Not for the first time tonight, he’s right back where he started from.
46
Now
* * *
He’s got the shot. Well, he’s got shots. Several shots. Hell, they’re all sitting there in front of the big plate glass window like he’s at a zoo or some shit like that. Be like shootin’ fish in an aquarium.
But . . .
He’s got no clean shot at the two targets.
Be tough to take all four out.
Miss the wrong one and he or she’ll come running after him firing shots of their own.
Plus it’d make a big mess and a giant fuckin’ scene.
Plus plus he’s not getting paid to pop four, one of which is a sitting fuckin’ sheriff, the other a big black mean-looking motherfucker.
Still . . .
It’d be a challenge.
And he’s always lookin’ for ways to challenge himself.
And god knows nothing else about this gig will be challenging.
But . . .
Never EVER pop somebody you’re not gettin’ paid for.
Plus the two targets are mostly blocked by the backs of the non-targets.
Still . . .
You could be headin’ back home tonight, not even have to spend one night in this podunk piece of shit town. Be there when she wakes up.
But . . .
Never EVER pop somebody you’re not gettin’ paid for.
Plus which, between the glass and the non-targets you could miss.
Don’t EVER take a highly visible shot and miss. Not EVER. Protect your reputation.
Still . . .
His thoughts are interrupted by his phone vibrating in his pocket.
He pulls it out to see that it’s his daughter calling.
That settles it. Targets are temporarily saved by the bell.
He hops up, grabs his rifle, and answers the phone as he walks back toward the Methodist church where he parked.
“Hey, baby girl! Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?”
47
Now
* * *
When Reggie’s phone rings, she looks at it and says, “It’s the lab.”
She steps away from the table and into the living room to take it.
It’s the news we’ve all been hoping to get tonight but didn’t think we would.
Though we’re all exhausted, we’ve lingered here, waiting for the long shot phone call, savoring the day, avoiding being alone.
“Still wonder what they were out there protecting,” Merrill says. “And why we ain’t found it.”
I nod. “Me too. Plus where all the product’s coming from. If they were protecting their crops and operation, why hasn’t anyone found it? And who’s really behind it or took it over when they were taken out?”
“I’ve got the rest of the week,” Heather says. “Let’s keep lookin’. Let’s cover as much of that damned ol’ swamp as we can, answer as many questions as we can.”
“You were talking about being an investigator earlier,” I say. “That’s the real thing that gets you.”
“What’s that?”
“The questions. The relentless unanswered and never-to-be-answered questions.”
She nods and really seems to ponder what I’m saying.
“It’s funny,” I continue, “In many ways I went into both theology and criminology as attempts to solve mysteries, answer questions, and in both what I found was more questions and very, very few answers.”
“That was your mistake,” Merrill says. “You need to know something, just ask me.”
“Being out there this week,” Heather begins, “that deep in the swamp . . . I keep imagining what he went through in ways I never have before.”
I nod. “Me too.”
“It’s a miracle he survived as long as he did,” she says. “Well, a testament to his miraculous courage and resourcefulness. I kept thinking, Did he step here? Did he hide here? He had to be so scared, so . . . feel so utterly and completely alone. I just . . .”
A single tear rolls out of her right eye and down her cheek.
“He was a remarkable man,” I say. “I look at his photographs . . . how dramatic and artistic they are . . . and I think how did an artist that sensitive survive as long as he did? How did he take on and take out that many armed men far more familiar with and comfortable in the swamp than he was?”
“Exactly,” Heather says. “Cole took him out there a lot and taught him a lot about the land and hunting and surviving, but . . . he was no more a woodsman than we are.”
“Hard to be less of one,” Merrill says.
When Reggie returns to the table, she’s shaking her head. “It’s not her, not Cassandra Hitchens,” she says. “They’re certain. Used her dental records.”
“Really?” Heather says. “Wow. I really thought it’d be her. I . . . thought for sure we had . . .”
We all find the news deflating, but no one more so than Heather. It seems to hit her particularly hard. Of course, it could just be the contrast from her earlier euphoria to this current letdown.
“The lab will collect DNA and submit it to see if she’s a match to anyone already in the database, but that will take a while.”
“So we’re no closer than we were,” Heather says.
“That’s not true,” Reggie says. “Today is still the single best day we’ve had on this case in years. Don’t forget that. Don’t get discouraged because we still don’t know who the victim is. It was just a theory anyway.”
“That’s how this works,” I say. “We develop theories and test them out. Abandon them when the evidence says they’re wrong. Then develop another theory.”
“Well, I’m’a take my black ass to the house so you can start workin’ on your next theory,” Merrill says.
“Yeah,” Reggie says. “We should all get some rest. Pick up again in the morning.”
Heather nods.
Everyone stands and begins to make preparations to leave.
“See you home?” Merrill says to Heather. “Where you staying?”
“With Mike and Jean Thomas,” she says. “I was staying at Remington’s parents’ old place but got spooked.”
“If it’s okay with you, I’ll follow you there, make sure you get in safe and sound.”
“I’d really appreciate that.”
As they leave I notice Reggie lingers, waiting back a little, and when they are both in their vehicles out of earshot, she turns to me and says, “Why was Harvey out there searching today?”
“I asked. He said yes.”
“You know what I’m asking, John,” she says. “Have you been talking to him about the Robin Wilson case?”
I nod. “Yeah. I spoke with him about it.”
“After I told you to leave it alone and just concentrate on Remington’s?”
I nod again. “Yeah.”
“Why?” she says. “Why defy me like that? Why put me in this position?”
“What position in that?”
“Not being able to trust you,” she says. “I’ve got to know when I give an order, it will be followed.”
“Why don’t you want me looking into that case?” I ask. “Because of your high school boyfriend or the fact that your son has a black hoodie with a swath of white paint on it?”
“How did you—”
“I’ve seen him wear it.”
“No, not that,” she says, and though she starts to say more, she stops.
“Does what happened to Wilson and his men have something to do with the secret drug trade around here or something that happened to your boyfriend back in high school?”
She shakes her head. “You’re one hell of a great investigator,” she says, “but I can’t have someone working for me who just does what he wants to. I like you. Consider you a friend. I hate more than anything that you’re putting me in this position, but . . . this just isn’t working. And this isn’t the first time you’ve done this—gone off the rez. I don’t want
to fire you, so I’ll let you resign, but I want it on my desk in the morning.”
“Firing me or making me quit won’t stop me from looking into what really happened,” I say.
“As a private citizen you’re free to do anything that doesn’t interfere with our official investigation.”
“What investigation? There is no investigation. And for some reason you don’t want there to be. Just tell me. Just be honest. You know I’ll help you in any way I can.”
“Night, John,” she says, turning to leave and taking a few steps toward her vehicle. “It was great working with you. Don’t forget. Have your resignation letter on my desk in the morning.”
48
Then
* * *
Baying of bloodhounds.
Yelps. Whines. Barks.
Remington’s pulse quickens when the first sounds of the distant howls reach his ears.
Everything’s changed now.
He’s now being tracked by man-trailing bloodhounds, but how? They don’t have scent articles of mine to use. And then he remembers.
His truck.
They broke into his truck. It holds far more than they’d ever need—several shirts, a pair of old basketball shoes, a couple of caps, and a jacket.
He is being tracked. He will be found.
He’d heard enough talk around the pawn shop to know. If a scent article hasn’t been contaminated, a relentless bloodhound will find his man—even at his own peril.
Handlers are key.
A good handler and a well-trained support team are vital for success with the animals. If loosed to chase down a scent, the animals who show no regard for their own safety often wind up injured or dead. Recently, one of the bloodhounds from the K-9 unit at the state prison just down the road ran out in front of a car while tracking an escaped inmate and was killed.
Bloodhounds also need a support team because of their disposition. They can find a man, but can’t subdue him.
If the dogs tracking him right now are on leashes, leading Gauge and the others to him, he’s dead. If they’re on their own, he might stand a chance.
Run.
Get to the river—or even a slough or tributary—he tells himself. Cross a body of water—or just get in it. It’s your only shot at making them lose your scent.
Run.
* * *
Running.
Maybe running is what they want me to do.
Most trained bloodhounds don’t bark. The ones from the local prison’s K-9 unit track quietly so as not to alert the person they’re trailing. Barking warns the escapee—gives him time to set up an ambush.
Am I hearing beagles?
Beagles bark more and, unlike bloodhounds, don’t track on a lead, but what he’s hearing sounds like bloodhounds.
Some bloodhounds bark as they track. No telling who these dogs belong to or how well-trained they are.
Either way, they want me running. Don’t mind if I know they’re getting close.
But why do they want me to run? To panic? To get disoriented? Dehydrated? To hurt myself? So I’m easier to spot?
Should I stop running?
Can’t.
* * *
False dawn fading.
Just before daybreak.
Faint white light growing to orange glow.
Walking again. Too spent to run, too—walking’s difficult enough. East toward the river. Follow the sun.
He smiles as he thinks, Walk toward the light.
If you can’t find the river in the daylight, you deserve to die.
That’s harsh.
I’m just saying. And find a place to hide the memory card.
I’m open to suggestions.
* * *
Dawn.
Damp ground.
Dewdrop-dotted landscape. Soft light. No warmth.
Whitetail deer darting through waking woods. Sunrise.
Birdsong.
Dogs still in the distance.
Renewed hope.
Rising temperature.
The morning, which he wasn’t sure he’d see, is magical, and, unable to help himself, he spins his sling pack around, removes his camera, and begins to capture moments of it as he continues to pad east.
He has survived the long night. Has his mom?
Please let her have. And let me get through this and get home to take care of her. And see Heather. I want to see her so bad.
Then get to the river, get a ride, and get out of here.
That’s what I’m doing.
Not fast enough.
49
Now
* * *
“Know how I had two jobs,” I say.
“Yeah?” Anna says.
“Well a funny thing happened tonight. Now I only have half a job.”
Keyed up and out of sorts, I am unable to sit down, so even as exhausted as I am, I’m stumbling through our dark, empty house as we talk on the phone.
“What happened?”
I tell her.
“I can’t believe Reggie . . . of all people. I’m so disappointed in her.”
Just hearing her voice makes me feel better, just being able to call her, just having her as my person, my partner, mitigates even the most challenging of moments.
“I’m in shock,” I say. “I never thought it would come to this. I really didn’t.”
“It’s like she’s a different person,” she says. “I mean when I think about her character, her integrity . . . For her to be . . . corrupt, to be . . . hiding something . . . covering up something . . . protecting herself or someone else.”
“That’s the thing,” I say. “Given her character, her integrity. I’ve never seen her even bend a rule. This is so out of character . . . It has to be . . . she has to be doing it for someone else.”
“Far more likely her son than an old high school boyfriend,” she says.
“You’re exactly right.”
“You think Merrick knows?”
“Hard to see how he doesn’t. He worked the case with her. They’re . . . each other’s move-a-body best friend.”
“I just can’t believe it. I really can’t. But enough about that. Are you okay? I’m so sorry this happened. How do you feel?”
“Not much at the moment.”
As true as that is, as numb as I am, I am already worried about providing for my family. It was one thing when it was just me, but now with Johanna and Anna and Taylor . . . I have to think about jobs and work and bills in a way I never have before.
“What can I do?” she says.
“Not worry,” I say. “We’re going to be okay. We’ll figure it out. I don’t want you worried about money.”
You talking to her or yourself? Sounds like what you need to be telling yourself too.
“I’m not,” she says. “I’m really not. Life is way too short for that. You know what they say, if you have problems money can fix you don’t have problems. I know we’ll be fine. I really do. And hey . . . we’re together. What else matters? You don’t think Heather would love it if she and Remington had some money problems right now?”
“Puts it into perspective.”
“What’re you gonna do?” she asks. “I mean your immediate plans.”
“Keep investigating both cases. See if I can get my full-time position back at the prison. Not sure what else I can do.”
“You could just take a few days off and come up here with us.”
“I could,” I say.
“But?” she says.
“But Heather will only be here a few more days and if it’s okay, I’d like to help her keep searching her land. We made such great progress today. I feel like we’re getting somewhere with the case finally.”
“Do that and then come up here for the weekend.”
“Sounds great,” I say. “Perfect plan.”
“Just be careful out there in that swamp,” she says. “Stay safe and call me tomorrow afternoon when you come out. And don’t you worry, either. Not abou
t money. Not about anything. Night. Love you.”
“Love you more.”
“A mathematic impossibility,” she says and hangs up before I can contradict her.
50
Then
* * *
Coming down an incline, he sees a small body of water, its black surface leaf-covered and death-still.
He stops before he reaches it, stands behind a water oak and surveys the open area.
The cypress trees around the water are sparse. It’s a great place for an ambush.
When he’s reasonably sure no one’s set up, staring at him through a rifle scope, he continues moving toward sunrise, thirsty though he is, avoiding the watering hole.
Passing palmetto fronds, pushing aside hanging vines, stepping over fallen trees and around cypress knees, dead leaves crunching beneath his boots.
Stepping on long fallen branches, startling as their opposite ends rustle leaves a few feet away.
Ducking beneath low-lying limbs.
Cypress.
Oak.
Birch.
Magnolia.
Pine.
Bamboo.
The ever-emerging sun burns off the last wisps of fog, and begins to take the extreme chill out of the early morning air.
Still need to hide the memory card.
I know.
Well?
I’ll do it at the river so I can mark and remember the spot.
What if you don’t make it?
Then I’ll have to hope the messages I recorded are found.
Climbing a small ridge, he crouches behind the wide, swollen base of a cypress stump, and searches the area.
Listen.
Anything?
Birds.
Breeze.
Swishing grass.
Clacking fronds.
Swaying trees.
Falling leaves.
Look.
The Remington James Box Set Page 33