The Remington James Box Set

by Michael Lister

“Look at the top corner,” she says. “That cloth. See it? I recognize it from the video Remington left me. It’s faded but it’s . . . you can tell it’s from the tree stand he was in when he made the video message for me.”

  When we reach the beached boat, Hank cuts the motor and we drift into it. From the bow I reach out and keep us from slamming into it.

  In another moment, Heather is beside me on the bow, looking into the abandoned boat, searching for anything Remington might have left behind.

  There is nothing.

  The boat is empty, only a hull with a hole in it, only river water inside.

  “This has got to be it,” she says. “He put that blanket on there to draw attention to it.”

  The shootout took place quite a ways from where we are now—across the Chipola and across Cutoff Island and on the banks of the Apalachicola, but maybe Remington came by this way first. Maybe this is where he left the evidence of the crime he talked about in the video he made.

  “Maybe he left something in it but it got washed out when the river rose.”

  She turns back to Hank. “Can you bring us around next to the bank? I want to get out and look around.”

  “Sure thing, Missy,” he says, and then does as she requested.

  I help her onto the bank and join her myself, holding the bowline in my hand as I do.

  The sand of the bank is soft and wet and our shoes sink into it.

  We look around. There’s nothing here. Nothing obvious anyway that Remington could have left.

  She takes a few steps inland toward the swamp beyond.

  “Be careful,” I say.

  “See anything?” Hank says.

  “Not yet,” I yell back, “but—”

  Heather steps on something, then bends over to pick it up.

  When she holds it up I can see that it’s a rusted old D battery. “Here’s another,” she says.

  Dropping to her hands and knees she begins searching around the ground and grass. I join her, but after several minutes the two batteries are still all we’ve found.

  “What if it’s just a coincidence?” Hank says. “The fabric on the boat just happens to be similar to the fabric in the video.”

  “It’s not a coincidence,” she says.

  I step past her and search farther up the hill, deeper into the swamp.

  Eventually she joins me.

  We scan the area around us as we move about, but find nothing—no sign that a human being has ever even been here.

  After a while, we turn and start back toward the river.

  Through the trees and branches, I can see Hank having another beer in the back of the boat.

  As we step out of the woods and back onto the sandy bank, Heather stops suddenly.

  Closing her eyes, she mouths the words help me.

  A moment later, she begins digging in the soggy soil, scooping it out the way a child building a sandcastle at the beach might.

  I join in.

  We dig for a while around the area next to the abandoned boat and close to where the batteries were found, but come up with nothing.

  And then, just as I’m about to suggest that we come back with shovels and extra helpers tomorrow, my little finger hits something hard and I slide over and start digging in that direction.

  Before long I’ve uncovered a flashlight that weighs too little to have batteries but has something inside the shaft that rattles around when it’s moved about.

  “That’s it,” she says.

  I start to open it, but stop and hand it to Heather.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  Wiping the wet sand off her hands onto her jeans, she unscrews the flashlight head and turns up the base.

  A small memory card drops out into her hand.

  39

  Then

  * * *

  Got to stop.

  Keep moving. You can rest when you get out of here.

  His boot gets tangled in a bush, and he trips, falling to the ground and rolling. After he stops rolling, he just lies there resting, the bed of leaves soft, comfortable.

  So weary.

  So sleepy.

  Stay like this, and they’ll find you for sure.

  Just a little rest.

  Get up. Now.

  I can’t.

  Then you’re going to die.

  Just a couple of minutes.

  You won’t wake up. You’re too tired. At least hide.

  I can do that.

  With what seems like everything he has left, he pushes himself up into a sitting position, then begins looking around for a place to hide.

  He sees two large cypress trees growing up next to each other, their wide bases nearly touching. One of them looks a little hollowed out. He could gather some leaves and branches and curl up in there and get some sleep without being seen.

  Rolling over on his hands and knees, he pauses a moment, then pushes up, his entire body aching in the effort.

  Padding over to the two trees, he bends over and begins to clear away the leaves and limbs between them.

  Every joint seems swollen, every movement painful. As he lifts the last limb, his heart stops.

  Spade head.

  Blotchy black and brown.

  Thick body.

  Coiled.

  Cottonmouth.

  Mouth gaping white.

  Remington slings himself back so violently that he hits the ground and flips over, his joints screaming in pain.

  It’s too cold for the snake to move much. So unless Remington had actually put his hand near its head, he probably wouldn’t’ve been bitten, but just the shock. Just his phobia. His heart still bangs against his breastbone, skin clammy, fear pumping through him like a spike of pure speed.

  He doesn’t have to talk himself into getting up this time. He’s happy to get away from this area, though it is probably no less safe than any other out here.

  As he climbs to his feet, he notices a small structure high up in a laurel oak tree about twenty feet away.

  Easing toward it, he studies what looks to be an enclosed home-made tree stand. Higher in the tree than most deer stands, it’s extremely well camouflaged. Had he not been on the ground looking up at the exact angle, he never would’ve seen it.

  As he reaches the tree, he sees a Cuddeback scouting camera like the ones his dad, now he, sells—probably sold this one—mounted about waist high. Removing it, he slides it in his sling pack.

  At first he thinks the ladder is missing, but as he gets closer he sees that it’s on the back side of the oak, that it starts way up on the tree, and that the branches of other trees hide it. It’s so high, in fact, he can’t reach the bottom rung.

  Searching the area for something to stand on, he sees a chunk of oak tree several feet away—he suspects the hunter has it here for this purpose.

  Rolling the heavy piece of wood over to the base of the laurel, he stands on it and is able to reach the rung. Kicking the stump away, he pulls himself painfully up, climbs the ladder to the top and into the tree stand.

  Inside, he finds shelter from the cold, a blanket, room enough to lie down, two bottles of water, a bag of potato chips, some beef jerky, a couple of candy bars, a selection of hunting and girly magazines, a knife, a small signal mirror, a flashlight, and a field viewer for the scouting camera.

  Twisting off the cap of the first bottle, he slings it aside, lifts the bottle to his mouth, tilts his head back, and drains it.

  The liquid is as refreshing as any he’s ever swallowed, rinsing the bad taste of vomit out of his mouth, soothing his parched throat, but he drinks too fast, gets choked and begins to gag. He stops drinking and swallows hard, trying to suppress the tide rising in his throat.

  As soon as he stops gagging, he rips open the chips and jerky and begins eating them, reminding himself to go slow to keep from losing everything he’s consuming.

  Ordinarily not a huge fan of greasy potato chips or any form of jerky, Remington finds this junk food savory and
delicious.

  Within a few moments, he has consumed all the food and drink, wrapped up in the thick blanket, balled up on the small floor, and is attempting to fall asleep.

  40

  Now and Then

  * * *

  Soft, diffused light. Liquor-like glow. Late afternoon.

  Humans.

  Murder.

  Handgun. Close range. Blood spray. Collapse.

  Shovel. Dig. Dirt. Bury. Cover.

  In flip-book fashion, the staccato images show two people appearing in the far right corner of the frame. The distance and angle lead to soft focus, the small screen adding to the difficulty of deciphering details. Based on size, carriage, movement, and mannerism, Remington believes he’s looking at a man and a woman, but their camouflage jumpsuits and caps make it impossible to tell for sure.

  Jittery, random pictures record the larger of the two figures raising a handgun, though a rifle is slung over his shoulder, and shooting the slightly smaller one in the back of the head. A spray of blood and the now-dead person falls to the ground like the leaves she lands on. The murderer then removes a small, folded camping shovel, kneels down and begins to dig. Hundreds of shots later, the larger person rolls the smaller into a shallow grave. Removing his jumpsuit, he drops it into the hole with his victim, douses both with liquid from a plastic bottle, drops a match, and steps back as the flames leap up out of the opening in the earth to dance in the dusk sky.

  Flickering flames.

  For a long time—over thirty images—the man stands adding accelerant to the holocaust hole at his feet, eventually dropping the bottle itself in and refilling the grave with dirt, covering the mound with dead leaves.

  All the photographs had been taken in the afternoon light, preventing the strobe from flashing and alerting the murderer to the presence of the camera trap and the frame-by-frame chronicling of his crime.

  * * *

  It’s early afternoon. The sun is high overhead, its beams piercing the thick canopy of trees and illuminating the forest floor below.

  After giving the evidence to our crime scene specialist who also shared it with FDLE, Heather and I have assembled a ragtag band of reluctant searchers that includes Merrill, Carter Peak, Charles Masters, Hank Felty, Harvey Harrison, Mike Thomas and a couple of the men from one of his framing crews, and Clipper Jones, Jr.

  Carter has a rare day off from emergency services, but his band, Mix Tape Effigies, has a gig tonight, so we won’t have him long.

  Glancing at our group I realize just how ragtag and misfit and ill-equipped our little gang really is. Standing next to each other, Carter Peak and Charles Masters resemble a giant and a small child. Harvey Harrison seems far too big and Mike, Clipper, and Hank far too old to be able to walk to the edge of the swamp, let alone deep into it. Not to mention just how strong the smell of alcohol emanates from Hank—out of his mouth, through his pores.

  In Hank we have a drunk, ex-con, former drug dealer, and in Mike we have the most respected and beloved county commissioner. And I’m grateful to have both of them.

  In Clipper we have an elderly black man who’d rather be in a plane above us instead of entrenched in the swamp below.

  Everyone has a few key pictures of the crime captured by Remington’s camera trap on their phones and is here to help us find the location of the crime scene.

  “Gauge’s men must have moved Remington’s camera trap away from where the victim was killed, buried, and burned,” Heather says.

  Towering over her, his long, curly hair gathered up but falling out of a bright yellow bandanna, Carter says, “They had to, ’cause I was among the first ones in from this side that day and that’s where they were. I took video and pictures of them the moment I saw them.”

  “But now we know what the area looks like,” she says, “so with your help we’re going to find it.”

  We’re all grouped together at the end of the dirt road near our vehicles, preparing to begin our search.

  “Thank you all again for being here,” Heather says to the group. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

  “All we need your help doing is finding the spot,” I say. “As soon as we do, FDLE will send their crime scene techs to process it. It’s extremely important not to touch or move anything. Just locate it. We’ll go in teams of at least two, but most will have more. Every team will cover a single quadrant on the map, have a walkie-talkie, a flare, and a different color ribbon to mark the trail you take. It’s easy to get lost or turned around out here. Go slow. Be careful. Stay together. Any questions?”

  “I’ve got a question,” Mike Thomas says, looking at me. “Why isn’t the sheriff out here—or at least providing more deputies?”

  His voice is soft and nonthreatening, though his words are pointed.

  “I’m sure if I asked her—”

  “Shouldn’t have to ask her,” he says. “Seems like some cases she doesn’t want solved. I don’t know. Anyway . . . Everyone be careful. Watch where you step. Stay hydrated. Try not to touch any poison. And look where you’re walking. Try not to walk into a spiderweb.”

  “There’s some mother of all snakes and spiders out here,” Hank Felty adds. “We won’t be able to search if we get bitten or stung so look out for each other. And have somebody check you for ticks when you’re done—underneath your balls and everywhere. Little bastards love pubic and armpit hair.”

  “Take a good look at your quadrant on the map, make sure your equipment is working and that you have plenty of water, weapons, and supplies. We’ll head out in five.”

  “I have a question, honey,” Harvey says.

  “What’s that?”

  “Do we get to pick our partner?” he asks, winking at Merrill.

  “Sorry. Teams have already been determined,” I say.

  I hear a vehicle pulling down the dirt road and turn to see who it is.

  To my surprise it’s Reggie, and she has two deputies with her.

  “’Bout damn time,” Mike says.

  “Mind if we join in?” she asks, as they get out of her black sheriff’s SUV.

  “Thanks so much for coming,” I say.

  When Reggie sees Harvey she does a double take. “Harvey? What’re you doing out here?”

  “Civic duty and all that shit, Sheriff,” he says. “Feelin’ butch as fuck about myself right now.”

  We split up into four teams: me, Merrill, and Heather; Mike Thomas, his two men, and a deputy; Harvey Harrison, Charles Masters, Clipper Jones, Jr., and a deputy, and Reggie, Hank, and Carter Peak.

  Clipper steps over to us and whispers to Merrill, “How I get stuck with the big queen and the midget? Either one of ’em pulls out a banjo and I’m outta here.”

  * * *

  “I know we supposed to be lookin’ for the watering hole from this picture,” Merrill says, “but I’m havin’ a hard time lookin’ at anything other than my feet. Even with these damn snake boots on.”

  “Me too,” Heather says.

  “I’m sure we all are,” I say. “Probably best if we pause every few feet or so and look in every direction.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Heather says, “but there’s no need to do it until we’re a lot farther in. He’d’ve set up his main trap as deep in the swamp as he could.”

  “Deep as he could,” Merrill says. “Great.”

  “I should’ve let everyone know not to waste time looking until they’re pretty far in,” she says.

  “I’ll radio and let them know,” I say.

  I use the walkie to tell the other groups what Heather said, get 10-4s or roger thats from everyone and clip the walkie back to my belt.

  “Even with four groups this shit could take weeks,” Merrill says.

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky,” I say.

  “I’m counting on Remington guiding us,” Heather says.

  Merrill shoots me a wide-eyed who-the-hell-you-got-me-out-in-these-woods-with look.

  When Heather begins to cry I wond
er if she somehow saw Merrill’s look, though I can’t see how.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  She nods. “Just so . . . happy and relieved and . . . that we found the pictures, that Remington is vindicated. It was killing me for people to be accusing him of making it up.”

  “It is great,” I say, “and he is vindicated, but we didn’t find the pictures. You did.”

  “You send the best photo of the victim out to see if anyone recognizes her?” Merrill says.

  “Yeah. But she’s so far away from the camera, it’s hard to see her. Henrique Alvarez says it could be Cassandra Hitchens, the missing DEA agent, but he can’t be sure. No one else who has seen it so far seems to recognize her. No one from around here who was missing at the time fits even her general description, but Gauge was from Franklin County so we’ve sent it over there to see if they recognize her. Nothing so far.”

  41

  We search nearly all afternoon to no avail.

  A few areas look similar but upon closer inspection aren’t the site we’re looking for.

  We’re hot, wet, tired, frustrated, discouraged.

  And then Harvey on the radio.

  “I got the prize egg darlings,” he says. “The prize egg. What do I win? What do I win? Do I get to pick? I want John’s tall, dark, and handsome friend.”

  “Any idea where you are?” I ask.

  Charles Masters voice comes across the walkie. “Best I can tell, we’re almost dead center of our quadrant.”

  “Okay. Thanks. Great work. Stay put, but don’t touch anything. I’m calling FDLE now and we’ll join you over there shortly. Everyone else head back to your vehicles and thank you all very much. Back out and mark the area with your ribbon. What color are you?”

  Harvey says, “Why pink, of course, honey.”

  42

  Then

  * * *

  She messed up. Big time.

  As usual, she was trying to do something nice, something kind and thoughtful, and it backfired on her. Why does it always do that?