by Brett Baker
Near Fannie Springs state park a sign informed me that I was entering Dixie County as I crossed over the historic Suwannee River. I passed through a one-stoplight place called Old Town, and drove another ten miles until I reached Cross City, the county seat of Dixie County. With no guidance from Polestar, I planned to ask around Cross City, and hope that I’d find someone who knew Coulson. But with no background on Coulson, and lacking my own personal history with Cross City, I had no idea what to expect.
Cross City is a city only in a place like Dixie County—mostly rural, with towns that are miles apart. Sixteen thousand people live in Dixie County, and as the most concentrated grouping of people in the area, it’s a rustic metropolis. Dixie County is quintessential Old Florida, eschewing the fast-paced commercialism most people associate with the rest of the state, and instead embracing a southern sensibility with a tropical twist. Palm trees and churches dominate the landscape, and while corporate business has overrun most of the town, a few mom-and-pop places hang on and provide a unique flavor.
I passed through Cross City in just a couple of miles before a sign told me that I had entered Shamrock. Hoping that the name of the town might bring good luck, I stopped at a two-pump gas station next to an auto parts store. I walked into the small hut at the back of the property and grabbed a bottle of water and a Butterfinger. The woman behind the counter sat on a stool and watched a television hidden behind a stack of boxes, as if to conceal it from customers. She had the volume so loud that I could hear every word. As I approached the counter she jolted from the stool and turned off the television.
“You must have snuck in here,” she said. She looked like she’d lived a hard life that made her look twenty years older than me, but I suspected we were around the same age. Behind the years of struggle and bad luck outlined on her face, I could see a faint remnant of a woman with delicate features who probably turned all the boys’ heads in school.
“I came in through that door,” I said, nodding to the only door. “That bell rang when I opened it. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“That’s okay. I guess I shouldn’t get so wrapped up in my show. These Hollywood shows always get me. Who’s getting divorced? Who’s having a baby? It’s all a shit show, just like everyone else’s lives. Only difference is no one cared when I got divorced. Including my husband, by the way. Ex-husband. You know what I mean. That idiot’s got his head so far up his ass he probably still doesn’t even know we’re divorced. Don’t ask me what the hell I ever saw in him anyway.”
I nodded, said, “Okay, I won’t,” and put my bottle of water and candy on the counter.
“Butterfinger! That’s my favorite. It’s okay if I pick it up to scan it?”
“Yeah, of course,” I said, confused.
“Just making sure. I know how you Butterfinger eaters are.” She began speaking in a high-pitched voice. “Nobody better lay a finger on my Butterfinger.” Then she returned to her regular raspy, deep voice. “Remember that? Bart Simpson?”
“Right,” I said. “Don’t worry, I don’t mind, as long as you give it back.”
She scanned the Butterfinger and the bottle of water, told me the total, and pushed both items across the counter toward me. “Thanks for coming in. It’s been slow this afternoon. Well, every afternoon. People see the newer stations in town and they go to them. Plus, we’re sort of tucked back here away from the road, so we’re easy to miss.”
“Sure.” I was pleased that the first person I met in town was so friendly. I needed guidance from someone, and it’s easier to seek guidance from someone who doesn’t seem sour. “Are you from around here? I’m just passing through. I’ve never been to this part of Florida. It’s a nice change from the central and southern part of the state.”
“It’s a shithole,” she said. “The lucky ones are just passing through. The rest of us are stuck here.”
“Why didn’t you ever leave if you hate it so much?”
“Where the hell am I supposed to go? No one literally tied my feet to the ground around here, but they may as well have. This place doesn’t provide many opportunities to get out of here, ya know? Just about the only thing I did right was wait until after high school to have a baby. But then I married the first asshole who promised me the moon and had a couple of babies. Then I was thirty and not any smarter, but a lot more tied down, and…well, here I am. Hard to do anything when you don’t have a plan. And it takes years to realize that not having a plan is having a plan. A shitty plan that’ll drag you down, but a plan nonetheless.”
I felt a sense of dread for the woman, and couldn’t decide whether I should feel sorry for her, or hopeful for her. She seemed self-aware and if she caught a break or two it wouldn’t surprise me if she left Cross City in her rearview mirror. But I knew she’d go nowhere in the immediate future.
“I’m sorry. You’re young though. There’s still time to figure it out.”
“Young? I’ll be thirty-five next week. That’s no spring chicken.” I assumed she wasn’t as old as she looked, but I didn’t expect her to be younger than me.
“Younger than me,” I said. “And I don’t consider myself old. Seems like I’m just getting warmed up. Start over. Do something new. Get out of here if you don’t like it.”
“Spoken like someone who doesn’t know what it feels like to be trapped,” she said.
I wanted to say, “Oh, if you only knew…” but showed typical restraint, and instead smiled and said, “I’m sorry. I hope it works out the way you want it to.”
“I fucking doubt it,” she said. She turned away from me, flipped on the television, and seemed not to notice that I hadn’t left.
I’d passed the Dixie County Public Library a couple of minutes before pulling into the gas station. Prior to arriving in town I thought that the library might be the best place to start digging around. Perhaps they’d have old newspaper articles about Coulson, or a librarian might have knowledge of local history, but something about its location within a strip mall didn’t nurture my confidence in its resources. As usual, I suspected I’d need to come up with a backup plan. Before the rotten end to our conversation, I had hoped the woman behind the counter might point me in the right direction, but she seemed to no longer want to be bothered. But since I saw no downside to asking, I decided to broach the subject.
“Thanks for giving back the Butterfinger.” She looked at me, gave me a half-hearted smile, and a blow-off nod, and then looked back at the television. “Since you’ve been around here your whole life, maybe you can help me. Is there someone in town who knows the history of this place? Like an old guy that everyone knows, or a town historian, or something.”
“A town historian?” the woman asked.
“Yeah, someone who can answer some questions. I’m trying to find some information and I don’t know where else to turn.”
“Information about what?”
“Well I know a guy down here, and I’m trying to figure out what he does. Who he is.”
“I thought you were just passing through,” the woman said, turning her body toward me, and tilting her head to one side as if to say, “This shit just got interesting.”
“I am. But long ago I knew someone who spent some time down here and I’m just trying to figure out what he did when he was here, and how long he’s been gone.”
“How do you know he’s gone?”
“He was gone when I knew him. Just sketchy about how he ended up here in the first place.”
“What’s his name? Maybe I knew him.”
“I don’t think so,” I said, not wanting to mention Coulson’s name to more people than I had to. With no idea where his trail might lead, I didn’t want to dive in without having some small idea of what I might be diving into.
“How can you say that? You don’t know who I know.”
“Of course not,” I said. “His name is Thompson McNair.” I borrowed the name of a character in a book I’d read a few weeks before. No way did I wan
t to mention Coulson’s real name.
“You’re right. I’ve never heard of him. You sure he spent time here? This place is so small everyone pretty much knows each other.”
“He was here,” I said. “Or at least that’s what he told me. But like I said, I don’t know what he did. Maybe there’s someone in town who can help.”
“Tyler Jo Hawkins.”
“He lives around here?” I asked.
“Sort of. Go west out of here, through Shamrock, and you’ll come to a sign for 358. Take the first left after that, Perry Valentine.”
“Perry Valentine? I thought his name was Tyler Jo Hawkins.”
“It is. Perry Valentine is the road. Hang a left, south. Back into logging area. You’ll see all the new trees.”
“New trees?” I asked.
“They cut down the old trees, and then plant new ones so they don’t feel as bad. So there are rows and rows of neatly-planted trees. Looks ridiculous. Anyway, follow that road about two miles and you’ll come to a clearing where there’s a little house with a wraparound porch that’s bigger than the house. I’m sure Tyler Jo will be sitting on the porch on a day like this. Ask him what you want to know and he’ll help.”
“Who is he? How does he know so much?”
“He’s the man of Dixie County. Everyone knows Tyler Jo.”
“Sounds like just the sort of man I’m looking for,” I said. “Thanks for the help.”
The woman’s eyes already focused on the television and she didn’t respond. She’d checked out of the conversation. I walked out, opened my Butterfinger, and set out to find Tyler Jo.
Chapter 4
Somehow gas station attendants are spot-on with the directions they give, and the woman behind the counter proved no different. I found Perry Valentine road just beyond 358, and after a few miles, the wall of trees broke, and on a small rise above the road, set back a hundred feet or so, a wrap-around porch suffocated a house. I saw a man sitting on a bench on the porch, and when he didn’t wave me off I pulled into the driveway. He kept an eye on me as I parked, and didn’t seem agitated, but still I proceeded with caution.
Halfway up his driveway, yellow paint lined a small patch of asphalt, providing a place to park without blocking the driveway. I parked there and looked up at the porch, half-expecting to see the man pull a rifle and tell me to get lost. Instead he just sat on a rough-hewn log, and looked neither menacing nor welcoming. I opened my door, got out of the car, and called up to him, “Great day to be outside, isn’t it?”
“Sure is,” he said. “They’re all great days around here. That’s why I’ve got this porch. No better place in the country to sit than right up here. Why don’t you come on up and join me?”
He stood up, walked to the railing at the edge of the porch and waved me up, as if I’d ignore his suggestion without a hand gesture. I often encountered hostile people in my work for The Summit, so I always appreciated overt friendliness.
“I bet you’ve got quite a view from up there,” I said as I walked toward the porch. “This hill’s perfect. It just rises above everything. You’re like a lord with his manor.”
“That’s the idea,” the man said. “I bought this land from the loggers twenty years ago, cleared out this little section, and built the house. Then it occurred to me that if I didn’t buy the surrounding land that I’d have my little patch of trees with a perimeter wasteland, so I bought thirty more acres. Now I’ve got a nice chunk of land, separate from everyone else, and just high enough to see storms roll in from the west. Ten or fifteen more years and those trees across the street are going to be too tall, and I won’t see the storms or the sunset. But I own that land, too, so I guess it’s up to me. I can cut them down if I want. I just have to decide what I like more, the trees or the sunsets. Damnit, who am I kidding? In ten or fifteen years I’ll be six feet under. I’ll have to worry more about the roots than the canopy.” The man let out one hearty laugh, then extended his hand as I reached the bottom of the steps up to the porch. “Tyler Jo Hawkins. How the hell how are you?”
“Nice to meet you, Tyler Jo. I’m Mia Mathis.”
“Mia Mathis? You sound like a damn movie star. Come on up and have a seat. I’m drinking a bourbon. Can I get you something?”
“No thank you,” I said, showing him the bottle of water I bought at the gas station.
“Well I hope you don’t mind if I drink, because I’m not going to stop.”
“No, go right ahead. I don’t mind.”
“Have a seat,” he said. Two chairs on the porch flanked a small table on which sat a half-gone bottle of bourbon and a small bucket of ice. “If things go right I’ll have this bottle gone before I go to sleep tonight. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck,” I chuckled.
“So what the hell are you doing out here? This isn’t a place that anyone finds by accident.”
“The young lady at the gas station told me that you might be able to help. She said you’re the man of Dixie County, and gave me directions. I hope I’m not intruding.”
“Mia, I’m sitting on a porch by myself drinking bourbon, does it seem like I’m a busy man?”
“Well, I don’t like to assume.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for someone. A man named Martin Coulson.”
Tyler Jo picked up his glass of bourbon, sipped a bit, and then held it in his hand. “And you think I know Martin Coulson?”
“I don’t know. The woman at the gas station referred me to you.”
“Well she’s wasting your time, I’m afraid. That name doesn’t ring a bell. And I’ve been here a long time, so if he spent any time here I’d know him. What do you want with him anyway? Who are you?”
“I’m just doing some genealogy and I think he’s a cousin of mine. I’d like to talk to him and see if he has any stories from his childhood he’d like to share. I’m putting together a sort of family history and his branch of the family is rather obscure.”
“Genealogy, huh? That’s interesting.”
I waited for Tyler Jo to say something else, but instead he took a sip of his bourbon and stared into the distance. He’d been sitting on the edge of his chair, but he slid back and rested his head against the chair back. He seemed disinterested in continuing the conversation.
“So if you don’t know Coulson, do you know anyone else who might? I’m hoping to find him and talk to him.” Tyler Jo didn’t need to know that I’d dropped Coulson in front of a train the day before. I hoped that anyone who could confirm Coulson’s existence in Dixie County could tell me why he was there.
“I don’t have the first damn clue. Why do you think he’s down here? I mean someone had to tell you to come down here in the first place, didn’t they? Why can’t they tell you anything else about him?”
“I haven’t found anyone who’s been in touch with him. Everyone who mentions him just sort of knows he exists, and a cousin told me that he had a place in Dixie County.”
“Look him up,” Tyler Jo said. “That goddamned internet has everything, so I’m told. Type his name in there and I’m sure you’ll find out everything you always wanted to know.”
I laughed at Tyler Jo’s suggestion, but erased the smile from my face when I realized he wasn’t joking.
“I’ve tried that,” I said. “There’s not much information about him.”
“Not much, or none?”
“None in fact. There’s nothing that ties him to Dixie County. I did a quick search of property records and tax records and couldn’t find anything in Dixie County. That’s why I came down here. I hoped someone might know him. I could use some first-hand information.”
“Well you won’t get that from me,” Tyler Jo said. “Now how about you quit this nonsense and have a bourbon. Things are more fun when you add a little bourbon to your blood. Try it and see.”
“Thanks, Mr. Hawkins, but I’ll stick with water right now.” I started to stand up, but Tyler Jo interrupted me.
/> “No, no. You sit back down. I don’t know where you think you’re going. You just got here. I don’t get many visitors. Keep me company. And, by the way, call me Tyler Jo.”
“Thank you, Tyler Jo. I do have to go though. I don’t have much time, and I need to find Coulson sooner rather than later.”
“Suit yourself,” Tyler Jo said with a smile. “But if I don’t know Coulson he doesn’t exist. At least not in these parts. Seems like a waste of time to me.”
“We’ll see,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”
I returned to the car, and left Tyler Jo’s house with no idea of what to do or where to go.
Chapter 5
At the top of the steps to the Dixie County Courthouse sat a large marble sculpture. The bottom read, “Love God and Keep his Commandments.” Above the simple declaration the Ten Commandments were spelled out for those who may have forgotten them. I paid them little attention, as I’d violated one particular commandment quite often. I hoped that the Lord would forgive me and realize that I only killed those who gave me no other choice, but in private, reflective moments I worried that if he didn’t recognize justified killings, then he was quite angry with me.
I parked on the side of the building and entered through the front. A woman at the desk greeted me with a smile and asked, “How may I help you, hun?”
“I’m looking for some information about a cousin of mine. I heard that he lives around here, but I haven’t been able to verify that. Is there a way I can check public records for any mention of him?”
“Sure, I can help you with that. The first thing you’ll want to do is to go over to the computers against the wall, type in his name, and see what you find. The computer system has records of deeds, mortgages, bankruptcies, and some death certificates and affidavits. If you don’t find anything in there come back to see me and we’ll see what we can find.”
“Thanks,” I said. I typed Coulson’s name into the computer, but it returned no results. I searched again, this time searching only for his last name, which returned hundreds of records, dating back to a deed of some land from George Coulson to four of his sons in 1889. A quick scan of the other records showed no information for Martin Coulson.