I nod. “I think it is.”
“Do you? Or do you just want to do it?”
“His wife has finally agreed to talk to me,” I say.
“Whose?”
“Remington’s.”
“Really?”
I nod. “Even sent me the manuscript of a book she’s writing about the case.”
“She’s writing a book about the case?”
“Not the case. What happened to her husband.”
“Does she know?”
“Not everything. She’s working with a ghostwriter. They’ve written it as a story, filling in what she doesn’t know with imagination, best guesses, and conjecture.”
“God help us.”
“Give me one week,” I say. “Anna and Taylor are at her parents’ in Dothan for the week. Sam’s in rehab. And Johanna’s with her mom in the North Georgia mountains for spring break. I can devote every waking moment to it.”
“Who’re you kidding?” she says. “You know good and damn well you’ll dream about it, too. Probably how you’ll solve the damn thing.”
I smile.
In addition to my family being away, I have even more time on my hands than usual because when I turned in my resignation as a chaplain at Gulf Correctional Institution, the warden offered me a part-time position if I would stay—something I gladly and gratefully agreed to.
“We’ve got an opioid epidemic on our hands—or haven’t you heard?” she says. “Tourists driving into our little county in droves, local beekeepers fighting with ones coming in from out of state for tupelo season, an influx of people and a buttload of activity with Deseret. Can’t interest you in something actually happening here today?”
“If I don’t uncover any new evidence or get any kind of break in it inside of a week, I’ll put the folder back in the filing cabinet for a while.”
“And if you uncover something new?”
“If it’s significant enough you let me keep working on it.”
“For how long?”
“Another week with the same deal.”
“And you won’t let any current cases slide?”
“I won’t.”
“Okay. One week. That’s it. And you better not wind up in some damn true crime book, either.”
5
Then
* * *
More screams.
Or what sounds like screams. Surely they’re not. Surely they’re just—
Unbidden, unwelcome, he hears Heather screaming in his mind. Screaming in pain. Screaming for him. It’s something he never wants to hear, something he didn’t think he could bear.
Is there anything worse in the world than hearing the woman you love screaming in pain and being unable to do anything about it?
* * *
Closing the shutter on such thoughts, he refocuses his attention on his surroundings, on the task at hand.
Moving.
The forest grows thicker—tiny, barren branches buffeting his upper body, scratching his hands and face, as dead leaves, limbs, fallen trees, and bushes hinder him from below.
The temperature is sinking with the sun. A wet North Florida cold is coming, the kind that creeps into a man’s marrow—especially when he’s alone, unable to contact the outside world, uncertain about exactly where he is.
The cold air carries on its currents the faint smell of smoke, as if a great distance away an enormous forest fire is raging, running, consuming.
Home.
He wouldn’t have chosen to come back to this place, but it feels right to be here—here in the real Florida, not the manufactured or imported, not the tacky or touristy, not the Art Deco or amusement park, but the great green northwest, Florida’s millions of acres of bald-cypress swamps, dense hardwood hammocks, and longleaf and slash pine forests.
Here, in addition to taking care of his mother and keeping his family from ruin, he can hone his craft, practice his art, lens the rare and the beautiful, film Florida’s most exotic and elusive wildlife.
Suddenly, startlingly, the thick forest opens up, giving way to a pine flatwood prairie. Several acres in circumference, surrounded by thick hardwood forests and cypress swamps, the small area is comprised of scattered longleaf pines, saw palmetto, cutthroat grass, gallberry, fetterbush, and fallflowering ixia.
Thankful for the temporary respite from the abrasive, nearly impenetrable hardwood forest, he moves more quickly through the thick but low-lying foliage on the soggy soil.
Lifting his feet high, in part to avoid the palmettos, in part out of his phobia of snakes, he lopes across the small flat plain within a few minutes, wondering why in all his previous trips out here he’s never seen this particular one before.
—You lost?
The voice startles him, and he jumps. Turning, he sees a gaunt old man with grizzly gray stubble, holding a large woodgrain shotgun, having just emerged from the cypress swamp Remington is about to enter.
Taking a moment before answering, Remington gathers himself.
—Only in the most existential sense, he says.
—Weren’t meanin’ to frighten you.
—It’s okay. I just didn’t expect to see anybody this far in.
—Me neither.
The man, younger than he first appears, is wearing grimy green work pants, scarred boots, a red flannel shirt, and a soiled baseball cap with a local logging company logo on it. His swimmy, slightly crossed eyes seem to float about, impossible to read.
—You a grower?
—A what? Remington asks, but then realizes he means pot.
—You ain’t huntin’. What’s in the bag?
—My camera.
—Camera? You with Fish and Game?
Remington shakes his head.
—Some sort of cop?
—No, sir.
He wants to say he’s a photographer, but can’t quite get it out.
—You hear someone scream a few minutes ago? Remington asks.
—Scream? The hell you talkin’ about? Ain’t no one out here but us.
—Probably an animal. I heard something.
—Ain’t from around here, are you?
Remington starts to shake his head, but stops.
—Used to be. Am again, I guess.
—People what own this land don’t take much of a shine to trespassers. Best go back the way you come in.
—This is my family’s land. My dad is—was Cole James.
Remington realizes that the land he’s standing on now belongs to him.
—I’s sorry to hear about his passin’.
—Thanks.
—What’re you doin’ out this far?
—Taking pictures.
—Of what?
—Animals, mostly. Some trees.
—What kind of animals?
—Deer, gator, fox, bear, boar, and the Florida panther.
—Ain’t no panther this far north.
—So everyone keeps telling me, but I’ve seen it.
—The hell you say.
—I have. When I was younger. And I’ve seen its tracks since I’ve been back.
—Well, you best be gettin’ back. Be dark soon. Easy to get lost out here.
—Thanks, I will. I’m almost done.
—Wouldn’t wait, I’s you. Want me to, I’ll take you in.
—Thanks, but I’ve got a compass.
The man cackles at that.
—Suit yourself. I jest hope the panther don’t git ya.
He then turns and continues walking in the direction Remington has just come from.
Remington stands and watches the man until he crosses the small pine flatwoods plain and disappears into the hardwoods on the other side.
Unsettled by the encounter, he tries to determine why. Would he feel the same way had Heather not called and told him about her undeveloped feeling?
I would, he thinks. Though he can’t quite identify what, there was something menacing about the man. Threatening. He’s up to something illegal—an
d not just trespassing. It could be poaching or over-the-limit hunting, but it’s far more likely that he’s the grower.
He considers walking out of the woods right now, but is determined not to be scared off his own land. Besides, he’s on a mission, and knows how depressed he’ll be tonight if he goes in without accomplishing it.
Looking up, examining the quality and quantity of daylight left, he decides all he really has time to do now is check his traps, which is at least something. Something he can live with. But as he turns to enter the hardwoods, an indentation in the ground catches his eye, and he stops.
There in the soggy, sandy soil, as if in plaster, is a perfect paw print. And a little ways farther another. And then another. And another.
He’s fairly certain the tracks are those of an adult Florida black bear, but searches the nearby trees for confirmation. He smiles as he sees the territorial scratch marks that Florida black bears make in the tree trunks. His smile broadens when he realizes that the marks are nearly seven feet high.
* * *
Colder.
Darker. Deeper.
Remington’s not exactly sure where he is. Lost.
Leaving the tip-up mound in the soft pink glow of sunset, he begins to walk in the direction of his inmost camera trap. Or so he thinks.
* * *
Nocturnal noises.
Crickets. Frogs.
Chirps. Hums. Buzzes.
Loud.
Forging on, he ventures deeper and deeper into darkness and density. Black leaves crunching beneath boots as he follows a ridge line into a stand of hardwoods over five hundred years old.
Chill. Stalking. Frightened.
The feeling that he is being followed persists. Stopping, he listens carefully and shines his small penlight in all directions, but hears and sees only nature.
This deep, this dark, the woods seem haunted, as if alive with an ancient menacing force predating humanity.
Nearing it now.
Almost there.
As he closes in on the spot of his deepest camera trap, the cold and fear and weariness begin to fade, floating up like smoke from a night fire, breaking apart as if bits of ash and rising into invisibility.
Walking faster now. Excited. Energized. Renewed.
* * *
Dry.
Following a spring and summer of record low rainfall, autumn had continued the arid trend, the rivers’ flood plains receding, the swamps shrinking.
Of course, it’s not just lack of rain that causes the forest to crackle and evaporate, but overdevelopment in Atlanta and the overuse of water in Georgia and Alabama—people downstream are always at the mercy of the people upstream.
The only water in the area is a small spring-fed slough, which is normally just part of a tributary system that flows inland from off-shoots of the river to small lakes and streams, but is now cut off, forming a single standing body.
The sole source of hydration for miles, this small, black, leaf-covered pool is the perfect place for a camera trap. Every animal in the area must come here eventually.
Remington had set up his inmost camera trap in the hollowed-out base of a cypress tree across from the mouth of the slough. Equipped with an ultra wide-angle lens, the camera frames nearly the entire width of the water, but on the opposite side so it captures the faces of the creatures as they dip in for a drink.
By the time he reaches the trap, the last feathers of the flamingo sky have floated away. Now, only the tops of trees are illuminated, their empty, craggy branches black, backlit by a faint smoke-gray sky.
* * *
Removing the memory card from the camera trap, he places it in his new camera and drops to the thick leaf-covered ground to view the shots. Pressing the display button, the first image appears. Spinning the selection wheel, he scrolls through the eerie images.
* * *
Even on the small screen, the burst of light against the dark night gives some of the frames an otherworldly quality.
Moonlight.
Overexposure fading to faint pale pallet. Ghostly.
* * *
Glowing red eyes.
Odd angles. Necks craned.
Sand-colored streaks, leather-colored flashes.
Night. Beyond the slough and its track-laden muddy rim, deer passing by trigger the trap, their eyes glowing demonically in the flash.
Day. Leaping, turning, darting deer break the infrared beam, leaving blurs of buckskin behind. Too fast. Ill-framed. Unusable.
The distant deer the camera captures are too far from the slough to do anything but trigger the trap.
* * *
Black spots.
Red-gray coat. Triangular ears. Short, stubby tail.
Dusk, and the small cat prowls about, slinking, skulking, stalking. Head down, facing the frame, green slitted eyes staring into the camera.
Unlike the rare, endangered Florida panther, the Florida bobcat is much more common. Just three times the size of a large house cat, the sleek feline is stealthy and secretive, difficult to photograph, the kind of animal the traps were made for.
The bobcat shots are stunning. Simple. Subtle. Natural.
* * *
Circle of light, dropping off to dark woods.
Empty frames.
* * *
Soft, diffused light. Liquor-like glow. Late afternoon.
Humans.
Shock.
Murder.
Handgun. Close range. Blood spray. Collapse.
Shovel. Dig. Dirt. Bury. Cover.
Remington is rocked back, reeling at the random horror his camera has captured.
In flip-book fashion, the staccato images show two people appearing in the far right corner of the frame. The distance and angle lead to soft focus, the small screen adding to the difficulty of deciphering details. Based on size, carriage, movement, and mannerism, Remington believes he’s looking at a man and a woman, but their camouflage jumpsuits and caps make it impossible to tell for sure.
Jittery, random pictures record the larger of the two figures raising a handgun, though a rifle is slung over his shoulder, and shooting the slightly smaller one in the back of the head. A spray of blood, and the now dead person falls to the ground like the leaves she lands on. The murderer then removes a small, folded camping shovel, kneels down and begins to dig. Hundreds of shots later, the larger person rolls the smaller into a shallow grave. Removing his jumpsuit, he drops it into the hole with his victim, then douses both with liquid from a plastic bottle, drops a match, and steps back as the flames leap up out of the opening in the earth to dance in the dusk sky.
Nausea.
Clammy skin. Cold sweat.
Unaware his distress could deepen any further, Remington’s panic intensifies when, thumbing through the images, he sees the murderer remove his jumpsuit to reveal a dark green uniform. Although unable to tell exactly what agency the man is with, he thinks sheriff’s deputy or wildlife officer most likely.
Flickering flames.
For a long time—over thirty images—the man stands adding accelerant to the holocaust hole at his feet, eventually dropping the bottle itself in and refilling the grave with dirt, covering the mound with dead leaves.
All the photographs had been taken in the afternoon light, preventing the strobe from flashing and alerting the murderer to the presence of the camera trap and the frame-by-frame chronicling of his crime.
* * *
Incapable of moving, Remington continues to press so hard against the backside of the hollow cypress base that it hurts his back.
Denial. Disbelief.
I didn’t really just see what I thought I did . . . did I?
Turning slightly—his head more than anything else—he shines the penlight over across the slough to the back right corner. Even from this distance and with such a small beam, he can see the mound rising beneath the leaves.
Glancing down at his camera, he pulls up the information for the last image he looked at. According to the
time and date stamp encoded in the picture, it was taken less than two hours ago.
The murderer had been finishing up about the time Remington was unloading the ATV and talking to Heather. And hearing what he thought were screams. He wonders if, like lost light, the horrific screams had been trapped in the swamp until someone had arrived to hear them.
It wasn’t that long ago.
The killer could still be out here. I’ve got to—
Movement from the other side of the watering hole triggers the strobe of the camera trap, illuminating the area like heat lightning flickering in a dark night sky.
Seized with fear, Remington freezes. Full stop. Even his heart and lungs seem to quit functioning for the moment. Facing away from the flash, he makes no move to turn and see what sort of creature triggered the strobe.
—Did you just take a picture of me?
The calm, whimsical, slightly amused voice is unrecognizable, sounding like a hundred others he hears every week, indistinguishable in its southern uniformity.
Remington doesn’t respond, just remains hunched down, his back against the cypress stump. What’s left of the hollowed-out base of the tree doesn’t offer much in the way of protection, but the man is across the watering hole, which provides a barrier and puts some distance between them.
—I bring her way the fuck out here to avoid all the cameras in the tree stands and you take a picture of me?
With the camera trap’s memory card in Remington’s new Canon for viewing, the man’s picture had not been recorded when he set off the strobe.
But it’s not a bad idea.
Adjusting his camera, Remington holds it up, and snaps a picture of the area across the water that the voice is coming from, then quickly pulls the camera back down.
—You keep taking my picture, you’re gonna make me feel like some sort of celebrity or something.
Remington’s quickly coming to hate the sound of the cold, laconic voice.
Switching the camera to view mode, Remington glances at the picture he took. The top edge of the frame cuts off just below the man’s chest, revealing only that he is indeed a wildlife officer with the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission.
The Remington James Box Set Page 19
