Run Rabbit Run Boxset

by Jette Harris

  “When we catch him?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  He sighed. “Well… we’ll compile out evidence to pre—”

  “No, I mean… what would you do… really? What will you do to him when you catch him?”

  Remington’s brow went up. He took a deep breath. An image flashed through his mind of a man who had been punched in the face so many times, he required several sessions of reconstructive surgery. “I want to kill him,” he replied softly. “It’ll take every ounce of strength I have not to.”

  She nodded. “I wanted to. I told myself to—”

  “When?”

  She gestured toward the parking lot. “Out there. I told myself to fight, but I… I just froze. I couldn’t move. Fight… run…” Her voice cracked. “He could’ve just plucked me up.”

  Remington blinked at her with wide eyes. She hadn’t been ashamed of contemplating suicide; She had been ashamed of locking up. “Heather,” he breathed. “that’s normal. Natural.”

  “I know!” She slammed her fist on the table. A sharp pain shot through her shoulder. “But… every time! Every time I have the chance, I freeze up. Or I miss it entirely. I had… a million chances, and every time…” She shook her head.

  Remington leaned forward in earnest. “Heather… you are not a killer. It’s not in your nature. There is nothing wrong with that.”

  “I could’ve saved them!”

  “You expect too much of yourself.”

  She recoiled, her breath catching in her throat.

  “I’m serious. You shouldn’t be running around expecting all these things: Aneta Vlasov knew what kind of kid Z was. The Witts aren’t ready to face the truth about Chuck–they’ll face it in their own time. Don’t try to fill Monica’s shoes. You’re not a savior. You’re not a messenger. You’re certainly not some angel of vengeance. You… are Heather Stokes, granddaughter, runner, survivor. And I know it doesn’t feel like it right now—especially no matter what that motherfucker tells you—but you are still just a kid. You’re only eighteen.”

  “You don’t know what he did to me,” she said between clenched teeth.

  “I have a pretty good idea.”

  She shook her head. “Words and photos. That’s not—”

  Remington shoved his face close her hers until she looked him in the eye. “Yes… I do.”

  Her lips quivered again.

  “He hung me from the ceiling, and…” He remembered hands, a mouth, a voice, and shuddered.

  Heather swallowed hard, tears streaming down her face. “This… must be tough for you.”

  “It is, but I know it’s tougher for you.”

  After a long silence, Heather straightened and leaned back in her chair with a glance at him.

  “What’s on your mind?” he asked.

  “Agent Steyer won’t… won’t set a trap.”

  Remington grimaced.

  “Do you know why?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because people get hurt and die.”

  She tilted her head and huffed.

  “It’s not my story to tell. Maybe Ritchie’ll tell you when we get home.”

  “I don’t want to go home,” she said softly. “I want to set a trap. I want to get it right this time.”

  “No.”

  Heather threw her hands up and clapped her feet against the floor, finally showing a bit of the kid she was. “You want to!”

  He laughed. “I want a lot of things, and I can tell you I’m not going to get a single one of them—not even a cup of coffee—if I go behind my partner’s back.”

  “I’ll get you a coffee!” She pushed herself up, but paused. After a beat, she sank back down into her chair.

  “Vertigo?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t have any money on me.”

  Remington laughed. Even Heather cracked a smile.

  *

  “Steyer’s phone.”

  Steyer’s phone had been ringing non-stop all evening, between the incident at the Krispy Kreme and the labs releasing their results. Taking a shower would most likely be the only break he got all night. Remington left Wickes to watch movies next door and sat on his former bed to play as much interference for his partner as possible.

  “Is this Agent Steyer?”

  “This is Agent Remington. Go ahead.”

  There was a pause as the tech checked his notes. “We’ve uncovered the original VIN number for the vehicle. It’s a 1995 Jeep Cherokee. Been through two owners before being junked in 2005 for engine failure and sold to a u-pull junkyard just off 41, who sold it in April. Stated reason is ‘for parts.’ For a Franken-car, it shoulda looked pretty good before he torched it.”

  “Excellent, thanks. Text me the info for the yard, and we’ll check it out tomorrow.”

  “They’re not open on Saturday.”

  “We’ll persuade them.”

  “Good luck with that.” He hung up without a good-bye.

  Before Remington could set the phone back down, it rang again. He sighed, grateful—and not for the first time—he was not the lead on most of their cases. The call was from an unfamiliar 478 number.

  “Steyer’s phone.”

  “Remi?”

  That voice, with such a tone of pleasant surprise, sent a shudder up Remington’s back. “Yeah, who is this?” He scrambled to grab his own phone and tap out a text to have the call traced.

  The Phoenix laughed. “Ah, mon putain, answering Daddy’s phone.”

  “Daddy’s busy, asshole. What do you want?”

  “I wanted to check in.”

  “As far as I know, you don’t have the clearance.”

  “You got me there.”

  “What do you really want?”

  “Oh, I do really want to check in, on Heather. For some odd reason, her house phone seems to be disconnected.”

  “Funny, that. You know, why don’t you go visit her? Bring flowers. Knock loud. Wait patiently.”

  The Phoenix laughed. Remington shuddered again at how human it sounded.

  “You know, I shouldn’t be talking to you. You try my self-control, make me feel conflicted.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well… I love Heather, as I’m sure you’ve heard by now, but I also loved having your cock in my mouth.”

  Acid surged up in Remington’s throat. He fought to swallow it down again.

  “You might not remember that. You were pretty out of it, head injury and all.”

  Remington struggled to speak. He swallowed hard, but his mouth still felt too dry. “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not… I promise I’m not. I remember it clearly: You were glorious.”

  Glorious. The word hit Remington hard, making him sway. It echoed in his mind. The phone slipped from his hand. He didn’t have any images, but that voice whispering that word floated up from the depths of his memory. He felt the strain in his shoulders, hands on his bare thighs, and…

  Remington ran to the sink and vomited.

  *

  “You know the worst thing about this movie?”

  “Hm?” Heather was half-asleep, laid across the couch with her head on Byron’s leg.

  “They left out my man Tom Bombadil. Did him wrong.”

  “Mm. Agreed.”

  The scrape and slap of playing cards drifted from the kitchen. The movie played on. Heather drifted in and out, enjoying the feeling of Byron’s hand resting on her arm. Despite all of these being brand new sensations, Heather felt an odd sense of normalcy. She had agonized for hours over Remington’s words and finally concluded he was right: she was not a martyr, a savior, or an avenging angel. All she needed to be right now was a sleepy fangirl on the couch with Byron.

  A knock on the door jarred her out of her sleepiness. She sat up and combed her fingers through her hair. Kondorf emerged from the kitchen and peered out the window.

  “Huh.” He opened the door. “Got some good news?”

  Remington st
ood in the doorway, staring at Kondorf as if he were speaking a language he barely understood. “Uh… Yeah, yeah. Officer Lester was admitted with a collapsed windpipe and a broken… uh… tibia, I think. But… things look good. He made it through surgery.”

  He stared in the doorway, the warm air gusting in. He ground his teeth, staring at the floor.

  “Is something wrong?” Byron’s hand slid over to clutch hers.

  Remington shook his head. “Heather, can I take you up on that coffee?”

  Her eyes went wide. She scrambled off the couch. “Yeah, just lemme grab my things.”

  They rode in silence. Remington wouldn’t look at her. When he ordered their coffees and she held a ten-dollar bill out to him, he looked confused.

  “This was the deal.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  They took their coffees to the high school and sat at a picnic table. The marching band was practicing on the field. Remington and Heather watched them in silence for a while.

  “Did Ritch… Did Agent Steyer tell you the Phoenix murdered his partner?”

  “Byron mentioned it. Was it setting a trap?”

  “Oh, no. No, it was when they just arrived on scene the first day. Agent Feingold happened to see this cigarette butt in the grass. Grabbed it just in case.” He cleared his throat. “The Phoenix must’ve been watching, because he just…” He gestured stabbing something. “It only took Feingold six or so minutes to aspirate.”

  “That means drowned in blood, right?”

  “Blood, mucus, whatever fluid builds up in the lungs. It’s fuckin’ terrifying.” He took a sip of his coffee, pitched forward with a grunt, letting it spill from his mouth. “Fuck. Sorry, still too hot.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “I was thinking… we should play things your way.”

  “My way?”

  “Set a trap. Use you as bait.”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  Remington rubbed his palms together and spread his fingers. A gold wedding band glinted in the fading light. “The stakes are higher this time.”

  “Is it that woman? Miss Wickes?”

  He nodded. “We’re having a girl.” He cracked a bitter smirk.

  “Oh, God. How’s that for timing?”

  “I guess in this case, it wouldn’t be all that different if it were a boy. He still wouldn’t be safe. Fuck…” He covered his mouth. “If I don’t catch this guy, he could come after my kid.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “No… I’m not gonna let that happen.”

  “Do you have a plan?”

  “I think so.”

  *

  Heather loved the feeling of Byron’s mouth on her neck. She wore nothing but a t-shirt and sat between his knees with her legs around his waist. His touch was gentle, his fingers barely brushing over her back and his hands never drifting higher than her breasts. She had to fight for focus; Her mind repeatedly crept back to Remington’s plan and Grandpa’s Mustang.

  Grabbing Byron’s forearm, she squeezed and pulled him on top of her as she laid back on her bed. He shifted to her side, continued to kiss her face and neck, and slid a hand between her legs. She released a shuddering sigh. Her legs began to twitch and her breath hitched as he used his entire hand to work her over.

  “Fuck…” she gasped. “Avery!”

  Byron jerked his head up and froze. Heather clapped her hands over her mouth with a whimper.

  “I’m sorry!”

  He exhaled and pushed himself up, slumping against the wall. A sob escaped her throat.

  “What the fuck, Heather?” He ran a hand over his face.

  “I think I’m gonna be sick...” She rolled off the bed and ran to the bathroom.

  ****

  Byron descended the stairs numbly. His stomach churned, and Heather’s gagging didn’t help. Kondorf looked up from his game of Solitaire as Byron entered the kitchen and sank into the chair.

  “She wear you out already?”

  Byron shook his head and scoffed. “What… What the fuck am I doin’ here, man?”

  Kondorf’s eyes widened. He leaned back and shrugged. “You got me. Just last week, I thought you were battin’ for the other team.”

  I was. The words almost came out. Byron was sick with how complicated life had become in just a month. “Fuck, man…” He stood, pushing the chair back with a loud scrape. “I gotta get outta here.”

  11

  10 June

  Saturday

  Just say when.

  Heather woke to the sound of Remington’s text, alone and ravenously hungry. She trudged downstairs. Two unfamiliar male voices came from the kitchen.

  “Babysitting this bitch is gonna get someone killed.”

  She scowled and stepped loudly from the bottom step. The bolt of pain she felt was richly compensated by the alarmed expressions on the officers’ faces. Officer Gearhart’s pasty face tinged pink. The other officer was a dark-haired man. They fell conspicuously silent.

  “Morning,” she said as if nothing were amiss. “Any news?”

  Gearhart sighed and set a glass of water on the table as a reason to look away from her. “He got away… again.”

  Although she had known that would happen, hearing it said aloud made her heart sink. “How’s Officer… Lister?”

  “Lester.” King’s voice was hard. “Hank Lester. He went home this morning.”

  The question had been for the sake of small talk, but it made up for knowing Rhodes was still out there somewhere. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Gearhart sat down, arms crossed over his chest with an expression of skepticism. His disdain was palpable, making her sway as if it had struck her in her famished, unmedicated state. He looked like he would happily ruin her plans. She had to get rid of him.

  Heather smiled sweetly. “Would y’all like some coffee?”

  ****

  “The owner of the u-pull yard said they would be happy to cooperate, and he’s sending his son to meet us there. He’s the one who made the sale.” Steyer was just finishing up getting ready. He tied his tie, checked it in the mirror, and grabbed his keys.

  Remington steeled himself. “Mind going alone? I got a voicemail this morning from a local retailer who sells straight razors. I was thinking we could split up to save time… Plus I don’t feel like getting my shoes dirty.”

  Steyer weighed the keys in his palm as he considered this. “What did the voicemail say?”

  “The guy recalls a transaction with someone who fits the description of our Phoenix. He said he really knew what he was talking about.”

  “Sounds good.” Steyer continued to the door, but paused. “Does Sam have any plans?”

  Shit. “She was talking about heading up to the Mall of Georgia.”

  “Hm... Maybe she should take Heather, do some bonding.”

  “I’ll run it by her.”

  “Call me if you learn anything useful.”

  ****

  Working on the Stang now.

  After the officers’ attitudes, Heather’s nerves were raw, and strangely, when she turned the key in the ignition and it did nothing more than click, they grew worse. They were shot before she could even check the oil.

  Within twenty minutes, she had the engine growling when she turned the key. The door flew open and Officer Gearhart leaned into the garage.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “What?”

  “What. Do. You. Think. You’re. Doing?”

  She stopped turning the engine and leaned over to look at him like he was dense. “You have to turn it over to see if it works.”

  “You’re not going anywhere.”

  She looked him in the eye and turned the key again. The engine sputtered, whirred, and gave up. “I know.”

  *

  Ryan Albrecht drove his own Jeep Cherokee. When he pulled into the parking lot of the u-pull yard, Steyer tensed until he saw the driver wore a goatee. He
had a thin build, with long arms and legs. Although he was just arriving, his hands were stained—perhaps permanently—with grease, but the hand Steyer shook was clean.

  “It’s not often someone buys an entire vehicle off us, but this fella stood out for a few other reasons.” Albrecht opened up the store and guided Steyer in, then locked it behind them. “First off, he walked in knowin’ exactly what he wanted: a mid-90’s Jeep Cherokee. Color didn’t matter. Condition didn’t matter… much. He looked at three of ’em, knew exactly what he was lookin’ at, and just what parts he needed to get along with it.”

  He stepped behind the counter and thumped a beat-up three-ring binder on the counter. He flicked back to April. “What was the date?”

  “The fourth.”

  “Here it is…” He pushed the binder toward the agent and knelt to poke around under the counter.

  Steyer ran a finger over the list of parts the Phoenix had purchased in addition to the vehicle. “So you sold him a vehicle that had been declared totaled, knowing he was intending to repair it?”

  Albrecht put up his hands. “Hey, as long as he doesn’t explicitly state his intentions, we can sell it. He knew the name of the game.”

  “Did he imply what he was planning?”

  “He didn’t mention anything about killin’ no kids.”

  “Did he mention he had ever repaired a vehicle before?”

  “Oh, yeah, he said he’d gone through a few Jeeps.”

  Steyer nodded. Albrecht’s face fell.

  “You think…”

  Steyer continued to nod, giving him a significant look: Every Jeep had most likely been used to commit murder.

  Albrecht shook his head and stood, a disc in hand. “That’s fuckin’ creepy, man.”

  “That’s the consensus. So, he knew exactly what was needed in order to repair the vehicle? Did he say how he knew?”

  “He said he worked in a garage on weekends when he was in school, and he works on his own vehicles.”

  “Vehicles? Plural?”

  “Yep. Car, motorcycles, Jeep. He even said he was in the market for a 1940’s Caddy, if we had one.”