thank God you’re here.”

  Thatch jerked his head up. His throat constricted. Heather Stokes, dressed in scrubs, bounded down the stairs and into the living room.

  “Mommy,” Wren said, “Daddy helped a lady get better.”

  “Daddy does that every day, sunshine.”

  Thatch
stared at her, confused, as she pulled Wren from his arms and kissed his head. Setting him down, she turned to Thatch. She rose onto her toes and kissed him, her lips landing on the side of his mouth.

  “If I don’t leave now, I’m going to be late.”

  “You mean late for being early.” (Why did I say that?) He looked down as Wren re-attached himself to his leg.

  “Exactly.” Heather grabbed the keys to the Lexus and opened the garage door.

  “Heather?”

  She turned. It was definitely her, but not the emaciated animal he kept locked away in a cage; Her body was softly-contoured with healthy weight and she walked with the gait of a woman who had given natural childbirth. He could see a thin white scar across the bridge of her nose, and another above her ear, where the hair never grew back. She tilted her head, giving him a confused smile. He glanced down at Wren, who gazed up at him adoringly. His chest filled with affection. Placing a hand on the boy’s head, he looked back up at her.

  “I love you.”

  Rhodes’s eyes shot open. Inhaling sharply, he furrowed his brow. The room was dark, hot and stuffy. He was still in Georgia. Glancing around, it took him a moment to remember whose bed he was in.

  To reassure himself it was all a dream, he rolled onto his back, propped up onto his elbows. The naked man next to him snored softly. His skin looked like black velvet in the darkness. Rhodes slid a hand over his firm ass. He sighed in his sleep, but did not move.

  (No. Definitely just a dream.) He hadn’t said those words in over twenty years.

  He lay back down, but could not bring himself to close his eyes.

  57

  Remington’s eyes snapped open as the sky paled outside the window. His limbs felt heavy and his brain foggy. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he knew it could not have been more than an hour ago. Concern had kept him awake, stealing sleep in snatches. He checked his phone, but the last message from Steyer was still: Taking Tech home.

  Home from where?

  What time will you be back?

  Are you coming back tonight?

  Did you make it safely?

  Do you need help?

  Are you still alive?

  Remington had tapped out all of these messages, but never sent them. Sighing, he got out of bed. He was tempted to celebrate this rare time alone by roaming the hotel room naked, but half-hoped Steyer would walk in.

  He didn’t.

  Remington had showered, shaved, and was brushing his teeth when the phone finally rang. He jumped across the bed to answer it, and resumed brushing his teeth to give the illusion of calmness.

  “It’s about time,” he said. “I was starting to get worried.”

  He was answered by a deep breath. Remington’s heart stopped at the sudden thought it might not be Steyer on Steyer’s phone.

  “Can you get a ride to Tech’s?” the old man finally rasped.

  Remington sighed with relief. He spit his toothpaste in the sink to give himself a moment to diffuse. “Yeah, no problem.”

  “And bring coffee—please. This sludge is worse than the station’s.”

  “I heard that!” Tech’s voice protested weakly in the background.

  “You were meant to.” Steyer pulled the phone away.

  “Son of a bitch,” Remington muttered.

  “I heard that.”

  Remington hung up.

  58

  Like clockwork, Rhodes opened his eyes at eight o’clock. Byron had untangled himself at some point during the morning and had his back to him. Ensuring Byron was still deeply asleep, Rhodes sat up and slipped his legs off the edge of the bed. He picked over the used condoms and foil wrappers, lifting them carefully between two fingers and tossing them into the wastebasket. He dressed silently and carried the basket out to the dumpster across the parking lot. Finding an untied bag, he dumped them in with someone’s diapers and soiled wipes.

  Byron’s apartment was small and, outside the bedroom, impersonal. When Rhodes returned, he checked to make sure Byron was still in a deep sleep, then poked around. Looking at Byron’s desk, he caught his breath. He glanced over Byron once more, then scooped a manila folder up and slipped back out of the bedroom.

  Rhodes resisted opening the folder until he found the coffee maker and put a pot on to brew. As the air filled with the rich aroma of dark coffee, Rhodes paced the apartment, immersed in the police reports, victim profiles, and evidence lists from the Cheatham Hill Police Department and the FBI, accompanied by a disorderly scrawl written in the margins.

  The report didn’t contain much more than Rhodes would have suspected, but a few of the speculations were shockingly accurate and inspired a growing sense of dread: “may have quit smoking,” “may be driving a Jeep Cherokee or similar SUV-type vehicle.”

  Growing anxious, Rhodes slapped the folder down on the counter and rummaged through Byron’s cabinets. He found a mug the size of a soup bowl and poured himself a generous cup of coffee. He pulled at the hair on the back of his head and wandered over to Byron’s only bookshelf next to the bedroom door.

  Sipping, Rhodes browsed the books. Most of them were criminal justice and law textbooks—remnants of a college career constantly being resumed and abandoned—but there were also some emergency medical textbooks and a smattering of true crime, biographies, and graphic novels. Tucked away in the bottom corner, Rhodes found a row of four Cheatham Hill Magnet High yearbooks. He slid out the 2003 issue, the year following the one Rhodes already had.

  Rhodes blew dust off the spine and cracked the book open. He sifted back and forth through the pages until he found the freshmen. Their awkwardness and desperation made him snicker. Flipping a couple more pages, he found a photograph tucked between the pages. Turning it over, he was shocked to find Heather Stokes smiling up at him. She was also awkwardly young—she could not have been older than fourteen—but she didn’t look as solemn as she did in the photos accompanying the police report.

  In this photo, she sat atop Byron’s shoulders. He had one hand wrapped around her leg, and the other was pointing up at her. They were both wearing Cheatham Hill athletic shirts, Track and Field for her, Football for him. “Fastest on the Field” had been written across the bottom in Sharpie.

  Rhodes studied the photo. What held his attention was the placement of their hands: the hand Byron had wrapped around her leg rested on her thigh. Her hand was resting by his neck, as if she were stroking his skin with her thumb. Irritation crept through his mind, but Rhodes shook it off as residual side-effects of his dream.

  Creaking pulled Rhodes’s attention away from the photograph. He tucked it back into the yearbook, snapped the book shut, and slid it back on the shelf. He poured a second cup of coffee, tucked the folder under his arm, and returned to the bedroom.

  Byron cradled his head in his hand. He had gathered an excessive amount of blanket in his lap. Rhodes put his mug on the desk, placed the folder next to it, and offered Byron the fresh cup.

  “Thanks,” Byron said, accepting it.

  “I know that posture.”

  “It’s just a hangover.” Byron glanced up at him, but dropped his eyes to the coffee and focused on it instead.

  “Gay hangover.”

  “What?”

  “Gay hangover.” Rhodes sat on the edge of the bed with his own coffee. “When a straight man… well, usually straight… indulges in a same-sex encounter, then convinces himself the next morning it was a mistake.”

  Byron shook his head. “I… I must have had too much to drink.”

  “No, you didn’t.” Rhodes winked at him over his coffee. “You were curious. I knew from the way you watched Agent Remington.”

  Byron’s dark cheeks brightened.

  Rhodes chuckled. “Don’t worry; You’re not the only one.”

  “I have decided…” Byron heaved a fake sigh. “I am not gay.”

  Rhodes shrugged. “That doesn’t matter much.”

  “What, that I’m not gay?”

 
“Deciding,” Rhodes said knowingly. “Decisions change—often.”

  Byron really sighed and looked away. “Can we talk about something else?”

  “Yes, of course.” Rhodes crossed to the desk and flipped open the case file. “Although I didn’t think we were supposed to be taking these home…”

  “Ohhh…” Byron made a sound like he was deflating. “What can I say? They were my classmates.” He leaned down and hooked his boxers and undershirt from where they had been discarded on the floor. “They’re my friends.”

  “What bugs me is everyone talks about them like… like…”

  “Like they’re dead?” Byron murmured.

  “No.” Rhodes cringed. “Like the sun shines out of their asses. You knew ’em: What’re they really like? What are their flaws? Their weaknesses?”

  Pausing pensively, Byron slid his boxers on under the blanket. “I knew Witt the best—Chuck, I mean. He… uh… he could be a real asshole, like his old man. He lightened up eventually. Really insecure, though; He wouldn’t change in the locker room or shower with us. I think his attitude is overcompensating for something, if you know what I mean.”

  Rhodes snorted and gulped his coffee. “And Mo… Monica?”

  “Monica can be a real brat, but she’s a good kid.” Byron shook his head and covered his face with his hand. “Kid. She’s only four years younger than me.” He took a deep breath. “You know, she could have been a real bitch, the Queen B, but… for some reason, she never did. She was never a bully.” He fell silent.

  “Did you know Z?”

  Byron shook his head and took a sip of coffee. “I was away at college when Z came down. I only saw him at the coffee shop.” He stared into his cup, sucking his bottom lip. “I… I avoided him.”

  Rhodes bit his lip and studied Byron carefully. “Because you were in love with Heather?”

  Byron jerked his head up, sloshing his coffee. “Don—Don’t say that. Don’t tell anyone.” He wiped the coffee off his chest. “I can’t… They’ll take me off the case.”