by Jette Harris
“Good morning. I’m Sergeant Duley with the Sheriff’s Office.” Duley put out a hand.
“Wren Chares.” The man pointed to himself. He clasped and released Duley’s hand without shaking it.
Duley was unimpressed. “Do you own this house, Mr. Carries?”
Chares nodded. “I moved in… about a month ago? Maybe? I found it real cheap on an online auction.”
“Do you mind if I come in?”
“You betcha.” Chares smiled with a shrug. It was a damn good-looking smile. “You’re my first guest since making it presentable.” Scratching the back of his head and yawning again, Chares shuffled into the great room. “Is there a problem, Sergeant? Something amiss?”
“Not necessarily.” Duley closed the door behind him. “We were under the impression the house was vacant.”
“Not anymore,” Chares said. “Although I’ve been led to believe it stood vacant for quite a while before I acquired it. It was a mess.”
“When did you say you moved in? Last month?”
“Mm… the beginning of May.” He scratched his head and ran his fingers through his hair. “Is it still May?”
“For one more day.”
“Ah, shit. Sorry, officer.”
“Deputy,” Duley corrected him, looking around. “Are you familiar with the history of the house?” He looked daunted by the walls and ceiling.
“Nope.” Chares bit the word off, indicating he could not care less about the property’s history.
“Just don’t expect anyone to show up to your Juneteenth barbeque.”
“My what?”
Duley chuckled. Chares was obviously not from around these parts; His accented was reminiscent of Wisconsin. “Don’t concern yourself with it.” He looked around again. A duffel bag and rucksack sat on the floor at the mouth of a corridor leading to the back of the house. “Do you currently have the deed to the house? Or a bill of sale?”
“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Chares gestured toward a closed door on their left and opened it into a richly-furnished office.
Duley leaned on the doorframe as Chares sat at a large, claw-footed desk, opened a drawer, and shuffled through a row of file folders. Duley took in the leather furniture and functional fireplace with a mixture of envy and disdain.
“What is it you do, Mr. Carries?”
“Uh…” Chares paused over the files. “Acquisitions.”
“That’s one of those jobs everyone knows the name of, but no one can say exactly what they do.”
“You’re not the first one to say that,” Chares chuckled. “I—uh—well, I acquire things. If my company wants a certain building, or a fleet of cars, or a thousand bookshelves, they send me to find it, purchase it, and arrange for transportation if it needs to be transported.”
“The more you know…”
Chares pulled out a small stack of papers. He stared down at it and sniffed. Duley sniffed as well, then turned back into the great room. He had only caught it for a second: a trace of decay. Frowning, he returned to the great room, sniffing, trying to find it again.
“What’s wrong?” Chares asked, following. He held the paper in front of him.
“Do you smell that?”
“Sometimes.” Chares looked around with a funny grin. “Didn’t you say something about the house having history?”
Duley shot the man a look that said Don’t even go there. His robe had fallen open, revealing a toned chest, covered in dark hair and red scratches in varying degrees of freshness. Duley looked from the scratches to the man’s eyes—eyes so dark, they looked black. He didn’t look lethargic or weak anymore. The document in his hand exploded.
Duley hit the floor, unable to catch his breath. Chares peered down at him, face drawn with concern. His expression hardened. Before Duley lost consciousness, he could feel liquid being splashed over him. The smell of kerosene filled the air.
86
Byron and Kondorf were already en route to the Hospitality House when the tones dropped for an officer in distress.
“Dispatch all units, channel is 10-3 for a code 63 in reference to Sergeant Travis Duley at the Hospitality House.”
She followed with the address, but everyone already knew where they were heading. They turned on their lights and sirens and hit the gas. Byron clung to his seatbelt and Kondorf started to pray.
87
2002
San Francisco (“Lark Alexander”)
Steyer stood, hands in his pockets, on the shoulder of Route 1, watching the firefight. Next to him, Remington scowled. He had his back to the remainder of the structure, finding it difficult to watch. Although the majority of the fire had been knocked down with a portion of the house still standing, they were still likely to find four bodies inside.
“This is my fault,” Remington said as the heat of the fire gave way to the cold ocean air.
“This isn’t your fault,” Steyer assured him.
Remington shook his head, turning to the fire, then away again. “I shouldn’t have engaged him. I freaked him out—got too close. I should have waited for back-up. He couldn’t have killed all of us. And now all of them are dead.” He waved a hand back toward the house.
Steyer grabbed his shoulders and forced him to face him. “Special Agent Remington, this has nothing to do with you. It’s been over three weeks. It was time.” Remington looked askance, but Steyer grabbed his chin. Remington tried to pull away, but Steyer did not release him. “This man murdered my partner, not three feet from me. I’ve wrestled these demons, agent. It took me a long time to realize that, given the circumstances, the same thing would have happened to anyone: Fire marshal, local PD, anyone. Not just me. Not just you.”
Remington stared, shocked by this lapse in Steyer’s cool and professional demeanor. Steyer released him, nodding. Remington let the words sink in before nodding back.
“Now,” Steyer’s matter-of-fact tone returned as he straightened his tie, “fire’s out. Let’s go see if we can gear up and get in.”
****
Remington kicked through some debris. Steyer had been called over to see if he could make a tentative ID on a partially-charred corpse. The sun was crawling out from the ocean behind the house, threatening a deceptively-beautiful sunrise.
The phone in Remington’s pocket began to buzz. Stepping over a wall, he cleared the debris and pulled it out. It was from a local number.
“Remington.”
“Agent Remington,” a man replied in a breathy voice.
The muscles along Remington’s spine knotted. “Who is this?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t have the opportunity to get to know you better.”
Remington took a deep breath to keep himself from screaming into the phone. He turned slowly, studying the people picking through the site. When he caught Steyer’s eye, he spread his arms and dropped them. “Who—?”
“I’m leaving now, Agent Remington, but I look forward to seeing you again next time. I might even finish what I started.”
“What do you mean, finish what you started?”
“Adieu, mon putain.” The phone clicked, leaving Remington alone with the flaming sunrise.
88
May, 2006
Atlanta
Rhodes opened his eyes with a groan. The smell of kerosene made him dizzy. No, his head hurt. He was on the library floor.
(Why am I on the floor?)
He raised his head and looked up at the second floor. The banister was broken, threatening to fall on him. Heather… (That goddamned Rabbit…) Heather had pushed him. She had tricked him. Again.
He pulled himself up using the chaise lounge. Pain shot up his leg. He clenched his teeth and forced himself to move. Following the sound of footsteps, he caught sight of Monica’s curly hair as she disappeared out the front door.
Groaning, he lumbered after them. At the threshold, he watched them slam the doors of the patrol car. Left with no other choice, he stepped back inside the foyer and opened the coat
closet. He stepped back onto the front porch and cradled a rifle in his shoulder. He found the patrol car in his sights.
(Breath... Wind... Speed...) He pulled the trigger.
The passenger-side window shattered. The car swerved and stopped. Rhodes huffed, raising the scope again. (I didn’t miss. I couldn’t have missed.) He took a few painful steps forward. The car lurched and took off again.
Rhodes didn’t have time to think about it. Reaching into the pocket of his robe, he pulled out a box of matches.
The radio on the deputy’s chest squawked, making Rhodes jump. “Sergeant Duley, what’s your status?”
Every step Rhodes took sent grinding pain through his left leg. Tears stung his eyes. He clenched his teeth to bite back his pain and rage. He locked the door, although it would soon be useless, and slung the rifle over his shoulder. Tones dropped as he reached the back door.
“Dispatch all units, channel is 10-3 for a code 63…”
The duffel bag and rucksack containing his remaining possessions were already waiting by the back door. A puddle of kerosene had spread, threatening to soak the bag. He roared in pain as he hoisted them up. His vision blurred. He fumbled with the matches as he stepped out into the back door. His robe was soaked in patches and the kerosene was oily on his feet. He leaned back into the house to strike the match, and waited for the flame to spread up the matchstick before dropping it.
The match disappeared into the liquid. This was his favorite part, providing a momentary relief from his panic: The puddle of golden liquid roared to life. He stepped back to watch the fire fly across the floor, ravenous, licking the walls. The flames covered and consumed Duley, tendrils splitting and spreading into the dining room, the office, and out of sight into the library and upstairs. It climbed the tires he had stacked throughout the house and emitted rank, thick black smoke.
Over the roar and crackle, Rhodes could hear sirens approaching. His rucksack over one shoulder and the duffel in his hand, he turned away from the house. The back and driver’s doors of the Jeep already hung open. A box sat behind the passenger seat. Rhodes slid the duffel bag in. It was bulging; The zipper had refused to close all the way, revealing the tawny brown of a deputy’s uniform. He made sure the opening faced the seat. He placed his rucksack carefully in the middle, where he could reach it if he had to, then slid the rifle behind them. It was hidden from a cursory glance.
The sirens were getting louder.
As he closed the door, he wrenched his knee. A jolt shot down his shin and up, deep into his teeth. He fought to bite it back, then threw his head back and roared.
(How could I possibly fuck up so badly?)
He clenched his teeth and hobbled to the driver’s door. In the distance, wheels screeched and metal popped as cars collided. His throat constricted and he twisted toward the sound. His breath came short and quick. Swallowing hard, he closed his eyes and forced his emotions down. He climbed into the driver’s seat and swung his leg in.
Pulling the Jeep to the back gate, he stumbled out, opened it, pulled through, then limped back to close it. He secured it with a shrouded disc padlock. Sighing, he leaned against the gate and stared at the house. Old wood didn’t burn well, but kerosene and vulcanized rubber did: The glass of the sunroom was dripping onto the corpses littering the floor. Thick, black smoke billowed, staining the carefree clouds. Tongues of flame lapped small holes into the roof.
The sirens arrived. Rhodes backed away from the gate as two patrol cars skidded across the lawn and into the back yard, leaving red clay tracks. Putting a hop in his step, Rhodes jumped into the Jeep and hit the gas.
****
Remington’s previously-forbidden tailgating skills benefitted them as they fell behind a Kennesaw Police Department vehicle, following it through the residential areas, then down a long road lined with woods. A column of thick black smoke marked their destination. Steyer’s chest was tight. He resisted pressing a hand to it for fear of distracting Remington. He didn’t want to risk a collision… or slowing down.
At the bottom of a hill, a clutch of police cars sat around the base of a large oak. One of the vehicles appeared to have collided with the tree. Remington kept his focus on the bumper before them, but Steyer craned his neck as they passed.
“What?” Remington asked.
“Kondorf had blood on his uniform.”
“He OK?”
“Looked like it.”
Once over the hill, the woods on their left gave way to a lush lawn enclosed by a wrought iron fence. The Hospitality House, a plantation-style manor, stood far back on the property and belched black smoke. Law enforcement vehicles parked along each side of the road. A few were inside the fence, parked on the lawn. Two fire engines sat in front of the house. An ambulance pulled through the front gate and parked on the side of the driveway. Remington pulled in behind it. He parked on the lawn opposite.
Every window they could see on the house was broken, with tongues of flame lapping away at the timber of the frames. A hole had burned through the roof on one side. The firefighters already had their lines hooked up. One was on the front door. As the agents climbed out of the car, the other line began to attack the hole on the roof.
Sargent Young stood among a circle of officers and deputies anxiously awaiting the all-clear from the fire department. Noticing the agents, she made a beeline across the yard. She cleared her throat and brushed the hair from her face before she spoke.
“According to the chatter, one unit witnessed a red SUV driving away from a gate in the back. They—uh—had to cut a chain to give chase, and lost visual. The path back there opens onto a fairly busy highway…” She heaved a sigh.
A Cheatham Hill patrol car shot through the front gates and slid to a stop behind the ambulance. Kondorf gave a shout as he jumped out from behind the wheel and popped open the back door. Byron stepped out and leaned into the back seat.
Over the sounds of the firefight, the officers, and the vehicles, sharp, panicked shrieking tore through the air. Young whipped around. A paramedic jumped out of the ambulance, had a quick exchange with Kondorf, and ducked into the back door with Byron. Without a word, she sprinted to her colleagues. Remington and Steyer followed at a more cautious pace. Steyer had trouble remembering to breathe as Young’s voice, low and comforting, reached them:
“It’s OK, baby girl… You’re safe now. He can’t hurt you anymore.”
After a moment, the screams faded.
Young kept her hand on Byron’s shoulder as he lifted someone wrapped in the blanket out of the backseat. A pair of small, pale feet stuck out, covered in dirt and blood. The paramedic led as he carried the bundle to the back of the ambulance and climbed inside. Young followed.
Byron stepped back out empty-handed. He backed away from the ambulance until he hit the cruiser. Sinking down against the car, he covered his face. His shoulders began to shake.
Remington and Steyer stood next to Kondorf a few feet from the open doors of the ambulance. Remington’s jaw went slack.
“Can you hear my voice?”
“Yes…”
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Two.”
“Do you know what year it is?”
“’06.”
“Good. Now, time for the hard one. Ready?”
“Yeah…”
“What’s your name?”
“Heather Stokes.”
Steyer grew light-headed. He reached out and gripped Remington’s shoulder. “I need to sit down.”
Remington patted his back and led him to sit next to Byron. Steyer reached out and patted the officer’s shoulder. Byron sniffled and raised his head. They watched as the EMT slammed all the doors, cutting off their view of the medic, Young, and Heather Stokes. Lights and sirens, the ambulance passed through the gates and carried its patient away from the Hospitality House.
Discover the beginnings of Avery Rhodes in Phoenix Rising:
Flint Ranch
Salvage
RUIN
Run Rabbit Run
book 3
Jette Harris
Copyright © 2018 Bridgette Harris
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Prologue
30 May, 2006
Thursday
The blood running down his face had dried. Just north of the I-285/75 exit, Avery Rhodes pulled into a gas station parking lot. His shirt was so drenched in sweat and kerosene, he was able to use it to wipe the blood away.
Leaning back, he stuffed the blood- and sweat-stained shirt behind the passenger seat. He would burn it later. He climbed out of the Jeep, knee throbbing with every step. As he walked around the back, he attempted to lean inconspicuously and tear away the paper covering the license plate, but a stabbing pain made him jerk up. Clenching his teeth, he hopped the rest of the way to the passenger-side back door to stash the fake tag with his bloody shirt.
Rhodes took stock of his condition as he pulled on a clean shirt. Sharp, radiating pain in the left knee. Head pounding. Shoulders tight. Pinching in his neck. Aching back.
Injuries consistent with an eighteen-foot fall.
(That fucking Rabbit.)
He climbed back into the driver’s seat and turned on the radio. He scanned FM, then AM, but nothing sounded like coverage of the state-wide manhunt he had anticipated. The only news covering anything other than sports was about the aftermath of an earthquake in Java. He left the radio there and pulled back onto Highway 41 as if he were not a wanted man.
The motel Rhodes pulled into looked like the kind of place married businessmen took hookers. He backed into a parking spot, tags facing the building, and dug under the dash to pull out the room key he had stashed two months ago.
