by Jette Harris
They stared at one another. After a moment, Byron looked back down into his coffee.
“Tell me Heather’s flaws.”
Byron shook his head. A smiled slowly spread across his face. “None,” he said. “I mean, she was stubborn. She could be obstinate.” He took a deep breath. “Before her folks died, she could be trouble. Small stuff, you know: Skipping school to sneak into R-rated movies. But after they died, she cleaned up quick.” He snapped his fingers. “She doesn’t so much as swear.”
Rhodes swirled his coffee, looking down into his cup to hide his smirk.
“Did… Did I ever tell you about the first time I ever saw her?”
Rhodes drained his coffee and tried not to sound too eager. He had heard snippets of the story during the pool game. “Something about a flagpole?”
Byron grinned, basking in the memory. “It was the day after our start-of-year skirmish, and I am hungover as fuck. I pull up to the school, and all the JROTC boys are standing around, staring up. At first, I don’t think anything of it; They’re runnin’ the flag up, just like every morning. Then I see her: She’s sitting at the top, untangling the rope.
“I have no idea how she got up there, but she was sittin’ up there while the guys got the flag on, smiling down at everyone. She smiled down at me. It was just amazing.” He closed his mouth, sobering. “I… every time I look at her, I want to tell her what it felt like to see that. I form the words in my head, but I never… never could tell her. Now I wish I had. I wish I could.”
Rhodes gathered the contents of the case file. Byron watched him, stroking his shoulder absently.
“Want some breakfast?” Rhodes asked.
Byron inhaled as if coming out of a trance. He frowned and shook his head. “Nah.” His hand stopped moving, but he didn’t drop it from his shoulder. “I should get ready. You… you should go.”
Rhodes snorted. Byron raised his brow. Taking the cup from Byron’s hand, Rhodes set them both on the bedside table and sat in front of him, almost in his lap. Rhodes smirked.
“If you think,” he said in a low voice, “that you can fuck me all night long, and not kiss me good-bye in the morning, you are dead… wrong.”
Byron barked a laugh. Nodding, he inched forward. Rhodes leaned into him with a kiss. Within a few seconds, he had Byron on his back again.
59
Rhodes settled into the driver’s seat of his Jeep. The manila folder he had stolen from Remington’s desk was tucked between the seat and the center console. He pulled it out, flipped it open, and shuffled through the papers until he found the speculative report.
Female victim sat in passenger seat. Male victim sat in driver’s seat. Passenger seatbelt unbuckled. Driver’s seatbelt, found to be faulty, could not be unbuckled. Tracks in mud indicate passenger escaped car then returned. Autopsy results found no burning in lungs. Victims died from smoke inhalation before vehicle became fully involved. Origin of fire determined to be faulty wiring.
Victims’ 14yo daughter placed with maternal grandfather. Frequent welfare calls recommended.
Rhodes forced his breath out, then in again. He re-read at least three times: Tracks in mud indicate passenger escaped car then returned. His hand went to the back of his head and he tugged at his hair.
(Like mother, like daughter…)
His mind drifted back to the boxes in the back of Heather’s closet, full of leftovers from the dead. A smile slowly spread across his face.
60
“Coffee’s up!” Remington called as he knocked. He looked down by his feet, and was still looking down when Steyer opened the door. His shirt was wrinkled and his pants rumpled. He had circles under his eyes.
“You look like—”
Steyer leaned heavily on the doorframe and raised his brows.
“—like you had a long night.”
“I slept on the couch.” He didn’t only look tired, but old. Remington swallowed and held up the tray, which held two coffees and an energy drink.
“You didn’t hear anyone knock?” Remington asked, nodding toward the box at his feet.
“Nobody knocked.”
They both looked down to stare at the box. It was about 24x24, taped shut, and had Tex written across the top in black marker. It had been placed perfectly square with the door.
“Do you think he would…” Remington began, but let the remainder of the question hang in the air.
Steyer took a deep breath. “Go to the car. Get bags and the camera.”
Remington turned, but Tech’s voice made him pause.
“What’s going on?” Tech shuffled to the door and leaned heavily against the wall. He looked much worse than Steyer. He glanced at the box, then at the agents’ concerned faces. “Could it be a bomb?”
Steyer shook his head. “That seems uncharacteristic.” He beckoned for the coffees, and Remington passed them over. Steyer handed them to Tech and pushed him toward the kitchen. Steyer searched his pockets, producing a single nitrile glove. Pulling it on, he crouched to inspect the box. Remington hesitated, then went to the car to get a bundle of evidence bags and the digital camera.
“I doubt very much it’s a bomb,” Steyer concluded as Remington mounted the porch. “It’s not very heavy either.” He sighed and relieved Remington of the bags. “Photograph it and bring it in. We’ll need coffee first.”
Remington pulled on some gloves and photographed the box, relieved there wasn’t any blood seeping through the bottom or smeared on the lid. Once he had gotten every angle, he nudged the box, then lifted it. It was very light, no more than seven pounds. Relieved he would not be opening it to find Heather Stokes’s head, Remington carried the box inside.
Tech sat at the table, already gulping down the dregs of his coffee. He slammed the cup on the table and shook his head. Remington set the box in a chair across from him, handed Steyer a second nitrile glove, and popped open his energy drink. Steyer eyed the box as he sipped his coffee at a more reasonable pace.
“Where do you keep your scissors?”
Tech twisted in his chair to point, but before he could speak, Remington reached into his pocket and pulled out a butterfly knife. Steyer cringed as the younger agent flicked it open skillfully. Remington offered the knife to Steyer, who narrowed his eyes disapprovingly. He was going to get an earful later.
Remington sliced along the edge of the flap to preserve the tape as much as possible. He flipped the top off, then peered under the inner flaps. Tech stood to see inside. Furrowing his brow, Remington flipped the flaps open. Tech’s brow furrowed as well, then he sank down with the sound like he was deflating.
Folded neatly on top was a white t-shirt. At least, it had been white. Now it was white and brown, splattered with rust-colored bloodstains. Most of them were small, but there was a large stain on the left shoulder.
“Still with us, Sarge?” Steyer asked.
Tech was pale. Instead of a reply, he released a soul-rattling groan. His eyes drifted to a cabinet in the corner. Steyer followed his gaze. Remington was sure they would find a bottle tucked away up there later. Tech closed his eyes and shook his head.
Remington photographed the shirt as he unfolded it. “This large stain here is consistent with the scenario the lab proposed concerning the blood splatter on the car.” He exchanged another glance with Steyer and they came to a silent agreement.
“In that case,” Steyer said, “there is no reason to believe Heather was badly injured.”
Tech narrowed his eyes skeptically, but nodded.
Remington held the shirt up and studied and front and back. He moved his drink and spread the shirt out on the kitchen table. Frowning, he drew a circle around the front of the shirt with a finger. “What does this look like to you?”
Steyer tilted his head. Tech rose in his chair and wrinkled his nose.
“Did she sneeze?” he asked.
“Sneezed or snorted…” Remington nodded. “There was blood on the airbag, so this blood here, all of this…�
�� He swept a hand over the splatter across the front of the shirt and right shoulder. “—is most likely from her nose. And this” He pointed to the large stain on the left shoulder. “—could be from the assault. He struck her across—”
Steyer cut him short with a hiss and a curt shake of his head. Tech sat back down heavily. He peered inside the box. Under the t-shirt was a pair of faded jeans, also folded neatly. The back pocket was torn off. “I can’t say one way or the other about the shirt, but those are Heather’s jeans.” Sniffling, he reached out to touch the frayed edges. Steyer lifted a hand to stop him, but dropped it.
“Were they already torn?”
“Oh, yeah.” Tech smirked. “She had a—uh—a wrench in the back pocket. She was going into the crawlspace under the house to check some wiring when the air conditioning broke. She snagged the wrench on the doorframe and tore the pocket right off.” He sighed. “She would wear these if she was workin’ or… runnin’ out for somethin’.”
“Or to save some missing friends?”
Tech sighed and shrugged. “Either she thought she was gonna be right back or she thought she was gonna get her hands dirty.”
“She went for one and got the other,” Remington said as he pulled the jeans out. The other back pocket was intact. There were holes in both knees. The button was missing and the zipper was broken. The legs were spotted with grease, grass, and other assorted stains. Blood stains spotted the left leg above the knee.
“So she’s sitting in the driver’s seat,” Remington began, spreading the jeans on the table, keeping one hand on it to conceal the missing button and broken zipper, “and the airbag goes off, busts her nose. She leans over to open the door—Wait!”
Steyer turned to find Tech reaching into the box. He pulled out a Polaroid photograph.
“Holy shit…” Remington murmured.
Tech sniffed. His hand trembled. He turned the photo over to read the message written in black ink on the other side.
“That yella son of a bitch…”
He allowed Steyer to pluck it from his fingers. The photograph was of a man’s naked torso, from the shoulders down. He was twisted profile, displaying a long, deep gash across his ribcage, blood running down his side. In one hand, he held the front page of yesterday’s Atlanta Journal-Constitution. In the other, curiously, he held a tube of toothpaste. There was blood on one corner of the tube.
Taking a deep breath, Steyer turned the photo over and read aloud, “Your grand-daughter is surprisingly resourceful.” He snorted and re-read the message, then flipped the photo back over.
“She got him good,” he observed, passing the photo to Remington. Tech made a feeble attempt to smirk. “And,” Steyer added, “she’s still alive.” A broad grin broke across his face.
“So, this,” Tech took the photo back, “is the fella who… who—uh…” He smirked as if he were about to crack one of his famous jokes, but faltered. His face flushed with rage. He flicked the photo. “This is the motherfucker fucking my granddaughter. He’s in fine form, ain’t he?”
Steyer nodded. He plucked the photo out of Tech’s hands, bagged it, and tucked it in his breast pocket.
“Well,” Tech continued, “I guess he would have to be, to survive resourceful little girls assaulting him with tubes of toothpaste…”
“Look at me,” Steyer said. “We can use this. This is hope right here. Heather is alive. It’s not too late. We can bring her home, Tech.”
****
Steyer sent Tech upstairs to regroup and take a shower, and the agents began to bag and label the contents of the box. Remington folded the shirt with care and slipped it in. A sweet, sickly smell wafted up as it hit the bottom. He snorted it out, then sniffed the bag.
“What is it?” Steyer asked.
Remington held the bag out. “What does that smell like to you?”
Hesitantly, Steyer leaned his face closer. His brow furrowed. He capped the Sharpie in his hand and pulled the bag up to his nose, inhaling deeply.
“Is it…” He sniffed again. “Apples?”
“Some kind of fruit,” Remington confirmed, smelling the bag again. “Rotting.”
Steyer glanced around and lifted Heather’s well-worn flip-flops. He sniffed and nodded. “Rotten apples.”
Remington raised an eyebrow. “Did the Phoenix go digging in the garbage for this stuff? Why?”
Steyer shrugged. “Perhaps he threw them away, then changed his mind.”
Remington shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense.”
Steyer slid his hands into his pockets and looked over the items: t-shirt, jeans, the photograph, a wallet. It would be at least two weeks before every item would get inspected and analyzed. He shook his head. “Put that on the list of things to ask while we’re interrogating him.”
“That list keeps growing.” Remington gave the t-shirt one last sniff, then sealed it. “It’s been over ten days. Why would he hold on to his garbage that long?”
****
Garbage pick-up did not come to the house, and Rhodes never thought he would come to appreciate that fact. Six large utility-sized garbage bags sat in a line along the back of the house, mostly clean-up and construction waste. Two of the begs contained the hostages’ clothes, shoes, and a few other paltry belongings, mixed in with remodeling debris (the boys’) and various household garbage (the girls’).
Rhodes was not happy he had to tear open two bags or rotting foot and sharp plastic packaging before finding the items, but his sense of mischief grew as he bleached anything that may have been exposed to his semen and packaged them all up as neatly as Heather had packed her parents’ belongings.
Extra bodies were a fine distraction, but risky and drew his attention from where he wanted it to be: on his caged entertainment.
61
Aneta Vlasov washed her hands in the utility sink. She wiped them dry on the inside of her apron and hung it on a hook. Her mind was blank and her feet ran on autopilot as they carried her down the sidewalk for the three miles between the Waffle House and her duplex. Sweat matted loose tendrils of hair to her skin and made her shirt stick to her belly. When it ran down her back, it snapped her mind back from blankness. She squirmed, wiping the sweat from her neck. Her hand came away wet, gritty, and greasy.
She wobbled as she mis-stepped off the sidewalk onto the red clay that comprised her yard. When she steadied herself, her eyes landed on the slab porch. A 24x24-inch box blocked her door, one flap still bouncing. The box had been sealed with packaging tape, but torn open—recently. Aneta glanced at her neighbor’s door. The blinds covering the window flopped and swayed.
Aneta stepped around the box and tilted her head. Her name was written across the top in neat print. She nudged open the loose flap and shot to her feet, covering her mouth. Desperately, she rifled through her purse and pulled out a beat-up old Nokia. She found REMINGTON and hit Call.
No service.
A sob tore from her throat. She fished out her key. Her hand was shaking so badly, she dropped it and fumbled to pick it back up. She shouldered the door open and ran to snatch the phone from off the cradle.
****
“Have you touched it at all?” Steyer asked.
Aneta swallowed. She knelt by the box and gestured how she had raised the flap. Steyer imitated the motion. A rumpled football jersey sat at the top, speckled with blood, but not much. Steyer photographed the shirt before holding it up.
“Is this what Z was wearing when he disappeared?”
Aneta closed her eyes and shook her head. “I don’t know. I didn’t see him that day. Or the day before…” She buried her face in both hands and sobbed.
Steyer folded the shirt and laid it on top of the box. He placed a hand on her shoulder. She leaned into his chest and cried.
“Shh… I understand. He understands…” He pulled back and looked her in the eye. “There might be something in that box that could lead us right to him. Right to your son.”
She nodded and wip
ed her face. Steyer knelt again. He placed the shirt across his knee. The next layer in the box was a flaking leather belt and a pair of jeans. He took a picture and pulled them out. There appeared to be a grease stain on the seat, but no blood. The boxers were threadbare and worn through in a few places between the thighs. At the bottom of the box was a relatively new-looking pair of trainers and a leather wallet almost split down the middle.
He pulled the shoes out to study the tread. “Are these new?”
Aneta nodded. “Witt bought them for him for Christmas. He knows… He will buy him things sometimes, things he needs for school and football.”
Steyer nodded. He flipped open the wallet. It had three crumpled one-dollar bills, a few business cards, some Post-its, and a photograph. The back of the photo was covered in sloppy handwriting, over and over, the same thing: I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry… He flipped it over. It was Heather Stokes’s freshman school photo. He glanced at one of the Post-its:
AnP
“Z” — the “-achariah” is silent. - Rhoads
ch. 6 & 8 reviews
write ?’s, dumbass
Steyer turned his attention back to the photo. “How exactly did Z’s relationship with Heather Stokes end?”
Before she could answer, Remington emerged from the other unit, tucking something into his jacket pocket. He shook his head.
“He and Witt were new friends. When Witt asked him about Heather, Z pretended it did not happen.”
“I imagine Heather was very hurt.”
“Later they agree to be friends, but they do not speak of it—of their time together.”
Remington winced. Steyer pretended he did not see.
“Did Z have any other girlfriends?” Remington asked.
Aneta frowned and shrugged. “He has many friends, but I do not believe he was ever…” She shook her head. “I never met any of them.”
“Are you familiar at all with Monica Shatterthwaith?”
