by Jette Harris
“Lauri’s daughter? I’ve met her. She gives Z rides to school sometimes.”
“Are they close?”
Aneta shrugged. “I don’t believe so, but I would be the last to know.”
He nodded. “Would you like to press charges against Ms. Werner for vandalizing your box?” he asked. She turned away, toward her door, and drummed her fingers over her lips. She shook her head. “She won’t be giving you any more trouble.”
“May we take the box?” Steyer asked.
Aneta gazed at the box. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she blinked them back. “Of course.”
Steyer lifted the box and they returned to the car. He placed it in the back seat as Remington climbed in to drive. Aneta stared at her neighbor’s door, then closed her own firmly behind her.
“What was that about?” Steyer asked.
“That woman is as unsanitary as she is unsightly,” Remington said. “I threatened to hang her on federal tampering charges, and she gave me this.” He pulled a tri-folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Steyer. The older agent shot a glance at the closed door before unfolding it. He frowned. It was a photo—it appeared to be taken from a mounted security camera—of a bedroom. A male figure sat on the edge of a queen-sized bed. A female figure, recognizable as Monica Shatterthwaith, straddled his lap. Her arms were around his neck and his face was pressed against her chest. They were both naked.
Steyer’s face flushed. “This was in the box?”
“It was folded in the jersey.” Remington ground his teeth. He glanced at the door as well. It remained shut. The curtains remained still. “Do you think that’s Zachariah Vlasov?”
Steyer tilted his head from one side to the other in indecision. “It could be. It’s not tall enough to be the Phoenix.”
“I would say this complicates things, wouldn’t you?” Remington raised a fist and cracked his knuckles.
“Nope,” Steyer said, leaning close to the picture.
“No? Why not?”
Steyer turned the image toward him, pointing to the bottom left corner. A pair of legs, crossed at the ankle as if sitting in a chair, were barely visible. Despite the grainy quality of the photo, the legs were discernable as lean, well-muscled, and covered in dark hair.
Remington exhaled hard. “I can’t believe I missed that.”
62
Steyer spent the remainder of the day on his phone, calling every lab for an update on every piece of evidence they had sent in since their arrival. He was still on the phone—with what felt like very little to show for it—when Byron arrived an hour early for his shift.
Before this month, Byron would walk into the precinct every night with the sense the days could be interchangeable, whether he was coming in after a day on or two days off. But tonight he walked in with a sense he had missed so much and was irretrievably out of the loop. He had received a message about the boxes Tech and Aneta Vlasov had received, and curiosity was eating him as he put on his uniform.
Remington had been on his cell phone out front when Byron arrived. He had given the officer a distracted wave. Kondorf’s workstation was empty. Chief Collins’s door was closed and his light was off. But Steyer sat behind his desk with a phone to his ear, compulsively tapping and turning a pen.
Byron knocked on the door and Steyer waved him in. He held up a finger before Byron could speak.
“Yes, I understand,” he said into the phone. “I’ll call back in a few days, then, if I haven’t heard anything. Thank you.” He hung up with a sigh. He looked exhausted and down-trodden.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
Steyer ran his hands over his face and studied the young officer. “I’m not sure if there is,” he said eventually. “Do you know when Lieutenant Kondorf is coming in?”
“About an hour.” Byron tried not to feel looked-over. “I can ask him to come in now, if you’d like.”
Steyer’s eyes dropped to the clock and he shook his head. “No, that shouldn’t be necessary. Please…” He pinched his nose and sighed. “Yes,” he began again, dropping his hand. “Please have him send me the most up-to-date list of the evidence collected from the abduction sites, their requisition numbers, the labs they were sent to, and any details or data that may have gone to him. Do you think you can remember that?”
“Yessir, of course.”
“Excuse me, Officer Byron.” Agent Remington stood behind him, phone in one hand, notepad in the other.
“Sorry.” Byron stepped aside. Remington brushed past him. Byron stared at the floor to compose himself, then swallowed. I’m not… he told himself. Then, It doesn’t matter. He raised his head with a deep breath.
“Both boxes and all contents arrived at the lab safely,” Remington said. “They only had a little bit of information to give us; Initial results came back from the Beaumont scene: All blood, semen, and saliva matched Deputy Beaumont’s. The residue on the towel turned out to be feces, belonging to someone with a high-protein, high-fiber… basically a very healthy diet.”
Steyer nodded, not surprised.
“They also said the water bottles didn’t have any markings, residue, or DNA to indicate anyone drank from them, but they lifted a partial handprint—but no fingerprints—traces of pepper spray—which could explain why they were poured and not consumed—and silicone…?” He raised an eyebrow.
Steyer groaned and leaned back in his chair. “That would explain the lack of fingerprints in the presence of a handprint.”
“He covered his fingers with silicone?” Byron asked.
Steyer nodded. “High-grade silicone gel, used by actors. It can be made to look and feel like skin… and to cover fingerprints.”
Remington exhaled slowly, like he was deflating.
“Is it common?” Byron asked. “I mean, can we track a vendor or something?”
Steyer shook his head. “If we have a suspect and find silicone in their purchase history, we might be able to pin him—like if we get a suspect and match his handprint—but we wouldn’t be able to find someone using that information. Too many vendors sell silicone.” He sighed and stood, looking at Byron. “Let Lieutenant Kondorf know I’ll be here early to get that list from him.”
“Yessir,” Byron said with a nod.
Steyer gave Remington a pointed look. “You and I need sleep. We’ll continue making calls first thing in the morning.”
Remington ran a hand over his face, groaning, “New stuff is piling up every day. This is going to take forever.”
Byron shrugged. “Maybe that’s the point.”
The agents froze, looking at one another, then turned to stare at the officer. “Repeat what you just said,” Remington demanded.
“Uh… Maybe that’s the point,” Byron repeated. “He’s… he’s throwing all this stuff at you to distract you from something else.”
Remington turned to Steyer. He exhaled again, but this time it sounded more like an incensed bull. “Why else would he dig in ten-day-old garbage for some clothes?”
Steyer stared at him with blank, unfixed eyes. Byron could practically hear the cogs whirring in his head. He blinked and turned suddenly to the map, pointing. “This…” he said. “We’ll deal with everything as it comes—bag and tag—but this is our main priority. We can make those calls while on the road.”
“Yes, sir,” Byron said with a curt nod. “And we may be able to knock some of those out tonight.”
63
Rhodes pulled up to the corner and parked, but didn’t turn the Jeep off. He turned the A/C to full blast and thumped his head rhythmically against the window. He wanted so much to lose control, to hurt Monica for her part in the stunt they had pulled. He paused to touch his bruised eyebrow, running his finger over the scab. Heather had done the physical damage, but she and Z had been punished sufficiently. Monica—screaming, crying, pathetic Monica—had not been punished nearly enough.
Movement under the tree line across the street from the girls’ houses
drew his attention. Rhodes leaned over the steering wheel and squinted. David—the one with the scars—was poking something on the ground with a stick. When he turned the thing so its rigored paws stuck up in the air, Rhodes could tell it was a raccoon.
(Just a kid being a kid.)
He curled his lip and rested his chin on the steering wheel, watching enviously, his wrath forgotten.
A high-pitched shriek came from the Shatterthwaiths’ porch. Devin—the little one—flew across the yard to the dead thing’s rescue. He shoved his older brother away. A battle of pushing and the slapping of arms ensued, until the older siblings crossed the law at an unhurried pace and pulled them apart.
Xavier picked the toddler up and tossed him over one shoulder. They bounced back to the house with Devin laughing as if nothing had gone wrong in the history of the world, ever. Rhodes sighed, envious.
January, 1968
Flint Hill, CO
The long black car took Aunt Betty away. Thatch watched with his face pressed against the rails of the upstairs banister as the men in white coats moved her stiff body. She had been lying at the bottom of the stairs all night, and she stayed in position when they lifted her. Thatch suppressed a giggle. Mama had shut herself in her room. He didn’t want to upset her any more than she already was by laughing.
Uncle Jed watched them move the body with his hands on his hips and a strange look on his face, like he was looking at a mess he didn’t know how to clean up. Mama usually took care of the messes, but she was crouched on the floor next to her bed, sobbing into her arms. Virgil Roanhorse stood by the door with his brother, Homer. He reached out to Jed a few times, but never got around to patting him reassuringly on the shoulder. Jed didn’t like messes.
“Homer wants to talk to Judy and the boy,” Virgil finally said. Thatch’s heart jumped at being included.
Jed rounded on him. “What for?”
“It’s just procedure,” Homer assured him.
Uncle Jed couldn’t argue with that. As soon as the men in coats moved Aunt Betty onto a cot and out the door, he beckoned Thatch downstairs and waved him outside.
Homer Roanhorse looked just like Virgil, except his black hair was short and he wore a brown uniform and a badge that said Rio Blanco Sheriff’s Department. He placed a hand on top of Thatch’s head as they headed around to the back of the house.
“Can I see your gun?” Thatch asked.
Homer looked to Virgil, who shook his head. “I don’t think your Ma would approve. No sense making her any more upset than she already is.”
Thatch couldn’t argue with that. He ran ahead and into the stable. “These are my friends!” he said, running from stall to stall. “This is my favorite. Her name is Cassie. She’s a Painted.” He climbed the gate and swung his leg over the top, where he perched and turned back to the adults.
“Cassie’s about to foal,” Virgil explained in a whisper.
A small female paint raised her nose to nuzzle Thatch’s face. Homer reached over and stroked her neck.
“I’m sorry ’bout your aunt.”
“Me too.” Thatch didn’t understand why everyone kept apologizing to him. He wasn’t crying.
“When you saw her last, did she seem upset at all? Sad? Angry?”
“Aunt Betty was always happy.”
Homer shot Virgil a glance, and Virgil shook his head. Was that the wrong answer?
“She smiled a lot,” Thatch added weakly.
Now Virgil nodded with a shrug.
“So,” Homer continued, “she was smiling when you last saw her?”
“Yeah.”
“Did she or your uncle say anything strange or angry?”
“Uncle Jed doesn’t talk much.” Thatch lowered his voice and growled, “‘Pass the salt,’” then laughed. Virgil snickered as well.
“Did you hear anything last night?” Homer asked. “Yelling? Banging?”
Thatch shook his head. “I went straight to bed. I was supposed to go to school today. I’m in the first grade.”
“You a deep sleeper?”
Thatch didn’t really understand the question, so he nodded. He understood the next one, though:
“Did you hear your Aunt Betty fall down the stairs?”
He shook his head vigorously.
“Did your aunt and uncle ever fight?”
“No.”
“Did your aunt and your ma ever fight?”
“No, they were always joking and laughing, unless Uncle Jed was around. Then only Aunt Betty would talk.”
Homer furrowed his brow. “Did Jed and your ma fight?”
Thatch didn’t answer at first. “Ma calls it bickering,” he murmured.
“Do they bicker a lot?”
“Yeah…”
“About what?”
“I dunno.” He laced his fingers into Cassie’s mane and clutched her hair. “She said he never lets us go anywhere without him being with us.”
Homer’s head bobbed. He turned to Virgil and gave a curt nod. Virgil lifted the boy off the gate and lowered him to the ground. Thatch stood at the deputy’s feet and looked up at him.
“Is Mama in trouble?” His voice wavered.
“No, son.”
His face brightened, then fell again. “Is Uncle Jed in trouble?”
Homer took a deep breath. Crouching, he looked Thatch in the eye. “Do you think your uncle hurt Aunt Betty?”
Thatch’s eyes went wide. He dropped his gaze to the ground. “No.”
Homer took much less time talking to Ma. She followed him downstairs afterward, red-eyed, clutching a handkerchief, and stood on the bottom step as the deputy took his leave. Thatch climbed behind her and hid in the folds of her dress.
“I’ll call if I need anything else, Mr. Flint.” Homer shook Jed’s hand and waved at Virgil. “I’ll see you later.”
Jed closed the door behind him. Everyone stared at him as he searched the floor around their feet. “Let’s get back to work.”
“You sure, boss?” Virgil asked. “I mean—”
Jed shook his head. “Let me clear my head.” He walked toward the kitchen to leave out the back door.
“Jed?”
They were all surprised to hear Judy’s meek voice. Jed waved Virgil out. Virgil left haltingly, watching them over his shoulder.
“Homer mentioned there are some jobs in town.” She stood taller and spoke louder, but her voice still wavered. “I can save up a bit and get an apartment, get us out of your hair.” She slipped a hand behind her back and stroked Thatch’s head. “I don’t want to be—”
“Please, Mama…” His soft voice floated from behind her. “I don’t wanna leave my friends…”
Jed’s jaw jutted out and he looked her over. His eyes landed on the boy. Thatch didn’t like it when they bickered. He hid again, clutching her skirts. Jed shook his head. “That won’t be necessary; I could use your help around here, especially with…” He clenched his jaw, his eyes sweeping the floor at the bottom of the stairs. “Especially now.”
Sighing, Judy looked down at Thatch and ran her hands through the hair at the back of his head. She nodded. “We can do that for a while.”
The funeral was Sunday morning. Sunday night, the screaming began.
May, 2006
Atlanta
A loud chime made Rhodes flinch. He furrowed his brow and fished his phone out of his pocket. He chuckled as he read the screen:
1 MESSAGE RECEIVED
JAMAL BYRON
Gonna check out houses.
Wanna come?
Love to. Bored as fuck.
Meet in 10
Rhodes took a deep breath. He still had two boxes in the back of the Jeep, and one of them had to go.
Make it 15. See you soon.
64
“What happened to your head?” Byron’s brow furrowed with concern as Thrace walked down the crumbling front path of the abandoned house.
The deputy raised his hand to his forehead to touch the fresh-loo
king contusion, but thought better of it. “I got knocked around responding to a domestic.”
“Looks bad, man.” Byron leaned forward to study it as Thrace mounted the porch stairs. Thrace tilted his head as if going in for a kiss and chuckled as Byron settled back on his heels. “Did you get it checked out?”
“Oh, yeah. Just a mild concussion. Nothin’ I need to report to the sheriff.”
Byron scoffed. Thrace cracked his mouth as if he was laughing at a joke he hadn’t known he made.
“I’d hate to see the other guy.”
Thrace’s mouth tightened and twisted into an odd smirk. “No, he didn’t look too good by the time I brought him in.”
The house was confirmed vacant, but Byron knocked anyway. The windows across the front of the house were covered by plywood, but the shards of glass on the front porch indicated it was too little, too late.
“Would you like the pleasure?” Byron asked, stepping aside. “You look like you could blow off some steam.”
“Why, thank you.” Thrace stood square with the door and kicked it in. The wood splintered and flaked around the knob as it tore loose, releasing a gust of rank mildew.
“Cobb County Sheriff’s Department!” he called, poking his head in. “What a shithole.” The carpet was littered with debris and dead bugs. Black patches of mold ran down the corners. The ceiling sagged and cracked, or had given out altogether, adding to the mess on the floor. It was, however, empty of furniture or anything else that could conceal an intruder.
“The Phoenix report said the first house was just a shack,” Byron said, following Thrace in. “Phoenix, Arizona, I mean.”
“I know what you mean.”
They moved through the house, opening doors to peer into closets and bathrooms.
“You read all the reports?” Thrace asked, upsetting an eerie silence.
“Yeah, I figure the more I know, the more I can help.” Byron stuck his head in to investigate the linen closet of a reeking bathroom. Someone had used the shower as a toilet long after the toilet had broken. He backed out with a hand over his nose, and took a deep breath once he was clear of the room. “I might get them to write me a referral or something.”
