The Remington James Box Set

by Michael Lister

  Anyone?

  Staring as far as he can see in every direction.

  No one.

  He walks along the ridge a ways, happy for the high vantage point.

  Stay alert.

  Eyes and ears.

  Up ahead, where the ridge ends, he sees the bed of a dried-up slough. In his excitement, he runs over and jumps down into it, forgetting momentarily his injuries, quickly being reminded again when his feet hit the ground.

  It’s as if the pain is driven up through him with great force, every nerve jangling with it, every end, arcing.

  Stupid.

  Sorry.

  You gotta be smarter than that. Keep your head. Shit like that’ll get you killed.

  Echoes of Cole in the conflicting voices inside his head.

  Over twenty feet wide, the tree-lined dried-up slough bed is humid, drippy, soggy. Its damp ground caked with wet, black leaves and rotting limbs.

  The trees that line it are long and large, stretching up from either side to touch each other, their tips forming a canopy, keeping the channel cool, moist, dank.

  If the river were higher, if North Florida hadn’t experienced such an extended drought, if those upstream weren’t diverting so much water, if the Corps hadn’t dredged so much, blocked so much, the area he’s traveling would be under water.

  How far inland it runs he can’t tell, but he knows the eastern end runs all the way to the river. If the river weren’t so low, this channel would be feeding water to the other tributaries throughout the swamp.

  The river.

  All he has to do is follow the slough bed.

  Open and easy to traverse, he hobbles down it at a slow jog, his boots sinking into the soggy soil.

  Thick vines hanging down from unseen limbs curl on the dank ground, and he has to be careful to avoid getting tangled up in them.

  Twisting and turning, the water-hewn path snakes like a river, the exposed gnarled root systems of cypress trees growing along its banks.

  Walking around the occasional small cypress tree growing in the slough, and climbing over and ducking under large fallen oaks, he journeys slowly, but steadily.

  As he progresses, he periodically scans the ground for any sign the other men have passed this way, but sees no evidence.

  Stop.

  Something running toward him.

  To the left.

  Get down. Find cover.

  He searches the area.

  Nothing.

  Suddenly, two whitetail doe dart out of the trees, through the slough bed ten feet in front of him, and disappear into the woods on the other side.

  Heart still thudding, he pushes himself up and continues to shuffle along.

  After a while, he comes to a place where the leaves have been pushed back and the black dirt beneath is exposed.

  A large circular impression of mud taking up about ten feet, the boar bog is fresh, and he glances about to make sure the wild hog isn’t lurking about somewhere.

  Confident the animal is gone, he continues east toward the sun now brandishing the tops of pine, oak, cypress, birch, and magnolia trees along the horizon.

  You should walk along one of the banks. This is too open.

  It’s hard enough for me to travel down here.

  A round from a rifle could rip through you before you even knew they were in the vicinity. The bullet could be in your body by the time you heard the report of the rifle.

  Leaving the slough bed, he pulls himself up the small slope on the left bank, walks a few feet into the woods, then continues following the winding path toward the river that created it.

  Progress doesn’t come as easy on the bank as it did in the slough, but it’s not nearly as thick as some parts of the forest he’s had to negotiate over the past fifteen hours, most of the trees leaning away from him now, toward where the water used to be.

  What’s she doing right now?

  Unbidden, but always welcome, Heather comes to mind.

  Is she thinking of him? Angry or worried? Is she phoning his mom? The police? Or trying to convince herself it’s really over, that she’s better off without the inconsiderate prick?

  It’s been a while since he’s heard from Gauge, and he wonders if his own radio is dead or if he’s busy running the dogs.

  Glancing down at the indicator light on his radio, he confirms it still has juice.

  —You still out there, killer? Remington asks, doing his best impression of Gauge.

  —That’s pretty good, Remmy. For a minute, I thought it was me.

  He’s not out of breath, Remington thinks.

  —Haven’t heard from you in a while.

  —Dealing with a fuckin’ mutiny, Gauge says.

  —That’s good.

  —Not as good for you as you might think.

  —I guess that depends.

  —On what?

  —They refusing to take orders or actually leaving?

  —All you need to know is that I’m not going anywhere.

  —Never thought you were.

  —Sounds like you’re running. Dogs hot on your heels?

  Barks. Bays. Yelps. Howls.

  Closer now. Much.

  The pawn shop had been a supporter of the sheriff ’s K-9 unit since its existence, and Remington had watched several tactical tracking exercises over the years. He pictures what is taking place not far behind him.

  Big black snouts on the ground.

  Ears and jowls flapping, drool dangling.

  Nearly a yard tall, weight of an adult woman.

  Running.

  Remington’s scent.

  Relentless.

  More moisture in the air.

  More cypress trees.

  Nearing the river now.

  Good. Bloodhounds right behind.

  Emerging from the woods, he stumbles down a shallow bank to a green, tree-filled tributary.

  Narrow.

  Still.

  Craggy.

  The small body of water, impassable by boat, is filled with the long, gnarled, bare limbs of fallen trees and the jagged stumps of dead cypresses.

  Is it enough to lose the dogs?

  Only chance.

  Solitary.

  Stately.

  Sovereignly.

  Across the way, near the bank on the other side, a lone great blue heron wades through the water stalking his prey.

  Not sure where he is, this small slough could be part of the Chipola, the Fingers, or the Brothers. He just can’t tell. He can’t be sure how far he’s come. Though he’s traveled the river system here his whole life—from Lake Wimico to the Apalachicola Bay to the Dead Lakes—he’s never entered from this direction on foot before. Thousands of tiny arteries like this one run through the flood plain of the Apalachicola River basin, every one indistinguishable from the next.

  He’s getting close.

  This vein will lead him to a larger artery and eventually to help—tributary to slough to river.

  Icy.

  Hip-high water.

  As cold as the water is, while he’s in it all he can think about are snakes and gators—and the barking bloodhounds behind him. With every step, the soft, mucky tributary floor sucks at his boots, pulling them farther down, but he makes his way through, hands held high, protecting the camera, radio, and flashlight.

  On the other side, he squats several times trying to squeeze the water out of his jeans, then shivering, follows the narrow body of water toward its source.

  51

  Now

  * * *

  Our search team is smaller today. No Reggie or deputies. No Harvey Harrison or Carter Peak. No Clipper Jones, Jr. And no Merrill, who’s working security at a celebrity charity event on Panama City Beach that Carter’s band is playing.

  My dad and brother have joined us today. Charles Masters and Hank Felty have returned.

  Mike Thomas is back, but he’s not happy so few others are. “We find a body yesterday,” he says, “an actual body buried in
the ground and the sheriff and Fish and Game or FDLE, DEA, FBI doesn’t have any people out here searching these swamps? Makes no damn sense at all. Just hold on. Tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna shut down all my crews today and get them out here. Then I’m gonna move all the inmate work crews from town out here. I’ll have thirty men out here in thirty minutes.”

  “Thank you,” Heather says. “Thank you so much, Mike.”

  “Don’t go thankin’ me too much, girl. I feel guilty enough as it is. I hate to admit it, but I began to question what Remington said in his message over the past few years. And it’s been eatin’ me up inside. My best friend’s boy, who I knew to be a good man, and I doubted him. I’m mighty sorry about that and ask your forgiveness.”

  “Nothing to forgive. I understand. I truly do.”

  We keep the same quadrants as yesterday, just have different people covering them.

  Dad, Jake, and I take the first quadrant, Charles and Hank the second one, while Heather and Mike wait for his men to arrive.

  Having disobeyed Reggie yet again, my resignation is not on her desk. I refuse to resign. If she wants me gone, she’ll have to fire me, which I’m sure she will. But what she won’t get me to do is quit.

  As Dad, Jake, and I make our way through the swamp, I say, “Either of you ever heard of any drug producers or dealers known as the Hornet? Or bust anybody growing Gainesville Green?”

  “The fuck you talkin’ about?” Jake says. “Oh wait. Yeah. I did actually. Dad, you’ll remember this. Think it was Halloween before last. May even have been three years back. Fight broke out at that party they were havin’ at Potter Landing. Pretty sure we arrested the Green Hornet that night.”

  “That’s helpful, Jake. Thanks.”

  Ignoring Jake, Dad shakes his head. “Don’t think I have, Son. Why do you ask?”

  I tell him.

  “It being connected to Cottondale makes the most sense,” he says. “Even if it was somebody who moved here, like Robin Wilson.”

  “Yeah,” I say, “we’ve notified the sheriff’s department up there. They’re searching the area, asking their informants.”

  “Where’s your gun and badge?” Jake asks. “First time I’ve seen you without them since you became an investigator over here. Don’t tell me you’ve lost that job already.”

  Though I refuse to resign, I have left my badge and department-issued weapon locked in the glovebox of my car. Instead, I have only my own little sub nose .38 in an ankle holster.

  I don’t say anything right away.

  Dad looks back at me and I give him a look and a frown.

  “What happened?” he asks.

  Jake turns serious and seems to feel bad for bringing it up.

  I tell them.

  “They just got rid of a corrupt sheriff over here,” Dad says. “Can’t believe they’ve already got another.”

  “Maybe that’s not it,” I say. “Maybe—”

  “That’s it and you know it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You should run for sheriff,” Jake says.

  I wait for the joke, cut, or insult, but none comes.

  “You’d make a great one,” he says. “You really should. Or get the governor to appoint you when she’s removed.”

  “Thanks, Jake,” I say.

  “You know . . . Nothing says thank you quite like a little nepotism. When you do become sheriff I could really use a job.”

  “You got it,” I say, knowing I will never run for sheriff.

  We search all morning without finding a single spec of evidence humans had ever been out here—let alone anything to do with criminal activity.

  We all meet back at our vehicles for a late lunch provided by Jean Thomas, Mike’s wife, and the supper club they’re a part of.

  On folding tables and chairs borrowed from their church, a group of about fifteen kind, funny, energetic, and spunky old ladies serve us some really, really good food—and a lot of it.

  Feeding our entire search party, including Mike’s construction crews and the county inmate work crews, a delicious but light lunch of garden and corn salad, cold cut sandwiches, fresh fruit, chips, cheese and crackers, and apple, strawberry, and key lime pie, these spry old ladies act as if nothing has given them greater pleasure in a very long time.

  Toward the end of the meal, Heather stands up. “Mike, Jean, and everyone helping search or feed us—but especially Mike and Jean Thomas for going above and beyond in every way, thank you. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart. You renew my faith in humanity.”

  Jean, who is refilling one of the inmate’s cups with tea, says, “It’s our honor. These ladies and I just wish we could help search, but we’re afraid before long y’all’d all have to be searching for us.”

  52

  Then

  * * *

  Eventually, he reaches the Little River, though he has no idea of his exact location on it.

  Dogs in the distance, other direction. Lost.

  The Chipola River begins at the Marianna Limestone Aquifer known as Blue Springs Basin located just north of Marianna, feeding ponds, sloughs, and creating swamps, and giving rise to a variety of hardwood forests along its way. Its banks are lined with oaks, magnolias, river birch, and dogwood trees. Joining the Apalachicola twenty-five miles above the bay, the eighty-nine-mile-long Chipola crosses three North Florida counties and enters the Dead Lakes, its flow slowing its course, widening its path as it spreads out among thousands of deadhead cypress stumps.

  The swampy banks of the Chipola are full of bald cypress, tupelo, willow, black gum, and longleaf pine trees. The only place in the world that supports enough tupelo trees for the commercial production of tupelo honey, its banks are home to several bee apiaries and, inevitably, black bears.

  As the Chipola flows out of the Dead Lakes, it connects with the Chipola Cutoff—a stretch of the river that flows down from the Apalachicola, creating Cutoff Island. On the west side of the narrow strip of land is the Chipola and on the east side is the Apalachicola.

  Is that where I am? Got to be close.

  What now?

  Hide the memory card or take it with you. Wait for a boat or cross the river and the island to the Apalachicola.

  Flowing unimpeded for 106 miles from Jim Woodruff Dam to the Gulf of Mexico, the Apalachicola River sends sixteen billion gallons of fresh water into Apalachicola Bay every single day. Falling some forty feet as it flows through the Gulf Coast Lowlands, the Apalachicola has a width ranging from several hundred feet when confined to its banks to nearly four and a half miles during high flows. Ranking twenty-first in magnitude among rivers in the continental United States, the Apalachicola is the largest in Florida, responsible for a full 35 percent of freshwater flow on the state’s western coast.

  The Big River, as the Apalachicola is known, will have more traffic than the Little, as the Chipola is known, but crossing Cutoff Island isn’t something he wants to do unless he has to.

  While listening for the buzz of an approaching boat motor, he looks around for a landmark near which to hide the memory card.

  That’s it.

  About a quarter mile down the bank to his left, an old abandoned boat, a large hole in its hull, sits atop a group of fallen trees. Left when the water was much higher, the boat now sits several feet back from the river’s edge.

  Racing down the sandy soil of the river bank, around exposed cypress root systems, over fallen trees, their long bodies extending ten to twenty feet into the greenish-gray waters, he glances over his shoulder, checking along the bank for Gauge and his men and in the river for an early morning fisherman.

  Reaching the beached boat, he unscrews the head of the flashlight and tosses the batteries into the woods. Turning his sling pack around, he withdraws the camera, removes the memory card that had been in the camera trap and drops it into the base of the flashlight. He then places the original memory card back into the camera, snaps back the clasp and pulls the strap to return the sling p
ack to his back. Replacing the head of the flashlight onto the base, he drops to his knees and begins to dig.

  The soggy sand is soft, the digging easy, and in a moment, he has dug a hole, buried the light, covered it up, and smoothed the surface. Next, he cuts a piece of the blanket from the tree stand and wraps it around a corner of the boat, then runs back up the bank so if Gauge and the others show up, they won’t see him near the boat.

  Once far enough away from the evidence, he finds a place along the bank to hide and wait for a passing boat. Beneath the swollen base of an enormous cypress tree, he hides among the tangle of exposed roots, giving him a view of the river and cover from anyone in the woods behind him or along the banks beside him. And he waits.

  And waits.

  And waits.

  He thinks about where and how he’s spent the night. He’s always admired the beauty of the area he calls home, but now he has a new appreciation of this magical land and the majestic waters that surround it.

  Suddenly, he’s overcome by a profound sadness and sense of loss. Loss of life—a way of life on this land and its bodies of water. The transition from untouched treasure to turpentining, to timber logging, to tourism is destroying a place as sacred as any religion’s holy land—and driving the poor from their home places as the rich raise property taxes by devouring the one thing no one can make more of for second and third vacation dwellings.

  To occupy his mind while he waits, he thinks about what he likes best about Heather, his beautiful little flower.

  Like the flower she’s named for, she’s a true Florida girl who grows best in full sun and needs to avoid cold winter winds. She’s strong, but beautiful, just like the plant that is considered both weed and ornamental flower, and like the white and lavender species thought to bring luck and used to make honey, she brings nothing but sweetness and goodness to his life.

  * * *

  Mother Earth.

  Even from a distance, he recognizes her.

  An iconic figure in the area, Marshelle Mayhann, or Mother Earth as she is known, rides the rivers in her green seventeen-foot aluminum bateau, keeping watch over the water and land she so loves.