The Remington James Box Set

by Michael Lister

  “How are you?” she asks.

  “Lonely. Miss you so much. Never been in a sadder, quieter house.”

  “It’s rarely quiet here and I get very little alone time, but I miss you more.”

  “Not possible. How are the wedding plans coming along?”

  “Not as quickly or as smoothly as I’d like, but . . . they’re coming along. What’s happening with the case?”

  I tell her.

  “Tell me about Cassandra Hitchens,” she says.

  “Her older brother who she adored OD’d when she was in high school and she decided then to become a DEA agent. She became one of the best undercover operatives they ever had. She was smart and tough and could go right up to the edge of being strung out—so she had a lot of credibility. She was loaned out to the Miami office for an undercover job—they often do that to make sure no one recognizes the agents—and she went missing within a few weeks. Never seen or heard from again.”

  “You think she’s the woman Remington saw Gauge kill?”

  “Seems unlikely that she would wind up this far north, but . . . if our area is supplying Miami like they say, it’s at least possible. Not sure. Just gonna follow everything as far as I can.”

  “Her poor parents,” Anna says. “They’ve lost two children to drugs.”

  She’s right. So much loss. So much grief. So much inhumanity and—

  “How tired are you?” I ask. “Do y’all have plans tonight?”

  “Not too and no. Why?”

  “Want to meet in Marianna after you put Taylor down? Think your mom would listen out for her? We could get a room and . . .”

  “Yes, yes, and yes.”

  * * *

  While waiting to hear from Anna about what time to meet her in Marianna, I take Harvey Harrison out for a sandwich at Subway.

  He’s a large, muscular man who can barely fit into his side of the booth, with coarse, closely cropped gray hair and beard, dark eyes, and a dark complexion.

  One of the more interesting people in town, he’s funny and insightful, tough and courageous, and extremely entertaining.

  The son of a Pentecostal preacher who tried to beat the gay out of him, he used to tend bar and perform in the drag show at the Fiesta before it closed. Now he runs several internet businesses, including a site specializing in gay porn from small towns, from the church his dad inadvertently left to him when he unexpectedly died.

  He’s a good friend of Merrick’s and helped in his and Reggie’s investigation into the death of Robin Wilson and the others.

  “Honey, I hope you don’t expect me to put out for a Subway sandwich,” he says.

  His low, gravelly voice sounds like his vocal cords have been worked over by a wood burner.

  I smile and shake my head. “I certainly don’t.”

  “Cool. I’ll still put out. Just didn’t want you thinkin’ it was for the sandwich.”

  With very few dining options in Wewa, Subway stays consistently busy. We are at a table in the front corner, and though it’s a little late for dinner, three other tables are occupied and there are two people in line.

  “The kind of putting out I had in mind was of the informational variety,” I say.

  “Here for my mind and not my body?”

  I nod.

  “Shame, but . . . What kind of info are you after exactly?”

  I tell him.

  “Really thought Merrick and Reggie were going to solve those. They worked ’em hard enough. Even had my help, but . . . then it was like it all just stopped. Guess I always thought maybe they knew who it was but couldn’t make a case. And it’s not like anyone’s mourning for those sadistic pricks.”

  “Who do you think did it?”

  He shrugs. “Figured they were doin’ it to themselves at first, but then when they all died. I figured it was Allen Maddox.”

  “Reggie’s high school boyfriend?”

  “He took her to prom. Don’t think he was her boyfriend, but not sure. They were very interested in him back then. He was homeless and kept showing up around where the cops were being killed. Think he was stalkin’ Reggie. He went missing after one of the murders—Robin’s, I think—and they were like we’ve got to find him, but when I did, they had a short talk with him and lost interest.”

  “Do you remember what he said?”

  “Not really. Something about seein’ a kid in a hoodie leaving one of the crime scenes. Walking down Byrd Parker Drive from the landing where Donnie Ray Kemp’s cop car was found, in a black hoodie with a big swath of white paint on it. I think. Not sure. Was only half listening.”

  “Allen Maddox still around?” I ask.

  “Don’t think so. Haven’t seen him in a long time. Vaguely recall Reggie maybe helping him get in a program over at the Rescue Mission in Panama City.”

  “What do you know about the drug trade around here?” I ask.

  “Meth heads mostly make it for themselves. Pills are the most popular. You can easily buy a little weed, crack, or coke if you know the right people.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of serious producers shipping it way away from here. Heard of anyone called Hornet?”

  He shakes his head. “But . . . it was rumored that—and this was a long time ago, haven’t heard anything about it in a while—that one of the main growers from the heyday of Gainesville Green moved up here with cuttings from those storied plants and started growing here. I had some one time a guy told me was from those cuttings. Had no way of knowing, but it was some damn good shit. Best I’ve ever had. But that was a long time ago, and when I asked him about getting some more . . . he said there was none, and that he had been bullshitting me about it being Gainesville Green.”

  “Who was it?”

  His eyes widen. “I’ll be damned. It was . . . one of Robin Wilson’s boys—but he wasn’t at the time. I mean . . . I guess he was still his boy, but he wasn’t a cop at the time. I had forgotten he sold me that shit back in the day. If you hadn’t brought it up . . . I may never have thought of it again.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Dahl Rogers. First of Robin’s men to die.”

  * * *

  Anna and I meet in Marianna later that night.

  We check into a room in a hotel out by the I-10 exit on Highway 71.

  We are both horny and ravage each other like long-absent lovers, but most of our time is spent holding each other and talking, whispering between kisses and caresses, our naked bodies entwined beneath the cool sheets.

  In the midst of our lovemaking and touching and holding and private exchanges I can’t help but think of what Rumi said on the subject. It floats in and out of my mind while we’re together, capturing the truth of what we’re doing like only Rumi can. Lovers find secret places inside this violent world where they make transactions with beauty.

  37

  Then

  * * *

  Get up.

  Run.

  Cover.

  Get into the woods.

  Radio?

  Still got it.

  Truck keys?

  Gone.

  Rifle?

  Gone.

  Leave them.

  Camera?

  Still in my bag. Probably broken.

  He pauses for a moment to search for the rifle, but more rounds race by overhead, and he decides to leave it.

  Aches.

  Swelling.

  Pain.

  His entire body feels bruised and arthritic.

  Moving as best he can, he pauses behind pines for cover along the way.

  —You get him? Jeff?

  —Not sure. Got the ATV for sure. Flipped it. Not sure about him. Could’ve clipped him. He’s trying to get to the woods on the north side.

  —Don’t let him. You’ve got to stop him. We’re too far away.

  More shots.

  Run.

  I can’t.

  Do it or you die. Heather.

  Hopping, limping, jogging as best
he can, he reaches the woods, as bullets pierce bark and branches and buzz around him like dragonflies.

  In the cover of hardwood.

  Cold.

  Sore.

  Every joint aching.

  Pausing.

  You can’t stop. Keep moving.

  Breaking down over the destruction of his dad’s Grizzly. He loved that four-wheeler so much.

  He’d want you safe. That’s all that would matter to him. Not the damned four-wheeler.

  I know.

  He loved it, but he’s not here to ride it any longer.

  How well I know.

  He helped save your life.

  He did.

  Pull it together, you big sissy. You’ve got to keep moving. They’re gonna be coming.

  Moving.

  Every step hurts.

  This brings a quote to mind. What is it? A Native American saying. How does it . . . ?

  How can the spirit of the earth like the White man? Everywhere the White man has touched it, it is sore.

  Stumbling through the thick hardwood forest, he tries to think of another photograph, one to take his mind off the cold, off his circumstances, his hunger, his pain, but his mind won’t cooperate.

  —You a cop? Gauge asks.

  Remington manages a small smile.

  —Some of the guys think you might be a cop. Or maybe a soldier.

  Furthest thing from, Remington thinks.

  —I told ’em you’re not a cop. You might be a hunter and know a lot about these woods, but I say you’re no kind of bad ass.

  —No kind, Remington says, unable to help himself.

  —You still with us? Figured you might be somewhere bleeding out.

  —Who says I’m not?

  —You’ve lived a lot longer than any of us thought you would.

  Remington doesn’t respond.

  —I could be wrong. You could be some kind of bad ass.

  Remington wonders why the others remain silent. Are they sneaking up on him while Gauge distracts him?

  Walk. Don’t stop.

  —What were you doing so far out here? You huntin’ something exotic at that waterin’ hole? By the way, sorry about your four-wheeler. It sure was nice. I know you hate to lose it.

  Unable to help himself, Remington listens with interest, but he keeps moving as best he can, edging farther and farther into the woods, away from his truck, away from the river.

  —They’re taking bets on you now. You want in?

  —What odds can I get?

  Gauge laughs appreciatively.

  —Not bad, actually, he says. Started at twenty to one, but now they’re down to twelve to one.

  —Yeah, I’ll take some of that. Put me in for a hundred.

  —You got it.

  —Who do I collect from?

  —Me.

  —Okay.

  38

  Now

  * * *

  “What’re we looking for exactly?” Hank Felty asks.

  He’s drinking a beer and driving the small boat from the back. Heather and I are sitting on a bench near the front.

  We are riding down the Chipola River not far from the top of Cutoff Island where the Chipola flows back into the Apalachicola, near where Mother Earth had been found.

  “Not sure,” I say. “Anything. Everything. Just lookin’.”

  It had taken a lot of convincing for Hank to get off his barstool at the Saltshaker Lounge to bring his boat and expertise in all things river and marijuana in our search of where the shootout took place, but in the end a pretty woman—Heather—and a six pack of Busch in bottles had done it.

  In the sunlight, the river looks watery like green tea, while in the shadow it takes on a darker green-gray-tan tint.

  In the sunlight, Hank looks even worse than in the bar—red-purplish nose, bloodshot eyes, broken blood vessels, puffy face. Adding to his overall state of disrepair are his hacking smokers’ cough, the tremor in his hands, and his unsteady step.

  The banks lining the river, sloping down toward the surface of the always flowing waters, are a wet mixture of clay and sand, erosion exposing the root systems of oak, cypress, and pine trees that, though leaning, still cling to the more solid soil deeper in for stability.

  Willow trees line large swaths of the river, the tips of their long flowing branches actually touching the top of the water.

  Beyond the banks, the thick green and black swamp appears impenetrable and unwelcoming.

  An egret stalks its prey in the shallows while nearby on a fallen log, a long row of turtles sun themselves.

  At several spots along the river, homemade barges filled with bee boxes are tied off near large stands of tupelo trees. In other areas, the boxes are lined along wooden structures constructed farther up the hill. Bees buzz around both setups, and fly back and forth between the boxes and the blooming tupelo trees.

  “See that?” Hank says.

  I follow his gaze over toward the narrow overgrown entrance to a slough cutting into the state-managed land beyond.

  “See that big spiderweb extending across the entrance?” he says. “That lets you know nobody’s been up in there for a while. That’s the kind of thing to look at when you’re trying to find a place to plant your crop. If there’s no web, somebody is probably already up in it so it’s best to stay out.”

  I nod. “Did you ever grow in this area?”

  He shakes his head. “I tried to avoid the swamps. I went for more hospitable areas. I preferred a pasture to having to deal with snakes and gators and snapping turtles, and mosquitoes the size of your fuckin’ fist. But there’s plenty who do—or used to. They like being up here ’cause not many people ever come here, let alone mess with your shit.”

  “You ever know anyone around here say they had cuttings from Gainesville Green?”

  “Many, many years ago I heard somebody talkin’ about rumors of something like that, but I never found anyone who said they had any. That was some good shit. I tried some in Gainesville back in the seventies. Some of the best shit I ever had—especially for the price. It was cheap for how good it was.”

  I look back toward the front again, studying the area around us as we make our way down river.

  Everywhere you look, the interconnected vines and kudzu-covered trees, plants, and bushes are growing in the direction of the river, their green and brown and bark-covered bodies leaning, stretching, extending out to the slowly flowing tannic liquid making its way toward the bay in Apalachicola.

  The signs of human life along the river are everywhere—houseboats, hunting dog cages, camps and cabins, bush hooks and trotlines, old abandoned hulls and stray blocks of styrofoam that have come loose from floating platforms.

  “Those bush hooks and trotlines can be awfully dangerous,” Hank says. “I’ve seen more than a few guys get hooked in the face as they rode along the river.”

  Bush hooks are fishing lines that hang from a tree branch down into the water, the bottoms of which have a baited hook on them. Trotlines are fishing lines that run across the waterway with a series of baited hooks hanging down into the water. People put both kinds out, then return in a day or two to gather up their catch.

  Heather, who has been particularly quiet the entire trip, hasn’t responded to anything that’s been said for quite a while.

  I lean over toward her. “You okay?”

  She nods. “Yeah. Why?”

  “You’re so quiet.”

  “Just trying to concentrate on Remington, be open to any direction he might give me, searching the banks for anything that might be a clue.”

  I nod. “Why don’t I take this side and you take that one,” I say.

  “That’s a good plan, but can we swap sides?”

  “Of course. Tell you what. You just ease up a little bit and hold onto me and I’ll slide under you.”

  She does and we’re able to switch sides without rocking the boat or falling.

  There’s something sort of intimate about
the maneuver and I wonder if it makes her as unportable as it does me.

  “Thank you for all you’re doing,” she says. “I can’t thank you enough for helping me the way you—”

  I turn to follow her gaze. There, stretched out on the trunk of a fallen tree extending out into the water, is a small black and tan striped gator about three-and-a-half-feet long.

  “Swamp lizard,” Hank says. “Cute little thing. Just right for eating. Some fresh tender meat in that tail of his. Everybody wants to catch the big ’uns, but their meat is all tough and chewy. Wish I had my gig with me.”

  “I’m glad he doesn’t,” Heather whispers to me. “Didn’t come out here to poach. Don’t want to be a part of that.”

  As we near the log, the little gator glides into the dark water and disappears.

  Hank revs the throttle and we continue down the winding river.

  We each scan the banks and the woods beyond on our side of the boat. Hank isn’t traveling particularly fast, still much of what whirs by is a blur.

  We do this for quite a while, but see nothing, find nothing.

  And then Heather thinks she sees something lodged in one of the willow limbs hanging down onto the water, but it’s just a piece of trash.

  We’ve only been traveling another few minutes when Heather jerks her head back.

  “Wait,” she says. “Turn around.”

  Hank eases off the throttle and the bow of the boat drops down into the water, the wake we have just created rushing under us and lifting the small craft.

  Once the boat has slowed sufficiently and stopped bouncing, Hank turns the handle of the outboard motor and twists the throttle and turns us around, smoke from the engine drifting over us.

  “Over there,” she says. “That boat.”

  There in a web of cypress roots and small bushes, an abandoned boat, a huge hole in its hull, bobs as the wake from our boat reaches the bank.

  Hank begins to slowly steer the boat toward it.

  As we near the web of cypress roots, a thick-bodied water moccasin unfurls and slithers down one of the jagged wooden stems and drops into the water.