by Jette Harris
“It’s not that big of a deal.” Shaking his head, Byron left the room.
****
For an hour or so, nothing moved but Heather’s pen. Remington and Steyer glanced up at her between making phone calls, sending text messages, and responding to emails from various teams and labs. Every time their phones buzzed, Remington suppressed a wave of hope. He knew better, but he still watched Steyer’s expression carefully as he tapped through a long email.
“The fire marshal finished his initial inspection and is compiling his report.”
“Did he find anything?”
“Nothing more than we already know so far.”
Remington breathed a sigh of relief. He had feared the body count would go up. He nodded, turning to study Heather.
He agreed with Steyer: Heather was holding back. But that was common among victims of sexual assault, especially long-term situations. They don’t recognize the normalcy of Stockholm Syndrome, or that forced orgasm or grasping a moment of comfort isn’t something to be ashamed of. That was reassuring on some level: it was preferable to the alternative, where a victim grew flippant or embraced the exploitation, speaking casually of topics that turned Remington’s stomach.
“I’m goin’ for a walk.”
Remington could feel Steyer’s eyes follow him from the room. He went to the elevator, rubbing his jaw.
“Grinding your teeth?”
Timothy Scarrott, Heather’s doctor, stepped in front of the elevator with a can of Coke and a Snickers clutched in one hand. They had spoken earlier of having him determine a timeline of Heather’s injuries, which would explain his haunted, tired expression.
“Yeah, I’m just…” Remington shrugged.
“Pissed?” Scarrott suggested with a raised brow.
“That sounds accurate.”
“We should start a club. I bet the dues would pay your salary. Maybe even mine.”
Remington barked a laugh. He nodded toward Scarrott’s cola. “Where’d you get that?”
“Last door on the left. There’s a coffee machine, too.”
“Oh, thank God.”
The elevator dinged and the doors opened. Scarrott boarded, but Remington stepped back.
“Thanks, Doc. Hey, can Heather have coffee?” He put a hand out to keep the elevator from closing.
Scarrott frowned. “Maybe half a cup. Or decaf. No cream or sugar.”
“Thanks.” Remington smacked the door. “See you later.”
“Should be a blast. Real heart-warming. Can’t wait.”
****
I asked him why he had brought us there, and he said something about breaking horses. He wanted to bend us to his will.
Heather caught her breath as if a missing puzzle piece had just settled into place.
Talking about horses apparently inspired him to braid my hair. I had been afraid at the time that he had a small daughter, since he could comb hair properly and braid, but I think it’s really because he works with horses.
She paused again and tapped her temple with the pen. I bet there’s some way to track that… like a database of horse owners who purchase straight razors and can give stitches…
She began to scribble a note in the margin. A knock on the door made her look up. When it opened, she had to suppress the urge to jump out of her chair.
Agent Remington entered the room. He paused at her startled expression and held up his hands. He had a cup in one and a bottle of water in the other. She pulled the buds from her ears.
“How ya doing?”
Every time he opened his mouth and let out that accent, Heather relaxed a little more. She wondered if he exaggerated it for that very reason.
“I think he could be a vet,” she said instead of answering.
“A veteran? Yeah.”
“No, no. A veterinarian.”
He furrowed his brow and placed the cup and bottle in front of her. She saw the coffee with a rush of excitement, but studied him cautiously.
“Dr. Scarrott said it was OK.”
“Thank you…” She took it slowly and inhaled the fragrance. It was weak and poorly-made, but it still snapped her mind clear.
“A veterinarian…” He glanced over her work. “That would make sense. Why?”
She rubbed the stitches on her collarbone. “He mentioned horses… and the stitches…”
“You think he’s the one who stitched you up?”
“I didn’t notice any alternative options. It isn’t difficult, though, is it?”
“Oh, I’ve given myself stitches a few times, but you can tell the difference when it’s done by a doctor or done on the street. We’ll be talkin’ to the doctor later, and he’ll be able to tell us more.”
She nodded and leaned back, taking a small sip. Yep. Weak, but coffee.
“You want anything else?”
“No, I’m good.”
“Just let us know if you get hungry.”
“Will do.”
He glanced down at the paper once more before he left. Heather watched him leave. Despite the similarity in height and color, he had a very different shape.
Heather returned her attention to the narrative. She re-read the last paragraph and poised her pen to continue.
He braided my hair and took me out into the bedroom. There were—
Her hand jerked, leaving a bold blue streak. She swallowed hard. There were cameras, she told herself to write. There were cameras. Then he left and came back with Monica…
Her hands began to tremble.
****
When Remington pushed into the observation room, Steyer eyed his troubled expression.
“What’s on your mind?”
“Either she’s doing much better, or she’s disassociating.”
Tech grunted. “They put her on some pretty strong meds, I think.”
“Or it could be that.” Remington shrugged and leaned against the window frame. He didn’t like the idea of someone so emaciated put on powerful medications, not after the nightmares he had witnessed. “So… a veterinarian veteran?”
Steyer raised his brow appraisingly. “It’s a good theory. She’s very astute.”
“You have no idea,” Tech said.
Remington opened his mouth, but paused, releasing a pensive groan. He closed it again and scratched his face. Tech snorted and turned back to the window. Steyer waited, chin raised. “What I don’t see…” Remington began. “Astute, sure, and resilient, undoubtedly, but why—”
“Intel…”
Steyer shot Tech a severe look, but Tech’s focus was on the window.
Heather stood at the door of the interview room, shaking violently. Her face was red and wet, her breath coming in gasps and heaves. She pulled the handle, but it didn’t move. She covered her mouth.
“Is she having some kind of allergic reaction?” Tech shot up.
“She’s having a panic attack.” Remington hurried into the hall.
Heather lurched forward, slamming her fists against the door. “Let me out!” Recoiling, she clutched her left shoulder, then continued pounding with her right hand. “Let me out, you son of a bitch!”
Remington yanked the door open. With surprising force, Heather’s tiny body collided with his. He hit the opposite wall, the air knocked from his lungs. They tumbled to the floor. She shoved him away with a painful yelp and bolted down the hall.
“Heather!” Tech yelled.
Steyer ran after her. Tech hoisted Remington to his feet. Remington clapped a grateful hand on his shoulder and shot after them.
“Heather, stop!” Steyer’s voice guided Remington down an adjoining hall. “It’s not safe!”
Heather burst through a door opening onto the main lobby. Remington caught up with Steyer as he reached it. Her steps slowed to a stop in the middle of the cavernous room, her gaze fixed toward the entrance.
Byron, his phone to his ear, stepped inside. He almost collided with Lauri Shatterthwaith, who had frozen at the sight of the ragged girl
running into the lobby.
“Oh, God…” Tech moaned as he stepped into the lobby.
A choking sound escaped Heather’s throat, like she was going to be sick. Lauri’s lips trembled.
“M…” Heather made the noise again, taking a hesitant step forward. “Mom?”
Lauri loosed a sob and held her arms out. Heather hurried to her and folded into them, sobbing. Lauri hugged her close, and together they sank to the floor.
Lauri stroked Heather’s hair and rocked her gently as they cried.
*
The smell of smoke and burnt rubber still clung to the air, not quite successful at covering the smell of burnt flesh. Steyer and Remington stood in the shade of a massive oak. Besides a few toasted leaves, it had been untouched by the blaze. The fire department had managed to save a small portion of the house, which appeared to be the kitchen and dining room. The rest was a framework of charred timber. The roof and second story had collapsed. The glass of the sunroom had melted, the metal frame bowing.
The front gate was open, but a line of yellow police tape spanned the opening. Lieutenant Kondorf and Sergeant Young had parked out front without incident, but Chief Collins was swarmed by reporters as soon as he opened his car door. He didn’t pause, but made brief comments and evasive statements until he was safely beyond the tape. They shouted questions at his back, but didn’t dare follow.
“No dogs today?” Young’s tone was light, but her smile was frail.
Steyer gestured toward the remains of the house. “I don’t believe Search and Rescue will be necessary.”
Collins stood beside them. He swept back his jacket to perch his hands on his hips. He wrinkled his nose, perhaps at the sight, perhaps at the smell. “So, what’re we lookin’ at?”
Remington cleared his throat and flipped open his notebook to the notes from their meeting with the fire marshal. “The fire had been set within ten minutes of FD’s arrival, but the Phoenix used two very efficient accelerants: kerosene and vulcanized rubber.”
“Vulcanized rubber?”
“Car tires,” Steyer explained.
“The tires were stacked in specific locations around the house: load-bearing walls, corners, under the stairs.” Remington took a deep breath. “Human remains had been located from three different locations and removed. Nothing’s been confirmed yet, but we’re assuming they belong to Deputy Duley—”
Steyer ducked his chin, shaking his head.
“—Charles Witt, and Zachariah Vlasov. According to Heather’s statement, Chuck died inside the house, on the second floor. She doesn’t know what happened to his body, but it did not remain… in situ. She believes the deputy was inside the house or on the porch when the Phoenix shot him a single time. He was in the front hall when Heather and Monica ran out. Now, Z…” Remington swept an arm over the yard. “The Phoenix killed Z somewhere along the perimeter of the yard, right by a chain-link fence, so not the front or the back. We haven’t located the exact spot, though.”
Young clicked her tongue. Her dogs could have assisted them with that. Remington ground his teeth as he collected his thoughts. He nodded his head toward the side yard, and they began a slow trek around the ruin.
“Both City of Cheatham Hill and Cobb County provided us with blueprints, but… they are both over thirty years old, and neither of them match, either themselves or the statements we’ve received. We’re also under the impression—based on Darnell Jones’s observation and Heather’s statement—that the Phoenix made his own… improvements: He re-did the kitchen and subdivided one of the bedrooms into… uh… ‘closets’ to keep the… kids in.”
Kondorf curled his lip. “He remodeled the kitchen?”
“According to Darnell’s statement, the kitchen looked completely different than it had when he was last there, three months previous. Neither the city nor the county have done anything to it, since it’s currently part of a law suit between them.”
“That’s crazy,” Young muttered.
Collins shrugged. “Murder. Arson. Rape… Remodeling. Crazy seems to be a theme here.”
“Sounds like a waste of money to me,” Kondorf said.
“Remington pointed out that he was scaling up when it comes to houses he chooses. It shouldn’t be any surprise to find he’s also scaling up how much he spends on these expeditions.”
Remington spread his arms. “That appears to be part of the pattern. Travel. New Jeep—”
“Jeep?” Young asked.
“Yes. Heather reported he was driving a Jeep Cherokee when he hit her car, and two officers responding to the all-call reported a red SUV-like vehicle driving away from the back gate.”
Young shook her head. “Down here, you can’t swing a cat without hitting someone who drives a Jeep. I do, Kondorf here used to.”
“To be accurate,” Steyer said, “Heather reported a ‘dark-colored SUV,’ but when shown a few pictures, indicated the late-90’s model Jeep Cherokee.”
“She also said she didn’t believe it was black,” Remington added, “which is the color of the early-90’s model Jeep we believe he drove in San Francisco.”
They reached the back of the house. Despite the damage to the sunroom, the back had held up far better than the front.
Remington paused by the crumbling brick wall around the sunroom. “This is where two sets of remains were found… There wasn’t much left. The fire marshal informed us that vulcanize rubber burns hot enough to burn teeth and bone.”
“According to the calendar we constructed, Chuck was killed around the twentieth, and Z died within the next five days. We’re guessing that he removed them both to the sunroom.”
“Why do you think he kept them?” Young wrinkled her nose.
“He always keeps them.” Remington shrugged. “Most likely so he can dispose of all the bodies at once, in the fire.”
“It is… unfortunately efficient,” Steyer said.
*
The hospital room hummed with electricity, dripping, and beeping. The only light was the dusky glow filtering through the blinds. The room could not have been more different from the Hospitality House, with its silence and glaring white walls. After a month, Heather had grown accustomed to it, and, despite the pain-killers, she could not sleep. Grandpa noticed, and raised his head. He had refused to leave her side, and his rough fingers stayed wrapped around her hand, reassuring her that she was safe.
“Have I ever told you how I met your mother?” His raspy voice sounded so loud among the inanimate buzz.
A grin broke across her face. She loved his stories, even when they were painful for him to tell, or for her to hear. “Don’t you mean my grandmother?” Her voice was heavy from whatever they had pumped into her.
“No.” He shook his head. “Your mother.”
Smiling curiously, Heather lowered her head to meet his eyes. They were still bright and full of mischief.
“I never told you.” He cringed bashfully. “It’s not exactly something to be proud of.”
“I imagine she was some unexpected spoil of war.”
Tech nodded. “I was in Tokyo. I had been in the hospital for, oh, about three weeks–that I can remember–and I get this phone call from my former CO, from before the Mission—” He only ever referred to it as “the Mission,” as if he had never had another. “—and he tells me… he says, ‘Tech, I got a-a gook here, demanding to see you. She won’t go away.’”
He laughed nervously. Heather’s attention was completely devoted to him. She had developed that intense gaze over the long nights she spent sitting up with him when he woke screaming. He had been accustomed to it before she disappeared, but now it made him as fidgety and nervous as it had back then. She was slowly running her thumb up and down the hand that held hers.
“See, your grandmother was a waitress outside of Seoul. She loved to laugh. She thought I was an idiot. We… uh… I took her out a few times, but when I was pulled for the Mission, I didn’t see her for several months, almost a year. So,
when he called, I said, you know, ‘Too bad, I’m in Tokyo, I’m going home tomorrow.’” He fell quiet, running a hand absently over the copper-colored hair on his arm. “Colonel goes quiet, then he says, ‘I’m arranging for transport to Tokyo; You’re taking her with you.’ My reply was, ‘The hell you are!’”
He chuckled, then sniffed. Heather could tell what was coming next. She swallowed hard, bracing herself against the dull ache that was already blooming in her chest.
“And he tells me, ‘She’s got a baby with her, Tech, a little girl. I didn’t believe her at first, but… She’s got your eyes; She looks like she’s ’bout to crack a joke any minute.’” He chuckled again, shrugging. His laughter faded slowly. Heather could hear the tears in his voice, but they hadn’t reached his eyes. He ran his fingers over them anyway. She squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back.
“I thought he was kidding, but that night, Vu… I called her ‘Vu,’ I didn’t know any better… She shows up with… with this… this little…” He freed his hand to gesture how small, his voice finally cracking. Giving up on the story, he shook his head. He had developed the same lump in his throat that Heather could feel in hers.
Grandpa clutched her hand again and lowered his forehead to it. “She was so… so beautiful,” he squeezed out. His shoulders shuddered, but when he looked back up at her, his face was dry. “Heather… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean…” He choked and had to swallow. “What I said that night, I didn’t mean it. You are so much—so much—like your mother. She was so strong.”
Whimpering, Heather lowered her head, cradling his hand under her chin. A rattling sob escaped her. Leaning up, she wrapped her arms around him. She had to bite back a groan from the pain shooting from her collar and the broken ribs, but it faded as he rocked her like a child, stroking her hair.
*
Dr. Timothy Scarrott scurried from one side of his office to the other, grabbing an X-Ray here, a photo there. Agents Steyer and Remington sat before his desk, glancing between the doctor’s frenetic movements and the stack of papers he had handed each of them upon entering.
