by Jette Harris
The heat and humidity did not appear to have any effect on Steyer. He set his briefcase by his bed, plugged his phone in to charge, and settled in.
“I don’t see how you do it,” Remington muttered.
Steyer put a finger to his lips and raised the phone back to his ear. “Can this count as my second call?” he said when Johnny answered.
A pang of guilt made Remington push himself up and fish his phone out of his pocket. His battery was at 32%—just enough for one phone call. Dragging himself off the bed, he held up the phone and the car keys to show Steyer. Steyer gave him a thumb’s up.
Remington paused on the landing outside the door to roll up his sleeves and survey the parking lot. Their car was parked in clear view of the room. A blue minivan was parked on the passenger side, but the driver’s side was unobstructed. He noted a few Jeeps nearby and turned to keep an eye on all of them as he descended. None of them appeared to be occupied.
He hit Call when he reached the sidewalk and continued to look over his shoulder as he crossed the parking lot.
“This is Samantha Wickes.”
Shit, she must still be at work. “Hey, it’s Remington.”
She let out a little huff. “Agent Remington! Give me a moment…”
He paused half-way across the parking lot as he heard her excuse herself. “If this is a bad time—”
“No.”
He snapped his mouth shut and continued to the car.
“Please tell me you have good news,” she said in a low voice as he settled into the driver’s seat.
Glancing around, he leaned casually on the Lock button. “Is this one of the situations where no news is good news?”
“No.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I had lunch with Johnny yesterday, and he said I was looking a little pregnant.”
Remington groaned silently, letting his head fall back. “I told Ritchie. Maybe he—”
“No, he’s right. Whether he knew beforehand or not, I’m… I’m starting to show.”
He ran a hand over his face.
“I have everything together for us to go to the courthouse the moment you get back, but if that’s not in a week or so—”
“Sam, these kids are supposed to die in a week or so.”
She exhaled slowly. “I’m sorry, Remi. It’s just so easy to lose perspective up here.”
“It feels like we’re spinning our wheels right now, but that could change any minute.”
“Maybe I can come—”
“No!” Remington shot up. “No,” he repeated in a more reasonable tone. He put a hand over his pounding chest. “It’s not safe down here right now, especially for you.”
“We are running out of choices. We are both running out of time.”
Remington pressed a fist to his mouth and groaned. “Look, just… give me ten days. Just ten days. Give me until June first, and either I will fly up there for a day or weekend, or you can come down here.”
“Oh my God, Remi…” she murmured with a sniffle.
He took a few deep breaths. Leaning back, he cracked a smile. “Hey… Listen: We’re getting married—regardless of work. We’re gonna have a baby. Both of those things are going to happen, no matter what the timeline looks like.”
“If you live.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll try really hard.”
Wickes laughed. Remington smiled at the beautiful, unexpected sound of it.
“I—uh—” She cleared her throat. “I need to get back. Any… anything to report, Agent Remington?”
“Uh—why, yes, Miss Wickes: We received several of the lab reports over the past few days, and any of the details therein could lead us directly to the house in which our killer has holed himself up.”
“Good… Good way to stay positive. Give Ritchie my love.”
78
Byron rounded the end of the aisle and headed for the poultry cooler. He froze when he recognized the man standing in front of the seafood counter. His throat grew tight. He turned to escape, but Thrace looked up as if he sensed eyes on him—and he didn’t look happy about it. But when he saw Byron, his face broke into a smile.
“Hey, stranger.” Thrace’s voice had a strange quality to it. He lowered his head and cleared his throat.
“What happened to your face?” Byron hadn’t intended to as that, but underneath Thrace’s black aviators, he could see a swollen nose and dark purple shiners spreading under his eyes. Thrace’s hand went to his face. He laughed, but it sounded empty.
“Did you know APD has an ultimate Frisbee team?” His voice was familiar again.
“No.”
“I didn’t either. I took an elbow to the face.”
Byron forced himself to smile and chuckle, but it sounded as empty as Thrace’s. He pursed his lips. It had been over a week since Thrace had taken his calls or replied to his texts. Sensing his dissatisfaction, Thrace tilted his head.
“I—uh—I’ve been callin’ you,” Byron said.
“Ah.” Thrace grimaced. He tossed the tray of catfish nuggets back into the cooler. “I owe you an explanation. A lot has happened since we last… talked.”
“Does that have to do with APD too?”
Another hollow laugh. “Ha. No, thank God.” He led Byron to the deli.
“We could really use you these days. We’ve been busy. Did you hear about the warrant?”
“Warrant?” Thrace’s tread slowed. “No. What warrant?”
“We got a warrant granting us permission to search the vacant houses. It’s going much faster now. Which is a relief, ’cause we’re running out of time.”
Thrace opened his mouth to speak, but words didn’t come out, only a noise between a low growl and a groan. “Remington must have been very happy about that.”
“The party’s on Saturday.”
They took a table far from anyone else. Byron placed his basket on the floor. Thrace placed his in the middle of the table, not quite between them, but close.
“Frying up some okra?” Byron asked, peering at the contents.
“Yeah. Well, I hope so. I’ve never done it before, and I’m…” Thrace bit off his words and sighed. He licked his lips nervously. “Let me back up. I had a dream the other night—the night I spent at your place, actually. And it—uh—it was, you know, one of those dreams that make you realize you’re missing something you weren’t missing before. You know?”
“Yeah.” Byron nodded, although he didn’t know.
“Well, I had this dream, and at first I fought against the idea—fought it… violently—but when… uh… when I almost lost the opportunity for the dream, the opportunity to make the idea become reality, I—uh—I gave into it.”
“I take it this ‘idea’ is actually a person.”
“Yes. Well, no, not entirely, but it hinges on a person.”
“So, you’re in a relationship now?” Byron’s face burned with envy, although he also felt relief.
Thrace grimaced. Leaning, back, he ran his fingers through the hair at the back of his head. “Yeah… yes and no. It’s complicated, as the Facebook status goes.” He barked a laugh.
“I get it.” Byron swallowed the lump in his throat.
“I hope you’re not upset.”
Byron took a deep breath and smiled. He shook his head. “No, it actually makes things a lot less complicated for me. I mean, I was never really—you know—all in.”
Thrace barked again.
“And it’s not even—you know… You know. But talking about the case that morning… it—uh—it planted an idea as well.”
“Did it?” Thrace raised his brow.
Byron hadn’t intended for the conversation to go in this direction, but Thrace’s evasive explanation stung. The words tumbled out, only a kernel of truth at their core. “I’ve decided, next time I see Heather—if it’s not at her funeral—I’m going to tell her how I feel. I’m going to tell her I love her.” He bit his lip.
“Oh.” Thrace’s
face fell slowly as the words sank in. The story appeared to have more impact than Byron had intended: Red spread across Thrace’s face. He took a deep breath, and the red faded again. He leaned back, cracking a toothy, lop-sided grin. “Oh! Well… I certainly know how you feel.”
****
Rhodes threw his grocery bags in the back seat and slammed the door a little too hard. He slammed the driver’s door as well.
(I need to kill something.)
He glanced around the parking lot, clenched the steering wheel, and screamed.
79
A shadow swept across the Witts’ yard and paused at the corner of the house. Light shone through the cracks in the shed. The shadow darted toward it.
Frank Witt sat on a stool at his workbench. A bottle of cheap whisky and a glass filled three fingers stood before him. He rose the glass to his lips, but a sharp wrap on the door made him start, sloshing a few drops. “What?”
The shed door opened and a tall, dark-haired man stepped inside, pulling it closed behind him. Frank squinted before recognizing the confrontational deputy. His face fell.
“What’s happened?” Remembering himself, his face hardened again. “What do you want?”
“Could use a drink, if you’re sharing.” The deputy gazed around at the tools mounted on the walls, tight-lipped with mild contempt.
Frank studied him and reached for an empty mug. He puffed into it, raising a cloud of sawdust, and poured a little less than a finger. “I didn’t catch your name,” he said as he passed it to his guest.
“D,” the deputy replied. He raised his mug. “To fathers.”
Frank furrowed his brow, but raised his glass anyway. “Fathers.”
D threw back the mug and grimaced. “Ugh—You need to upgrade your whisky.”
“You here for a reason?”
“You know, I knew a man like you once,” D dodged. “Several, actually, but this one specifically was so caught up in appearances, in presenting the world with his straight act and the perfect family, he was willing to sacrifice—actively threw away—all the things that really matter.” He looked into his mug and wiped sawdust from his lip.
“This story have a moral, son?”
D shook his head. “Don’t call me son; You had a son.” He thumped the mug down.
“Had…?” Frank glanced up at D’s face, then slowly drained his glass, his hand shaking. “Had?” he asked more pointedly.
“Yes, had.” D picked up a power drill and turned it in his hands. A decking screw hung from the magnetic bit.
“You found him, then.” Frank put his glass down and leaned on the workbench to steady his hands.
“Found him?” D righted the screw over the bit with a flick. “No, I killed him.”
He slammed his hand on Frank’s wrist and drove the screw through his palm, affixing him to the workbench. Frank screamed and jumped up, knocking back the stool. D covered his mouth. Frank attempted to pull his hand away, but collapsed with paralyzing pain. When his muffled screams faded into breathless huffs, D uncovered his mouth.
“You… you… My son…”
“Oh, now he’s your son.” D clucked and shook his head. “He was very eager to please, your son… too eager. You did that to him.” He sifted through the tools mounted on the wall. Running a hand over the bits attached to a magnetic strip, he pulled one away.
Frank shook his head. He was pale, sweaty, slipping into shock. “Faggot…”
“Do you really want that to be your last word?” D detached the Phillips head bit and inserted a spade bit.
Frank’s eyes shot wide. “No, no!” He held up his free hand as D pointed the drill at him. “Wait!”
D paused and raised his brow expectantly.
“The… the man… was… was it your father?”
“No.” D frowned and shook his head. “No, my father was a good man.”
He drove the bit into Frank’s heart. Reversing the drive, he pulled it back out. Blood splattered over every surface. The color drained from Frank’s skin. His red hair shone shockingly bright. A gust escaped his throat as he slumped forward, coming to rest against D’s legs.
D raised his hand to his face, smearing the blood more than wiping it off. Snorting, he kicked the body away.
****
Cathy Witt shot up in bed when she heard the screams. She threw off the blanket and ran into the hallway. Scurrying to one door, she nudged it open. Dean snored loudly, lying on his stomach, one arm flopped off the side of the bed. An air horn in his ear would not be able to wake him; The muffled screams certainly did not.
The screaming came to a sudden halt as she closed the door. The door opposite opened.
“Mom?” Carly’s voice quivered. Her freckles stood out against her pale face.
Cathy held a finger to her lips. Putting an arm around her daughter’s shoulders, she guided her back to bed.
“I’m here, sweetie,” she whispered, climbing into the bed with her. “Go back to sleep…”
80
Steyer and Remington had to wait for pest control to smoke out the yellow jackets before they could approach the shed. An EMT removed a few stingers from Detective Young’s hand. A nervous medic stood by, keeping a side-eye on her, his knuckles white around an EpiPen. Dean Witt stood motionless behind them, hands shoved deep in his pockets, head bowed, but eyes fixed on the shed.
Visible through a back window, Cathy and Carly Witt sat in the living room. Cathy stroked her daughter’s hair as Carly stared out at them, expressionless. Remington returned her gaze for several minutes. He turned to Steyer a few times, opening his mouth to speak, but closed it upon remembering Dean’s presence.
Their story didn’t feel right. Cathy had called him mid-morning, reporting in a calm voice Frank had not come to bed the previous night. When the agents arrived, accompanied by Young, Carly offered them pancakes. They didn’t seem like a concerned family.
While Steyer and Remington questioned the family in the kitchen, Young investigated the yard. She discovered the shed door ajar and the feast within. Steyer immediately dispatched officers to check on the other families. They all called in safe.
“You should wait inside until they get him on a stretcher,” Steyer murmured to Dean after the third time Remington opened and closed his mouth.
“I’m good,” Dean replied.
“I insist.”
Dean’s hard expression softened. He looked from Steyer to Remington and nodded. Without removing his hands from his pockets, he trudged to the back porch and went inside. As soon as the door closed, Remington loosed the question:
“Do you believe them?”
“Not entirely.”
“Y’all should be good now,” the pest technician said. “We bought you a few minutes, at least.”
Remington took a deep breath and Steyer folded his hands into his pockets.
“Do you think they have anything to do with it?” Remington asked as they approached the door.
Steyer stepped on the threshold and looked around. “Nope.”
Remington stood beside him, snorting the foul odor out. “We need suits for this.”
The grey figure of Frank Witt hung by the hand, not quite lying on the floor. Blood pooled under him and speckled every surface. Remington studied the walls until he found the void where the killer’s body had blocked the splatter.
“He stood there.” He held out his hand to indicate the general area.
Steyer nodded. “And he left us the murder weapon.”
The electric drill stood upright on the workbench. Congealed blood covered the spade bit from tip to base. Remington’s lip curled.
Steyer noted the blood saturating Frank’s shirt, but only speckling his face. “Got him in the chest.”
“As efficient as the Phoenix is with his unselected victims, I’m surprised he didn’t go for the head.”
“What makes you think it was the Phoenix?”
“I had my doubts at first,” Remington said, looking at
the house. All the Witts were watching now, wearing the same stony expression. “But the choice of weapon steers me back. Anyone could have taken him out with a hammer or a hatchet, but our killer—” He pointed to the Phillips head bit lying near the drill. “—wanted something more impressive.”
Steyer swept his eyes over the scene and nodded. “I agree.” He turned to see the forensics team arriving, properly-attired with shoe covers and bunny suits. “Let’s hope he tells us something.”
81
Tech had a towel spread out on the top step of the porch and a small audience sitting on the bottom. Xavier held Devin in his lap as David continuously shifted from the bottom step to the top, trying to get a closer look at the delicate operation Tech was performing. Black metal parts lay across the towel. The old man peered down the barrel of an upper receiver, then slid a cleaning snake through it. As he worked, he rambled out a yarn about a rabbit.
Steyer experienced a buoyant sensation that he was back in the jungle, surrounded by his men. Tech had always told stories when he cleaned his gun. He kept the men in stitches, struggling not to laugh too loudly. When he ran out of exploits involving women, he turned to the rabbit stories. Steyer couldn’t remember if he had heard the one Tech was currently telling.
“Somethings will never change,” Steyer said, slipping his hands into his pockets. Startled, the children turned to him with wide eyes, bringing him back to the Georgia suburbs. “Does your mother know you’re here?”
“No, sir,” Devin said around the finger in his mouth.
Steyer raised his eyebrows, more that he had never heard Devin speak before, but the children took it as a signal to scram. They stood haltingly, then raced across the lawn, jumping the little white picket fence, then waiting for Devin to clamor over.
Steyer waited for them to disappear inside the house before turning back. He and Tech studied one another. He knew he looked tired. Tech, at least, looked improved: His face wasn’t sagging as much, his eyes were bright. His hands did not shake.
“Tech,” Steyer greeted. “You look much better.”
