The Remington James Box Set

by Michael Lister

  More boards blowing off.

  Wind and rain so loud. Can’t think. Driving me crazy.

  Fuck! What do I do?

  But before she can decide, the decision is made for her.

  As the entire right side of the small structure is ripped off and what remains of it crumbles into the water, a falling beam catches her on the back of the head, knocking her unconscious as she collapses with the craft into the dark, angry waters.

  107

  Wide.

  Heavy.

  Powerful.

  The search and rescue boat rockets down the river, its wake lost in the broiling, storm-churned waters. Keith and Will in rain gear racing through the blizzard bead-curtain of rain would have long since been yanked out and blown away were it not for being strapped in.

  Will is driving, Keith standing next to him shining the searchlight along the banks and in the water.

  —The hell is that? Keith yells.

  Will looks over in the same direction and sees a blue bateau caught in a thick pine root system at a forty-five-degree angle, rocking up and down in the storm surge. He slows the boat, the bow dropping, and swings over to take a closer look.

  Keith unstraps himself and comes around to the other side of the boat. Inside the blue river craft, the body of an old man, his legs wedged under one of the benches, half his face missing, dangles with the drift.

  —Gunshot wound, Will yells.

  —Sure as hell is.

  —Think it means we’re gettin’ close?

  —Depends on how far the storm knocked the boat around before setting it up in those roots.

  —Keep going? Will asks.

  —Yeah.

  —Hold on.

  Will guns the boat back into the center of the river, heading downstream, as Keith grabs the spotlight with one hand and the support bar with the other.

  Visibility is so limited, it’s as if they’re flying a private plane at night without instruments, the searchlight mostly illuminating driving rain, the windswept surface of the river, and storm-bent trees.

  They haven’t gone far when the first rounds begin to ring out.

  Whizzing by.

  Thwack.

  Thump.

  Twing.

  The first few rounds hit the boat, but then one catches Will as another takes out the light.

  Collapsing, Will jerks the steering wheel, spinning the boat so hard around it nearly capsizes, and slinging Keith out into the river.

  Water.

  Darkness.

  Boots filling. Hard to swim.

  When Keith resurfaces, he takes in a deep breath, rain falling into his open mouth. As rounds begin to pierce the water around him, he submerges again and swims for the opposite bank as fast and hard as he can.

  108

  When Shelby opens her eyes, she tries to scream, but can’t.

  Mouth taped, wrists and ankles bound, she’s lying on her back on the soggy ground, her upper body shielded from the storm some by the open hollow of a cypress tree.

  Above her, firing a rifle at targets she can’t see, her abductor looms in black paramilitary attire, seemingly unaware of the rain and wind and weather.

  Even above the din, she can hear a boat bang into the bank not far from them, the motor continuing to run at what sounds like full throttle.

  Her abductor looks down and points his gun at her.

  —Be right back, he says, his voice flat and low, barely audible in the storm. Best be here.

  He walks away, and she wiggles back and forth and sits up.

  The man walks over to the boat, climbs on board, his rifle ready, and kills the motor.

  As she begins to test her restraints, someone grabs her from behind and she screams into the tape covering her mouth.

  —It’s me.

  Julian. She knows it instantly. Before she turns. Before she sees him. She knows. Warm relief washes over her and she’s happier than she ever thought she’d be again.

  —Come on, he says, helping her up. Let’s get out of here before he gets back.

  109

  Shock.

  Collapsed.

  Bleeding.

  Immobile.

  Hanging.

  Will’s strap holds him just above the floor of the boat. When it crashes into the trees and roots and mud of the bank, he slams into the gunwale, but doesn’t break loose of the binding.

  He tries to get up.

  Can’t.

  Chest hurts like hell.

  Blood seeping steadily.

  Tries to cut the engines.

  Can’t reach the switch.

  When the man steps onto the boat, he knows he going to die.

  Goddamn it! Not like this.

  He steps over cautiously, then sees Will is no threat.

  Kills the motor.

  Younger than he thought. A kid really.

  Taken out by a fuckin’ kid.

  At least this’ll be my last fuckup for today.

  —You smiling? the man asks.

  Will doesn’t respond.

  —I amuse you?

  Don’t respond, he tells himself. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

  —Go ahead and say it, the man says.

  Will wonders what the fuck he’s talking about, but doesn’t ask.

  —Go ahead and tell me I don’t have to do this—in your case I’d agree. Just be a waste of a bullet. Your life is leaking out of you as we speak. I extend this conversation a bit and I can save the bullet for someone else.

  Don’t engage. Nothing you can do is gonna change anything.

  —Ask me nicely, and I’ll leave you to your fate, the man says.

  Will doesn’t say anything.

  —You’re probably right. Gonna die either way, but why not have a little more time? Why not ask me nicely for that?

  Don’t do it, Will says. Don’t you do it.

  —I don’t understand, but okay. Have it your way.

  He raises the rifle and sights down the barrel.

  —Okay, Will says. Please. Please don’t shoot me. Let me have a few more minutes. I’m begging.

  He lowers the gun.

  —I didn’t think you were going to, he says. Thought you might prove me wrong, but no. Everyone’s the same. Even the real religious. You religious? You’d think they’d be anxious to get to heaven, but everyone’s the same.

  He then raises the gun again.

  —You sadistic son of a bitch, Will says.

  The man shoots him in the forehead, splattering brain and blood all over the bottom of the boat.

  From across the river, Keith is powerless to prevent Will’s execution.

  He yells.

  Fires his gun.

  Screams.

  Threatens.

  Begs.

  Drowned out by the bitch, Christine, he’s not sure if the man heard anything but the shots, but he didn’t even respond to them.

  Powerless.

  Helpless.

  Impotent.

  The chief law enforcement officer for River County can’t keep his classmate and friend and investigator from being shot at pointblank range just a little over a football field away.

  —You don’t leave the swamp alive, he yells. You hear me? I’m gonna bury you out here. Today. Right now. I’m coming for you.

  110

  Not alone.

  Shelby stumbles through the swamp, pulled along by Julian.

  —He just killed someone else, she says.

  —Who else has he killed?

  She tells him about the old man in the boat.

  —Well, he’s not gonna get us. Come on.

  They begin to walk faster.

  —Who is he?

  She shrugs.

  —I was gonna ask you.

  —Where’re we gonna go?

  —Cabin not too far from here, he says. Your mom’s there. She’s got a gun.

  —What? she says, mystified. Mom’s where? With a what?

  He explains.
/>
  She starts to cry again, her tears indistinguishable from the raindrops running down her cheeks.

  —I thought I’d never see you again, she says.

  * * *

  Keith, exhausted, leaden with wet shoes and garments, swims out into the river, having to stop often and tread to lift his head above the wakes and waves.

  Tempted to take his boots off, he knows he’ll be glad he didn’t once he reaches the other side. If he reaches the other side.

  River’s hard enough to swim in good conditions. Add fatigue, boots, and a fuckin’ hurricane and . . .

  Doesn’t matter. I’m gettin’ across and then it’s lights out, motherfucker.

  He swims and swims and swims. Makes little headway.

  No matter how hard he tries to go directly across, he’s being carried rapidly downstream.

  Goin’ more aside than across.

  Fighting.

  Flailing.

  Kicking.

  Clawing.

  Weary.

  Weak.

  Spent.

  No sleep.

  Stress.

  Doesn’t matter. Nothing does—’cept gettin’ across and squaring things for Will.

  Jesus, Will! How the hell’d I let this happen?

  111

  Nearing the cypress house.

  —Almost there, Julian says. Just a little further. Get you dry. Get a gun and blow that bastard’s head off.

  —You couldn’t really shoot him, could you?

  —To save you? he asks. In a heartbeat.

  Wondering if he really can, he leads her through the pitiless storm, hunched over her protectively, sheltering her with his raincoat, toward the sound of the generator and the small, dimly lit cabin.

  —There’s something I’ve got to tell you, he says.

  —Yeah?

  —I just don’t want it to be a big shock to you.

  —What is it?

  —Your mom’s sister. She’s alive.

  —What?

  —She’s in the cabin.

  —She can’t be. Are you sure?

  —Yeah.

  —How?

  —I don’t know.

  —It’s just not possible. Is Savannah?

  —I only saw your aunt. And baby . . . she doesn’t look very . . . She’s . . . You can tell she’s sick, that she’s been sick a long time.

  —Okay. Thanks for telling me.

  They reach the cabin and step up onto the porch, even the partial covering making a huge difference.

  Shelby pauses at the door and takes a deep breath.

  —Sorry you don’t have longer to prepare, he says, but we’ve got to get inside.

  She nods.

  —Ms. Sean? he yells through the door. It’s Julian. I have Shelby. We’re coming in. Don’t shoot.

  He eases open the door with a creak loud enough to be heard over the gale, and as they’re stepping through, he’s knocked down as the man who abducted Shelby grabs her with one hand and holds a pistol to her head with the other.

  Taylor’s relief at seeing Shelby is so momentary, so evanescent, it’s as if she really didn’t experience it.

  As Ethan shoves Shelby forward and kicks the door closed, quieting the room somewhat from the storm, she raises the shotgun and points it at him.

  Julian pushes himself up, then for a moment no one moves or says anything, and there is only the furious force of the wind, the pummeling of the downpour.

  I can’t take any more, she thinks. It’s all too much. Discovering Trevor’s alive, losing Marc—oh God, no, please, Marc can’t be dead—finding Shelby, only to have him take her right back again. It’s just too much.

  —Ethan, no, Trevor eventually says.

  Her voice is feeble, tentative, more pleading than demanding.

  The poor thing, Taylor thinks. The horrors she’s been through. No telling what kind of twisted, conflicted relationship she has with this sociopath.

  —I told you what to call me, Mama.

  He’s just a boy, Taylor thinks. Not much older than Shelby.

  Outside, the storm eviscerates the swamp, sheering off the tops of trees, upturning ancient timbers, beating down undergrowth, drowning wildlife, banging on the cypress house.

  —Romulus, Trevor says, put the gun down, baby. Don’t do this.

  —I got her for you. So we could be a family again.

  —Not like this, sweetie. You’ve got to stop.

  —Listen to her, Taylor says.

  —No, ma’am. You listen to me—unless you want to see what’s on your daughter’s mind, put that shotgun on the floor.

  Taylor doesn’t move.

  At first, he seems too surprised by her noncompliance to respond, then his eyes widen and his expression turns incredulous.

  —You don’t think I’m serious? he asks.

  The generator stalls and sputters and the lights dim and brighten, fade and flicker, then go back to full strength.

  —You didn’t kidnap my daughter just to kill her.

  —You people. You’re all alike. Why can’t you just leave us alone? Do you have any idea what we’ve been through? What’s been done to us? What? We don’t count? We can’t be happy like everyone else?

  —We can, Trevor says. But not like this. Where’s Kelly? He’ll tell you.

  —He’s part of the problem. The biggest part.

  —He saved us.

  —He enslaved us, he says.

  —We wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for him. Where is he?

  Shingles and cypress boards begin to fly off the cabin, the roof and walls shaking, pictures falling off hooks, glass shattering on the floor.

  Marc’s dead, she thinks. No. He can’t be. But he is. The sweet, gentle man is gone. So many dangerous things in the swamp today and he hits his head and drowns. You can’t even think about that right now. Must save Shelby. Make his death mean more. Save her.

  Ethan pauses to consider the structure, then turns his attention back to Taylor.

  —Last chance. Drop the gun. ’Course we’ll probably all be dead soon anyway.

  He won’t do it, will he? Of course he will. He’s a . . . You can’t predict what he’ll do.

  Julian shifts his weight.

  Ethan looks at him like he’d forgotten he was there. Then shoots him.

  Shelby screams.

  The sound is deafening, the acrid odor of gunpowder filling the room.

  Shock.

  Stillness.

  Silence.

  For a moment, time seems to unspool like a film reel in an unmanned projection booth. No one moves, no one speaks. There is only the storm.

  —Okay, Taylor says. Okay.

  If you put down the gun he’s gonna kill you and make Shelby his slave. Eventually, he’ll kill her just like he did Savannah.

  More boards blow off.

  —NO, Trevor yells. Ethan, no. Don’t do this.

  —Don’t call me that. Don’t call me Rom either. I’m the wolf now. Call me the wolf.

  —Where’s Kelly? Let’s talk to him.

  —All he’s done to you and you want him?

  —I need him.

  —All I’ve done for you and you want him?

  —Where is he?

  —Gone. Won’t hurt us anymore.

  —No. No. No.

  Trevor begins to cry.

  The lights dim again, making the creepy old cabin in the woods seem even more like what it is. A haunted place of confinement, an isolated death house.

  —Tell me you didn’t kill him you . . . sick . . . animal.

  —What? the wolf says, anger drawing in his face. What’d you say? What’d you call me?

  —Why? Why’d you—

  —All I’ve done for you. The way I worship you, Lupa. And you turn on me? Over him? Over that sick––

  —Don’t you dare talk about him like that. He was the greatest man to ever live—the only reason you’re even alive, and you killed him.

  —You better wat
ch how you talk to me.

  —Why? ’Cause you’ll kill me too? Go ahead. I don’t want to live without Kelly.

  Pulling the pistol away from Shelby’s head slightly, he begins moving toward Trevor.

  More shingles peeling off.

  More boards ripping away. And what? A door opening somewhere? Doubtful. Being blown in more likely.

  So loud. So hard to hear.

  The force, the sheer power of the thing outside trying to get in . . . is . . . inevitable. The other wolf, the one outside, will blow the house down.

  —I mean it, he says. Stop.

  —You thought, what, you were gonna take his place? That’d it be you and me and my niece? You silly, stupid boy.

  Is she doing what I think she is? Taylor wonders. Get ready. Just be ready.

  His grip on Shelby loosens, and as he steps over to the bed, Shelby shrugs herself away from him, jumps on the floor, and scrambles toward Julian.

  Taylor has a perfect shot now. Close. Can’t miss. Brace for the kick. Squeeze the trigger.

  She does.

  And nothing.

  What’s wrong? Why isn’t it firing?

  He turns toward her, a wolfish grin on his face, swings the gun over in her direction.

  As he squeezes the trigger, his hand explodes, the pistol clattering to the floor. Then his chest blooms with blood and he crumples as Keith walks in from the back of the house, gun still trained on the mortally wounded wolf.

  Crawling around Trevor’s hospital bed, Taylor rushes over to hold Shelby, her ears ringing, eyes watering.

  112

  Evening.

  Sunset.

  Storm passed.

  Peaceful.

  Raindrops still falling from trees and leaves in the woods. Tick. Tick. Tick.

  The air is clean and fresh as if untouched, unspoiled, undiscovered.

  Blue sky above. Bright pink glow igniting the western horizon.

  Sam and Daniel in a borrowed boat taking Taylor, Trevor, Shelby, Julian, and Keith back to the landing, back to what their lives will now be, as FDLE techs process the various crime scenes.

  Sam is driving, Daniel standing beside her, the others, in shock, sit silently around Trevor’s stretcher in the back of the boat.