The Remington James Box Set

by Michael Lister

  They haven’t found my truck, he thinks.

  It occurs to him that they’d know his name if they’d found his truck or four-wheeler. Or do they just want him to think that, get him to circle back, return to where he started and walk into a trap?

  Will he reach his dad’s Grizzly to discover it won’t crank? Or will they let him get as far as the truck and find its tires are flat?

  The thoughts of these men even touching his father’s vehicles make him angry and sad. Since Cole’s death, Remington had become both sentimental and protective over every one of his meager possessions—even those Cole cared nothing about and had discarded.

  Dirty old hunting boots had become priceless, notes scratched on scraps of paper sacred texts, discount-store shirts Remington would be embarrassed to wear around the house invaluable because his dad’s scent still clung to them.

  19

  Now

  * * *

  The moment I get home, I gather the manuscript and all the case files I have and go into my library-study. Sitting on the floor I spread them out around me and begin to read, check, and crosscheck my way through them.

  It doesn’t take me long to realize I need to stop.

  All afternoon and evening I’ve been keeping myself busy, avoiding coming home alone, distracting myself with anything I could, including or especially the case.

  I used to spend most of my time alone. Clearly I’m out of practice.

  Before Anna and I finally got together, I lived a largely lonely life, but I also used my solitude to think and pray and meditate, to really listen to my life, to what it was trying to teach me. Lately, in my comfort and companionship and the fullness of family and work, I have done far less. And tonight when I had the opportunity to return to it, to take advantage of time and space and aloneness, I rigorously resisted it, I did everything else but what I should have done.

  Pushing the case files aside, I move over to the altar I have set up in front of one of my walls of books.

  Lighting candles and incense and turning on some Gregorian chant softly in the background, I sit up and begin to breath slowly, becoming mindful of my breathing. In and out, in and out, concentrating on my inhalation and exhalation and beginning to observe my thoughts that try to pull me away from my practice.

  You can do this another time. You need to be reading the case. You only have a week until Reggie pulls the plug and puts you on something else. Why did he burn and bury her body? Why wasn’t it found?

  Breathe. Let go. Every thought is just that—a thought. Observe it. Release it. Watch it go the same way it came.

  Flicker of candle flame animates the serene faces of the beatific figures and dances across holy cards and iconography, as smoke from the burning incense curls around the sacred objects and twists up into the dimness above, filling the room with the sweet scents of cherry and pine as it does.

  It takes a while for me to get to a place of sending my thoughts on their way instead of letting each one stay and give rise to others.

  I’m rusty, not as present as I have been in the past, not as sensitive to the realm that is beyond, below, and between, not as tuned-in to the subconscious, the spiritual, that which transcends.

  The truth is I’m always rusty. My practice is never what it should be. At my best, I’m still neglectful of what I claim really matters to me.

  But I feel the gentle pull back toward union, toward the best kind of oblivion.

  I breathe.

  I keep the case and other cares at bay.

  I connect.

  I pray.

  * * *

  I’m still praying a few minutes later when my phone rings.

  It’s Anna. Her voice is dry and sleepy sounding. And by far the best sound I’ve heard all day.

  “You okay?” she asks. “Got worried when I didn’t hear from you.”

  “Sorry. Thought it was too late when I was finally able to call.”

  “It’s never too late. You know that.”

  “You’d think I would,” I say.

  “With all that’s going on with Chris and Randa . . . It really worried me. I fell asleep and woke up panicked.”

  “I’m so sorry. I should’ve called. I should’ve called sooner. It was thoughtless and inconsiderate, stupid—especially given Chris and Randa and the work I do. Truth is . . . I’m out of sorts without you here.”

  “I feel the same way,” she says. “Why do you think I’m callin’ in the middle of the night?”

  “I miss you,” I say. “But it’s not just that. I . . . I’m a little lost without you.”

  “Always stay that way,” she says. “It’s the same for me.”

  Even though it’s very low in the background, I pause the Gregorian chant.

  “Speaking of Chris and Randa,” she says, “has anything happened?”

  I tell her about seeing Chris watching our house from the sidewalk up on Highway 22.

  “Be careful with him,” she says. “Don’t forget what he’s capable of, what he’s already demonstrated he’s willing to do.”

  “Willing to hire others to do . . . but I will. Taylor and your folks okay?”

  “Everybody’s good. Mom and Dad said to tell you hey. They’re so excited about the wedding. Really helping me with some great ideas. What would you think about having it up here? Make it sort of a destination wedding. Mom and I are going to look at a place tomorrow called The Grand. The pictures I’ve seen are . . . incredible.”

  “Anywhere. Anytime.”

  “I just thought it might be nice for all our family and friends to be in the same hotel. Make it a fun weekend getaway. Love the thought of every time you step out of the elevator you run into someone you know.”

  “Anytime. Anywhere.”

  “But what do you think?”

  “I think it makes me miss you even more. Sounds wonderful.”

  “I know we’ve both been married before, but . . . I . . . I really want this to be the celebration it deserves to be, you know?”

  “I do. It may not be the first, but it will be the last—and that’s something to commemorate and memorialize.”

  “Exactly. That’s exactly it. We’re finally together and we’re going to be, come what may.”

  “Come what may,” I say.

  The incense has burned out, but the sweet, woodsy aroma remains in the room.

  “I want it to be just what you want it to be,” I say, “but I agree it should be a sure enough celebration. And it will be. No matter where or when or what.”

  “Yes it will.”

  “How’s the investigation going?” she asks.

  “Investigations,” I say. “Looking into what happened to Remington and Robin.”

  “Does Reggie know?”

  “She told me to drop the Robin Wilson one and just concentrate on the Remington James case—and only for a week. But I think it’s obvious they’re connected. Can’t really look into one without looking into the other, so . . .”

  “So you’re going to do it anyway?”

  “Is that okay?” I ask.

  “You mean because it might cost you your job?”

  “I am down to only one and a half now,” I say. “If I lose this one I’ll only have a half and we can’t live on half a job. I’m asking because it directly impacts you, our family.”

  “Thank you for asking, for considering me, us, but . . . do what you’ve got to do. We’ll be okay. Just be safe. That’s all that matters. We can figure everything else out.”

  I think about Remington not staying safe, about how lost and lonely Heather has been since then.

  “I feel so bad for Remington and Heather,” I say.

  “I know. I do too.”

  “Makes me not want to take what we have for granted or miss a single second of it,” I say.

  “You’d think you would’ve called,” she says.

  I laugh. “Exactly. Just another way my aspirations don’t match my actions. Unbelievable, isn’t it?” />
  “Not so unbelievable, baby. We’ll both keep those aspirations and keep working on making them match our every action.”

  “I feel like yours do,” I say. “Far more than mine.”

  “That’s only because you’re more compassionate with me than yourself.”

  “You always see the best in me and make me better,” I say.

  “And you me.”

  “Get some sleep my love,” I say. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Don’t forget to call.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Night. Love you.”

  “Love you more.”

  “Not possible.”

  20

  Then

  * * *

  Frigid wind whipping, whistling, biting.

  Fog retreating.

  Tiny ice shards like slivers of glass. Frozen dew drops sprinkled on limbs and leaves, grass and ground.

  Shaking. Violently. Uncontrollably.

  Too cold to think.

  Body.

  Dead.

  Blink. Disbelief. Shock.

  Beneath the base of a fallen oak, arm outstretched unnaturally, the gray-grizzled man he encountered when he first entered the deep woods lies dead.

  Blood.

  Tracks.

  More blood.

  Most of the man’s blood appears to be spilt on the cold, hard ground—splayed out along the path his body made while being drug toward the fallen tree.

  Eerie.

  Seeing a dead body out here, alone, on this cold, dark night disturbs him deeply. Frightening him far more than he wants to admit—even to himself.

  Ghastly.

  Ghostly.

  Gray.

  The man’s blood-drained body is even more pale than before, the pallor of his face advertising a vacancy, the departure of the ghost, the emptiness of the shell.

  Holes.

  Mortal wounds.

  The man has been shot—more than once, though how many times, Remington can’t tell. Had he been with them? Is this whole thing about drugs? Poaching? More likely whatever he was up to out here was unrelated. He stumbled onto some men far worse than—

  The man grabs Remington’s ankle, turning his twisted neck, opening his mostly dead eyes.

  Remington startles, yanks his leg back, trips, falls, comes up with his rifle.

  —Why’d y’all shoot me?

  —What?

  —I ain’t done nothin’ to nobody.

  —Who shot you?

  —Were it ’cause of the bear? Y’all kilt me over a goddamn old bear?

  —Who—

  Remington stops. Feels for a pulse. The man is dead. Fully and completely dead this time.

  So he did kill the bear, but he wasn’t with Gauge and the others— and they certainly didn’t kill him for killing the bear. This is their way of silencing witnesses. A man like Gauge doesn’t tie up loose ends, he cuts them off.

  —Goddamn.

  The sudden blast of voice on the radio makes Remington jump.

  —What?

  —It’s cold as fuck out here.

  For the second time tonight, Remington leaves the dead where they lay and begins moving again, holding the radio to his ear to hear what’s being said.

  —Coldest night of the year so far.

  —Hey, killer, you okay? Didn’t look like you had on a very warm jacket.

  —Can you believe this is fuckin’ Florida?

  —It’s thirteen degrees out here. Colder with the wind chill. This is the kind of hard freeze we have only once every so often that wipes out citrus crops.

  —Do us all a favor and blow your brains out.

  21

  Now

  * * *

  With Anna out of town and not knowing Heather any better than I do, I decide it’s best not to have her come to our home. Instead, we meet at Lake Alice Park on a warm, sunny Tuesday morning.

  She arrives with Mike and Jean Thomas, a kind, white headed, late sixties, soft-spoken couple who own the most successful construction company in Gulf County. Mike is also a county commissioner for the district I live in.

  “Morning, John,” Mike says, extending his hand.

  “Morning,” I say, nodding to them both.

  “Sorry to barge in like this,” Jean says, “but we won’t stay. We were having breakfast with Heather and asked her if we could come along for a minute. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all,” I say.

  “Cole James was the best friend I ever had and one of the best men I ever knew,” Mike says.

  “Caroline was one of my closest friends,” Jean adds. “Especially before she got sick.”

  “We wanted you to know how much we appreciate what you’re doing and offer any assistance you might need.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “I really appreciate that.”

  “It’s a real offer,” he says. “Both of any of our personal resources or those I manage of the county’s. This case is a blot on our community and an embarrassment. We need to find the victim Remington mentioned and find out what really went on out there. I appreciate you helping Heather and will do anything I can to help you. That’s all. Now we’ll leave and let you two get to work.”

  “Just remember what we said,” Jean adds. “Anything you need. Anything at all.”

  We shake hands again, he hugs Heather, and is gone.

  “Hope you don’t mind,” she says. “I told them I was meeting you and they insisted on coming.”

  “I’m glad they did. Having their support in this is huge.”

  “Good. I don’t think Jean was as close with Caroline as she now claims, but Mike and Cole were very good friends. I think he really will do anything he can to help us.”

  “Let’s sit down over here,” I say, leading her over to a wooden bench at the bottom of a gentle slope down by the water.

  As we take a seat, she pauses to look at the name of the business that provided the bench, which is burned into the backrest.

  “Wewa Outdoors,” she reads. “It’s funny. I forget that was the official name. Everybody just called it Cole James’ or the pawn shop or the feed store. That’s one of the things Mike is helping me with. Figuring out what to do with everything—the store, the home, the land. He and Cole were very close. I know he helped keep the business afloat when times were tough. Helped with Caroline’s medical expenses, too. Anyway, I don’t really care about property, about things—not compared to finding out what really happened to Remington and why, and proving he didn’t make up the story about Gauge killing that woman.”

  “I’m really enjoying the manuscript,” I say. “You’ve done a great job. It’s riveting.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How much of is factual?” I ask.

  “More than you might think. We researched all the men who were out there with Gauge hunting Remington. We found out a good bit about them. We used the crime scene notes and photos, the things Remington left behind. Things like the wrecked ATV, their tracks, forensics. Anything we could get our hands on. I’d say it’s very accurate in spirit if not in letter, but pretty accurate in general.”

  Above us, the extending oak limbs form a canopy that blocks out much of the direct morning sun, but before us the surface of the lake sparkles with the soft gold light.

  “Were you hesitant to talk to me before because you wanted to get your book done first?”

  “No,” she says, and seems offended by the question. “I . . . I was contacted. This was back shortly after it happened. We had an exhibition of Remington’s work—the pictures he took that night, the ones we found anyway. It was spectacular. His mom was there with me—in a wheelchair. She was so proud of what he . . . accomplished. We both were. Are. I still am. Anyway, it was after the show . . . I was cleaning up and wrapping up a few things. Caroline was waiting for me. It was just the two of us.

  “Then seemingly out of nowhere, two men showed up. All in black. Dark shades on. One held a gun on me while the othe
r bent down and put a knife to Caroline’s throat. The guy in front of me—I can still remember how he smelled, like coffee and country club aftershave—pressed the barrel of his gun to my forehead and cocked the trigger. I thought I was going to die, that we both were. With the knife at Caroline’s throat, the guy over by her started groping her, fondling her breasts and . . . It was awful. Never felt so helpless and vulnerable in my life. Guy closest to me said if I didn’t let everything go, stop looking into it, stop trying to find the answers to what really happened out there and who was behind it, he’d slice Caroline up, kill her slowly in the most painful way possible, and then after letting me live with the knowledge of that for a few days, would do the same to me. I knew he meant it, knew these were not men but monsters. Caroline, bless her heart, actually peed on herself sitting there in her wheelchair. She was so embarrassed, so scared and . . . I decided right then and there I wouldn’t do anything else on Remington’s case until . . .”

  “Until when?” I ask.

  “Until Caroline passed away and they weren’t a threat to her anymore. She died recently. I had been working on the book this whole time—very discreetly and carefully, using the services of a private detective to get certain information so it couldn’t be traced back to me. When she died I began working on it openly and agreed to talk to you. I want it solved. I want the truth to come out. I want whoever’s ultimately responsible for it to pay. I want to clear Remington’s name and find the other messages and info he left out there for us. I want to find the poor girl Gauge killed and return her to her family so she can be properly buried. And I don’t care if they kill me for doing it. Part of me died when Remington did. A big part of me. Don’t mind so much if they finish the job.”

  “Did they say or do anything that might indicate who they are, who they represent?”

  She shakes her head. “I was trying to keep Caroline alive. Didn’t notice much about them. Except . . . I genuinely truly believed their threat. Had no doubt they meant what they said.”