“That’s very cool,” I say. “I’d like to read about them.”
“How long you been flyin’?” Merrill asks.
“Feels like all my life.”
“But it couldn’t be, could it?” Merrill says. “Didn’t have planes when you’s young.”
“Brings up an interesting question,” Clipper says. “Which one of you gonna land this little bitch if I have a heart attack and die?”
“You havin’ chest pains?” Merrill says.
“Not so far, but . . . ’nother joke or two about my age just might bring on the big one.”
“Slow your roll, Fred Sanford. I’s just joshin’ with you. You look young and spry and healthy, and more than capable of getting our foolish asses back on the ground safe and sound.”
“Why foolish? For flying with me?”
“For flying at all. Nothing personal, Junior.”
“None taken,” Clipper says, letting go of the small steering wheel to turn toward Merrill.
The plane dips a bit and begins to nose downward.
Clipper extends his hand to shake Merrill’s.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Merrill says.
“Shake to show no hard feelings,” Clipper says, a big smile on his face.
Merrill shakes his hand quickly, then pushes it back toward the wheel.
“We’ve got a sayin’,” Clipper says. “It’s all fun and games until the plane goes down.”
“We’ve got a sayin’ too,” Merrill says. “Keep your got-damn hands on the wheel and don’t let the got-damn plane go down.”
Clipper, continuing to smile, nods enthusiastically. “I like that one, too. Have to remember that. Reason I ask if y’all cops . . . I might be able to help you with what you lookin’ for, but I wouldn’t want to get all jammed up over it. And I wouldn’t want y’all thinkin’ I’m a grower or nothin’. I just picked up a thing or two from farmin’ and flyin’ ’round here over the years.”
“We’re investigating murder,” I say. “Lookin’ for possible motives. We’d appreciate any help you can give us and will leave you completely out of it. No one will ever know you said anything to us.”
As we fly over the seemingly endless acres of woods and swamps, I wonder if Heather is down there somewhere searching for answers of her own.
He nods. Glances at Merrill. Merrill nods.
“If a guy’s doin’ it right,” Clipper says, “not easy to see his crop from the air. He’ll plant it in swaths beneath the pines or other trees, not in open fields. If it is in a field, it’s usually planted alongside another crop like corn or something. They even tie it down so it runs along the ground beneath the corn. ’Course the shit keeps poppin’ up so you have to keep retying it.”
I nod.
“We’ll fly over and see what we can see,” Clipper says, “but best bet is walk the woods or go by boat down the river.”
“Oh we doin’ all that shit too,” Merrill says. “This shit’s like a redneck Planes, Trains, and Automobiles. Soon as we land—if we land—we gettin’ in the car and driving out here and walkin’ it. Site of a fuckin’ massacre and John want to walk around in it. You an older brother. Bet you’ve seen some shit in your time. Let me ask you—you ever know of anything good happenin’ to a black man in the woods?”
“Known plenty of bad shit,” Clipper says, “but can’t recall any good.”
Merrill turns toward me. “See?”
“I’ve got snake boots for you,” I say.
“Boots? Bitch, I want snake body armor.”
He turns back toward Clipper. “After that we goin’ down river to approach it by boat. Ever know of anything good happenin’ to a black man on a boat?”
“You mean since the luxury liners we were brought over here in?” Clipper asks.
Merrill looks back at me. “See? We got history with this shit.”
“Where do you want to go exactly?” Clipper asks.
“Around the tip of Cutoff Island,” I say. “Would like to go across it to the Apalachiclola and then back to the Chipola and over the swamp between there and the upper Dalkeith Road. Then from Lister’s Landing to the end of the road, but over the swamp, not the road.”
“You got it.”
He turns the plane abruptly and angles in toward the Chipola River and Cutoff Island beyond, my stomach dropping, my heart pounding, as he does.
“For fuck sake, man,” Merrill says.
Nausea replaces whatever used to be at my core, my head starts to ache, my suddenly sweaty skin turns clammy, and I can feel myself about to throw up.
“Apologies,” Clipper says. “I forget how hard this little plane is on passengers.”
He levels out slowly and begins to fly more smoothly.
After my nausea subsides some, I start searching the area below us.
There are only shades of green, brown, and tan. Trees—the tops of which are all we see. Rivers—a wide, caramel-colored, watery border snaking around the trees.
Unlike other areas of North Florida where planted pines in neat rows go on for what seems infinity, this thick, verdant, diverse garden is comprised of a wide variety of naturally occurring species of trees and what looks to be an impenetrable understory.
It doesn’t take long to fly over the area—or to conclude that there is nothing to see but trees.
“Sorry to waste your time,” I say to Clipper.
“But not mine?” Merrill says.
“Yours, too.”
Clipper shakes his head. “Not a waste of time at all. Now you know. Truth is there could be several crops down there, hidden, only able to be found on foot. And if that’s the case . . . you know somebody knows what the hell they’re doin’.”
“Somebody should,” Merrill says, then shakes his head. “Lot of ground to cover on foot.”
“Too much,” I say. “It’d take us several months. I have a week.”
30
Then
* * *
Jumping off the Grizzly, Remington jerks up on the handlebars as he thumbs the gas and the vehicle bucks off the stump, the front left tire rolling over his left foot.
Hopping on again, he shifts the machine back into forward and steers around the stump.
Get off and run for it or stay on and see if you can make it to the flats? Pass or stay in your lane?
Unlike college, he decides not to pass, but to stay put.
I’ve got to be getting close.
Up ahead, the thick woods appear to thin out.
Almost there. Come on. You can—
—Remember Vicky Jean? Gauge asks.
—Uh huh.
—Yeah.
—Hell, yeah.
—Remember what we said about her?
—She give good head.
—The other thing, something about her, but don’t say it.
—Oh, yeah.
—I remember.
—Arl you stay where you are. Guard the path and the road. Donnie Paul you stay put, too. Everybody else set up on Vicky Jean.
Remington thinks about it. What else could Vicky Jean be but flat? Can’t be voluptuous. Aren’t any hills or mountains around here. No wetlands. They’re going to set up in the flats and wait for me to come out.
Can’t turn around. Arlington and Donnie Paul are back that way.
What do I do, Dad?
He thinks through his options. He can’t go north or south. The woods are too thick and eventually he’d come out where the two men are waiting. Can’t go back. Can’t go forward.
The fact that he’s telling them to set up in the flats, if that’s, in fact, what he’s telling them, means they aren’t there already.
You could make your run now. Or you could hide and hope they pass by you.
He decides to hide.
As the hardwood trees give way to the longleaf pines of the flats, he goes back to using his lights intermittently. Turning them on just long enough to see a few feet directly in front of him, turning them off, traveling those
few feet, then turning them back on again.
When he reaches the edge of the hardwoods, he finds a thicket and drives into it, cutting the lights and engine. Gathering leaves, limbs, and branches, he creates a makeshift blind, covering the ATV completely, then crawls beneath it to hide.
He warms his hands and face by the heat of the engine block, then pulls out the radio, turns the volume down, and holds it to his ear.
And waits.
And waits.
And waits.
—Everyone in position? Gauge asks.
—Ten-four, the big man says.
—Shit, all Little John has to do is be in the vicinity.
So that’s his name. Little John.
—Yeah. Hey, big fella, would you mind bending down a little bit? Your head’s eclipsing the moon.
—Bite me, Tanner.
—Okay, Gauge says, keep your eyes and ears open. Let’s finish this and get the fuck out of here.
So, Remington thinks, at least five men left. Maybe more. Gauge, Arlington, Donnie Paul, Little John, and Tanner. He knows what Little John and Arlington look like. The others are just disembodied voices in the dark night.
—You think he came through here before we got set up? Tanner asks.
—No, Little John says. No way.
—Yeah, I don’t think so either, Gauge says.
—Then where the fuck is he?
—Must be between here and the fire line.
—Unless he’s on foot and snuck past us, Little John says.
—Arl, Donnie Paul, keep your eyes and ears open. We’re gonna walk toward you and flush him out.
—Ten-four.
—We’re ready.
—Okay. John, Tanner, maintain your positions and walk straight through to the line. Go slow. Look under every log, inside every hollowed out tree. Don’t forget to look up, too. He could’ve climbed a tree.
—And don’t shoot any of us, Donnie Paul says. Make sure you know it’s him.
—Killer, you hearing all this? We’re coming for you.
More waiting.
More thinking.
What a surreal situation I’m in. Is this really happening? I keep expecting to wake up.
Heather.
I miss you so much.
What if I never see you again? Ever.
Don’t think like that. Doesn’t help anything.
I’m gonna tell her.
What?
If I see her, I’m gonna tell her I’m sorry for taking her for granted. Sorry for not listening to her. She was right. I was wrong. I shouldn’t’ve been so concerned with making money. I should’ve been listening to my muse, not my fear. She is my muse. I hope I can tell her. I should’ve listened to Mom more and Dad less. Ironically, I should’ve been out here with Dad more. I finally understand why he loved it so much.
Would Heather be willing to move here? Could she be happy living the small-town life? She would. She could. I know it. God, I hope I get the chance to ask her.
31
Now
* * *
“This is where he spent his last hours on earth,” Heather says.
We have just left the outer edge of Remington’s family’s property, where the tiny dirt road ends near where Remington had parked that day, and are walking deeper into the woods that are only accessible by foot and ATV.
It’s just the two of us. After putting Merrill through what I did this morning I just couldn’t ask him to then come tromping through the swamp this afternoon. I told him we’d put off the boat ride down the river and the walk through the woods until tomorrow, then came out here anyway. Mainly to check on Heather.
“It’s so beautiful and exotic, so dense and dangerous . . . and deadly. I love it out here. And hate it too, I guess.”
She’s exactly right about it. This land is breathtakingly beautiful, but deadly too. If you get too sentimental about it, it will kill you.
We’re walking through a wooded area. The land here is higher and sandier than the lower, deeper, damper swamp ahead.
Since Remington had walked through here, the old-growth pines have been harvested and seedlings planted. The section of pine flats we’re walking through is filled with rows of young, narrow trees some six feet tall.
“I feel closer to him out here,” she says. “At least most of the time. Sometimes I can’t feel anything at all. It’s . . . surreal. All of it.”
“Who owns this land now?” I ask.
“I guess I do,” she says. “Hadn’t really thought about that, but . . . this is my land now. Wow. That’ll take some getting used to.”
We are walking to where Remington’s camera trap was found because she wants to show me something strange she noticed about it.
“I know I’m being foolish,” she says. “I know I won’t find anything out here looking like I have been. By myself. I . . . I just don’t know what else to do. I try, but I can’t stop.”
“What if we narrow our focus and get some help?” I say. “Work on finding the other evidence Remington left behind and the burial site of the woman his camera traps captured getting murdered?”
“Have to be better than what I’m doin’ now.”
“I’ll see who I can round up to help.”
“Would you think I’m a complete nut case if I told you he actually talks to me sometimes when I’m out here?”
I shake my head. “I wouldn’t.”
“Not a complete one anyway?” she asks, looking over at me with a small smile.
“Not one at all,” I say.
She looks back down, continuing to watch where she steps, but as she does she shakes her head and frowns. “I can’t believe the little shit we used to fight over, how much time we wasted on things that didn’t matter the least little bit. Do you have someone?”
I nod. “I do. I’m one of the lucky ones who wound up with my dream someone. Took a while, but we finally got there.”
“Don’t waste a second,” she says. “Don’t argue over shit that doesn’t matter. And don’t deceive yourself about how much time you really have.”
“Thank you. I try not to.”
I’m overwhelmed with the desire to call Anna—even more than usual—but when I pull my phone out of my pocket I can see I have no service out here.
Suddenly sad and frustrated, I return the device to my pocket.
Once we’re through the area of new-growth pines, the topography shifts suddenly.
Above us a thick canopy of laurel oak, bigleaf magnolia, Florida maple, loblolly pine, and American holly blocks out all but a small fraction of the afternoon sunlight, which dapples the dark dampening ground.
Scattered throughout the verdant forest are enormous oaks and pines well over one hundred feet tall, their thick, solid trunks as big around as any I’ve ever seen.
We wind around a thick midstory of smaller trees and palms, and over the ground cover of grass, shrubs, and herbs—but mostly the damp muck of wet, dark dirt.
Like a water-soaked jungle, every single species of tree and plant are connected, touching, growing in, on, and around each other. Twisting, wrapping, entangling. Thick vines like cables hang from and run along every tree. Kudzu creeps up every tree, crawls across every branch, covers every opening as if, like nature itself, it abhors a vacuum.
Mosquitoes buzz around us.
Overhead a Red-Shouldered Hawk circles and shrieks.
Other unseen insects and birds and squirrels and frogs provide the soundtrack of the swamp. Their hums and buzzes and croaks and chirps and whistles so loud at the moment will, if we’re out here long enough, eventually, inevitably, become as desultory as traffic and sirens and shouts of city streets to those in the apartments above them.
Though we both swat at the mosquitoes and continually look around us, it is the ground and in the vicinity of each step that our primary focus is on, our eyes scanning, darting, searching for rattlesnakes and moccasins, though both of us are wearing snake boots.
Heather’
s Chippewa snake boots are too big for her and have splatters of what looks like blood on them, and I wonder if they belonged to Remington.
She notices me looking at them again.
“Giving myself terrible blisters,” she says, “but . . . I don’t want to be out here without his boots on. I know it’s silly, but . . . I can’t help but believe his blood will protect me somehow.”
“Not silly at all,” I say.
“I miss him so fuckin’ much,” she says. “I regret every second we were apart when we didn’t have to be.”
I nod. “I’m so sorry.”
Branches and limbs buffet us, striking and scratching us—mostly our hands as we press our way through them, and I can’t tell whether the occasional stings are splinters, thorns, or mosquito bites.
She frowns and shakes her head. “Years have passed. Years. I miss him as much now as I did back then. More.”
I nod again, but don’t say anything. I can tell there’s more to come.
“We’re virtual strangers,” she says. “We’re out here in the middle of nowhere. And I . . . I feel this overwhelming desire to tell you something I’ve never told anyone.”
“You can tell me anything,” I say. “And through your book about Remington you don’t seem like a stranger to me.”
“Never in my life . . . I mean not ever have I . . . even considered . . . not even the random thought of it, but . . . since . . . what happened . . . I can see the appeal of . . . suicide.”
We both slow our pace though we don’t stop walking. I look over at her, our eyes locking, and express all the acceptance and understanding I’m capable of.
“I don’t mean—I’m not saying I’m suicidal. I’m not. I’ve never thought about actually doing it. Never made a plan or anything like that. But before . . . I never even—I couldn’t even imagine having the thought.”
“I understand,” I say. “I really do. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for your loss. So sorry he’s gone. So sorry you don’t have more answers. Sorry—”
She stops walking and sort of flings herself over onto me, wrapping me up in a huge, tight hug.
The Remington James Box Set Page 28