Who the hell are you? And what the hell are you doing in my head? Are you in my head? It sounds like you’re sort of outside and inside at the same time.
No response.
Really, Shelby? she asks herself. Sort of inside and outside at the same time?
Hey, this is uncharted territory. All of it. Cut me some slack.
Think of Julian, she tells herself. If these are your final thoughts, don’t let them be dark and fearful, but good and loving.
Her mind rushes back to the morning and the happiness and hope she felt.
The plan had been to meet at the landing, leave, romantically, by boat for their new lives together, get married in Apalach, and honeymoon in Julian’s grandfather’s old camp on the Brothers River—which can only be reached by boat. Because they are minors, they’re required to have parental consent and a license has to be issued by a county judge, but because she is pregnant, parental consent is not required, and they found a sympathetic and discrete judge in Apalach willing to do it.
She had arrived early. So excited to meet her man. Make their escape. Parking her car beneath her dad’s camp, she had started unloading and preparing.
Seemingly out of nowhere, her attacker, her abductor, appeared and apprehended her from behind. Somehow she had gotten away.
Running.
Screaming.
Falling.
Standing.
Running.
All she had seen of him was from a quick glance over her shoulder, a jarring, disjointed view as she attempted to elude him.
She has only the vaguest image of the man who wishes her ill.
Long. Lanky. Lupine.
Yes, that’s it. Lupine. There’s something decidedly wolfish about him. Something deranged and deformed about him too. Monstrous. Simian creature beneath the basement of her subconscious. But mostly wolfish.
She had been able to avoid him for a little while, but no one had responded to her cries for help, and soon he was on her, tackling her from behind, pulling her down like a small prey animal separated from the herd. Then something on her face—a cloth. Force. Acrid smell. Panicked breathing. Then nothing.
Regaining consciousness in the bottom of his boat, her things piled before her, she pretended to still be asleep. A bend in the river. A turn. Slowing. Bow dropping. Near land.
Another boat. Old man. Friendly.
—Hey neighbor, you’re out awful early.
No response.
—Best part of the day, the old man continues. Don’t know why more folk aren’t out here of a mornin’, but don’t mind havin’ the river to myself. How ’bout you?
Again, no response.
—Not much a one for shootin’ the breeze, are you? Is that a— Is she okay?
Gunshot.
And another.
Old man falling over in his boat.
As her abductor had edged over to ensure the man was dead, she had made her move.
Standing.
Lunging.
Landing.
Swimming.
Bank.
Climb.
Run.
Ducking. Bending. Tripping. Stumbling. Falling. Pushing. Running.
Running.
She’d spent the day running from an unknown, nearly unseen abductor.
Running in circles.
Running in place.
She has no idea where she is, no idea how long she was unconscious, how long they had motored—and if it was upriver or down. All she knows is he’s now just a few feet away from her with a rifle and most likely more chloroform.
That thought leads her to another.
For all she knows he could’ve raped her already. No telling what he did to her while she was out. She does a quick inventory of her wet, tired, hot, aching, hurt, hungry body. She can’t be sure whether or not she’s been violated, but she can tell she hasn’t been brutalized.
––He didn’t rape you, the unfamiliar but not unfriendly voice says.
Who are you? How do you know?
Again, no response.
She’s so nervous, so much tension inside her ready to burst out, she wants to scream, to face her fate, fuck hiding and running and—
And then he’s gone. Stepping away from her in his heavy boots the way he had stepped toward her.
She waits a long, long time, unwilling or unable to move, unsure whether he’s still close enough to see her. Then she waits some more.
Too scared to move. Too miserable not to. She eases up just enough to crawl.
Crawling.
Through the cypress swamp. Out of the wetlands. Wondering all the while what her hands are going to come down on—rattlesnake, cotton mouth, snapping turtle, wasps, brown recluse? There are plenty of things out in these swamps worse than a psychopath with a gun, experiences as brutal and as deadly.
The experience so far has been plenty unpleasant enough. I’m gonna try to keep anything else from happening.
Try all you want to, you probably won’t make it through the night.
––Yes you will, the soft male voice says. I’m gonna help you. We’re going to get through this together.
Goddamn it. I can’t take much more of this, she thinks, and starts to cry again.
56
Damp.
Muggy.
Sticky.
Loud.
Walking along a pine tree-dotted ridgeline on the east side of a dried up slough, Shelby misses her mom and Marc and Julian so much the emotional pangs produce physical pain.
She’s never felt so alone in her entire life—not even following Savannah’s disappearance.
She feels feverish and her moist skin itches. Every cell aches. Every stumbling step is difficult and painful.
Drone.
Buzz.
Hum.
Chirp.
Croak.
Crickets and frogs and mosquitoes and gators and every kind of noisy incessant insect create an aural assault louder than the busiest city streets of the biggest, busiest cities in the world.
Oh God, if I die, please, please don’t let Mom find my journal.
She thinks about how much it’d hurt her mom, how much of it’s not true—even if it was in the middle of the moment when she wrote it.
If I wanted to hurt her, to have her hear my raging rants, I’d’ve said them to her.
Mom can be a pain, but I wouldn’t hurt her for the world. She’s had enough of that. Far more than her fair share.
Given that, her mom’s pretty cool. Overprotective as a mofo and a little volatile, but otherwise cool. Hell of a lot better than her parents were to her. And she could be fun and funny. She was the most creative person Shelby knew—making her and Savannah’s childhoods magical.
How much better things would’ve been if Savannah hadn’t been taken.
And now me. Fuck. Maybe Mom wasn’t overprotective enough.
I’ve got to get through this and get back to her.
What’s the best way? Think.
I can’t. I’m just . . . Nothing makes any . . . I’m just so . . .
Stop! Take a breath. Think.
Where the fuck am I?
Follow the ridgeline to the river.
What if I’m heading inland? I can’t tell. Some environmentalist I turn out to be. I’m lost as fuck. It’d break Mother Earth’s heart to see how inept I am. What would she do? What would Kerry?
Kerry.
Thinking of him makes her sad too. Such a decent man. Been so good to her, so kind. Treats her like an adult. Same way Marc does.
Marc.
So good to her mom. Sees past her trauma and scars to the wounded little orphan. Doesn’t just see the artist, but the woman. So so so glad he’s there for her. Especially now.
God, I hope she doesn’t drive him away. Hope he doesn’t let her.
Memories of Mother Earth remind her of her animals, the little wild things rehab she has in her backyard. She was going to call her mom after she was married and tell her
what to do with them, how to care for them, who to give them to, but . . .
This is what you’re thinking of? Come on. Focus. Quit trying to distract yourself, and figure a way out of here. Hurry. Or die.
––You’re going to be okay.
This time the voice is unmistakably outside of her––so much so that she whips her head around toward where it had come from.
No one is there.
––Who is it? she asks.
––A friend. Here to help.
––An imaginary friend?
57
—Martin Chalmers thinks he saw someone on his property last night staring at Lithonia Lodge through binoculars, Keith says.
He, Will, and Sam are in his office, each having returned from tracking down leads.
Weary. A little worn. But not without resolve.
—I’ll get a team over there, Will says.
—I’ve got a guy who’d be perfect for the job, Sam says. Get one chance not to fuck up footprints and other evidence.
—Call him, Will says.
—Will do, she says. I talked to the contractor and the corps general. Nothing there. Gonna talk to Taylor’s parents in the morning. And we need to get someone over to the Planned Parenthood Shelby was talking to in Tallahassee.
The fluorescents of Keith’s office are overly bright in the dim building, and it’s odd for them to be on this late at night. There’s a harshness in their illumination that seems unkind, even judgmental––a thought Sam realizes says far more about her level of fatigue than the quality of light in the room.
—I know I’m wasting words, Keith says, but you two should really think about shuttin’ it down for the night and getting some rest for tomorrow. First light, we’ll have the full team here and will hit the ground running. You’ll be better for Shelby if you’re at least a little rested.
—But how much time do we really have? Sam asks. What time is landfall predicted?
—About three tomorrow afternoon, Will says.
—Which means we’ll have outer bands by morning.
—Yes, ma’am.
—So, she says, I say fuck sleep.
—She’s got a point, Will says.
Keith smiles.
—Does, doesn’t she?
58
—You asleep? Sam asks.
—No, ma’am, Daniel says.
She can hear the smile in his voice.
—What’re you doin’?
—Still trying to solve your case. Anything new on your end?
—Nothing worth sharing.
They fall silent for a few seconds.
—So, Sam says, I was thinking.
—Yeah?
—Instead of waiting ’til morning, why don’t we wake Ron and Rebecca up tonight?
—Like the way you think, Special Agent, he says.
* * *
Which is why an hour later they’re racing toward Citrus together on a dark, empty, fog-shrouded highway beneath a half-full milky moon.
—This is nice, Sam says. Romantic.
Daniel is driving, his profile outlined by the bluish glow of the dashboard. She is slightly reclined in the passenger seat, turned toward him a bit, admiring how handsome, how tall, how calm.
—’Tis, he says, reaching over, pulling back her skirt, and rubbing her leg, adding, Makes me amorous.
—Name one thing that doesn’t.
He starts to say something, then stops.
She laughs.
—I’m sure there’s something.
She shakes her head.
—Not that I’ve found. Not even chasing down leads in a child murder-abduction case. You think the two cases are related?
—Don’t see how they couldn’t be, but nothing to suggest it so far, is there?
—No.
—You’d think an abductor would take a child or a teen, not both? he says.
—If they’re not connected, it’d be like someone getting struck by lightning twice.
––True, he says. Good analogy there, slim.
The yellow dashes and reflector dots of the rural highway rising out of the fog, the silent slash pines lining the road visible in the periphery spill and brume bounce of headlights.
—I find the drama involving the Youngs, Taylor, Trevor, and Dr. David as fascinating as anything in the file, he says.
—It is, isn’t it? It’s just unbelievable parents would be willing to let both children die rather than save one.
He nods.
—Religion, man, she says, shaking her head.
He continues to nod, but a small smile creeps across his face.
She smiles back. As a religion professor and a person with a deep, profound faith, he’s religious in a way that makes him as far away from people like the Youngs as he possibly can be and still be considered religious, but she never misses an opportunity to fuck with him about religion.
—I know, he says. We’re all fuckin’ nuts.
—You’re not. You’re like the coolest cat I know, all Zen and shit, but you’ll have to explain these people to me.
—In a word, he says, fear. They’ve been taught to believe in a God of wrath who makes up arbitrary laws and punishes those who don’t follow them to the letter. They’re afraid.
—So they’d kill their kid?
—Sure. Think of Abraham.
—Who?
He tells her. As he does, she leans forward and looks up through the windshield at the moon and the silhouettes of tree tops lit by it. Pale light. Blue sky. Black trees.
—And he’s the hero? she asks.
—Yeah. Every culture, every time, every religion has fear-based elements that think sacrifice is necessary to appease the gods—or the equivalent. And the god they serve is so authoritative, they don’t dare question anything they’re taught. No matter how bizarre.
—Thanks for being the way you are, she says.
—Would you love me if I were like them?
—I’d have to. I don’t have a choice, but I’m glad you’re not.
She reaches over and touches the side of his face with the back of her hand.
—We’re so lucky to have found each other, she says.
—Yes we are. Yes we are.
—And we know it.
—Yes we do, he says. Yes we do.
59
Long, low roofline.
One story.
Small.
Simple.
Stucco.
Asymmetrical.
Ron and Rebecca’s ranch-stye house is plain and rustic and fits what Daniel knows of them and their religion.
The exterior of the aging domicile is clean and neat and well-maintained, but generic, colorless, soulless. The lawn is mowed, but not manicured. No flowers. No shrubs. Not a single tree for shelter on the lot.
Daniel is bothered by the lack of trees and what he thinks it says about the Youngs’ worldview and religious beliefs. He could be wrong of course, but disrespect for and disregard of nature is so typical of arrogant, ignorant, apocalyptic people convinced of both their superiority to all other living things and the ridiculous doctrine that God is going to destroy the earth soon anyway.
Ron Young answers the door fully dressed, though, from the condition of his eyes and hair and the time it takes for him to open, it’s obvious he’s been sleeping.
As Daniel had expected, the man’s attire is modest and lacking in modernity.
After opening the old wooden door, he just stands there awkwardly, waiting, a not-unpleasant expression on his peculiar pale face.
—Mr. Young? Sam says.
—Yes?
—I’m Samantha Michaels and this is Daniel Davis. We’re with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement. We need to ask you and your wife a few questions.
—Now? he asks with a slightly bemused look on his face.
—Right now, sir. Yes.
—Rebecca’s asleep.
—Wake her. We’ll wait.
He leads
them into the living room then disappears down the hallway.
Like the exterior of the house, the interior is without passion or personality. No family photos. No mementos or memorabilia. No collectables. No color.
The only decorations adorning the walls or displayed on tabletops are religious icons of the Catholic variety, but even these are of the most modest, desaturated, and stripped down design—not the iconography associated with the excesses of cathedrals, but the asceticism of monasteries.
Ceramic crosses. Pewter crucifixes. Well-worn wooden rosaries.
When Ron returns with his wife, everyone sits, and Sam explains what’s happened and the purpose of the late-night intrusion.
—Oh, the poor child, Rebecca says.
Like her husband, she is fully dressed. Plain. Pale. Uptight. Upright. Rigid.
Not particularly unattractive, but unappealing in every way.
—Why wouldn’t she call and tell us a thing like that? Ron says. What’s wrong with her?
—How often do you speak? Sam asks.
He nods.
—Well, yeah. You’re right. She doesn’t talk to us. But something like this…
—When’s the last time you spoke to her?
—Her sixteenth birthday. Not long before she ran away.
—Like the Bible says, Rebecca adds, How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child.
Daniel smiles. The quote is Shakespeare, not the Bible, but he doesn’t mention it.
—You haven’t had any contact with her since then?
—Not for . . . sixteen years, Ron says. Doesn’t seem possible. We’ve tried, of course—especially when the girls were born. We keep hoping she’ll . . .
—She’s been out of our lives longer than she was in it, Rebecca says.
—Why do you think? Daniel asks.
Neither respond, and their gazes drift over to each other.
—You said she was thankless. What do you—
—We love our daughters very much, Ron says. Pray for their souls every day. Every day. But Taylor is lost. And has been for a very long time. She hasn’t been the same since she and her sister were taken away from us.
—It’s what happens when man trespasses on the providence of God, Rebecca says.
The Remington James Box Set Page 52