Run Rabbit Run Boxset

by Jette Harris

  Her throat grew tight. Because he’s stronger. Faster. He’ll—

  A gentle tap on the door made her flinch. She groaned as she pushed herself off the floor. Her face felt stiff and sticky from dried snot and tears.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s Agent Steyer. Do you have a moment?”

  No, I’m busy, she was tempted to reply. Sylvia Plath and I have a date. She opened the door anyway. Steyer studied her with an inquisitive expression.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Monica?”

  “Ah.”

  She gestured to her chest and opened her mouth to explain, but tears choked her again.

  “Consider this, Heather: If you could have prevented yourself from feeling what you do now, would you?”

  She narrowed her eyes and shook her head as if the question were a low blow.

  “I apologize for keeping you in the dark or neglecting to share certain aspects of our investigation. We are still trying to figure out the ropes, testing the scope of the case.”

  Sighing, her anger melted. “It’s OK… I understand,” she murmured.

  “Agent Remington is on his way with an FBI liaison about some options I’d like for you to consider going forward, then, depending on what you decide, there may be a constant police presence on the property.”

  Heather swallowed hard and glanced away. A constant police presence would put a damper on her tentative plan of becoming a murderer. “How long?”

  Steyer shrugged. “As long as it takes.”

  “What… what if I don’t want them?”

  He blinked, tilting his head. “Heather, I don’t think you understand the gravity of your situation. Your importance—”

  “For being so important, I haven’t been very involved.” Her voice came out more indignant than she had intended.

  Steyer was silent for a moment. “Would you like to be more actively involved?”

  Heather had a feeling that wasn’t what he had wanted to say. “I would. I want to catch this bastard. I want to be the one to strap him down and throw the switch.”

  He studied her again. “We can arrange for you to be more involved, but… You have to understand: We cannot risk your safety or your emotional stability.”

  Heather opened her mouth to protest, but a knock on the front door made her snap it shut again.

  ****

  When Steyer unlocked and opened the door, Wickes was adjusting the shoulders of her blouse. She jerked herself straight.

  “Agent Steyer.” Her nervousness faded with a smile.

  “Ms. Wickes.” His eyes found the small bump she and Remington had created and indulged in a sentimental smile. “You look well.”

  “I appreciate the lie.”

  He waved her into the kitchen. Remington closed and locked the door behind them. Heather descended the stairs as Wickes shook her grandfather’s hand.

  “You must be Mr. Brewer and Miss Stokes.”

  “Tech, please,” he said.

  “Tex?”

  “Tech,” Steyer corrected her. “As in, bomb technician.”

  “Oh, how exciting!”

  Heather stepped forward and shook her hand. She didn’t look so upset anymore. In fact, she looked a bit starry-eyed as she took Wickes in: baby bump, feminine attire, sensible but stylish pumps. “Agent Wickes? Wow. I’m Heather Stokes.”

  Wickes laughed lightly. “It’s just Ms. Wickes. I’m sorry to disappoint.”

  “You still work with the FBI, though?”

  “Yes, in an administrative role.”

  “I’m not disappointed. That’s really cool.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  “Please, have a seat.”

  ****

  Heather sat and took in every detail of Samantha Wickes, from her perfectly-manicured nails to her not-quite-blonde hair that had so far resisted the Georgia humidity. But as she got down to business, Heather’s wonder faded.

  “You mean… if I go into protective custody, I’ll be alone?”

  “Initially, you’ll be under close FBI supervision.”

  “But… it’ll be just me? Grandpa can’t come too?”

  Wickes pursed her lips and shook her head. Heather shook her head as well.

  “The… The Phoenix… his MO is threatening… harming the ones I lo—I care for in order to get his way. My grandfather is also in danger.”

  “If that were the case, the situation yesterday morning would have been very different. But instead of this man threatening your grandfather, he left him unharmed and continued looking for you.”

  Heather covered her face and exhaled slowly. “No.”

  “Heather…” Tech murmured.

  “This isn’t a decision you need to make tonight,” Wickes said. “As Agent Steyer explained, we are arranging a police detail—”

  “No, no, no,” Heather insisted. “If my grandfather doesn’t go, I don’t go.”

  “There’s no reason to suspect the Phoenix won’t leave your grandfather unmolested if you are removed from the equation,” Remington said.

  “I know better than to take that chance.”

  “So you’d rather risk both of you getting hurt or killed—the only one who can positively identify a serial killer—”

  Heather shot to her feet. A jolt of pain radiated around her torso, making her hiss and clench her teeth. She took a deep breath to compose herself. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Wickes.”

  Wickes stood and offered her a hand. “I can see what I can do.”

  “I would appreciate that.” Heather shook her hand. “Please let me know if anything changes… then I may change my mind.”

  *

  Byron’s heart beat a drumline as he pulled his patrol car in front of Heather’s house. The FBI fleet vehicles were already there. He moved haltingly as he gathered his things: coffee, bottle of water, drawstring bag, and climbed out of the car.

  They were going to be here a while, and he had no idea what to expect. When Byron sat on details before, for women packing their things to leave abusive partners, and even once for an Austrian dignitary visiting the area, he had always felt like he was intruding. Although he had known Heather for four years—perhaps because he had known her for so long—that feeling intensified.

  Or maybe it’s because Agent Steyer told you that you were the last person she needed right now… His face flushed. He hesitated at the bottom porch step, torn between You know he’s right and What if she needs you?

  Bracing himself with a deep breath, he climbed the stairs and tapped Shave and a Haircut on the door. He had developed that habit back after Heather’s parents had died, and he volunteered to help her and Tech out, with things like yardwork and moving Heather out of her parents’ place so they could sell it.

  “Don’t—” He heard Remington bark. “I’ll get it.”

  Byron shuffled his feet. “It’s Jamal!”

  “Who?” Remington pulled the curtain aside.

  “Jamal Byron.”

  The agent’s mouth formed an embarrassed o and he nodded. Locks scraped and he opened the door.

  “Sorry,” he said. “It takes me a while to transition between first and last names.”

  “It’s all good.” Byron tucked the water bottle under his arm and extended his hand. Remington accepted it, glancing behind him. “We were really hoping for two of you.”

  “The request was a bit short-notice. We have some re-scheduling to do before we can spare two officers.”

  Remington nodded and stepped aside to allow Byron in. Everyone was crowded into the living room. Heather had apparently been the one to stand to open the door, and was re-arranging a blanket over her legs. Byron fought the urge to sit next to her and put an arm over her shoulders, especially since Steyer sat in the arm chair next to her end of the couch. His piercing blue gaze met Byron’s eyes with an unreadable expression. Byron hoped his was just as impassive as he nodded a greeting.

  Before Byron could join them, Remington beck
oned him into the kitchen. Out of sight of the others, he spoke in a low voice: “Our FBI liaison just left. We believe it’s in Heather’s best interest to go into protective custody—”

  Byron’s eyes went wide. “You mean like witness protection?”

  “Yes, witness protection.”

  “With a new name and everything?” His chest filled will dread, although his mind recognized this was the best possible option.

  “Yes. It may be the only way she comes out of this alive and unhar…” Remington cleared his throat. “And without further damage. So far, she’s refused. I was hoping you could help us convince her.”

  Byron nodded slowly. “Why did she refuse?”

  “The service would be only for one; Tech won’t be able to go with her.”

  “Oh, I don’t see that goin’ over well.”

  “It didn’t. But, like I said—”

  “It would be the best thing for her.” Byron gave an assenting dip of his chin. “I’ll see if I can slip it in, give her my two cents. I don’t think it’ll go very far right now, though.”

  “Every little bit helps.” Remington patted his back. “Thank you.”

  They emerged from the kitchen. Byron glanced around the living room.

  “Come on in, take a seat,” Tech said.

  Byron didn’t want to decline, but there were no longer any empty spaces. Heather had spread across the couch with her legs propped on the arms. A bowl of popcorn—unbuttered by the smell of it—sat on her belly. An empty chair sat opposite them, between the TV and the front door. He assumed that was where Remington had been sitting.

  “You can have my chair,” Remington said. “We were just about to turn in.”

  Steyer returned his attention to Heather. “We’re going to do our best to keep your detail to two, at least one, and Agent Steyer or myself will be checking in often.” He stood slowly, as if he were a bit sore. “It won’t always be to ask questions or give updates, so don’t get anxious or excited when we show up. It’ll be, like I said, to check in, or perhaps even a social call.”

  “We could go fishin’,” Tech said.

  Steyer blinked slowly at this proposal, as if fishing were an alien concept. “Yes, we could,” he finally replied.

  Heather’s expression implied she believed the agents had better things to do than fish. Steyer smiled down at her.

  “I appreciate everything,” she said, giving them an upside-down wave. “Let me know if you might need anything else.” Her voice was slow and deliberate. Byron guessed if he looked into her eyes, they would be dilated and unfixed.

  “Call us if anything happens,” Remington whispered to him with a pat on the shoulder.

  *

  “Double-shot cap?”

  “Hm?” Steyer had been so absorbed in Heather’s account of the Camera Room and the Phoenix’s intimate confession, he hadn’t noticed Remington pull into the coffee shop parking lot.

  “You coming in?” Remington had popped his door open. Wickes had already climbed out of the car and hurried toward the entrance.

  “I’m good, thank you.” Steyer gestured the stack of paper in his lap as if they would relieve and sustain him.

  “Be right back.” Remington slapped the roof and closed the door. The locks clicked. Steyer buried himself back into the report.

  When Heather confessed what she had omitted from her original account, Steyer had not expected to be surprised. He suspected he would find some clue revealing the Phoenix’s ulterior motives. But her account was so thorough and consistent, some of the quotations included made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

  The phone in his breast pocket buzzed against his chest. He pulled it out to see an unfamiliar 678 number.

  “Steyer here,” he answered.

  “Evening, Ritchie.”

  Steyer shot forward, twisting his neck to search the parking lot.

  “How’s my girl?”

  There was a group of young men smoking by a car on the other side of the parking lot and a woman guiding a small child toward the doors. They seemed oblivious of the threat that loomed over them.

  Keep him talking. “Who is this?”

  “You know who the fuck this is. Don’t be cute.”

  Steyer ran a hand over his face. He twisted around to peer through the windows of the coffee shop, but couldn’t distinguish Wickes or Remington inside. “I’m just not accustomed to speaking with you unless someone’s life is on the line.”

  “I can arrange that, if you wish.” He sounded so casual.

  “I’d rather you don’t.”

  “I’d rather not as well. I’m still a bit sore.”

  Slowly, Steyer slid back down in his seat, perhaps a little lower than he had been. “Heather mentioned you were limping when you paid her a visit.”

  “Hm. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “She had quite the scare.”

  “Huh. She OK?”

  “I’m not entirely sure.”

  “Don’t bullshit with me, Ritchie.”

  “I’m feeling a bit off-kilter here. We seem to be on a first-name basis, but I don’t know yours.”

  “You can call me Avery. I like that one.”

  “Why Avery? Why not Lark or Cooper?”

  “Heather doesn’t call me Lark or Cooper.”

  “She doesn’t really call you Avery, either.” Steyer said it snidely, but his heart raced. Baiting him was a great risk, especially if he was within firing range.

  There was a pause. Steyer twisted around again. Remington and Wickes were standing by the sugar station.

  “What’s she call me?”

  “‘That man’ usually. ‘This guy.’” He bit back the more colorful answers.

  “Well, that’s underwhelming. She used to call me ‘Colossus’ when talking to the others.”

  “Others? The other kids?”

  “They weren’t kids.” His voice was hard.

  Steyer’s brow went up. You hit a nerve with that one. “She—uh—she’s called you Colossus once or twice.” He cleared his throat and ran his hand over the report. He braced himself. “Fucking creep.”

  “Say that again.”

  “She called you a fuckin’ creep. She said you were—quote—‘fucking creepy.’”

  “I imagine I was on occasion.”

  Remington and Wickes finally emerged from the coffee shop. Steyer waved at them, but they didn’t notice. They looked so content, so normal.

  “Yeah, she said you mentioned kids and marriage—”

  “I never mentioned marriage.”

  “I’ve got to say, I’m a bit… disappointed.” Steyer regretted his words immediately, realizing Remington and Wickes were completely exposed, still taking their time.

  “I don’t think I heard you right.”

  “I never envisioned you being the kind of killer who claimed to love his victims. I imagined you more Hedonistic.”

  “Hedonistic. You and her and your fucking philosophies.”

  “It just seemed kind of… sappy.”

  The doors unlocked. Steyer jumped out, pointing to his phone.

  “Go back inside,” Remington ordered. Wickes looked between them, her hand instinctively going to her belly. He pulled out his phone as she hurried back to the coffee shop.

  “…sappy?” Rhodes growled.

  “Yeah, sappy.” With Wickes back in safely and Remington aware of the situation, Steyer decided to pull out the stops. “Like some poorly-researched 90’s movie.”

  Something crashed, like Rhodes had slammed his fist down. “I’ll tell you what’s sappy, Ritchie: You and your Johnny going to Mangoes every Friday night.”

  Steyer’s heart skipped a beat.

  “Smiling at his face but looking torn up behind his back. Because you have to pretend like it’s possible for you to leave your work behind–leave me behind.”

  Steyer covered his mouth and struggled to breathe.

  “Your hedonist is gone, R
itchie, and now I’m going after what I want. Tell me, what the fuck do you want?”

  Steyer pulled in a deep breath. “I want you, Avery, strapped to a table with a needle in your arm.”

  Remington’s eyes went wide.

  “That’s too fucking bad,” Rhodes said. The phone cracked and the line went dead. Steyer leaned against the car, covering his mouth. I need to call Johnny. I need to tell him to get out of town.

  “Thanks,” Remington said into his phone and hung up. He placed a hand on Steyer’s shoulder. “It was Sydney Lancaster’s phone.”

  Steyer patted Remington’s arm, straightening. He took another deep breath. “We need to get Sam out of here. It’s not safe here for her.”

  ****

  Rhodes threw the pieces of the phone and roared. Heather had told him. He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe he had been so careless in the first place, to trust her, to let her escape, to speak to her the way he had.

  (End it. Just kill her. Kill her and go home.)

  With a growl, he sank onto the edge of the bed. Steyer was right: he had gotten sappy.

  But he wasn’t about to let Heather go.

  May 2006

  Rhodes entered the Bedroom to hear the squeaking of knobs and the shower coming to life. Heather flinched away as he leaned past her to close the drain and re-route the shower to run a bath. Her eyes flickered over him, then away, but she said nothing. She perched on the edge of the vanity to wait for the tub to fill. She stared at her swinging feet. Her silence made the muscles in the back of his neck tense.

  “Are you a shower girl or a bath girl?” He placed a hand on either side of her. Her feet stopped swinging, her body became rigid.

  “I’m sure you’ve seen my bathtub,” she replied, shaking her head. “It’s the size of a matchbox.”

  He tilted his head. “The one in the guest room is huge.”

  Heather’s eyes hardened. “That is not a guest room.”

  “Ah…” It had been her mother’s room; He should have seen that. She slid off the counter, but he didn’t move his hands. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I only take baths when I’m sore,” she said curtly.

  “Sore…” He murmured, brushing the hair from her face. “I bet you’re very sore now.”