The Remington James Box Set

by Michael Lister

  Merrick was working on the In Search of Randa Raffield podcast with Daniel when he went missing, and has actually been accused of staging his disappearance for ratings.

  I shake my head.

  “I wanted to talk to you about the Robin Wilson case,” I say.

  “John,” Reggie says. “Really? Now? Like this? Why?”

  “I think what happened to him and his little band of bad cops could be related to what happened to Remington James and the others killed in the swamp.”

  “Oh,” she says, seeming to relax a little. “What makes you think that?”

  “They were working that case or supposed to be when they were killed,” I say. “Execution style. If they were involved . . . it would explain why it never got solved. And why a county as small as ours has two groups of guys killed so close together. Hard to believe it could be a coincidence.”

  “They were corrupt enough to be involved,” Reggie says, “but . . .”

  “I know you two worked the case,” I say. “That’s why I wanted to talk to both of you.”

  “I was the chief of police of Wewa,” Reggie says. “Hadn’t been back long.”

  “I was helping my dad with the local newspaper at the time,” Merrick says, “sort of between things. Wasn’t sure what I was going to do, then I met Reggie. Anyway, Robin was under investigation. There were all kinds of rumors swirling around. If even half of what was said was true . . . He was a very bent individual.”

  “And so were his little minions,” Reggie says.

  “You went to high school with him, didn’t you?” I say.

  She nods. “Unfortunately. He was an interesting guy. Transferred here from Cottondale. His dad was the coach up there when they won state. Cottondale Hornets. Haven’t thought about them in a long time. Robin actually wore his CHS Hornets t-shirt to school on his first day when he first moved here in the seventh grade. Wicked-looking hornet. He was showing his disrespect and disdain for his new school. By the end of the year, he was running the class, maybe even the school. ”

  She went to high school with them, knew them for most of her life. Why wouldn’t she want their murders solved? The fact that their murders haven’t been solved reflects poorly on Reggie and our department, but she doesn’t seem to care. She and her family—including Merrick, her niece Lexi Lee, and her brother in-law, Eric Layton, were all tangled up in the investigation. Is that why she doesn’t want it solved? Or has she already solved it and is trying to protect whoever did it—Merrick? Lexi Lee? Or did she do it? Is it possible Reggie killed Robin and his men?

  “Everything Robin did was manipulative,” Merrick says. “I mean everything. So he had an ulterior motive, but he asked me to follow the Dahl Rogers investigation—that was one of his men who, I guess the first to . . . die—but at the time, he thought it was just going to be him and he didn’t want to turn the case over to FDLE. Said they had it out for him. It looked like a suicide, but there were some suspicious circumstances and . . . So he gave me full access and told me to write about the case to show everyone it was investigated the right way with integrity and transparency.”

  “Then others of his little inner corrupt circle started getting knocked off one by one,” Reggie says. “Neither Merrick nor I really investigated the case. Not really.”

  “But you were close to it, saw it firsthand,” I say. “So was your family. Hell, your brother-in-law was killed by one of them. Any idea what that was about?”

  She frowns. “No. I can tell you what I suspected, but . . . that doesn’t get you anywhere.”

  “I’d still like to hear it.”

  “Eric and my sister, Becky, were having trouble. Guess the truth is they had trouble their entire marriage. Anyway . . . I think Becky was messing around with one or more of them, trying to get them to help her get away from Eric. I think Eric getting killed was unrelated to the rest. He went to Skeeter’s houseboat to confront him, they fought, Skeeter killed him.”

  “But we won’t really know until we conduct an actual investigation,” I say. “You can help me with it. I think what happened to them could be connected to Remington’s case and I want to work them together.”

  She shakes her head. “I said one week. Remington James case only. Then it’s back to normal duty. We have too much going on to . . . I’m sorry, but no. You always push. Push, push, push. It makes you a good detective, but . . . give your boss a break. Quit pushing me on this. Work the Remington James case. Do that. And only that. For this week only. If something comes up that shows there’s a connection, come back and see me. If not . . . One week. Okay? You’re making me sound like a boss and I don’t want to. I really don’t. Don’t make me. Okay? Take no for an answer on this one. You got the yes you wanted on Remington. Go with that.”

  11

  Then

  * * *

  When he spies a man in the distance, standing among the trees, he thinks it’s an illusion, a trick of light or an apparition conjured by his mind.

  But then the man radios the others and raises his rifle.

  —I got ’im. I got ’im. South edge of the big bay swamp. I’m gonna run ’im to you.

  Before Remington can react, a round whistles by his head and thwacks the bark of a laurel oak beside him.

  Turning.

  Running.

  Stumbling.

  Remington spins and reenters the hardwood forest he had just stepped out of a few moments before.

  Tripping.

  Falling.

  Rolling.

  His boot catches on a fallen black walnut tree and he goes down hard. Tucking in on himself, he manages to roll, mitigating the impact—until he bangs into the base of a hickory tree.

  —He’s running. He’s running. South end of the swamp. Heading west.

  They know where I am, Remington thinks. I can’t run toward them. Staying on the ground, he slides over and lies beneath the black walnut that had tripped him.

  And waits.

  —I don’t see him, the man yells into his radio.

  Running. Breathless.

  —I’ve lost him.

  —Maintain pursuit, the calm voice of the murderer replies. Run him toward us.

  Though not much of a hunter, Remington knows the culture and practices well. If a group of men after deer go into the woods without dogs, they’ll split up. A small group will make a stand while the others go upriver a few miles, get out, and walk the deer toward them. Why more men aren’t shot using this practice he’s never understood.

  They’re running me like a goddamn deer. Well, I won’t let them.

  Fight or flight.

  I’m staying. Making my stand.

  I’d rather die standing than running.

  He finds this thought amusing since at the moment, he’s lying down.

  Remington had hoped the man would trip over the fallen tree the way he had, but coming in several feet farther to the south, he misses it completely.

  —You see him?

  —Not yet.

  —Just keep moving toward us. Go slow. Take your time. Make some noise.

  —Don’t let him circle back and get behind you, a different voice says.

  The man is in front of Remington now. He’s got a bright light attached to the barrel of his rifle and trains the beam along the path he’s traversing. As soon as he gets a little farther away, Remington can slip out and head in the opposite direction toward the river.

  The man fires a round into the air. The loud explosion temporarily halts the sounds of frogs, crickets, and other nocturnal noisemakers. And Remington’s heart.

  He fires another round as he continues to move.

  —You get him?

  The man doesn’t respond.

  —Jackson? Jackson? Did you get him?

  Jackson, Remington thinks. So there’s at least five men after him. Maybe more.

  —You said to make some noise.

  —So I did. I’ve got Arlington setting up in the flats in case he doubles ba
ck and gets around you.

  —He won’t get around me.

  —What I like to hear.

  So he can’t go back out into the pine flats. Where, then?

  Just a few more feet and Jackson will be swallowed by the fog. I guess I can go south for a while and then turn east.

  Jackson stops suddenly, turns, and begins to shine the light behind him, searching all around.

  Remington lies perfectly still.

  Unable to fit entirely beneath the fallen tree, part of his body is exposed.

  The light passes directly over him, but is too high to reveal his whereabouts.

  Then the man makes a second pass—lower to the ground this time.

  Don’t shine it over here. Go the other way.

  —Anything?

  —Not yet. I’ll radio when I have something.

  —How far in are you?

  —Not far. I’m taking my time. Making sure he’s not just hiding. Wait.

  —What is it?

  Suddenly, Remington is blinded by the beam of the light.

  —I got ’im. I got ’im.

  —Where?

  —Don’t move. Put your hands up where I can see ’em.

  —Which one? Remington asks. Can’t do both.

  —Jackson?

  —Crawl out of there very slow.

  —Jackson are you there? Where are you?

  Remington eases out from the black walnut, as the man rushes in his direction, gun and light leveled on him.

  —Jackson?

  —Yeah.

  —You got him?

  —Got him.

  —Shoot him there and we’ll come to you or bring him to me and I’ll do it.

  —I shoot him, I make more.

  —Fine.

  —How much?

  —Double.

  —Done, Jackson says into the radio, then to Remington, Get on your knees.

  —I just got up.

  —One shot to the head’ll be painless. I gotta shoot you a bunch of times, it’s gonna hurt like hell and take you some time to die.

  —I reckon I’d like to live as long as I can.

  —Suit yourself, but—

  As the man shrugs, Remington lunges toward him. Going in low, beneath the rifle, he digs his shoulder into Jackson’s groin, then raises up, bucking the rifle away, tackling him to the ground.

  As he falls on top of the man, he rolls his shoulder and turns his arm, smashing his forearm into the man’s throat.

  Rolling.

  Clutching.

  Running.

  Grabbing the radio, Remington rolls off the man, snatches up the rifle and starts to run.

  Root.

  Stumble.

  Fall.

  Hitting the ground hard after just a few feet, Remington drops the rifle, but manages to hang on to the radio.

  Crawling toward the rifle, his hands and knees slipping on the leaves, Remington can hear Jackson slowly climbing to his feet.

  By the time Remington has the rifle again, Jackson is lurching toward him.

  No time.

  Don’t think.

  Just shoot.

  Instinctively, he pulls back the bolt, ejecting a bullet from the breech, then jams it forward, racking another round into the chamber.

  Raising the rifle, he takes in a breath, aims, exhales two-thirds of his breath, holds the rest, and calmly squeezes the trigger.

  Nothing happens.

  Jackson’s almost on him.

  Safety.

  He presses the safety button and tries again.

  The deafening sound in the dark forest leaves his ears ringing.

  —Is it done? the calm voice from the radio asks.

  Ripping a hole in Jackson’s chest, the round goes through and lodges in a maple tree behind him.

  Blood.

  Spreading.

  Falling.

  Death.

  Dark crimson flows out of the hole. Jackson collapses. Dead in seconds.

  —Jackson? Did you get him? Jackson?

  Flashlight beam. Bright light washing out his face. Eyes open. Ghostly.

  Remington shivers.

  The lifeless man looks eerie in the small circle of smoky light, surrounded on all sides by darkness. The disquieting image disturbs him deeply, and he rushes to get away.

  He doesn’t make it far before he drops to his knees. Retching. Coughing. Vomiting.

  Shock.

  Numbness.

  Headache.

  Everything around him seems a great distance away.

  Like a bad drug trip, he feels detached from his body, sick, lethargic.

  Trembly.

  Clammy.

  Dry mouth.

  Shallow breaths.

  Dizzy.

  Did I really just kill a man?

  I had to. He was going to kill me. I had no choice.

  Would you rather be dead? Is that what you want? Would that make you feel better? You dead and him alive—the man, who with his buddies, was out here hunting you like a goddamn animal?

  Why’re you so upset? He was one of the bad guys. A killer. You just killed a killer. You had to. He was about to kill you.

  I killed a man.

  You had no choice.

  He dealt that hand, not you. You were here to take pictures. These men are killers. He intended to kill you. The others still do.

  But—

  They’ll probably still kill you, so you won’t have to feel bad for long.

  12

  Now

  * * *

  After John leaves and before they call Sylvia back in to finish the movie, Merrick and Reggie sit alone in the still quiet room, looking out the back windows at the moonlight on the river.

  “You think he’ll leave it alone?” Merrick says.

  Reggie shakes her head. “No way.”

  “We knew this day was coming,” he says.

  “Yeah, I’ve kept him off of it as long as I could, but . . . it was just a matter of time. It’s funny . . . I really want him to solve the Remington James case, but in doing that he’s probably gonna find out what really happened to Robin and the rest of them.”

  “Whatta we do?” Merrick says.

  She shrugs. “What can we do?”

  “Surely not just sit around waiting to be arrested.”

  “Not a lot of other options.”

  “I can think of some,” he says.

  “Well, stop. No good can come of any of that.”

  He takes her hand.

  “You know the worst part of all of it?” she says. “It’s not everyone finding out what we all did, but why. The thought of all that coming out . . . of everyone knowing—about me and poor little Lexi Lee . . . just . . .”

  “I can’t just sit by and let that happen,” he says. “I can’t.”

  13

  Then

  * * *

  —Jackson?

  —Come in, Jackson.

  —Where are you? What happened?

  —You think he got Jackson?

  —No way.

  —Somebody shot something.

  —Probably just lost his fuckin’ radio again.

  —Get over there and find out.

  —Almost there.

  He needs to go back and hide the body, but he’s not sure he can.

  You can do it.

  I can’t.

  You’ve got to.

  I can’t. I can’t go back there. Besides, they’ll see the blood.

  You’ve got to cover it up.

  I just can’t.

  —Goddamn. Oh Jesus.

  —What is it?

  —Jackson. He’s dead.

  —You sure?

  —I’m looking at his dead goddamn body.

  —He fuckin’ killed Jackson.

  —Gauge, did you hear me?

  —I heard you, the calm, laconic voice says.

  —He’s dead.

  —Get his guns, radio, and supplies, then hide the body. We’ll get it l
ater.

  —Jesus, we can’t leave him. It’s Jackson.

  —We’ll come back for him. Right now I need you to figure out which way he went. We’ve got to find him. Get this over with. Then we’ll take care of Jackson.

  —Oh God, his kids. His wife and kids. What will we tell them?

  —We’ll figure that out later. I’ll take care of it. Just find the fucker that did it.

  He had killed a man.

  A man with a wife and children.

  His life would forever be divided by the before and after line of ending someone else’s.

  He’d never even killed an animal like his dad had wanted, not in all his years of walking through these woods with a shotgun, but he had just taken the life of another human being. Just like that.

  Killer.

  —His radio’s missing. And his rifle.

  —You think that bastard’s listening to us right now?

  —Hell yeah.

  —You got a name? Gauge asks.

  —Just call him Dead Man.

  —It’s gonna be a long, cold, lonely night. You should talk to us.

  Remington is tempted to say something, but remains silent.

  —Suit yourself. We’ll be seeing you face-to-face soon enough.

  —Tell him who he killed.

  Gauge doesn’t say anything.

  —You killed a cop.

  —Jackson was a deputy—with a family. You might as well put that rifle in your mouth right now and blow the back of your goddamn head onto a tree trunk. That’s the best case scenario for you.

  I killed a cop.

  Don’t even think about it. Just survive. Concentrate on surviving. Deal with the ramifications later.

  He continues walking south, staying in the hardwood hammock in case Arlington has already set up in the flats.

  Soon, it would end, and he’d have no choice but to enter the flats.

  Where do they think I’ll go? How can I do something unexpected? Go in a direction they’d never guess?

  You could walk toward them.

  No, I couldn’t.

  It’d take … what?

  Something I don’t have.

  You could go west, toward the four-wheeler.

  Probably somebody watching it.

  You hid it. You always do. Just like Cole taught you.