The Remington James Box Set

by Michael Lister

  He knows she’ll work through the night and the following day—as long as it takes, as long as she can. She’s the most relentless person he’s ever known. She’ll go until she drops, then rest just enough until she can go again. No matter what’s going on, she’s the best hope Shelby Summers has.

  —Have a few minutes in the car, she is saying. Thought we could talk. You got questions for me?

  —Yes, I do.

  —You still reading the case file?

  —I am. How’s it going there?

  —Not good, she says. Every minute that passes . . . you know? And they’re passin’ by in a hurry.

  He doesn’t say anything.

  —So I’m really counting on you, she says.

  He laughs.

  —Seriously, thanks for what you’re doing.

  —Just doing it hoping to get in your pants, he says.

  —So I have two vested interests, she says. Win win. How can I help?

  —Looks like from the file, you didn’t have a lead suspect.

  —Really didn’t have any suspects. Really was like she just vanished.

  —What I gather. You looked at both parents hard?

  —I did. Dad especially, but Taylor too. There was nothing.

  —Shelby?

  —Yeah. I mean, she was only eight. She couldn’t’ve moved Savannah, so if she’d done anything to her, we’d’ve found her right there in the woods. But she wasn’t even late getting home.

  —So her mom says.

  —Yeah?

  —What if Shelby killed Savannah and instead of losing both girls, Taylor helps her hide the body?

  —Damn that’s dark, she says. Wow. That honestly never even occurred to me. Are you darker than me, Professor?

  He laughs.

  —You have no idea, he says.

  —But what does that—

  —I’m just trying to think of everything. Not saying we should—

  —It’s a good thought. Keep thinking.

  —The woods? he says.

  —They’re not that big. Just five acres or so adjacent to the lane leading to Lithonia Lodge. We searched every inch. No way she’s in there.

  —The parents?

  —I told you. We—

  —Taylor’s parents.

  —Ah.

  —They wanted her dead, he says.

  —After the surgery, the doctor who did it, a twin expert and researcher—

  —D. Kelly David.

  Daniel glances at the online entry he found about Dr. D. Kelly David.

  A conjoined twin who survived separation surgery from his brother Karl, who did not, D. Kelly David grew up to become one of the world’s foremost experts on twins in general, conjoined twins in particular, and in surgical separation. He is credited with more successful separations than any surgeon in history. In midlife, he founded the River Park Inn Center for the Twin in North Florida, a treatment and research facility specializing in separated and sole surviving twins, but after nearly a decade of operation the center was closed amidst allegations of insurance fraud and accusations of unethical experimentation. Eventually, David would lose his license. He is best known for his role in the Taylor and Trevor Young case, winning a suit against the girls’ parents, Ron and Rebecca Young, in which he performed a court-ordered separation to save Taylor’s life that cost Trevor hers.

  —Yeah, Sam says. He sued for custody of Taylor, claiming Ron and Rebecca were unfit, but he lost. They raised Taylor, but from what I gather it was not a warm environment. When she turned sixteen, she got pregnant and ran away. As far as I know she hasn’t had any contact with them. Hard to blame her.

  —You interview them?

  —No. They still live in Citrus. Creek County sheriff’s investigator did. Why?

  —They seem like obvious choices. Replace the daughter they lost—or the daughter that was lost to them.

  —Oh my God. What a fuckin’ idiot I am. I should turn in my shield right now. But why take just one?

  —Who knows? Maybe they saw Taylor and Trevor as one—unable to live apart. Maybe they thought they were being kind. Leave Taylor one.

  —Why take the other now?

  —I don’t know. Maybe they decided they have to have both. Maybe they saw or read something about Taylor recently that made the thought of her having Shelby intolerable.

  —She does have a new live-in boyfriend.

  ––There you go.

  ––The novelist Marc Hayden Faulk. You read him?

  ––Yeah. That’s interesting. Very interesting.

  ––We’ve got to interview them. How about we do it together first thing in the morning?

  51

  —I’m so sorry, Taylor says. I feel like shit.

  She is awake now, sitting awkwardly on the couch, sobering up, but still hung over.

  —Always do when I’m mean to you, she adds.

  Marc just listens, nodding, not saying anything. He’s stopped reading, placing the papers on the coffee table.

  —What is that? she asks.

  —What?

  —All those papers?

  —Shelby’s journal.

  —You printed it?

  —In case the power goes out from the storm.

  She nods slowly, appreciatively.

  —I don’t even know what I said, just remember it was mean. Felt mean. You don’t deserve this. I’m a monster. Get as far away from me as you can.

  —That’s what it was, he says. Always comes back to that.

  —Huh?

  —You sending me away. When you’re hormonal, hurt, or drunk you want me out. Want me away from you, out of your house, out of your life. When you’re sober, sad, or remorseful, you say I don’t deserve this, that I should leave. Comes down to the same thing. You wanting to end this. Us.

  —But only because I don’t deserve you and you don’t deserve this. That’s all it ever is. When I’m feeling monstrous, I want you away so you don’t see me and so I don’t hurt you.

  —You really expect me to believe that?

  —It’s true. I mean it. I know I don’t deserve someone as good and kind as you. And I know you’re sick of me, my moods, my goddamn post-traumatic stress disorder. I’m sick of it too, but I can’t leave me. You can.

  —Like everyone else has? he asks.

  —Well, they have.

  He shakes his head.

  —I know. I’m sorry. But I’m also sick of having to be sorry. To be the one who’s always wrong. I don’t think you get it.

  —What? he asks. What don’t I get?

  —Can you imagine what it’s like to have your parents want you dead? To have your sister cut out of you––for her to die so you could live? To have a mangled body to remind you every single day? To grow up in a loveless, laughless, lifeless home with strangers who couldn’t be colder? Who’re unhappy because you lived, because you killed their other daughter? To be the town freak of a small town where everybody whispers and shuns? To have the whole fuckin’ world know you for one thing? Every man I’ve ever had has let me down—or worse.

  —I’m so sorry.

  She doesn’t respond.

  —Things are different now. You know that. I’m different. You can count—

  —I’m sorry, she says, but we don’t have time for this right now. I can’t even think straight. All I can think about is Shelby.

  He nods.

  —My two girls are all I’ve ever had, she says. I barely survived losing one—and that was because of the other. Now, I’ve lost her. I’m damaged beyond repair. But that doesn’t matter right now. It doesn’t matter that I’m sorry or that I warned you from the very beginning.

  You did, he thinks. You told me you didn’t believe in love, weren’t capable of having a relationship, but I thought I had changed all that.

  —All that matters right now is Shelby.

  52

  Cypress swamp.

  Soft, soggy soil.

  Wetlands.

  Black
willow, broadleaf cattail, pitcherplants, sweetbay, elephantgrass.

  Occasional pond pine.

  No longer running. No longer able to. Shelby stumbles through the swamp, mosquitoes humming around her head, dive bombing her arms and legs, draining blood from her dehydrated body.

  Exposed.

  Sandals.

  Shorts.

  Spaghetti-strap shirt.

  Her sore, cut, and torn feet sink into the muddy bog, her inadequate shoes getting sucked down deeper with every step, slowing and tripping her. The only thing worse than the barely there sandals she’s wearing would be no shoes at all. These at least help protect the bottoms of her feet.

  When she had left the lodge this morning, she had been pretending to be headed to THS, dressed in the casual, requisite attire for North Florida public school in August—next-to-nothing shirt, shorts, and sandals.

  Her wedding and honeymoon and new life clothes are in her backpack and shoulder bag, which he must have taken while she was unconscious, because she saw them in the boat.

  Now, her chalk-colored, ruffled crochet cami that hits at her hips and the rip-and-repair double-roll denim shorties hugging them are sweat-stained and mud-soiled, ripped and torn for real. Irreparable rags.

  Why’d he take my things? Hell, why’d he take me? Murder? Rape? Ransom?

  She thinks about it.

  Got to be rape or ransom. Why else abduct her? Why not just kill her on the spot?

  Doesn’t mean he’s not gonna kill me.

  No it doesn’t.

  Walk faster.

  Where am I?

  She fears she may be far more lost than she realizes, wandering around in circles—something easy to do in the swamp.

  Picking up her pace, she’s only taken a few strides when she trips over a cypress knee and falls to the ground hard.

  Lying flat on the wet earth, her face is just inches away from a crayfish chimney—the pale adobe-looking stack of wet soil from the crayfish burrowing into the ground.

  She’s so spent, so sad, so in pain, she just lies there a moment looking at the crayfish chimney, spotting others in the short distance—and a few moments later when he passes by, his boots sloshing near her head, she reckons it saves her life. Or at least prolongs it.

  After stepping near her head, the barrel of his rifle just inches away, he takes a few more steps, then stops.

  The wolf waits and watches.

  She’s near. He knows it.

  The wolf’s sense of smell is relatively weak, undeveloped compared to that of many hunting dogs.

  He can’t smell her. But he knows she’s here.

  He likes her running. Wishes she still was.

  The third step of the hunt—confronting.

  Confronting the prey—once the prey detects the wolf, it can either approach, stand its ground, or flee. Large prey usually stand their ground. When this occurs, wolves hold back, as they require the stimulus of a running animal to proceed with an attack.

  There had been no standing her ground. Only fleeing.

  Shelby had run. She didn’t know not to. She had run and the wolf found it intensely stimulating.

  The fourth stage of the hunt—rushing.

  Rushing the prey—when the prey attempts to flee, wolves immediately pursue. This is the most crucial and critical stage of the hunt, as wolves may never catch up with prey running at top speed.

  The wolf had rushed. Shelby had run.

  The fifth and final stage of the hunt—chasing.

  Chasing the prey—actually, a continuation of the rush, the wolf attempts to catch up with his prey. When chasing small prey, the wolf attempts to catch up with it as soon as possible, while with larger prey, the wolf prolongs the chase, wearing out the animal.

  Shelby is small prey.

  He will have her. He will end this soon. It is inevitable.

  Stop breathing, she tells herself.

  Be still.

  Everything in her is screaming get up and run.

  Don’t move.

  She wants to cry.

  Don’t cry.

  Her empty stomach churns and she feels like she’s going to vomit.

  Stop it. Now.

  Psychobilly freakout.

  Her mind hurls so much at her—so many questions, so many thoughts, so many feelings, so much hopelessness, loss, and despair—that she can’t process it and she freaks the fuck out.

  What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? Should I run? Should I run? Roll? Try to hide better? Just wait? Is he about to shoot me? That what he’s doing? Getting his rifle ready? I’m gonna die. Right here. Right now. Alone. My goddamn face in the mud. I can’t just lie here waiting for my head to explode.

  Stop. Just stop. Don’t think.

  A mosquito lands on her cheek.

  She wants to slap the shit out of it and her face.

  It begins to bite her, to suck her irritable, mad blood.

  Don’t do anything.

  But—

  Nothing. Don’t do a thing. Do you hear me? Listen to what I’m telling you. Be still. Be quiet. Just don’t move.

  Part of her just wants to stand, to get this over with. She’s tired of running. Sick of being lost in the swamp, thirsty, hungry, hurting. End it right now. It’d be sweet relief.

  Unbidden, her mind fills with photographs of the river swamp and the wildlife it’s home to. The incredible images were taken by Remington James, a local man who’s famous not just for the rare wildlife his camera captured, but because it also made a frame-by-frame chronicle of a crime committed out here where there’s not supposed to be any witnesses.

  His images, the story behind them, and the way they connect to Mother Earth, had always haunted her.

  There are no cameras on her now, nothing recording her or the man after her.

  I don’t want to die alone out here in the swamp.

  ––You’re not alone, a kind male voice says.

  That startles her. It seemed to come from within her as much as without.

  She looks around. Slowly. Carefully. Quietly.

  53

  No one is there.

  Who was that? Where’d it come from? It’s not her abductor. She can tell that much, but beyond that she has no idea.

  Well, she does have one idea. Just not one she relishes.

  I’m losing it. Cracking up. It’s not bad enough that I have to be raped and murdered by a fuckin’ psychopath, not horrible enough that Mom has to go through losing another child. No, I have to lose my goddamn mind in the process.

  54

  —I hope that little girl’s not really in trouble, Gary Dobbs says. I’d hate to think you’re wasting your time asking silly questions of someone like me if her life’s in jeopardy.

  Gary Dobbs is a general with the Army Corps of Engineers and the man Shelby humiliated at a meeting sponsored by the Apalachicola Riverkeeper recently.

  Sam would prefer to talk to him in person, but he resides in Mobile and can’t afford the eight-hour round trip it’d take to make that possible, so she’s called his home phone from her car in between interviewing other suspects. She figures if he answers his house phone chances are he’s not involved. Doesn’t mean he can’t be—or might not be behind it, but she calculates that a very long-shot anyway.

  —I appreciate that, Sam says. But I follow all possible leads. Never know which one will be the one.

  —Well, I sure as hell ain’t the one.

  —From what I hear she really embarrassed you in a big public way.

  —Don’t believe everything you hear, missy. I can’t be embarrassed by a little girl. No matter how bright or passionate or misguided.

  Though Gary Dobbs talks like an alpha military man, his voice is soft and somewhat high-pitched, undermining his authority—or would, but it’s as if he can’t hear how sweet he sounds.

  —You think she’s misguided? From what I hear she made some extremely salient points.

  —She expressed some valid concerns and
did so eloquently—especially for a child—but, as usual with people like her, she can’t see the bigger picture.

  —Which is?

  —Balance.

  —Balance?

  —Everybody wants the same water. Everybody thinks their little sliver of the pie is the most important.

  —You think they’re all equally important?

  —I didn’t say that.

  —’Cause property values on Lake Lanier or greedy overdevelopment in Atlanta can’t compare to the rare estuary of the Apalachicola River flood plain and the Bay. We’re talking about species dying off, never coming back. That can’t compare with making money.

  —Are you a cop or a radical?

  —Those aren’t radical notions, sir. I can see why Shelby said your head was shoved so far up your pompous ass your policies were shit.

  —The problem with people like you and that misguided little girl is you’ve got passion but not the right information. I don’t make policy. I enforce it. I’m a soldier. You want to change policies, talk to congress. And I’m not stupid. Not a little girl you can trick. I know you’re trying to provoke me, but I’m not taking the bait.

  —You sound pretty angry to me, Sam says.

  —Actually, that’s my sweet voice.

  Sam laughs.

  —What? he asks.

  —Your sweet voice. That’s so cute.

  —I’m hanging up now, he says.

  —One more thing before you do, she says. It’s patronizing, sexist, and dismissive to keep referring to Shelby Summers as a little girl. Or to say you can’t be tricked like a little girl. From where I sit, that little girl is making the world a hell of a lot better than you and me.

  55

  Lying still in the sodden soil, her clothes soaked, her skin sweat-moist and mosquito bitten, Shelby is motionless, wondering if these few moments will be her last.

  What’s he doing?

  She wants so badly to look at him, to at least see if she’s about to be shot.

  The not knowing is nearly unbearable.

  ––You’re doing just fine, the kind voice says again. Just hang in there a little longer. Don’t move. Don’t look. Just breathe. Try to relax.