—We have Shelby’s journal.
Julia Flax’s eyes widen.
—And it says she and my client were running away to get married today?
—It does.
—May I see it? George asks.
—It’s being processed right now. As soon as it’s—
—So I should just take your word for it? the lawyer asks, his tone incredulous.
—We don’t have much time, Keith says. Please. It’s dark. Shelby could need medical attention. If Julian ever cared for her he should help us locate her. And no matter what happened, I’ll make sure everyone knows how helpful he was. I just want to know where she is, what happened to her. I know you bought her a ring.
—I didn’t, Julian says.
—Son, let me do the talking, his attorney says.
—You were going to, Keith says. Why didn’t you? What happened? Did she break up with you? That it?
—I didn’t buy no damn ring, Julian says.
—I think you did. Did she go with you or stand you up?
—Keith, John Lee says, his voice scolding in an almost fatherly way, if you keep trying to provoke my client, I’ll be forced to end the interview.
Silence descends upon the inhabitants of the small room.
Eventually, John Lee clears his throat.
—As I told you before we began, he says, Julian is innocent. It’s true. He knows it. His mom knows it. I know it. And because he’s innocent, because he’s concerned about Shelby—even though she is no longer his girlfriend—we’re here to help. Do you want information or not? Then quit trying to provoke him and let Julian help you.
—Why’d you and Shelby break up? he says. Let’s start there. Why and when?
John Lee pats Julian on the hand.
—Their relationship ended, John Lee says, because they were going in two different directions. Wanted different things. It was only recently that Julian realized just how different.
—Meaning what? What happened?
39
—We’re not going to sit here and talk poorly about Shelby. Nor are we going to rehash painful and personal details that have nothing to do with where she is or what she’s doing.
—Is she involved with someone else now?
Julian’s angry expression lets Keith know she is and he’s not happy about it.
—My client has no knowledge of that. Do you know who your ex-girlfriends are seeing?
—The recent ones. Yeah. Who’s she seeing, Julian? What if he’s done something to her? What if she needs help?
Julian looks like he wants to say something, but doesn’t.
—There is no one new, is there? Keith says.
—Not his business whether there is or not, John Lee responds.
—Julian, just tell me who she dumped you for.
—She didn’t—
—Keith, I told you not to do that, John Lee says.
—Do what? If Julian’s not involved with Shelby, I’ve got to know who is. This isn’t adding up. You’re not giving me much here, John Lee. And you know it.
—My client’s not involved in any of this. Doesn’t have much to give. Doesn’t know much.
—He knows more than he’s saying, more than you’re letting him say.
—We’re answering your questions—the ones we can. Ask us something we actually have an answer for.
—Okay. Why weren’t you at school today?
—Just didn’t feel like it.
—Gotta do better than that, Keith says. You never skip school—and the day you do, Shelby does too, and she goes missing.
—That’s not a question, John Lee says.
—You’re really being this unhelpful when Shelby’s missing? Here’s a question for you. What did you do today?
—Just hung out.
—No. I mean exactly. Take me through it moment by moment.
John Lee nods to Julian.
—Slept in. Hung out. Walked around. Went to the Courts. Talked to some girls. Played some ball.
Something in Julia’s reaction lets Keith know her son is lying. It was brief and subtle, and she recovered well, but it had been there, and he had seen it.
—What is it, Ms. Flax?
—Huh?
—What’s he lying about?
—What? Nothing.
—John Lee, you need to explain to your client and his mother how serious this is, how they can be arrested right now.
—You don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to, John Lee says, but don’t lie.
—I’m not lying, Julian says. I swear. I did all those things.
—Then you’re leaving a lot out.
Julian doesn’t respond.
Keith shakes his head and looks over at Julia.
—What’d he lie about or leave out?
—It’s nothing. No big deal. I’m sure I just—
—What is it? Keith says, his voice flaring.
Julia looks at her son.
—I’m not lying, Mama.
—But Julian, you didn’t sleep in. You were gone before I got up. You never get up that early.
Julian has the look of a kid caught in a lie.
—What were you really doing? Keith asks.
—I . . . I wanted her to think I was going to school. I waited ’til she left, then came back home and got in bed.
—More lies. What will your friends say? Your neighbors? Everything will come out. It always does. What will they think when they find out you wasted our time instead of helping us find Shelby? You either know where she is—whether she’s dead or alive—or you know something that would help us find out who does, and you’re just jerking us around.
—Keith, John Lee says, we all need to take a—
—I swear to God I don’t know where she is, Julian says. Swear to God. But I’ll tell you who might. And he wasn’t at school today either.
—We’ve already talked to everybody who didn’t go to school today. You’re just trying to––
—Oh you did, huh? Including Mr. Ake?
—Who?
—Mr. Ake. Our biology teacher.
—Kerry Ake? Julia says. What does he have to do with—
—He’s the reason we broke up. He’s been fuckin’ her.
40
NOAA data buoy.
East-central Gulf.
Sustained winds 111 miles per hour, gusts up to 143, sea heights 35 feet.
Christine. Category 3.
Consuming. Growing.
Coming faster now.
Maintaining course.
Projected landfall. Panhandle of Florida at or near Tupelo.
Warnings issued.
Evacuations ordered for low-lying areas.
Bracing.
Boarding up.
Preparing.
41
Riverview.
Roadside motor court.
Small. Stripped down.
Cinderblock buildings.
Oyster-shell parking lot.
Pulling up to Fishermen’s Paradise, the motel where Kerry Ake lives during the school week, Sam feels like she has traveled not so much across town but back in time.
On River Road, just a couple of miles from Lanier Landing and Shelby’s dad’s camp where her car was found, the all-white compound looks as if she’s seeing it on a 50s black–and-white TV show, the dark night surrounding it adding to the illusion.
At one time, a popular spend-the-night spot for men coming to fish the Apalachicola and Chipola Rivers and the Dead Lakes, the small block buildings of the mostly empty establishment look more like military barracks than civilian recreational lodging.
As Sam steps out of her big, boxy state-issued car, a fine white mist of oyster shell dust swirls about her, eerie and fog-like in the streetlamps and security lights.
Unsnapping the strap on her holster, she lets her right hand linger near her firearm, while knocking on the door with her left.
—Florida Department of Law Enforcement, she
says. Mr. Ake?
A young, handsome in a not-too-obvious way man with blondish hair and tanned skin opens the door wearing khaki shorts and a light blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
—Kerry Ake?
—Yeah?
—I’m Special Agent Samantha Michaels with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement. I need to ask you a few questions. Mind stepping out onto the porch?
—No. Not at all. What’s going on?
As he steps out, she moves forward and scans the room. It’s small and outdated and plain—and no one else is inside, which she can be certain of because the bathroom door is open. For a bachelor pad, the room is tidy—most of the clothes confined to an open suitcase on the floor, most of the books piled on the nightstand, most of the cans and food containers on the small round table in the corner.
—You live here?
—During the week. My girlfriend and I have a place in Thomasville, but this was the only school I could find a job at this year, so I crash here during the week.
Science teachers are in big demand. Why is this the only place he can get a job?
—Has something happened to Joann?
—Who?
—My girlfriend.
—No. I’m here on another matter.
—What is it? What’s wrong?
—Why’d you miss school today?
He shrugs.
—Officially, I was a little under the weather. Unofficially, I was working on an article I hope to publish.
—For the paper?
He smiles.
—Scientific journal.
She nods, noting that he’s ambitious.
—So what’s this about?
—Just some questions. I’ll get to them. How do you like it here?
He shrugs again.
—It’s one of the most beautiful and diverse places in Florida. Heaven for an environmentalist. Getting a lot of research and writing done.
—But it’s gotta be tough, she says. Living like this.
—It is. And I miss Joann, but it’s temporary. And I’m taking advantage of the opportunities here.
—Do you like teaching?
He frowns and shakes his head.
—Find it very frustrating. Small town. Small school. Kids are only interested in each other, sports, drinking, smokin’ weed.
—No bright spots?
—No. Yeah. There’s a few, but it’s tough. I’m trying to make a difference but feel frustrated by how little impact I’m having.
—What about the Summers girl? I hear she’s quite the activist.
—She is. She’s a bright spot for the community, but— Is she okay? Did something happen? Are you here about her?
—When’s the last time you saw her?
—Yesterday at school. No, wait. She passed by here pretty early this morning.
—You saw her?
—Pass by? Yeah.
—Who was with her?
—Didn’t see anybody, but she passed by pretty fast.
—She didn’t stop?
—No. I wouldn’t’ve seen her except I was getting something out of my truck. Is she okay?
—Which way was she heading?
—Toward the landing.
—What time did she pass back by?
—No idea. After I got the book I needed, I went back inside and didn’t come out until around one to get some lunch. Did something happen to Shelby? Please. What’s all this about?
—Describe your relationship for me.
—With Shelby? Fuck. Did somebody say something? Is that what this is about? It’s strictly teacher and student and fellow environmentalists. That’s it. I’ve never said or done anything inappropriate. Not ever.
—Why would you jump to that conclusion?
—It’s always a threat—just sitting there like a coiled snake waiting to strike. It’s why I’m always so careful. That’s not it?
—Anybody confirm you were here all day? Except for going to lunch?
He shakes his head.
—Not that I know of. I mean, my truck was here right in front of the room all day. I got my food to go and I’d think the waitress who rung me up at the Frog Pad would remember me. Please tell me what this is about.
—Shelby’s missing. Any idea where she might be?
42
Sometimes I think you care more about your animals than you do me.
Are you for real?
You spend more time with them.
Only because of Warden Taylor’s lockdown. I wish I could be with you more.
You do?
Duh! I want to be with you all the time.
You’d give up the animals for me?
You could help me take care of them.
Oh.
You wouldn’t?
I would.
But only to get in my pants?
That is the way, isn’t it?
Wow. You’re right. And it’d totally get you to go green. What a great idea!
What is?
Totally the way to win.
Huh?
Nature girls. Use the power of pussy to affect policy.
Needing coffee, to stretch his legs, and to check on Taylor, Marc carries his laptop into the kitchen and places it on the counter. Stiff and a bit stupefied, he’s been reading Shelby’s journal so long and so intently, he’s lost all track of time, and is just now becoming aware of the world around him again.
Filter.
Coffee.
Water.
On.
Off to find Taylor.
Clos du Bois.
Empty, overturned bottle.
Sign.
Warning.
Portent.
He finds Taylor passed out on the couch in the living room, empty glass on the floor, empty bottle on its side on the coffee table beside snapshots of Shelby. Some of his best and worst memories of her involve the crisp, delicate, fruity taste of wine in her mouth. She’s never as amorous, never as wanton, as when knocking back glasses of her favorite sauvignon blanc—and never more vile and vitriolic, the latter effect causing her to swear off drinking—how many times in the course of their short relationship? Ten?
Seeing the drained bottle as a form of communication reminds him how he’s often thought of her drinking as the Chinese symbol that means both danger and opportunity. Adding alcohol, particularly wine, to her fragile system and volatile nature always leads to an extreme—you just never know which one.
How can she still be such a mystery to me?
The last time she drank, about a week ago, when Shelby was at the one friend’s house Taylor actually let her stay the night at, they had gone to dinner, and three glasses later had skipped the movie because she had to have him, couldn’t wait.
Looking down at her now, he sees the wounded little girl who’s lost so much, and his heart aches for her.
She can’t lose Shelby too. She just can’t. It’s too much. She’ll never survive it.
As he’s trying to decide whether to cover her with a blanket here or help her to bed, she opens her eyes.
—Hey, she says, dragging it out. Sweetly. Sexily. Drunkenly.
—Hey.
—Hey, she says again. Hey, baby. How’s my handsome man?
She reaches up for him and he bends down to meet her.
Wrapping her hands around the back of his neck, she pulls him into an open, sleepy, sloppy wet kiss that tastes of sweet fruit.
Stopping suddenly, she pulls back, and looks toward the pictures on the table.
—How the fuck could I forget? Even for a second? Fuck. What’s wrong with me? Oh God. What’s wrong with you? Why didn’t you tell me?
—Tell you what?
—Do you even care about her? About me?
The dam holding his anger gives and it bursts out.
—Are you kidding? Who’s in there poring over her journal for any clue about where she might be, who might have her?
—Don’t be such a goddam
n martyr.
—What? Are you . . . You can’t be that . . . Drunkenness is no excuse for—
—I want you out, she says. Out of my house. Now. Tonight. Out.
He’s stunned, but not shocked. This is always a possibility. It doesn’t happen often, but just often enough to always be a threat coiled unseen beneath the surface.
She’s irrational, crazed. Soon, she’ll be hysterical. There’s nothing to do when she gets like this—no argument he can make, no overture, no way to get through, to get in, to get past the emotional electrical storm swirling around her right now.
But, as is so often the case, it sneaks up on him before he realizes what’s happening, and his anger propels him forward.
—Here we go again.
—Don’t be such—
—You really want me out?
—Don’t act like it’s not what you really want.
—You’re gonna regret this in the morning, he says. Please just stop now. Instead of saying you’re sorry in the morning, you could just not do anything to be sorry for.
She doesn’t respond.
—Two days ago, we’re talking about forever, about being twins, how you’ve never loved anyone like me before, and now you want me out.
She shrugs.
—Things change.
—Yeah, he says. Rather quickly around here.
—Right. So I don’t know why you’d want to be here anyway. It’s got to be a relief.
—Do you remember telling me how good I was for you—and Shelby? How you’d never loved anyone the way you do me, how happy I make you?
She doesn’t say anything.
—Are those things suddenly not true?
She shrugs.
—How do you feel about me right now?
—I don’t feel any way toward you.
It hurts and it’s hard to hear, but he suspects it’s liquor, hormones, and the unimaginable nightmare of Shelby being missing.
He starts to say something but sees that she has fallen back asleep.
Am I a martyr? A masochist? What am I not seeing, not getting?
He loves her like he’s never loved anyone. Finds her attractive and fun and funny, intelligent and wise and witty, but she’s damaged, and he pays a high price for remaining so close to the feral thing inside her.
The Remington James Box Set Page 49